The castellan, her husband, strolls about the room with a glass of liqueur, walking in a humorous way, like a heron, dragging his feet over the Turkish carpet. He’ll soon wear through those soles, thinks Moliwda. He is wearing a pale yellow żupan, tailored so well to fit his rotten figure it actually makes him look elegant.
“Her Ladyship, my wife, is a veritable institution unto herself. The envy of the royal secretariat,” he says delightedly. “She is even an expert in my blood relations, making great endeavors on behalf of my kin.”
Mrs. Kossakowska shoots him a murderous look. Moliwda knows that despite appearances, it is a happy marriage. Meaning: They each do their own thing.
The castellan lights his pipe and turns to his distant cousin:
“Why is it you are so concerned with these people?”
“Because they’ve struck a chord with me,” answers Moliwda after a moment’s consideration. “Right here,” he says, and bangs his chest, as though wishing to assure the castellan that he does, in fact, have a heart there. “I feel a real connection with them. They are honest and good, and their intentions are honest and good . . .”
“Jews who are honest and good,” says Mrs. Kossakowska with a smirk. “Are they paying you?”
“I’m not doing it for the money.”
“There wouldn’t be anything wrong with doing it for the money . . .”
“It isn’t about money,” he repeats. Then he adds: “Although they are paying me.”
Katarzyna Kossakowska leans back in her chair and stretches out her legs in front of her.
“Ah, I understand, for fame, to make a name for yourself, like the bishop, may he rest in peace. You’re thinking of your career.”
“I don’t care about my career, you know that already. Had I wanted a career, I would have kept the position I had when I was young, thanks to my uncle, in the royal chancellery. By now I would be a minister.”
“Pass me the pipe, please,” Mrs. Kossakowska says to her husband, and extends an expectant hand. “You’re hotheaded, cousin. So to whom am I to write? And what am I to entreat them to do? Perhaps you could introduce me to this Frank of theirs?”
“He is in the Turkish country now, as they wished to kill him here.”
“Who wished to kill him here? We are, after all, known for our national tolerance.”
“His own kind. They were persecuted by their own. Their own, meaning the other Jews.”
“But normally they stick together,” Mrs. Kossakowska says, confused; now she fills the pipe, taking tobacco from an embroidered leather pouch.
“Not this time. These Shabbitarians believe in the necessity of getting out from under the Jewish faith. The greater part of the Jews converted to Islam in Turkey for this reason. While the Jews in the Catholic lands would like to convert to the local faith. For any Orthodox Jew, of course, leaving the faith like this is a fate worse than death.”
“But why would they want to join the Church?” asks the castellan, intrigued by this bizarre behavior. “Things have been crystal clear till now. Jews are Jews. They go to synagogue. Catholics are Catholics, who worship in a cathedral, and the Ruthenians have their Orthodox churches—to each his own.”
The vision of such upheaval is not to the castellan’s liking.
“Their first Messiah says it is necessary to collect what is good from every creed.”
“Well, he’s right about that,” Mrs. Kossakowska jumps in.
“What do you mean, first Messiah? Was there a second? Who’s the second?” asks Kossakowski.
Moliwda explains, but reluctantly, as though knowing that no matter what he says, the castellan will immediately forget it anyway.
“Some say there will be three Messiahs. One has already come—that was Sabbatai Tzvi. After him came Baruchiah . . .”
“I haven’t heard of any of this . . .”
“And the third will be here soon and will deliver them from all their suffering.”
“Why are they suffering so much?” asks the castellan.
“Well, they are hardly prospering. That you can see for yourself. I see it, too—people are living in poverty and humiliation and they are seeking a way out before they are all turned into animals. The religion of the Jews is close to ours, just like the Muslim religion, they’re all the same little pieces of the puzzle, you just have to know how to put them all together. They are assiduous in their religion. They seek God with their hearts, they fight for Him, not like us, with our Hail Marys and our prostration.”
Mrs. Kossakowska sighs.
“It’s our peasants who should be waiting for the Messiah . . . Oh, how we need new manifestations of the Christian spirit! Who still prays assiduously?”
Moliwda hits his poetic stride now; this is an art he has almost perfected.
“It’s really more connected with resistance, with rebellion. The butterfly that rises to the sky in the morning is not a reformed, renegade, or renewed chrysalis. It’s still the same creation, just raised to the second power of its life. It’s a transformed chrysalis. The Christian spirit is flexible, mobile, and omnipresent . . . And it does us a world of good, once we accept it.”
“Well, well, you’re quite the preacher, cousin,” Mrs. Kossakowska says, her words dripping with sarcasm.
Moliwda is toying with the buttons on his żupan, which is brand-new, brown wool, with a red silk lining. He bought it with the money Nahman paid him. But it wasn’t enough to cover everything—the buttons are made out of cheap agate, cold to the touch.
“There is an old prophecy that everyone now says comes from the most distant of ancestors, from a long, long time ago.”
“I’m always eager to hear a good prophecy.” Mrs. Kossakowska breathes in smoke with evident pleasure and turns to face Moliwda. When she smiles, she becomes beautiful. “It shall be so, or it shall not be so. Red sky at night, sailors delight. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning,” she says, and laughs. Her husband giggles, too, so they must share a sense of humor—at least they have that in common.
Moliwda smiles and goes on:
“That in Poland shall be born a man of the Jewish nation who will give up his religion and accept the Christian faith and bring along with him many other Jews. It is said that this will be a sign of the approach of Judgment Day in Poland.”
Mrs. Kossakowska’s face becomes grave.
“And you believe that, Antoni Kossakowski? Judgment Day? Judgment Day is upon us anyway—no one agrees with anyone else, everyone is at war with everyone, the king is in Dresden, caring very little indeed for the problems of his kingdom . . .”
“If you would be so kind as to write to this and that important personage”—Moliwda points to the pile of letters carefully folded and sealed by Agnieszka’s slender fingers—“in support of these poor people who are joining with us in this way, we would be the first in Europe. Never has there been such a mass conversion anywhere. They would talk of us at all the royal courts.”
“I have no influence over the king—my reach does not extend that far, I’m afraid!” cries an affronted Mrs. Kossakowska. Then she says calmly: “People say they are approaching the church as they are because they are seeking to gain something from it—that they want to make a profit off it—that they want, as neophytes, to come and live among us. And as neophytes that can immediately get titles, so long as they can put up the cash.”
“Does that surprise you, madam? Is there something wrong in wanting a better life? If only you could see these towns of theirs, all mud and poverty and stupefaction . . .”
“Now, that’s interesting, because I don’t know any Jews like that. The kind I know are all quite cunning indeed, rubbing their hands together in glee, just looking for a way to swindle you out of a grosz, water down your vodka, sell you some rotten seeds . . .”
“How could you know any Jews like that when all you do is sit around palaces and mansions, writing letters and, in the evenings, shining in the pleasant society of . . . ,” says her hu
sband.
He was going to say “wastrels,” but he stopped himself.
“. . . wastrels,” she says for him.
“Your network, madam, is vast; you know Branicki well, and even at court you have many trusted acquaintances. No nation can allow such lawlessness to occur, can allow Jews to attack other Jews. The king, in doing nothing, is in essence giving his permission. Meanwhile, they come to us like children. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of them are stuck along the Dniester, gazing over at the Polish shore, terribly homesick, since as a result of the riots and the lawlessness they have been cast out of their homes, robbed, assaulted. Now they’re stuck there, exiled by their own people from their own country. After all, they do belong to this country, but now they’re camped out in dugouts all along the river, desperately looking north, hoping to come home, although their homes are now occupied by those other Jews. The land they ought to receive from those of us who have too much of it—”
But Moliwda sees he’s gone too far and breaks off his tirade.
“What is it you want?” Mrs. Kossakowska asks, slowly and suspiciously.
Moliwda saves the situation:
“The church should take care of them. You’re on good terms with Bishop Sołtyk, they say you are a dear friend of his . . .”
“A dear friend, am I? You know what they say, I wot well how the world wags, he is most loved that has the most bags,” Mrs. Kossakowska retorts. “Certainly goes for his affections.”
Castellan Kossakowski, bored, sets down his empty glass and rubs his hands together to give himself back a little energy.
“I must make my excuses, for I am off to the kennel. Femka is to whelp. She slutted about with that priest’s dog with the long, messy fur, and now we’re going to have to drown the pups . . .”
“I’ll have them drowned for you. Don’t even think about trying to do it yourself, my dear. Soon you’ll be saying they take after me in loveliness and are clever and useful as hunting dogs.”
“Then you take care of them. I guess I won’t,” says Kossakowski, angry that his wife would treat him so unceremoniously in front of a stranger.
“I’ll take care of them,” Agnieszka pipes up suddenly, her face flushing. “If His Lordship would be so kind as to stay their execution . . .”
“Well, if Miss Agnieszka wishes it . . . ,” Kossakowski begins gallantly.
“Go already,” Mrs. Kossakowska mutters, and her husband disappears from the doorway without finishing his sentence.
“I have already brought this matter to the attention of the new bishop, Łubieński,” Moliwda continues. “There are more of them than you all think. In places such as Kopyczyńce, Nadwórna. In Rohatyn, Busk, and Glinno they’re the majority now. If we were smart, we would welcome them.”
“Sołtyk is the one you need. He can get things done, although only if it’s in his own interest. He doesn’t like the Jews—he’s always running into trouble with them. How much can they pay?”
Moliwda is silent for a moment, considering.
“A lot.”
“Is a lot enough to buy back the bishop’s pawned insignia?”
“What do you mean?” Moliwda starts.
“He pawned it again. The bishop is perpetually generating new debts at cards.”
“Maybe so, I don’t know. I’d have to ask. We could all meet together—them, the bishop, Your Ladyship, and me.”
“Sołtyk is aiming for the bishopric of Kraków now, as the bishop there is dying.”
Katarzyna stands and puts out her hands in front of her, as though stretching. The joints crack. Agnieszka looks at her with concern from over her embroidery hoop.
“You’ll have to forgive me, my dear sir, that’s the drumbeat of old age in my bones,” she says, and smiles from ear to ear. “Tell me, what do they believe in? Is it true that they only favor Catholicism on the surface, that deep down they remain Jews? That’s what Pikulski says . . .”
Moliwda sits up straighter in his chair:
“The religion of those traditional Jews consists in fulfilling the orders of the Torah, of living according to the old rituals. They don’t believe in any sort of rapture, the prophets came a long time ago, and now it’s time to wait for the Messiah. Their God won’t reveal Himself again, He has fallen silent. While with the other ones, the Sabbatians, it’s all the other way around—they say we live in Messianic times and that all around us we can see signs presaging the arrival of the Messiah. The First Messiah has already come, that was Sabbatai. After him came the Second—Baruchiah—and now comes the Third . . .”
“Pikulski told me that some people say it might be a woman this time.”
“I will tell you, Your Ladyship, that I honestly do not care so much about what they believe. What I care about is that they are being treated like lepers. When Jews are wealthy, they can attain the greatest heights, like the one who advises Brühl, but the poor ones live in misery and are abused by all. The Cossacks treat them worse than dogs. Nowhere else in the world is it like that. I was in Turkey, and they have better rights there than they do here with us.”
“Well, they did convert to Islam . . . ,” Mrs. Kossakowska notes ironically.
“It’s different in Poland. Just think, cousin. Poland is a country where freedom of religion and religious hatreds meet on equal terms. On the one hand, Jews can practice their religion as they wish here, they have civil liberties and their own judiciary. On the other, hatred toward them is so great that the very word ‘Jew’ is derogatory, and good Christians employ it as a curse.”
“You’re right about that. The one and the other are the results of the laziness and ignorance that predominate in this country, rather than of any innate evil.”
“We all want that to be the explanation. It’s easier to be stupid and lazy than evil. Someone who never pokes his nose out of his own backwater, who believes to the letter whatever the semi-educated priest tells him to believe, who can barely string two letters together and reads no more than the calendar, readily gives his mind over to every sort of nonsense and prejudice, as I saw recently at Bishop Dembowski’s, when he would not stop singing the praises of New Athens.”
Mrs. Kossakowska looks at him in astonishment.
“You find fault with Father Chmielowski and his New Athens now? Everyone is reading it. It is our silva rerum. Do not find fault in books. The books themselves are innocent.”
Moliwda, embarrassed, does not speak. So Mrs. Kossakowska continues:
“I’ll tell you this much: As far as I can tell, the Jews are probably the only people who can be of any use in this country, since the lords don’t know how to do anything and don’t care to learn, too busy with their sport. But your Jewish heretics also want land!”
“They are settling on land in Turkey, too. All over Giurgiu, Vidin, and Ruse, half of Bucharest, Greek Salonika. There they buy land and are able to have some peace and quiet . . .”
“. . . if they convert to Islam, right?”
“Your Ladyship, they are prepared to be baptized.”
Mrs. Kossakowska props herself up on her elbows and leans in toward Moliwda’s face, like a man, staring him in the eye.
“Who are you, Moliwda? What is your position here?”
Moliwda answers without blinking:
“I am their translator.”
“Is it true you were once with the Old Believers?”
“It is true. I’m not ashamed of it, and I don’t deny it. What does it matter?”
“It matters that you are all after money—you heretics.”
“There are many roads to God, it isn’t ours to judge.”
“Of course it’s ours. There are roads, and there’s the wilderness.”
“Then help them, Your Ladyship, to get on the true path.”
Mrs. Kossakowska leans back and smiles broadly. She stands, goes up to him, and takes him by the hand.
“And the sin of the Adamites?” She lowers her voice and looks at Agnieszka, but the girl, attent
ive as a mouse, has already pricked up her ears and extended her neck. “They say their practices are not at all Christian.” Katarzyna discreetly fixes the thin fabric over her décolletage. “Anyway, what is the sin of the Adamites? Explain, my enlightened cousin.”
“Everything that those who use that term cannot imagine.”
Moliwda sets out and beholds the kingdom of the vagabonds
Since his return to his country, everything has struck Moliwda as foreign and strange. He hasn’t been here for many years, and his memory is either short or flawed, or both—he certainly hadn’t remembered things being this way. Above all, he is amazed by the grayness of the landscape and the distant horizon. And the light, too—more delicate than in the south, softer. A mournful Polish light that leads to melancholy.
First he travels from Lwów to Lublin in a carriage, but in Lublin he rents a horse—he feels better this way than in some stuffy, clattering box.
He has barely gotten past the tollhouses of Lublin, but already he is entering another country, a different cosmos, in which people are no longer planets that orbit according to established paths, around the market square, the home, the shop, or the field, but are instead errant streaks of fire.
These are the freemen and vagabonds Nahman told Moliwda about, many of whom have come to join the true believers. But Moliwda can see that these untethered people aren’t only Jews, as he had thought until now—as a matter of fact, Jews are in the minority here. Moliwda also sees that this is a kind of nation unto itself, different from anything that can be found in cities or towns or rural areas. These are people who do not belong to any lord or to any municipality or other form of government. These are wanderers, frolicsome bandits, fugitives of every sort you can imagine. It seems clear they all share the same distaste for the peaceful, settled life, that they suffer from wanderlust and could not bear to be enclosed by four walls. Or so a person might think at first glance—that they like it this way, that they live like this out of choice. But from the height of his horse’s back, Moliwda looks upon them with sympathy and thinks that the majority of these people are in fact the kind who do dream of having their own bed, their own bowl to eat from, and a regular, settled life, but that just isn’t how the cards have played out for them, so instead they’ve had to roam. He knows because his fate has been the same.
The Books of Jacob Page 45
