The Books of Jacob

by Olga Tokarczuk

  It is a strange day. The air is soft and smooth, as if they were traveling in muslin hung from a clothesline. It smells oddly disquieting, sweet and rotten, like something that has been forgotten and is now covered in mold. Some of them are wearing little masks over their faces, but the higher they climb, the more inclined they are to remove them.

  Everyone understands that the plague is part of the war, that their enemies have attacked them with it. Those whose faith is not strong enough will die. Those who believe fervently in Jacob will never die, unless they start to doubt. Once they are well out of town, they slow down and begin to converse, particularly those who trail at the back. They chat, some stopping to pick up sticks to lean on, speaking more and more boldly the farther they go, the higher they climb, confident that no spies will make it up here, no eavesdroppers, no inquisitive secretaries, catechists, or mercenaries sent by nobles. They say:

  “Moliwda and old Lady Kossakowska are going to try and get an audience in Warsaw with the king . . .”

  “May God see fit to guide them in it . . .”

  “If that happens, we’ll get our noble titles for sure . . .”

  “But we’re going to ask for land, for royal land, not land belonging to nobles . . .”

  “Mrs. Kossakowska doesn’t know about that just yet . . .”

  “We don’t want to burn any bridges, but how would she hear about it . . .”

  “The king will give us land. The king’s lands are better than the land belonging to nobles and the church. But can we count on it?”

  “Who is this king?”

  “The king is honorable, and the royal word is good as gold . . .”

  “It’ll be land in Busk . . .”

  “In Satanów . . .”

  “Rohatyn is ours . . .”

  “Anywhere would be good, just so long as it’s . . .”

  From the top of the hill they can see the whole city; by now, the trees are almost fully red and yellow, as if some vast hand had lit the earth on fire. The light is golden, honeyed, heavy, and it flows in slow waves from top to bottom, covering the gilded roofs of Lwów. And yet the city itself, seen from above, looks like a scab, a person’s itchy scar. From a distance, you can’t hear all the commotion and the city seems innocent, yet that is precisely where they’re burying the dead right now, washing the contaminated pavement with buckets of water. Suddenly the wind brings them the smell of woodsmoke; Jacob is quiet, and they stand this way awhile, no one bold enough to speak.

  Then Jacob does a strange thing:

  He drives a knife into the ground and raises his face to the sky, and they all join him in looking upward. A V formation of cranes flying over their heads loses its shape, the birds collide and start to circle high above them, chaotically. It is a sorry thing to behold. Hayah covers her face. They turn to Jacob, stunned and aghast.

  “Now look,” he says, and extracts the knife from the ground.

  For a moment, the cranes continue to orbit in the same disorderly fashion, but then they get back into a formation that soon makes a large circle, then a larger circle, and then they move on, making their way south.

  Jacob says:

  “What this means is, if you forget who I am and who you are, woe is you.”

  He tells them to make a fire, and then, as they stand around it, without any strangers’ eyes on them, without spies, they all begin to talk at once, speaking over one another. They get their new names mixed up. When Shlomo addresses Nahman by his old name, Jacob punches him in the shoulder. Those old Jewish names cannot exist for them any longer, now there are only these Christian names—let none get them wrong any longer.

  “Who are you?” Jacob asks Hayim of Warsaw, who is standing next to him.

  “Mateusz Matuszewski,” answers Hayim, abjectly.

  “And that’s his wife, Eva. There is no Wittel anymore,” Nahman Jakubowski pipes up, unsolicited.

  Jacob has everyone repeat their new names several times—several times the new names progress around the circle.

  The men are in their thirties, in the prime of their lives, and they are well-dressed, their coats lined with felt or fur. Their faces are bearded, fur hats on their heads, though it is some distance to winter still. The women are in caps, like burgher women, and some, like Hana, wear colorful turbans on their heads. A person watching them from off to the side, like a spy, would have no idea for what purpose this group had gathered here at the top of this hill, above the city of Lwów, nor why they are now repeating names over and over.

  Jacob walks among them, with a thick walking stick he’s grabbed off the ground. He splits them into two groups. In the first one is Reb Mordke, now called Peter the Elder, as the eldest among them, then there’s Hershel, Jacob’s second favorite, now called Jan. Next is Nahman, now called Piotr Jakubowski, and Hayim of Busk, now Paweł Pawłowski. The Lord also puts in this group Itzak Minkowicer, now called Tadeusz Minkowiecki, as well as Yeruhim Lipmanowicz, now known as Dembowski. All of them will travel tomorrow with Jacob to Warsaw.

  During their absence, Hana and the children will be placed in the care of Mrs. Kossakowska. He’ll send the horses tomorrow. Leybko Hirsh of Satanów—now Joseph Zwierzchowski—and his wife, Hava, will go with them. They received their last name from the priest who baptized them; it is hard to pronounce. Jacob Szymonowicz, now known as Szymanowski, will also stay behind, as well as both Shorrs, now Wołowski, and Reb Schayes, who is still Rabinowicz since he hasn’t yet been baptized.

  The groups look each other over for a moment, then Jacob orders them to shake out their pockets in search of coins. He takes one coin from each of them, choosing only the big gold ducats, until he has twelve. He arranges them carefully in a pile on the ground, in the dried-out grass. Then he stomps on the coins with his boot, smashing them into the ground. He picks them up again and stomps on them again—as everyone watches in silence, holding their breath. What does this mean? What is he trying to tell them? Then he tells them each to go up and take a turn stepping on the coins, grinding them into the earth.

  In the evening, Jacob goes to Franciszek, formerly Shlomo, to make his excuses for not having chosen him or his brothers to make the journey to Warsaw.

  “But why?” says Franciszek. “We do business in Warsaw, we could have helped considerably. I have a completely different standing now, as a nobleman and a Catholic. And I have a good head on my shoulders.”

  “This title of yours means nothing for me. What did you pay for it?” Jacob asks, spiteful.

  “I’ve been with you since the beginning, the most faithful one, and now you cast me aside?”

  “That’s how it’s supposed to be,” says Jacob, and a broad, warm smile fills his face. This is his usual mode. “I’m not casting you aside, my brother, I’m delegating to you the oversight of what we have already accomplished. You’re right behind me, second in command, and you have to keep an eye on all these people who have been stuffed like so many chickens into barns and coops. You need to be the master here.”

  “But you are going to see the king . . . You are leaving us behind, me and my brothers. I want to know why.”

  “This journey isn’t safe, and I’m taking the risk upon myself.”

  “But it was my brothers and my father and I who, while you were off in Turkey—”

  “I was off in Turkey so they wouldn’t kill me here.”

  “You’re putting on a lot of airs now, but you were not there in the cathedral with us—” Shlomo explodes. This isn’t like him—he normally shows a great deal of self-control. Jacob takes a step toward him, but in his rage, Shlomo-Franciszek Shorr-Wołowski evades Jacob’s grasp and leaves the room, slamming the door, which bounces off its frame and swings back and forth on its rusted hinges for quite a while, creaking.

  An hour later, Jacob calls in Hershel, or Jan. He has wine and roast meat brought. Nahman Jakubowski, coming to speak with Jacob, finds Hana at the door. Hana whispers to him that the Lord has put on his tefillin and is now perfor
ming a secret act with Hershel, something called “bringing the Torah into the latrine.”

  “With Jan,” Nahman corrects her gently.

  Scraps: At Radziwiłł’s

  Is it not the case that every living being has his own distinct calling that is absolutely particular and can only be realized by him? He is therefore responsible for his task throughout his life, and he must not lose sight of it at any point. This is what I always believed, but the days that followed our activities in Lwów seemed to me so violent that for a long while not only could I not write about them, but also I could not even bear to think of them. Even now, as I begin to pray, only lamentations come to mind, and tears flood into my eyes, for although time does pass, my pain does not diminish in the slightest. Reb Mordke has died. Hershel, too. And my newborn daughter is dead as well.

  If my little Agnieszka had become a full and happy person, I would undoubtedly not despair to this extent. If Reb Mordke had lived to see the years of salvation, I would not be so sad. If Hershel had grown weary of life, having experienced it all, I would not cry for him. Instead, I was the first person who had to confront this plague, as it affected me personally, as it affected my long-awaited child. And yet I had been chosen! How could this happen to me?

  Before we set out on the road, there was a small ceremony, though it was not as joyful as it could have been, since on account of the plague, Jacob was observing a fast. But Old Reb Moshe of Podhajce, our great miracle-worker and sage, was marrying a young girl orphaned by the plague, named Teresa, formerly Esther Mayorkowicz. It was the gesture of a good man, as her sister who also survived had already been taken in by Mr. Łabęcki, godfather of Reb Mordke, and thus the sisters would share the last name of Łabęcki. On that evening the fast was suspended, but the repast was modest: a little wine, a little bread and broth. The bride could not stop crying.

  At the wedding, Jacob announced that he was heading to Warsaw to see the king, and then he blessed the newlyweds, and so it was that we all saw he was the highest one and that he was taking upon himself all of our confusion, pain, and anger. I noticed very quickly, however, that not everything was to others’ liking. The two Wołowski brothers in particular, who were sitting next to Walenty Krysin´ski, Nussen’s son, displayed great consternation over having to remain in Lwów, and I could feel, right here at the wedding feast, a kind of intense struggle taking place, an invisible battle, as if over the heads of the diners, over the emaciated bride, who had only narrowly escaped death, and the aged groom, a war was being waged over the order of our souls. What was thickest in all of this was fear, and in fear—of course—people attack one another, in order to be able to have someone to blame for all the ill that is occurring.

  Several days later, we were on the road, and as it is written in the Shocher Tov, four things weaken a person: hunger, travel, fasting, and authorities. Yes, we had allowed ourselves to be weakened. Although this time hunger did not threaten us on our travels, for we were received along the way at various manors or church presbyteries as converted Jews, as gentle, good people, almost as remorseful former criminals, and for our part we were happy to perform that role.

  We set off on November 2 from Lwów to Warsaw in three carriages, a few riding on horseback, including Moliwda, our guide and watchman. His fine speeches introduced us wherever we stopped, never quite as we would have liked. But by the second day we felt exactly as Moliwda had described us; I could never—I think now—quite crack him, and I could never fully tell whether that Antoni Kossakowski was speaking in earnest or joking.

  When we came into Krasnystaw, where we rented out a whole inn for the night, Moliwda said that he wanted Jacob to meet with a Polish lord, Jacob’s fame as a great sage having made its way clear to here. This lord was also a wise man and would come to see us here. And so Jacob, despite his exhaustion, did not take off his traveling attire, instead throwing over his shoulders a fur-lined cloak and warming his hands over the fire, since during the day it had started to rain and a piercing cold had come up from the east, from over the Polesian marshes. We spread ourselves out in the largest room, side by side on little mattresses in which we could feel this year’s hay. It was dark and smoky in the room. The Christian innkeeper had stuffed his whole family into a single cubbyhole of a room and would not allow his children to come out, for he thought us distinguished guests, not seeing us as Jews. Those grimy children of his peeked out through the gaps in the shoddy door of the room, but when the early winter evening fell, they vanished, no doubt overcome by sleep.

  It wasn’t until around midnight that Itzak Minkowicer, who had been keeping watch, came in to tell us that a carriage had arrived. Jacob sat upon a bench, as if on a throne, the edges of his cloak falling loosely about his arms and revealing the fur underneath.

  Lo and behold, in came a Jew in a yarmulke, chubby and short but sure of himself, verging on insolent. Behind him, huge peasants stood guard in the doorway, armed to the teeth. He said nothing, this Jew, merely casting his eyes about the room for a long while, taking in Jacob, who sat with his head bowed.

  “And who are you?” I finally asked, unable to tolerate the silence.

  “Simon,” said the man, in a deep voice that did not match his round figure.

  He went back to the door and a moment later a wrinkled old Jew who resembled a rabbi appeared. He was tiny. From under his fur-lined hat, dark, piercing eyes flashed out. He went right up to Jacob, and Jacob stood up in surprise; the little man embraced him like an old friend. He cast a suspicious eye on Moliwda, who stood in a corner against the wall, drinking wine.

  “This is Marcin Mikołaj Radziwiłł,” said the one who called himself Simon, omitting any titles.

  There was a moment of silence as we all stood motionless, astonished by the visit and the openness of such a powerful and important personage. For we had all heard, of course, about this magnate who had talked himself into the Jewish faith, although he had been treated with great suspicion by the Jews, as he kept a harem in his house and permitted bizarre acts to be conducted there. Jacob hid his own astonishment at Radziwiłł’s behavior with his usual nonchalance, simply returning the embrace and inviting him to have a seat. Candles were brought in, and both men’s faces were well lit, the candlelight breaking into a myriad of splotches over the magnate’s furrowed face. Like a guard dog, Simon set himself by the door to keep watch, and he ordered the peasants to guard the inn’s perimeter, it soon becoming apparent from the conversation what all that fuss had been about.

  Radziwiłł was—as he explained—under house arrest. For favoring the Jews, he asserted, and now he had come here incognito, having heard what a distinguished and learned guest was passing through Krasnystaw. He himself rarely spent any time in Krasnystaw, as he was imprisoned in Słuck. Then he leaned in to Jacob and whispered something, slowly and at length, as though giving a recitation of some kind.

  I looked at Jacob’s facial expression—he had his eyes mostly closed and gave no indication whatsoever of what he was hearing. From what little I could make out, the magnate was speaking in Hebrew, but his words were mostly nonsense, as though he had learned by heart certain quotations, this from here, that from there. It made no real sense to me, though I could not hear all of it. And yet, from the outside, it looked as if he was conveying secrets of utmost importance to Jacob, and I think Jacob wanted us all to believe in the existence of those secrets.

  Jacob always changes when he is interacting with an important person. His face becomes more boyish, more innocent, and he is vastly more inclined to make allowances for the high-born. He becomes winsomely solicitous and subservient as a dog submitting before a larger, stronger animal. At the start this disgusted me greatly. But anyone who knows Jacob knows, too, that this is a kind of game, a way for him to play.

  No one is immune from acting differently with someone positioned higher than himself than with someone situated lower. The whole world depends on this dynamic, and this hierarchy is deeply ingrained in men. Yet it a
lways annoyed me, and I sometimes would instruct Jacob, whenever he deigned to listen to me, that he ought to be standoffish and evasive with such people, and never to prostrate himself to them. I did hear him say once to Moliwda: “The majority of these big lords are all idiots, anyway.”

  Later he would tell us about Radziwiłł, saying he had imprisoned his wife and children for years, keeping them confined to a single chamber and subsisting on bread and water, until his relatives finally turned against him and convinced the king to treat him as a madman. That was why he was now under house arrest in Słuck. He supposedly had a whole harem made up of young girls who had been abducted or purchased from the Turks as slaves. The peasants who lived nearby said that he would draw blood from them and distill from it an elixir for eternal youth. If that is true, the elixir definitely didn’t work, because the man looked older than his years. He had so many sins on his conscience—he had attacked travelers, plundered his neighbors’ estates, lashed out in inexplicable frenzies—and yet, looking at him, it was hard to imagine him as such a rogue. His face was ugly, but so what? It could hardly be deduced from that that his soul was bad.

  The innkeeper served us vodka and food, but our guest did not wish to touch anything, saying that he had already been poisoned many times. And that we ought not to take it personally, for bad people are everywhere and can easily impersonate good people. He sat with us until dawn, and some of us after the initial surprise of seeing him came back to our senses and dozed off while he was showing off his ability to speak in several languages, among them Hebrew. He claimed that he would convert officially to the Jewish faith, were he not so fearful.

  “In Wilno,” he said, “exactly ten years ago, such an apostate was burned at the stake. That was the unwise Walentyn Potocki, who in good faith in Amsterdam acceded with his whole heart to the Mosaic religion and did not wish, upon his return to Poland, to return to the bosom of the Church. They subjected him to torture and eventually burned him at the stake. I saw his grave in Wilno myself. I saw how the Jews venerated him, but no one can give him back his life.”