Moliwda reaches for another piece of chicken, holds the drumstick in front of him like a child’s saber, trying to tease Jacob. But Jacob just gets annoyed.
“And I’ll say on your behalf,” and Moliwda begins to imitate the accent in which Jews sometimes speak Polish, “we have joined the Catholic Church in good faith, putting our fates into His Majesty’s hands, in total faith, knowing he will not leave his littlest subjects in such terrible distress . . .”
“Stop it,” says Jacob.
So Moliwda stops. Jacob pours himself some vodka and drinks it down in one gulp. His eyes start to gleam, and his gloom slowly melts away, like snow brought into a warm room. Moliwda moves over to his side and puts his arm over his shoulder. He follows Jacob’s gaze and sees two women, one seemingly a young lady of the night, the other likely her companion. Clearly both working girls of a better sort, and they look back at Jacob and Moliwda with equal curiosity, no doubt assuming they are noblemen from overseas. Or envoys on the road. Moliwda winks at them, excited, but Jacob holds him back, saying there are spies all over, and who knows what might happen. It wouldn’t be a good idea.
They sleep in the same room, on two beds that are more like pallets, fully clothed. Jacob has arranged a shirt so his head doesn’t touch the rough straw mattress. Moliwda falls asleep but is awakened by the ruckus downstairs—they’re still making merry in the dining room. Drunken shouts can be heard, and then it sounds as if the innkeeper is throwing out the most obstreperous of his guests. Moliwda looks over at Jacob’s bed, but it is empty. Frightened, he sits up and sees Jacob by the window, rocking back and forth and muttering something to himself. Moliwda lies back down and realizes, when he is already half asleep, that this is the first time he’s seen Jacob praying for himself. And on the very brink of sleep, Moliwda is surprised; he has always been sure that Jacob didn’t believe in all the tales he told the others, in the triple or quadruple gods, in the order of the Messiah—or even the Messiah himself. What part of the heart believes, and what part is certain that none of it is true? he wonders sleepily, and then the last thought that comes to him before he finally drifts off is how hard it is for us to ever get away from ourselves.
Of events in Warsaw and the papal nuncio
The first thing Jacob does in Warsaw is hire a carriage with three horses. He drives himself around the capital, the horses harnessed strangely, one in front of the next, which draws attention, so that the whole capital stops and stares at this weird vehicle as it goes by. He also rents a small palace past the Żelazna Brama, with a coach house and a stable, and seven rooms, all furnished, so that everyone who will be coming from Lublin will be able to stay there. The furnishings are nice and clean, upholstered in damask, with several mirrors, chests, and sofas. There are tiled stoves, and upstairs, a large bed, which he immediately orders to be made up in clean sheets, as befits a lord. With Moliwda’s assistance he hires a butler, a cook, and a maid to take care of the stoves and the cleaning.
Mrs. Kossakowska’s contacts are already paying off—the first to invite him over is Prince Branicki, and then everyone wants to have this neophyte and Puritan at their salons. That includes the Jabłonowskis, at whose home Jacob causes quite the stir in his colorful Turkish costume. The guests, dressed in the French fashion, look through their lorgnettes at this strange, pockmarked yet handsome man with curiosity and sympathy. In Poland, foreign is always more appealing than domestic, so they praise the exotic garments this newcomer is modeling for them. The gentlemen marvel over how little he looks like a Jew—more like a Turk or even a Persian—and this is intended as a mark of their gentlemanly goodwill. There is a moment of hilarity when Princess Anna’s little dog lifts its leg and drenches their guest’s lovely yellow shoes in a stream of urine. The princess considers this yet another display of extraordinary sympathy, this time on the part of the dog, and all delight in the good omen. After the Jabłonowskis, the Potockis invite them, and from then on, the big houses pass them from one to the next like a form of entertainment.
Jacob says very little, stays mysterious. When he answers prying questions, Moliwda embellishes what Jacob has said so that he seems like a naturally wise and serious man. When he tells some anecdote or other, Moliwda rounds out the details. He takes care to cover up Jacob’s immodest tone, which doesn’t quite make it over the high thresholds of aristocratic salons, where modesty is fashionable. On the other hand, Jacob’s boastfulness makes him a favorite at the pubs on the city’s outskirts, where they have already ended up a few times after some boring opera.
The next to receive them is Serra, the papal nuncio.
This older, well-manicured man with completely white hair regards them with an inscrutable expression; when they speak, he nods lightly, as if fully agreeing with them. Jacob almost gets taken in by this mildmannered politeness, but Moliwda knows that this man is a fox—you can never know what he really thinks. The nuncios are taught this: to stay calm, to take time, to observe carefully, to weigh all the arguments. Jacob speaks Turkish; Moliwda translates into Latin. A beautiful young cleric writes it all down indifferently at a separate little table.
“Jacob, this man here, Frank,” Moliwda begins to speak after Jacob, “left with his wife and children along with sixty of his co-religionists from the Turkish lands, having lost his meager property and knowing no language other than the Oriental ones, the which all being useless here, thus I must serve as his interpreter . . . so great was their desire for Christianity. Here they do not know the customs, and they have tremendous difficulties in supporting themselves, so that they have been living off the generosity of kind souls . . .” Noticing the nuncio’s somewhat intrigued and ironic look, he adds: “Whatever he has, he has by the kindness of our nobles . . . And on top of all this, these poor people have seen terrible persecution on the part of the Talmudists, as happened just now in Lublin, where there was a fearsome and bloody attack on our peaceful travelers, and the worst part is that they have nowhere now to go, except as guests somewhere, on someone else’s dime.”
Jacob nods as though understanding everything. Maybe he does understand.
“For so many centuries, we have been expelled from every country, for so many centuries, we have suffered unrelenting uncertainty, and we have been unable to put down roots like stable people do. Without roots, you’re no one,” Moliwda adds of his own invention. “Just ephemeral fluff. Only in the Commonwealth have we ever found shelter, supported by the royal edicts and the solicitous attitude of the Church . . .” Here Moliwda glances quickly at Jacob, who seems to be listening attentively to the translation. “What satisfaction would we bring to God if just we few who wish to live in harmony with neighbors could now be permitted to settle on our own territory. It would be as if the circle of history were closing, and everything were returning to the old order. And what great credit would Poland have with God, greater than the rest of the world, so hostile to Jews.”
Moliwda doesn’t even notice that in translating Jacob, he has switched to “we” instead of “they.” He has repeated all this so many times that the sentences have gotten suspiciously resplendent and rotund. It is all almost too obvious, even boring. Won’t anyone ever be able to think in different terms?
“And so we renew our request for you to grant us, near the Turkish border, some separate territory . . .”
“Di formar una intera popolazione, in sito prossimo allo stato Ottomano,” the young clerk repeats automatically in Italian, his extraordinarily beautiful face ablaze when he realizes he’s been heard, and he falls silent.
After a moment of general silence, the nuncio points out that some of the magnates would be happy to invite these “people of God” to stay on their estates, but to this Jacob responds through Moliwda’s words:
“We would worry that we would be forced into the same submission about which the unfortunate village dwellers of Poland all moan and groan.”
“. . . miseri abitatori della campagna . . .” Once again they hear the whispe
ring of the clerk, who evidently uses this as a means to help himself in writing.
This is why Jacob Frank, in the name of his followers, begs (implora) that they be assigned some separate place of their own, preferably a whole locality (un luogo particolare), while also promising that when they do find themselves together (uniti) in said locality, they will be able to engage in their own industry and escape the notice of their persecutors.
Then the nuncio revives a little, politely, and proclaims that he has spoken with the great Chancellor of the Crown, who has shown his willingness to settle the Frankists on royal holdings, whereupon they would become royal subjects, the Church also being ready to accept them into the city, where they would remain under episcopal jurisdiction.
Moliwda lets out a loud sigh of relief, but Jacob doesn’t even blink at this piece of good news.
Then the conversation turns to baptism, that it must be repeated, ceremoniously, and in front of everyone. That it must take place anew, with pomp, and before the king himself. Who knows—it’s true the king’s in Dresden, but perhaps someone of high standing will agree to be godfather.
The audience is over. The nuncio dons his solicitous mask. He is as pale as if he had not left this luxurious palace in ages. If you look closely, you can see that his hands have a tremor. Jacob walks through the corridor of the palace with a sure step, slapping his gloves against his hand. Moliwda trots behind him in silence. Secretaries glide silently along the walls.
It is only when they have reached their carriage that they begin to breathe freely again. And Jacob, just like whenever something pleased him back when they were in Smyrna, brings Moliwda’s face up to his and kisses him on the lips.
At Jacob’s house, Nahman-Piotr Jakubowski is waiting with Yeruhim Dembowski.
Jacob greets them in some new, bizarre fashion that Moliwda has never seen before: he raises a hand to his mouth and then places it on his heart. And with great confidence, without any hesitation—as usual—they repeat this gesture after him, and a moment later it looks as if they had been employing this greeting from the start. They are eager to hear all the details, but Jacob walks by them and disappears into the house. Moliwda, who is following Jacob like his spokesperson, like a king’s minister, says to Nahman and Yeruhim:
“He had an easy time convincing the nuncio. He spoke to him as he would to a child.”
He knows that this is exactly what they wanted to hear. And he sees what a great impression it makes on them. He opens all the doors for Jacob, and follows after him, with Nahman and Yeruhim just behind. He feels that the thing that had once been there has now been restored: the pleasure of being with Jacob and warming oneself in his extraordinary—albeit invisible to the human eye—halo.
Of Katarzyna and her dominion over Warsaw
Kossakowska goes around in a small, modest buggy, always dressed in dark colors, her beloved browns and grays, wearing a big cross on her chest. Hunched over, in her lengthy stride she crosses the distance between the carriage and the entrance to the next house she is visiting. She is capable of going to four or five of them in a single day, not minding that it is cold outside, or that her clothes are not particularly suited to social calls. To the valets at the doors she only mutters, “Kossakowska’s here,” and continues into the house, overcoat still on. Behind her, Agnieszka always tries to mollify the shaken servant. Since his arrival in Warsaw, Moliwda has accompanied them; Kossakowska introduces him as her erudite cousin. Recently Moliwda has also been helping her with her shopping, since she is going home for the holidays. On Krakowskie Przedmieście, in a store that sells Viennese goods, they spent an entire half day looking at dolls.
Moliwda tells her about the deaths of Reb Mordke and Hershel.
“Does Jacob’s wife know about this?” asks Kossakowska, peering underneath the wide skirts of the elegant dolls, where their long, lacefinished pantaloons reassure her. “You might think twice before telling her, especially since I believe she is expecting yet another child. All he has to do is touch her, it seems, and she gets pregnant. Given how rarely they see one another, it is quite the miracle, that.”
Kossakowska is readying the little manor house in Wojsławice for Hana, and while she is normally quite frugal, in this instance she has been lavish. She drags Moliwda to Miodowa Street, to a place where they sell beautiful faience, little wonders from China so delicate the light shines right through the cups. They are all decorated with little landscapes—this is what Kossakowska would like to buy Hana for her new home. Moliwda tries to dissuade her—what would she want such fragile objects for, these ceramics that won’t last a single journey—but then he decides to keep quiet, as he is slowly realizing that Hana, and all the Puritans, as she calls them, have become for Kossakowska something akin to children, difficult and rebellious, but children, nonetheless. Which is why instead of remaining in Warsaw for the second ceremonious baptism in the presence of the king, she prefers to return to Podolia. The last time she saw Jacob Frank she told him to carry out his affairs here, while she took care of those he’d left behind. The little village of Wojsławice belongs to Katarzyna’s cousin and close friend Marianna Potocka, and it is a wealthy place, with a vast market and a cobblestoned market square. The manor house belonging to Kossakowska had been leased to the local steward and has since been vacated, and the walls have all been repainted, everything renovated. The rest of Hana’s retinue can live in the grange until Jacob is able to obtain land for them to permanently settle.
“What are they going to live off?” asks Moliwda thoughtfully, watching the merchant wrap each of the cups in tissue paper and pack them in tow.
“They’ll live off the support they will receive from all of us, and off whatever they have. Besides, winter hardly gets in the way of trade. And starting in the spring they’ll receive some grain to sow.”
Moliwda winces.
“I can’t quite imagine—”
“There are a lot of fairs and stalls already in place . . .”
“. . . all of which have been occupied by other Jews for decades, maybe centuries. You can’t just release a people amongst another people and wait to see what will happen.”
“We shall see about that,” says Kossakowska, and pays, pleased.
Moliwda sees with horror what an absolute fortune the dolls cost. They go back to the buggy through snow dirtied by horse droppings.
As he arranges the packages in the carriage, Moliwda complains again about how Jacob is the only one of them presentable enough for salons. And he is alarmed by the amount of money Jacob is spending in the capital; such luxury, such glamour, is an irritant to people who see it. Kossakowska agrees:
“What is the purpose of getting a carriage for six horses? Why all those furred cloaks and hats and jewels? Here we are trying to present them as noble paupers, and meanwhile he’s going around town like that. Have you spoken with him about it?”
“I have told him, but he does not wish to listen to me,” Moliwda answers darkly, and helps Kossakowska up into the carriage. They say goodbye, and Kossakowska drives off. Moliwda is left alone on Krakowskie Przedmieście. A wind is blowing from Kozia Street, whipping up his kontusz. The cold is as bitter as if he were in Petersburg or somewhere.
He forgot to report to Kossakowska that Jacob hasn’t been getting his letters from Podolia. The one that came from Hana had its seal broken.
Everything is ready for the second official baptism; it will be held in the royal chapel at the Saxon Palace. It will be preceded by a solemn mass, with a choir participating, and the mass itself will be conducted by the Bishop of Kiev himself, Andrzej Załuski. In all likelihood, the king will not be there, as he is no doubt busy in Dresden. But who cares? What need have we of any king? Warsaw manages perfectly fine without him all the time.
Katarzyna Kossakowska writes to her cousin
My dear Cousin,
I have delivered the Faience. Just one of the Cups lost its Handle, otherwise all well. We miss you very much here, espe
cially as we have had no News for quite some Time. Mrs. Frank in particular is losing her Mind here and constantly asks the same Messenger for some Response to her latest Letter to her Husband. For now, I am hosting her and her Daughter and two Servants, and we are all impatiently awaiting News about what you all have determined to do there. The worst Thing is that it is as if you had all fallen into some black Chasm, for I have been hearing that none of our converted Friends have had any sign of their Relatives in Warsaw, either. Is it this hideous Winter that has brought about some sort of Epidemic amongst the Officers of the Polish Post? Yet we are all keeping alive the Hope that it is a Question of the many Occupations you no Doubt all have there in the Capital.
I know moreover that we cannot count on an Audience with the King. I have my Trunks all packed and will join you there as soon as the Frosts let up, i.e., sometime in March I will get back on the Road, as currently the Horses’ Saliva would freeze to their Snouts. So for now, because of the Cold and a little bit of wintry Languor, I will leave everything to you, as I know you have such a good Head on your Shoulders, and you can handle the Temptations of the Capital.
I have been imploring Branicki and the Potockis to fully join in our Cause with adoptive Letters. I do know, however, that the Hetman is generally quite hostile to the Jews, and to Converts all the more so. The thing that angers People the most is their noble Ambitions. I have already heard that the whole Wołowski Family has been ennobled, as apparently has Krysiński, that one with the Scar on his Face, who often writes to me. It is true that this also causes me some moral Discomfort, for how can it be—they have barely come into our World, and already they are climbing our Society and getting into our Government. We worked for Generations to get our noble Titles, and our Forefathers earned them with some real Service to our Fatherland, while with them it’s just a Fistful of Gold thrown onto the Table. Especially since it hardly befits a Noble to run a Brewery in Town, as one of these Wołowskis is doing—someone will need to say something to him about it. I heard of it from my Cousin Potocka, who will marry off her son in January and has invited us to the Festivities. All the more Reason for not going back to Warsaw until Spring. I’m too old to be dragging myself over Snow and Ice this Way and that.
The Books of Jacob Page 64
