The priest clutches his head theatrically.
“Father Chmielowski, you seem to care more about books than you do about people,” says Kossakowska with her mouth full.
“I permit myself to contest Your Ladyship. Not at all. I also saw our capital and the people living in it.”
“And your reflections?” Łabęcki asks politely in French.
Father Chmielowski is thrown by the French; Miss Agnieszka whispers a translation to him, but he has already turned red.
“What surprises me the most is that people desire to be so crowded into small apartments, onto narrow little streets, when they could all enjoy such luxury in the countryside and consume fresh air in any quantity.”
“That is the God’s honest truth. There is nothing like the country,” says Kossakowska.
Now the priest tells them about how Załuski took him to a baptism in the royal chapel at the Saxon Palace, where the most important of the neophytes were baptized.
Here Kossakowska livens up:
“But that’s amazing! You were there? And you’re only mentioning it now?”
“I was standing toward the back and could only see when I leaned around. But this was the second baptism of that Jacob Frank I saw, the first was in Lwów.”
Father Chmielowski recounts how a murmur arose among those gathered in the church when Bishop Załuski leaned in over the baptized Frank, and his miter fell from his head onto the floor, which some took for a bad sign.
“Because what was the point of baptizing them twice—was once not enough? That’s why the miter fell,” says their host.
“Mrs. Brühl was the godmother, wasn’t she? How did she look?” asks Kossakowska. “Still stocky?”
The priest thinks for a moment.
“She’s a woman of a certain age like any other. What can I say? I have no memory for women.”
“Did she say anything? How was her performance, what was she wearing, was she dressed in the Polish fashion, or the French, perhaps? Just the usual things.”
The priest strains his memory, looks around as if an image of Mrs. Brühl were hanging there in the air somewhere.
“Please forgive me, Your Ladyship—I don’t remember. But I do remember that Your Ladyship’s dear friend Bishop Sołtyk attended the baptism of two of Frank’s assistants—one was Jakubowski, and the other was Matuszewski, along with Princess Lubomirska.”
“You don’t say!” Kossakowska rubs her hands together. In situations such as these she really feels alive. So she did manage to talk Sołtyk into being godfather to the neophytes! And Princess Lubomirska, who in general shies away from such displays. The participation in the baptisms by such high-ranking persons convinces her husband about the matter.
“This reminds me that we have here in Podolia quite a few still to baptize,” says Kossakowski, silent until now.
“My God, gracious Lord, how many of them there are! And what is the story with that big Jew with the terrifying face whom you baptized, Father?” asks Kossakowska. “He is a mute, is that right? And what happened to his face?”
The priest seems a bit embarrassed.
“Oh, you know . . . They asked me, so I agreed. He is apparently from Wallachia, an orphan, who worked for the Shorrs as a carter, and now he’s helping me out at my place . . .”
“The silence that fell in the church when you brought him in! He looked like those Jews had slapped him together out of clay.”
When they finally get up from the table, it is completely dark. Father Chmielowski thinks of his driver Roshko. He is anxious to find out whether they have given him anything hot to eat from the kitchen, and whether since then he hasn’t frozen solid. They reassure him, and he stays for the pipe. Łabęcki always treats his guests to the finest tobacco, from the Shorrs in Rohatyn, who have the best tobacco in Podolia. No one evinces surprise when Kossakowska smokes with them—after all, she isn’t a woman, she’s Kossakowska. She can do as she likes.
On January 18 and 19, Stanisław Kossakowski, convinced by his wife, oversees the baptism of several so-called “Puritans.” The first to become his goddaughter is the crippled Anna Adamowska, formerly Chibora, wife of Matys of Zbryź. Those in the church who see godfather and goddaughter both lame and limping wonder who came up with such a perfect pairing. The lame leading the lame—how not to laugh at it? Maybe it’s a good thing: there is a certain logic to it, the broken tending to the broken. But it does seem to make the castellan somewhat uncomfortable.
The next day he will also oversee the baptism of Anna, a seven-yearold girl, daughter of the previously baptized Zwierzchowskis, formerly Leybko Hirsh of Satanów and his wife, Hava. The little girl is lovely and polite. Kossakowska arranged a white dress for her, modest but of good material, and cream-colored shoes made out of real leather. Kossakowski has also set aside a certain amount of money for her education. The Kossakowskis even thought of taking her to raise themselves, so clever and amiable is she, had her parents agreed to it. But the parents politely thanked them for all their kindness and took the child home with them.
Now these Zwierzchowskis are standing in the church, intimidated, their foreheads wet with holy water, which the priest has certainly not skimped on. He reads aloud their opulent-sounding last name. They look at that little angel led in by Mr. Kossakowski in his church kontusz. The girl’s father, Josephus Bartholomeus Zwierzchowski, as his name is written in the baptismal books, is thirty-five years old, while his wife is only twenty-three and pregnant yet again. Little Anna is the only child they have who’s still alive. All the others died of the Lwów plague.
Father Gaudenty Pikulski, a Bernardine, interrogates the naive
He opens the door for them himself—they are here, after all, by his invitation. First they had to wait a long time in front of the office of the Lwów monastery; that time spent waiting wiped out the last of their self-confidence. A good thing—that’ll make his job easier. He has seen a lot of them lately. They pray fervently at every mass in the Lwów cathedral and still call attention to themselves in spite of the new clothing they have purchased to replace their heavy kapotas and cropped pants. Now they look like people, thinks Gaudenty Pikulski, gesturing politely to their places at the table, gazing intrigued at Shlomo Shorr—he’s shaved his beard. The skin exposed is pale, almost completely white, and in this way his face is divided into two halves: the upper half is dark, tanned, while the lower half is childlike, or as if straight out of a cellar—that’s the description that pops into Father Pikulski’s head. The man who has emerged from Shlomo Shorr, and who is now called Franciszek Wołowski, is a tall, thin person with a long, kind face, expressive dark eyes, and strong brows. Long hair, with a little bit of gray mixed in, falls over his shoulders and poses an amusing contrast to the tobacco-honeycolored brand-new żupan with the red Turkish belt tied around his slender waist.
They came to him of their own volition, although of course he had encouraged them, telling them at every opportunity that if they did wish to confess . . . So he recruited two secretaries, both now at the ready with their set of sharpened goose feathers and waiting for his signal.
At first they say the Lord must already be in Warsaw, seeing the king. Then they glance at one another and the one who said “Lord” corrects himself and says: Jacob Frank. The name sounds very important, as if Jacob Frank were a foreign ambassador to whom the regular laws cannot possibly apply. Father Pikulski tries to be sympathetic:
“We have heard so much about your decision to adopt the Christian religion, and the fact that that decision was made long ago, and your fervor is proverbial and brings tears to the eyes of Lwów’s townspeople, and our nobility . . .”
Servants come in with refreshments, also arranged by Father Pikulski: sugared fruits, ordinary dried apples and pears, raisins and figs. All paid for by the Church. They don’t know what to do with this; they look at Shlomo-Franciszek Wołowski, who makes it seem completely natural to reach out for a raisin.
“. . . for many o
f you this is a completely different life, and in addition to that, those of you who have been successful in business are quickly becoming ennobled, like yourself, Mr. Wołowski, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” answers Franciszek, swallowing. “You have it right.”
Father Pikulski would like for them to start speaking on their own initiative. He passes them some little plates, intending to embolden them, particularly since both secretaries’ pens are hovering over their papers now, like hail clouds that will soon release a blizzard.
The old man who has been carefully monitoring Father Pikulski as if reading his thoughts is Joseph of Satanów, who has very pale blue eyes submerged in his dark, gloomy face. “Defend me, Lord Jesus, from any form of charm,” the priest prays silently, managing to not move his lips or give any outward sign of it. He turns to the whole crew of them:
“Kindly congratulate your people on their wisdom, their prudence, and the zeal of their hearts. You have now been welcomed among us, but a great curiosity still pervades our thoughts regarding how this all happened. What path did you travel to reach the true faith?”
Those who speak the most are the two Shorr brothers, Rohatyński and Wołowski, who are also the ones with the best Polish. Their Polish is actually quite proficient, only slightly shaky sometimes, and a little ungrammatical—Father Pikulski wonders who their teacher was. The remaining four join in from time to time; they haven’t yet been baptized, which might be making them feel more insecure: Jacob Tyśmienicki, Joseph of Satanów, an elderly man, Jacob Szymonowicz, and Leyb Rabinowicz politely wait their turns for the delicious figs and dates, passing them from their fingertips into their mouths.
Joseph of Satanów starts:
“Anyone who really studies the Zohar will find in it warnings about the mystery of the Holy Trinity, and from then on the issue will pervade his thoughts. That was the way it was with us. There is a great truth in the Trinity, and the whole heart and mind respond to it. God is not one person, but—in some godly, unfathomable way—manifested in three figures. We have that, as well, so that the Trinity comes as no surprise to us.”
“It suited us very well,” Shlomo, or rather Franciszek Wołowski, takes over. “It truly is nothing new to us, for there are, after all, three revelations, three kings, three days, three swords . . .”
Pikulski looks expectantly at Wołowski, hoping he’ll say more. Although he does not expect they’ll tell him everything he wants to know.
Little Turkish stoves with glowing coals have just been brought in, and everyone’s attention is now on the progress of the servant setting the stoves around on the floor.
“When Jacob Frank went to Turkey in 1756, he brought news of the Trinity and was able to convey it successfully to others, as he was already proficient in Kabbalah. And then, when he started riding all over Podolia, I also turned to convincing them that God was in three persons,” says Franciszek Wołowski, pointing at his chest.
And he goes on to say that Jacob first told just a few chosen ones, never saying it in public, that this teaching about the Trinity is best laid out in the Christian religion, and that for this reason, this was the true faith. He also told them in secret that when he came to Poland again, they would all have to be baptized and become Christians, but he said to keep this to themselves till his return. And so they did, because they liked this plan very much, and slowly they began preparing for it, learning the language and the principles of the faith. But they also knew that it would not be easy, and that the rabbis would have trouble accepting it, and that they would have to endure a great deal, which is as it happened. They all exhale and reach for the figs.
Pikulski wonders whether they are really this naive or are merely pretending, but he can’t quite penetrate their thoughts.
“And this leader of yours, Jacob, what is he like, what made you follow him with such utter dedication?”
They look at each other as if they might be communicating with their eyes, determining who is going to speak now, until finally Wołowski starts, though Paweł Rohatyński swiftly interrupts him:
“As soon as the Lord—that is, Jacob Frank—got into Rohatyn, you could immediately see a light over him,” he says, and he looks at Wołowski. Wołowski hesitates for a moment about whether or not to confirm this, but Father Pikulski will not let him stop talking here, nor will the secretaries, with their pens stalled over their sheets of paper.
“A light?” Pikulski asks in a sweet voice.
“A light,” Wołowski begins. “A brightness like a star, clear and pure, and then it would spread out by half a cubit or so, remaining over Jacob for some time—I’d rub my eyes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.”
Now he waits to see the effect his words will have, and indeed, one of the secretaries just sits there with his mouth hanging open and doesn’t write anything down. Pikulski clears his throat loudly, and the pen falls back down onto the paper.
“But that’s nothing,” adds an excited Jacob Tyśmienicki. “When Jacob was supposed to go to Lanckoroń, where those incidents occurred, he had already told us in Brześć that we were going to face a kind of trial in Lanckoroń and that they would sequester us. And that is exactly how it happened . . .”
“And how are we to understand that?” Father Pikulski asks in an indifferent tone.
Now they start talking amongst themselves, having switched to their language, and those who have been silent until now also suddenly remember some little miracles performed by Jacob Frank. At random they speak about Ivanie, about how he could cure people, about how he was able to respond to the brothers’ and sisters’ deepest secrets, never pronounced out loud. And that when they granted him more power than an ordinary person could possess, he declined it and said he was the most wretched of all the brothers. Jacob Tyśmienicki gets tears in his eyes as he is speaking, which he wipes off with his sleeves, and for a moment even Joseph’s light blue gaze softens.
Here Pikulski realizes that they actually love this Jacob character, that they are joined with this repulsive convert by some mysterious, unquestionable bond, which in him, a monk and a priest, arouses only disgust. And it is usually the case that when bonds are very strong, there is a kind of gap, or crack, that leaves room for rebellion, and suddenly there is something in the air, and he is almost afraid to ask another question—what question can he ask? Then Franciszek Wołowski, with emotion on his face, tells him about how Jacob explained to them the necessity of converting to Christianity, how he would quote the Holy Scriptures to them at night, finding them the right verses to learn by heart. And then he adds that only a few knew of that, for it was only to the chosen ones that he revealed it. There is a momentary silence. Father Pikulski senses the odor of male sweat, sharp, musky, and he cannot quite say whether it is coming from him, from under his cassock buttoned up to the neck, or from them.
He does know he has caught them. And that they cannot be so stupid they don’t know what they are doing. Before they leave, they say the end of the world is nigh now, and that there will be one Flock and one Shepherd for all the people in the world. That everyone should plan accordingly.
Father Gaudenty Pikulski writes to Primate Łubieński
That same evening, when everyone is asleep, and the city of Lwów looks like a deserted ruin on the Podolian lowland, Pikulski seals the transcribed conversation and completes his letter. At dawn a special messenger will be dispatched to Warsaw. It is strange—Father Pikulski has no desire whatsoever to sleep, as though he has happened upon an invisible energy source that will nourish him from now on, a little hot point in the very middle of the night.
I send Your Excellency by separate post the report from the interrogation I conducted yesterday with the ContraTalmudists, and I believe Your Excellency will find in it a number of interesting threads that will confirm the doubts I permitted myself to note in my previous letter.
I have attempted to deduce from other sources as accurately as possible whom we mean when we say “Contra-Talmudists.�
�� Father Kleczewski and Father Awedyk and I have also attempted to reconcile the information that has come from numerous other interrogations, but at this stage, that appears to be impossible. Most likely the group of Jewish converts is not at its heart a homogenous one, and they all come from different sects, the which is corroborated by the views they hold, which are mutually exclusive.
It is best to ask simple, uneducated people—then one can see the whole system, stripped of sophisticated adornments, and then their recently acquired Christian faith turns out to be just a thin layer, like icing on a cake.
And so some believe that there are three Messiahs: Sabsa Tsivi, Baruchiya, and the third is Frank himself. They also believe that the true Messiah must pass through every religion, which is why Sabsa Tsivi donned a green Muslim turban, and Frank must pass through our holy Christian Church. Others aren’t convinced of that at all. They say, meanwhile, that when Sabsa Tsivi stood before the sultan, it wasn’t really him, but his empty form, and that form accepted Islam, and his conversion doesn’t really mean anything, it was just for appearances’ sake.
It is clear that not everyone who is baptized falls from the same tree, and each of them believes in something different. What gathered them together was the Jewish curse cast on the followers of Sabsa Tsivi in 1756, which excommunicated them completely from the Jewish congregations, and whether they liked it or not, made them all “Contra-Talmudists.” Some of them are thus convinced that in order to achieve true salvation, they have to convert to Christianity, while for others baptism is unconnected to salvation by our Lord Jesus Christ, and instead merely a way to get under the wing of a religious institution, as no one can live without belonging to anything. Apparently Frank calls the latter simply converts—and he doesn’t count them among his own. It’s from this mixed multitude that those delegates, numbering thirteen, came primarily, those who appeared at the Lwów disputation.
The Books of Jacob Page 66
