“I’ll do it,” says Eva Jezierzańska. “I love him more than life itself.” But the others get upset.
“I’d be glad to do it, too,” Marianna Piotrowska volunteers. “You know I don’t have children. Maybe with him I could.”
“I could do it, too. I was with him in Ivanie. And he’s my brother-inlaw,” says Pawłowska.
And she has a daughter with him. Everyone knows that.
Zwierzchowska tells them to hush, for the pilgrims rushing by, uttering frantic prayers, have already begun to stare at these young ladies having their heated conversation.
“We can deliberate at home,” she decrees.
The Lord asks daily whether they have determined yet which of them it will be, yet they cannot come to an agreement. In the end, they vote, and it falls to Henrykowa Wołowska, who is nice and cheerful and also pretty, but who now stands stunned and crimson, her head bowed. But Eva Jezierzańska refuses to accept the result, and there must be unanimity.
“It’s either me or no one,” she says.
And so Lewińska, whom Jacob particularly likes for her calm and her prudence, goes to the monastery and requests a visit with him. She begs Jacob to make the choice himself, because they cannot. Then the Lord flies into such a rage that he refuses to see any of them for one whole month. Finally, Hana gets involved and cleverly asks Jacob which of them strikes him as the most suitable. He suggests Klara Lanckorońska.
Several days later, when they are sitting down to their shared meal in the officer’s room, a satisfied Jacob tells Klara Lanckorońska to be the first to dip her spoon into the soup. Klara bows her head, and her light pink cheeks flush a deep red. They all wait with their spoons in their hands.
“Klara, you start,” says the Lord again, but she refuses, as if he were urging her to commit the greatest sin.
Finally, Jacob throws down his own spoon and stands up from the table.
“If you won’t listen to me when it comes to such trifles, what is going to happen when I tell you to do something more? Can I count on you or not? Are you like those idiot sheep? Those hares?”
They keep silent, heads low.
“I put something like a glass before you. I am the film on the back of that glass—I am the coating. It is thanks to me that that glass was a mirror, and that you saw yourselves in it. But then I had to remove that film, and now you are left with just ordinary glass.”
Come evening he has a new idea for them. He summons Wittel Matuszewska, who has served as his right hand since his disavowal of Jakubowski, formerly known as Nahman.
“I want the brothers who have wives who are not ours to cast those women aside and take new wives from among the true believers. And I want the women who married men who are not ours to take husbands from among our brothers. I want this to happen publicly. And if anyone asks you why, just tell them I commanded it.”
“Jacob, that cannot happen,” says Wittel Matuszewska, shocked. “Those are bonded pairs. They can do a lot for you, but you can’t ask them to leave their wives and husbands.”
“You have already forgotten everything,” says Jacob, and pounds his fist into the wall. “All of you. You’re no longer true believers. You’ve had it too good.” Blood oozes from his scraped knuckles. “It has to happen like this, Wittel. Do you understand?”
Just as Jacob said, in July of 1763, in a little house on Wieluńskie Przedmieście, a son is born to him and receives the name Jacob. A month later, Hana has left her childbed, and in the officer’s chamber at the top of the tower, in the Jasna Góra monastery, there follows a solemn union of the spouses in the presence of everyone.
For the birth of another son, Roch, in September of 1764, many of Jacob’s followers come to Częstochowa. The true believers come back from where they have been scattered—scraps from Wojsławice, from Rohatyn, from Busk and Lwów, all of them wishing to settle down nearer to Jacob, perhaps in Częstochowa itself. Friends come, as well, from Turkey and Wallachia, by now convinced that Jacob’s imprisonment in Edom’s very holiest site definitively fulfills the prophecy.
Before, in August of 1763, Frank sends to Warsaw for Jakubowski, who comes immediately. He approaches the Lord hunched over, as if expecting a blow, as if readying himself for pain, but suddenly, the Lord himself kneels down before him. The hush is absolute.
Then the company debates in low voices around the sides of the room whether the Lord did this as a joke or out of some real deference to Piotr Jakubowski, once called Nahman of Busk.
Daily life in prison and of keeping children in a box
Wajgełe Nahman, now Sofia Jakubowska, often goes outside the city, into the forest, and there she searches for a linden branch thick enough but still fresh and filled with sap. Nobody can ever tell why she chooses this one and not that one. But she knows. She brings it home, to Wieluńskie Przedmieście, where the Jakubowskis are renting a room, and she sits with it in the back of the house, where nobody can see her. She takes a sharp penknife and starts carving the shape of a person out of the wood. By the time you can see the arms and the neck, and the head, Wajgełe is unable to hold back her tears, and the sobs escape her like a spasm, like phlegm to be coughed up. In tears, she paints the figure’s eyes, which will always be closed, and the tiny lips; she dresses it in the little outfit of her dead child and hides it under a bench. She returns to this place often to play with this doll, like a little girl. She holds it to her, puts it to her breast, whispers to it, and in the end, this activity does soothe her—a sign that God has had mercy upon her and taken away her pain. Then she puts the doll inside a special box hidden away in the attic, where the other dolls are kept. There are four of them now, some large, some small. Two Nahman isn’t even aware they had conceived. They came out of her too early, too small, while he was traveling somewhere. She wrapped them up in linen and buried them in the forest.
When they lie down to sleep, she whimpers into her pillow. She turns to face Nahman, places his hand on her naked breast.
“Sleep with me.”
Nahman clears his throat and pats her head:
“Don’t be afraid. He will give you strength and health and allow your body to get pregnant.”
“I’m scared of him.”
“What are you talking about? Can’t you see that we are all bathed in light, don’t you see how all our faces have changed, how we’ve grown more beautiful? And that light over Jacob? Can’t you see it? A green glow. We are all God’s chosen ones now. God is in us, and when God is in a person, he is no longer bound by any ordinary rules.”
“That’s how mushrooms shine at night,” says Wajgełe. “There is light in a mushroom, from the moisture, from the darkness . . .”
“What are you talking about, Wajgełe?”
Wajgełe cries. Nahman-Jakubowski strokes her back, until one day Wajgełe finally agrees.
Jacob tells him to stay. He lies down on Wajgełe stiffly, with a grunt, and without looking at her, he does his thing. Wajgełe releases a deep sigh.
Every evening, they gather in the officer’s chamber, and Jacob gives his chats, just like in Ivanie. He often points out a person from their company, and from their story he begins his tale. That night it is Wajgełe, Nahman’s wife. He tells her to sit next to him, and he puts his hand on her shoulder. Wajgełe is haggard and pale.
“The death of a child is proof that there is no good God,” says Jacob. “For how could there be, since God destroys what is dearest—someone’s life? What does He get out of it, this God, out of killing us? Is He scared of us?”
People are disturbed by such a framing of the situation. They whisper amongst themselves.
“Where we’re going, there will be no laws, because laws are born of death, and we are connected with life. The evil force that created the cosmos can be cleared out only by the Virgin. A woman will overcome that force, because she is powerful.”
Suddenly Wajgełe starts crying again, and after a while, old Pawłowska joins in, and some of the other women, too, beg
in to snivel. The men’s eyes glaze over. Jacob changes his tone.
“But worlds created by a good God exist—they’re just concealed from us. Only the true believers can find the road to them, since really, it isn’t far—you just have to know how to get there. I will tell you: To access these worlds, you must go through the Olsztyn Caves near here. There is where you’ll find the entrance. That’s where Makpela Cave is, and that is the center of the world.”
He unfurls a great vision before them—here all the caves in the world are linked to one another, and wherever they meet, time flows differently. Which is why if a person were to fall asleep in such a cave, for just a little while, and then he wanted to go back to the village where he’d left his family, he would find out that his parents had died, that his wife had become a decrepit old lady, and that his children had grown old.
They nod. They know these stories.
“Yes, and this cave that is so close to Częstochowa has a direct connection to the cave from Korolówka, and that one is connected to the cave where Abraham and the first parents rest.”
A sigh is heard. So this is how it is: Everything is connected with everything, carefully linked.
“Does anyone know the layout of these caves?” Marianna Pawłowska asks hopefully.
Jacob knows it, obviously. Jacob knows where and at what moment to turn in order to get to Korolówka or to another world, a world where there are all kinds of riches and carriages loaded with gold, just sitting there waiting for someone who might want to take them.
He brings them pleasure by describing these riches in detail, which is why he does so with so much attention to detail: the walls made of gold, the luxurious curtains, embroidered with silver and gold, the tables set with gold plates, and on them, instead of fruit, lie great precious stones, rubies, sapphires the size of apples, the size of plums, and damask tablecloths sewn with silver thread, and lamps made entirely of crystal.
Wajgełe, or Sofia Jakubowska, who does not yet know that she is pregnant, imagines that in reality she would not need all that, that she’d be happy with just one fat ruby the size of an apple . . . And she isn’t listening anymore, just planning what she would do with such a stone. She would have it cut into smaller pieces, so that no one could ever suspect that she had stolen such a wonder, since having a huge stone like that is also dangerous and might tempt thieves and villains. So she would have the stone cut in secret (although who would be willing to undertake such a thing?) and slowly she would sell all the smaller stones, one after the other, in different cities, because that would be safer. And she would live off that. She would buy herself a small shop, and then to go with the shop she would also buy a moderately sized home, but nice and bright and dry, and also pretty white linen underthings and silk stockings, half a dozen pairs, so she could have reserves. And maybe she would also order new, lighter skirts, and some wool ones for the winter.
When they have all gone their separate ways, slipping out of the monastery quietly to head back into town, Nahman Jakubowski stays behind. When they are alone, Nahman falls to his knees and wraps his arms around Jacob’s ankles.
“I betrayed you to save you,” he says into the floor, his voice muffled. “You know that. You wanted it.”
The hole that leads to the abyss, or a visit from Tovah and his son Hayim Turk in 1765
The first measure imposed by the new king makes him unpopular at the monastery: he will remove the Jasna Góra fortress from the brothers’ care, which reduces their funds to a bare minimum. Now there is a new prior every year or two, and none of them can figure out any solution, particularly since none of them is versed, as a monk, in the running of such an economy. For after all, a monastery is its own economy.
And none of them can handle this troublesome prisoner who has by now taken over the entire officers’ tower, and who treats the old officers as servants of some sort, and it is difficult to refuse him those semiliberties in exchange for the generous tithes he pays. The prior watches him and his frequent guests—they sit for hours in the church, gazing at the holy picture, and the sight of their fervent prayer and their lying in the form of a cross for whole days would make an impression on any man of faith. Toward the monastery they are solicitous, and they appear to be reconciled to the punishment of their Master. Sometimes there are quarrels or raised voices in the tower. A few times their songs have been heard—this has been strictly forbidden by the prior, unless they can sing Catholic songs.
Prior Mateusz Łękawski was less favorable to Frank than his successor, Mniński. Łękawski received reports of iniquities perpetrated in the officer’s chamber, and the very fact of a family living on the holy terrain of the monastery irritated him, not to mention the quantity of women roaming around. His successor, on the other hand, is not bothered by that at all. Mniński, more concerned with the paintings in the chapel and pained by the poor state of the roof, is pleased by every grosz he gets, and these neophytes supply them in great abundance. He likes to look at women, too, and these ones are particularly pleasing.
He sees three women come up to the gate with Jacob Frank. One of them is carrying an infant, the other leading a little girl. Jacob walks in front, cheerfully greeting the pilgrims, and they, surprised by his tall Turkish hat and his Turkish coat, stop and stare at him. At the gate, Jacob greets two men dressed in the Turkish fashion. They embrace as if they have not seen one another for a long time. The woman with the infant kneels before the older man and kisses his hand. The prior guesses it is her father. He has given the prisoner permission to leave the monastery. He is to return before nightfall.
Indeed, this is Hana Frank’s father, Yehuda Tovah ha-Levi. He is dark, fat, and his lush beard, still black with no sign of gray, covers his breast; he has gentle features and sensual lips. Hana has inherited from him her lovely big eyes, and her olive-hued skin that never flushes. Once they’re inside, Tovah settles into a chair, where he will not be especially comfortable—he prefers sitting according to the Turkish custom, on pillows. He sets his hands atop his ample belly; they are soft and delicate, like the hands of a sage.
His son, Hana’s twin brother, Hayim, has grown up to be a handsome man, though not as solidly built as his father. His face is round with regular features, like his father’s. His dark, very thick eyebrows are almost joined, and together divide his face horizontally. Hayim, dressed like a Turk, is friendly and sincere. His smile never leaves his face, as if he were trying to conquer them all with it. He has obviously been raised with much love, for he is self-confident but not haughty. Old Tovah holds Avacha on his lap; she has gotten as thin as a roe fawn, and so her grandpa gives her dried figs and Turkish sweets. Hana sits near her father with little Jacob at her breast, the child’s tiny hands playing with the fringe of the kerchief her father brought her as a gift. Since the arrival of her father and brother, Hana seems invigorated; she is certain now that something significant will change, even if she doesn’t know what. As they talk, she shifts her inquiring gaze from her husband to her father and brother, since she remains dependent on these men and on whatever they decide. And so it goes all evening, until sleep overcomes her.
Jacob returns to his cell late at night. The next day, Roch receives a supply of good Turkish tobacco and several pipes in thanks. The jangling coin he also receives is another welcome boon, and he quickly hides it in his tattered pants pockets. To the monastery goes a basket of delicacies. Someone has said that since the brothers cannot experience many of life’s pleasures, they are inordinately fond of sweets.
When Jacob talks, it almost seems like Tovah isn’t listening; he is constantly looking around the room, looking at his fingers, from time to time changing his uncomfortable position with a sigh of impatience. Maybe he really is upset by what Jacob is telling him; after all, Jacob has had five years of solitude and come up with all kinds of ideas. Some of them Tovah considers unrealistic, while others he finds harmful. Some of them are interesting. One is terrible.
Tovah can’t lis
ten to any more talk of the Shekhinah imprisoned in the picture in the monastery, and he starts to drum his fingers. Jacob, for the umpteenth time, as if returning again to the same topic makes it somehow more real, repeats the words of the Zohar:
“Salvation is located in the worst place.”
He falls silent, waiting for these words to take their full effect, then suddenly he raises up his index finger, as is his wont, and asks dramatically:
“And where have we found ourselves?”
He has changed a lot. His shaved face has darkened, his eyes have dimmed. His movements are jerky, as if he were suppressing rage. This new violence makes others fear him, which is why no one dares answer him now. Jacob stands and begins to walk around the room, leaning forward, with his finger still raised, pointing to the wooden ceiling.
“This is nikve detom rabe, the road to the abyss, this Częstochowa, this Jasna Góra—these are the Gates of Rome at which, according to other words from the Zohar, the Messiah sits and binds and unbinds . . . This is a dark place, the entryway into the abyss into which we must descend in order to free the Shekhinah imprisoned there. And further on is all that has been—in order to go in higher, we have to fall as low as possible; the darker it gets the lighter it gets, and the worse the better.
“I didn’t know at first why I was put in here,” says Jacob. He is tense, excited; his father-in-law discreetly looks at Hana, who is staring at the floor, absently. “I just sensed that I should not oppose the sentence. But now I know—I was put here because this is where the Shekhinah is imprisoned, on this new Mount Zion. Hidden beneath that painted board, beneath the picture, is the Maiden. These people don’t see it, they think they’re paying tribute to the surface, but that is only a reflection of the Shekhinah, the version of it that is available to human sight.”
The Books of Jacob Page 77
