The Library Paradox

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘No,’ began David. Then he stopped. ‘We-ell, not really. Funnily enough, there was something about a rebbe disappearing recently, but it’s just a funny coincidence. It has nothing to do with what you’re looking for. It’s just a story.’

  ‘What do you mean, just a story? Where did you hear it? Who was it about?’

  ‘I heard Yossele, our local storyteller, giving one of his recitations last week. It was a new tale by Yitzhok Peretz published in Kol Mevasser – that’s our newspaper – called “If not still higher”, or something like that. It was really good and I enjoyed it. I wanted to tell it to my brothers, but when I started, they told me they had just heard the same story in school. And then someone else, I don’t remember who, told me that they had just heard that wonderful story. Actually, I heard it mentioned several times last week.’ He stopped suddenly, struck by a thought. ‘I wonder why that particular story made the rounds?’

  ‘What is it about?’ said Amy.

  ‘It’s … well, that’s just it. It’s about a rebbe who disappears. He is absent mysteriously early every morning, and a foreigner – a Lithuanian – tries to find out where he goes.’

  ‘It would be good to find out exactly who began telling the story, and why,’ I said. ‘I mean, most people probably heard it lately from someone who retold it because they themselves had heard it and liked it. The thing would be to work backwards up the chain to its source. It might be nothing more than the recent publication of the story—’

  ‘But it might be that everyone is talking about it because somebody noticed something like it really happening!’ cried Amy, picking up on the idea that David had half-expressed.

  ‘I don’t know, though,’ he said. ‘People tell stories around here all the time, and Peretz’s latest can always be counted upon to get a lot of appreciation. Peretz is one of our great Yiddish authors,’ he added, turning to me. Reaching up to a shelf, which held a pile of papers and well-thumbed tomes, he took down some old newspapers and glanced through them. I looked eagerly over his shoulder, but found myself confronted with Hebrew characters, as illegible to me as if I were staring at a blank wall.

  ‘You won’t be able to read this,’ he said, smiling. ‘Anyway, I don’t think I have the story here, as it only just came out. Listen, I’ll find it and translate it for you, and send one of my brothers to bring it over to you tomorrow. I don’t know what conclusions you’ll be able to draw from it; probably none.’

  ‘I would very much like to read the story, nevertheless,’ I said.

  ‘But in the meantime, can’t you also try to find out the source of the storytelling, as Vanessa was asking?’ said Amy eagerly.

  ‘I can try, I suppose, though I hardly see how. I only wish it were clear that it is the right thing to do,’ he answered, looking rather unhappy. Sensing the reason, Amy tried to reassure him.

  ‘David, not one of us here believes the rebbe Jonathan saw is the murderer. We proved to our satisfaction, from the evidence, that he can’t be. But don’t forget that the police are looking for him, too. And they may not accept our arguments. What we say depends on exactly what Jonathan remembers seeing, and when. We believe him, but the police may easily imagine that he is mistaken by a few seconds. Our finding the rebbe will help him, not hurt him, David, we are sure of it. You know it too, don’t you?’

  He did not answer, but his gaze met mine.

  ‘Is what she says true for you, too, Vanessa?’ he asked me.

  For a brief moment, I hesitated. Was I completely sure? Could the rabbi not be the murderer? Could Jonathan not be mistaken by a few seconds? But no – he was clearly telling the truth when he described exactly what he saw and did that fatal evening.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said finally.

  London, Sunday, March 15th, 1896

  Sundays are sadly unproductive with respect to collecting information from official sources. I rose this morning somewhat later than usual, and set immediately to considering how I might best spend the intervening hours before the evening’s dinner party at Professor Taylor’s home, to which he had promised to summon as many of Professor Ralston’s erstwhile colleagues as could be prevailed upon to attend.

  It may have no apparent bearing on the investigation, yet I felt I must begin by going to church. The quietness of prayer, the respectful silence whose intensity is merely increased by the tiny rustles of quickly stilled movements, the echoing tones of the sermon, the abandonment of controlled thought to the familiar ways of hymn and prayer: all this is more conducive to concentration and insight than any other atmosphere I have ever encountered. Yet today, for the first time in my life, the collective yearning for God seemed too staid for me to be able to lose myself in it. The sermon was steady and noble, the listeners rapt, the singing inspired, and yet something was lacking: the joyful abandon, the radiant rapture, the sheer happiness of nearness to God that I had witnessed so recently … in another religion.

  It occurred to me for the first time that I could not remember ever, for even one moment in my life, feeling myself to be personally and individually animated by the grace of God. I tried, as I stood and sat decorously upon my pew, to understand something of the deep hatred Christians manifest towards Jews (history having clearly proven that Catholics tend to sin more in this direction than Protestants). Brought up in ignorance, with nothing more than a kind of vague, undeveloped horror of the blasphemy of not worshipping our Lord, I had never actually asked myself what Jews worshipped instead. If I had, I could have easily discovered the answer, for they continue to worship, as they always have, the very same Deity of the Old Testament as we do. The denial of Jesus Christ as his son and his Messiah, a gesture of love and pity for mankind that God sent to humanity, is sad for them, perhaps, for they are thus denied the hopes for eternal life offered to us by His sacrifice. One may consider them most unfortunate in this regard (although they in no way appear to share this conviction), but how can it be a cause of hate? Often they have been accused of being the murderers of Christ, yet this accusation seems more a consequence of hatred than its cause, for anyone who reads the Gospels, anyone with even a minimal knowledge of the reign of terror of the Romans in Jerusalem and the unlimited power and immense cruelty of Pontius Pilate, knows that only Romans, not Jews, had the power to execute. And from thence to accusations of ritually murdering children to drink their blood appears to denote a frenzy of hatred, which goes beyond any rational explanation. Perhaps one must seek within the psyche of each one of the individual Ralstons of this world, to understand what personal tragedy has provoked such bitterness.

  I puzzled over this question for some time, and finally came to the conclusion that as I am not likely to be able to penetrate the complexities of the historical causes on my own, the most important thing to do is not to try, but rather to fight hatred as I find it, and to love my neighbour as best I can. This comforting thought brought me directly back to the task at hand, and emerging from the church, I felt my soul to be renewed and refreshed after all.

  I greatly wished to continue the search for Britta Rubinstein, but could not see how to proceed, most particularly on a Sunday, during which I could not even have recourse to calling upon Mr Upp, or upon my old friend Detective Inspector Reynolds. Returning home, I addressed a note to the latter, reminding him of the interesting occasion of the lost emerald, and proposing to visit him on Monday afternoon in order to ask him for some help and advice about a search for missing persons. I then wrote a lengthy letter to Dora, filled with anxious questions about the twins. I went out to drop these in the corner postbox, and had only just returned to the house when the doorbell rang. Upon opening it, I perceived a small boy of eleven or twelve, whose angel face was smudged with London dust and grime.

  ‘Are you Mrs Weatherburn?’ he asked, looking at me curiously. ‘I’m Ephraim, David Mendel’s brother. He told me to bring you this,’ and he handed me an envelope containing several pages.

  ‘Ah, thank you!’ I exclaimed, realising what
the package must contain, and taking it from him. ‘It’s very nice of you to come all the way here,’ I added. He inspected me carefully, then burst out suddenly, in a half-whisper of awed respect,

  ‘Is it true you’re a detective?’

  Was this a good thing, I wondered briefly? Yes, perhaps it was.

  ‘Yes, it is true,’ I replied seriously. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I heard David talking with Rivka. He didn’t mean me to hear! But when I asked him, he wouldn’t tell me anything, except that I should bring you this.’ His black eyes focused upon me appealingly. ‘Won’t you tell me? What is it all about? What’s the mystery? Can’t I know? I’d like to be a detective.’

  ‘You would?’ I looked him over carefully, pretending to size him up. He straightened himself and waited in eager silence. After a short moment, I nodded.

  ‘Listen, maybe I can tell you, maybe not. A good detective has to be able to keep a secret,’ I said importantly. It occurred to me briefly that David might object to my involving his little brother in a murder case, and I felt a quick pinch of anxiety. But the opportunity was golden, and there could be no possible danger in what I was going to ask him to do.

  ‘I can keep a secret,’ he said firmly. ‘I promise!’

  ‘All right then. It’s a case of murder,’ I whispered, leaning towards him with an expression of confidentiality which was rewarded by the size of his eyes very nearly doubling. ‘But not of anyone in your part of town, of course. This man you wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Then how can my brother be helping you?’ he asked, burning with curiosity. ‘Is it someone from the City? What does he know about it?’

  ‘He doesn’t know anything,’ I sighed. ‘He isn’t involved.’

  ‘Then what’s this?’

  ‘This envelope? It’s just a story he thought I would like, by an author called … Peretz, I think. Is that the name?’ Pulling open the envelope, I extracted the sheets and showed him the title: ‘If not still higher’, by Y.L. Peretz.

  ‘Oh, I know that story! I just heard it!’ he observed. ‘That’s funny; I wonder why David is sending you that?’

  ‘You heard it recently?’ I said. ‘That’s very interesting. Who did you hear it from?’

  ‘A boy in my class told it in the playground,’ he said easily.

  ‘All right. Now listen,’ I told him seriously. ‘You say you want to be a detective. So I’m going to give you a test. I’m going to give you something to detect. But you understand that you have to do this like a real detective. Everything has to be totally secret. Don’t let a soul know that you’re investigating. You can ask people questions, but you have to do it in such a way that they think you just happen to be curious, not that you’re actually investigating with any purpose. Yet you must be quick. You have to try and do it within a couple of days, if you can.’

  ‘What do I have to do?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Well, people all over your part of town have been hearing this story lately. Your job is to find out who started telling the story first. Start by asking where the boy who told you the story heard it, who told it to him. And then, find out where that person heard it, and see if you can work your way right back to the first person who told it. As quickly as you can manage it, mind. But make sure that you never, never let a soul suspect that you’re detecting, all right? Can you do that?’

  ‘Is that all?’ he said, looking faintly disappointed. ‘Well, I’m sure I can manage that. If I do, will you give me some real detecting to do?’

  ‘We’ll see!’ I said. ‘But you have to realise that there is no difference between this job and “real detecting”. Most of detective work is just this kind of work; finding out details, or looking up paperwork. If you want to be a detective, you have to be prepared to do little tasks in secrecy. And remember this: the secrecy is more important than the task itself. Don’t make yourself look suspicious by insisting if it doesn’t seem natural. Remember, spies and detectives must never court danger or reveal themselves!’

  ‘What should I do if I find out the answer?’

  ‘I want to know about anything interesting you find out, anything at all. But you go to school, so it might not be so easy for you to come and see me – and you mustn’t write anything down, of course, ever! No, I think that if you want to let me know something, you should tell David. He’ll know how to find me. Don’t forget to be discreet. Promise?’

  ‘Of course I promise,’ he said, impressed in spite of himself. I was also impressed. His easy I’m sure I can manage that rang in my ears. Like a little mouse, he probably knows all the ins and outs of his maze-like little world. If anyone could find out where the story started – if David’s sudden suspicion was right, and had some relation to reality – why then, Ephraim, not David, was the most likely person to discover it for us.

  With these thoughts in mind, I settled upon Emily’s comfortable little sofa to find out what the famous story was actually about. The handwritten sheets were accompanied by a short note from David.

  Here is the tale I told you about, which I heard recently. It was written by Yitzhok Leib Peretz – if you knew what that name means to us! Our language is so humble that almost no one actually thinks of writing in it. I mean writing real literature, reflecting our beliefs and our lives. We call Peretz ‘the father of Yiddish literature’. His tales are like drops of our essential truth. I have put it in English as well as I can, but so much is necessarily lost. Every phrase, every expression might have been taken directly from the mouths of us Hassidim.

  I must tell you that around here, people tell stories all the time. And a recent story by Peretz will make the rounds faster than anything. So I just don’t know if this can possibly have any significance. Yet it struck me as a coincidence, after our talk yesterday.

  My very best to you,

  David Mendel

  Putting the note aside, I turned to the story itself with curiosity.

  If Not Still Higher, by Yitzhok Leib Peretz

  And every morning during the Days of Awe, at the time for the penitential prayers, the Nemirover rebbe would disappear; vanish! He was nowhere to be seen: not in the synagogue, not in either of the shuls, not at a prayer-gathering, and definitely not at home. The house stood open. Anyone who wanted to could go in or out; nobody stole from the rebbe. But not a living soul was to be found in the house.

  Where can the rebbe be?

  Where could he be? In Heaven, of course. Do you think a rebbe doesn’t have a lot of affairs to attend to during the Days of Awe? Jews, G–d save them, need to earn a living; need peace, health, good marriages for their children; want to be good and G–d-fearing. But their sins are great, and Satan with his thousand eyes watches, and accuses, and informs … and – who is to help if not the rebbe?

  That is what the people thought.

  Once, though, a Litvak (Lithuanian) arrived in town, and he mocked! You know the Litvaks: they don’t have a high opinion of the books of ethics; instead they cram themselves full of Talmud and Mishnah. A Litvak will quote a whole text and leave you with your mouth hanging open. Even Moses wasn’t allowed to ascend to Heaven during his lifetime, but had to stop ten handbreadths below! Try to argue with a Litvak!

  ‘Where else does the rebbe go, then?’

  ‘How should I know?’ he answers with a shrug. And before the words are out of his mouth (what a Litvak is capable of!) he resolves to find out.

  The very same evening, just after evening prayers, the Litvak steals into the rebbe’s bedroom, creeps under his bed, and lies there. He intends to wait all night and see where the rebbe goes; what he does during the time of penitential prayers.

  Another person might doze off and miss the opportunity, but a Litvak will always find a way. He repeated from memory an entire tractate of the Talmud! I can’t remember whether it was Profane Things or Vows.

  Before sunrise he hears the call to prayers.

  The rebbe had already been awake for some time. He had heard him sighin
g for almost a whole hour.

  Anyone who has ever heard the Nemirover rebbe sighing knows how much sorrow for the Jewish people, how much suffering there was in each sigh … Hearing the rebbe sigh would melt you with pity. But a Litvak has a heart of iron. He hears it and just keeps lying there. The rebbe lies there too: the rebbe, G–d bless him, on the bed, the Litvak under the bed.

  The Litvak hears the beds in the house begin to creak; hears the occupants get out of their beds, hears the murmur of a blessing, hands being washed, doors opening and closing. The people leave the house, and once again it is quiet and dark. Through the shutter a small gleam of moonlight barely penetrates …

  The Litvak confessed that when he was left all alone with the rebbe he was seized with terror! His skin prickled with fear and the roots of his earlocks pierced his temples like needles.

  There’s nothing to laugh about: alone in a room with the rebbe, before daylight in the Days of Awe! …

  But a Litvak is stubborn; so he shivers like a fish in the water, but he continues to lie there.

  Finally the rebbe, G–d bless him, gets out of bed.

  First he does all the things a Jew is obliged to do, then he goes to the clothes chest and removes a bundle … Peasant clothes appear: linen trousers, great boots, a coat, a big fur cap, and a large leather belt studded with brass nails.

  The rebbe puts them on. From the pocket of the coat a thick rope sticks out; the kind of rope peasants use!