The Slaughterman's Daughter

by Yaniv Iczkovits

  Novak never understood what he was supposed to do – with his family, that is. He married of course, as was expected of him, and his wife gave birth to two healthy boys. But this family unit, which he was supposed to commend – where does it go? Who does it fight against? What is it defending? How does it define success? His sons received the best education money could buy. Ivan is already a notary, Alexey is studying engineering in Moscow. His wife Anna is not unhappy either, or so it seems. His entire life, Novak has worked hard to provide and care for them, and if he hadn’t risen through the ranks in the army and sent envelopes with bundles of cash each month, they would not have come close to the lives they lead now.

  After he had made a great effort to attend his elder son’s wedding, Ivan, the groom, had shaken his hand and said “Thank you very much for coming, sir”, as if he was just an ordinary guest. And when his younger son left for Moscow, Novak travelled to the big city to make sure everything was in order and left in his hand a year’s worth of rent. Alexey had looked at him, embarrassed, and held the notes apprehensively, as if they had been handed to him by a usurer. And even though his son had thanked him profusely, Novak felt that this gesture had set them only further apart.

  * * *

  Now, after watching his hosts’ family life, he excuses himself, leaves his translator behind and goes out to take a quick glass of slivovitz. Then he walks alone along the narrow alleyways, slowly drawn to a broad street that leads to the main road and the large synagogue. Before long, he is back at the market square. Passers-by look at him curiously: his limp provokes either repugnance or pity. Willing to risk everything he has achieved up to this point, he walks straight to his office, by the town hall.

  VI

  * * *

  Novak’s agents are used to his disguises. They have seen him dressed as a beggar or a pimp, as a carter or a concierge, even as a woman. It can be safely assumed that if a civilian walks into the office of the Department for Public Security and Order, paying no attention to the plain-clothes sentries at the gate, this person must be Novak. Once his limp is noted the assumption is confirmed. But for some reason, the Jew approaching the gate is not suspected of being Novak. Even the limp does not stop the guards from barring his path, yelling, “No entrance, żyd”, and even raising an imaginary stone to throw at him.

  Oddly enough, Novak is hurt. He is taken aback by the immediate exemption he has received from basic decorum and his leg smarts as if a real stone has just hit it. He pulls himself together. “Adrian, Nestor, it’s me, Novak,” and the pair immediately stand to attention. “Yes, sir. Apologies, sir!” They watch in admiration as he walks down the hall, whispering about their revered commander who never fails to surprise them. It is impressive enough that he can pass himself off as a beggar or a pimp, but a żyd? The man never rests, and certainly not on his laurels. He becomes completely absorbed in each investigation he works on, treating every wanted outlaw as though they were his first. Even though the colonel has already attained what Ivan and Nestor aspired to have when they joined the Department – the privileges of power – he is still out there, getting his hands dirty.

  Whispers of the Jew’s true identity precede Novak down the corridors, and everyone he passes bows politely. Once he arrives in his office, he takes off the kaftan and suddenly feels a bitter cold. Being referred to as a żyd has touched a sore spot. He sinks into his chair, hurriedly opens a fresh bottle of slivovitz and looks at the army medal for bravery on his desk. He has a sudden urge to close the shutters, lock his door and hide from the world. He usually enjoys watching the market from his second-floor window, wondering how many of the people going about their business – loitering on street corners, listening in taverns, trailing across alleyways, soliciting their neighbours’ help – are doing it solely for the benefit of the man on the second floor. But now, sitting in his chair, melancholy lies heavy on his heart. Who is he? What is he? A dirty żyd. A worm.

  He feels exhausted. He has no interest in the pile of letters on his desk. The envelopes contain nothing but flattery and lies, addressed either to him or by him. He has always believed that, given the opportunity, the rebels and insurgents he pursues would turn this country upside down and wreak havoc. Ignoramuses and imbeciles would replace His Royal Highness the Czar, delinquents and crooks would become army and police officers, while princes and aristocrats would beg for alms in the streets. Total anarchy! But what do they have now? Doesn’t this corrupt social order seem more and more like anarchy anyway? What if the law and lawlessness end up becoming the same thing?

  What does this pile of envelopes on his desk contain? Betrayal and gossip, half-truths and fiction. One neighbour incriminating another: this one hasn’t paid his taxes, that one is lying to the authorities, these ones were seen in the company of socialists, those ones spoke ill of a prince who is close to the Czar. They all contain the line “Please remember that I have faithfully served the Czar”, which is immediately followed by: “Regarding another matter, I would like to recommend my son as the perfect candidate for the position of clerk in the civil service.” What do they all want? To curry favour, to prove their loyalty, prove their obedience and draw closer to the source of power. He knows all too well that they would join a gang of hoodlums with equal zeal if it held more sway than their monarch.

  Suddenly, an idea hits Novak’s mind. A thrill of excitement runs through him. He dons the kaftan again, leaps from his chair and limps over to the cabinet, then back to his desk, pacing back and forth. Barely realising what he is saying, he exclaims, “Yes! Of course! That’s what I’ll do!” and sits back down at his desk. He pulls a blank sheet of paper out of a drawer, dips his pen in the inkwell and smooths back his hair. How should he word it? This will cause a scandal. His letter must be very specific. Governor Osip Gurko must understand the reasons for his resignation. A criticism of the state of the empire should suggest itself between the lines. Novak must make it clear that he can no longer prop up a system that makes citizens live in fear, while the state does everything within its power to turn them against one another, ensuring they remain impoverished and ignorant. But perhaps it is better to be succinct. Perhaps he should write something along the lines of; “I wish to inform you of my resignation from the position of Commander of the Districts of Grodno and Minsk. Sincerely, —” Damn, that letter would leave its mark! Gurko would be certain to summon him for an urgent meeting.

  Gurko: “What is happening, my dear Piotr? Please tell me, we go back a long way.”

  Novak: “Nothing is happening, sir, I just want to retire.”

  Gurko: “But why?”

  Novak: “There’s no need for details. This is my final decision.”

  And with that, Novak will hold his peace and add nothing further. The mysteriousness of his resignation will lead Gurko to understand that there is something rotten in the Districts of Grodno and Minsk.

  But what about the investigation? He is up to his neck in one of the most convoluted mysteries he has ever come across. He would have to explain why he is walking away from the affair that has gripped the entire district. Has he found the killers? If so, why aren’t they in chains? Has he ascertained their motives? If so, what are they? This plot has so many loose ends. What would Novak tell Gurko? That he wants to leave this investigation because it makes so little sense, and because the only things that ever make sense about his investigations are also sinister and corrupt? Must he tell Gurko that it is logic itself that is unfair? Will he dare confess to the commander he so admires that he is awed by the bizarre journey these crooked types are on, all the more so, perhaps, because he is ignorant of its purpose? Will he confess that he wants to pull out of the investigation not because he is resigning, but the other way around: he feels it is his duty to resign because he wants to pull out of the investigation?

  At this moment, there is a loud knock on his office door, and Novak slips out of the kaftan, opens the shutters, spreads o
ut the pile of letters on his desk and takes out a stamp and a letter opener. Opening the door with the air of one who has been interrupted in the midst of feverish work, he is surprised to see his deputy Albin Dodek standing in the doorway, the bearer of urgent news.

  “I searched the whole district for you, sir, and in the end I took the train.”

  Goddammit, thinks Novak, I risked my leg on that strenuous journey for nothing. This slow, stupid sloth still got here faster than I did.

  Dodek continues: “It turns out that, contrary to your opinion, my addition to the end of the letter we sent to Mishenkov has proved useful. I’m referring to ‘Anyone withholding information about their identity or whereabouts will be considered an accomplice’. Even though you were angry, I think I had good reason.”

  This comment could be true, Novak thinks, if it didn’t come from someone utterly incapable of reason. The longer Novak is away from Albin Dodek, the more he is surprised when they meet again that this dolt is his deputy.

  “In any case, sir,” Dodek goes on, “an urgent message has arrived from Colonel Pazhari. He claims that the four we are looking for passed near his camp several days ago, and that one of them is called Patrick Breshov, and another Zizek Adamsky. But since we know one name, Patrick Adamsky, we can surmise what the second name is: Zizek Breshov!”

  “Perhaps we can or perhaps we can’t,” Novak mutters, and returns to the envelopes on his desk.

  “I’ve already made inquiries, sir. It turns out there is only one Zizek Breshov, and he lives in Motal. I bet we will find all the information we need about his accomplices there.”

  “Motal?” Novak says in surprise.

  “Yes, Motal. I sent agents over there.”

  “You did what?” Novak is horrified.

  “Yesterday!” Dodek says, pleased. “They should be there any minute.”

  “Stop them immediately!” Novak shouts in Dodek’s face. “Keep them out of that town!”

  “Why? What? Sir?”

  “Because I said so,” Novak whispers, noticing that his deputy is eyeing him warily, in alarm. “I want to go there and see things for myself,” he says, as though this were obvious.

  “Certainly, sir, I will tell them to retreat,” Dodek says, in a conspiratorial tone.

  “Now leave me alone. Let me work.”

  Dodek takes his time leaving the office, apparently wondering why the conversation they have just had is not considered work.

  As soon as his deputy has left, Novak reaches two conclusions. First, this investigation is no longer in his hands. Like a monstrous octopus, this case has stretched its slimy tentacles in all directions. Novak would be hard-pressed to make it go away without anyone noticing. Second, if the culprits’ families are indeed found in Motal, Albin Dodek will eclipse Colonel Piotr Novak, who will appear negligent for having failed to apply cold and calculated – perhaps even straightforward – analysis, becoming too personally invested, and for insisting the case is more complex than it actually is. Furthermore, he misjudged Adamsky’s loyalty, and then he fell for the cliché that a woman, and a Jewess at that, couldn’t possibly be the murderer. But last night, he outdid himself when he played along with the Hasidic feast and drank enough to feel comfortable singing “Shalom Aleichem” at a tisch. And now his stupid deputy crosses the names Patrick Breshov and Zizek Adamsky, inquires where Zizek Breshov lives and finds a godforsaken town that had never even occurred to Novak.

  Motal. Could it be? When he reviewed all the towns near Pinsk, this name had come up: an isolated place surrounded by black bogs. The home of log merchants and farmers growing potatoes and flax, its residents generally prefer to stay within its bounds and rarely venture further than the markets of Pinsk and Telekhany. They are interested only in trifles: weddings, births and washing clothes in the Yaselda. They pride themselves on the quality of their logs and of their linen, which they con-sider soft as silk. The last crime in the town was recorded when a drunk muzhik came back from the tavern one night and accidentally entered the wrong house, where he feasted on the pork and buckwheat his wife had left out for him, or so he thought. Appreciative of the fine meal, the likes of which he hadn’t tasted in a long time, he removed his boots, planning to slip into the bed of the generous cook and embrace her in gratitude. The moment he encountered a hairy chest instead of luscious curves, however, all hell broke loose. Old scores were settled by brothers, uncles and acquaintances who joined the melee, which had sprung out of a random mistake, as everyone agreed, but whose consequences were inevitable. Could Novak have been so inattentive that he did not realise that the source of the trouble lay in Motal?

  True, some of Novak’s mistakes reveal a certain superficiality in conducting the investigation. He could have sent other agents to Grodno, couldn’t he? He could have gone to Minsk instead of Grodno to search for that Zvi-Meir character, who appears to be the key to the entire affair. The first principle he teaches the district commanders whom Gurko sends to him for training is the commander’s location during an investigation. “You cannot choose where you want be; this is something your mission will dictate to you. It’s a purely objective consideration.” And look at him now. Where are his objective considerations? His curiosity and impulse have taken control of his mind. He didn’t even have the patience to wait for the railway tracks to be fixed, and instead set out, as if possessed, on a five-day ride with Akaky Akakyevich. And where did that thread of Fanny Schechter’s Grodno origins lead him? Well, to munching on calf’s-foot jelly and boot-flavoured meatballs.

  He leaves his office still dressed as a Jew, and has the feeling that the clerks are leering at him. Peeking into Dodek’s office he sees two pairs of legs comfortably stretched out before his deputy’s desk. Noticing Novak, Dodek nods to him. If he wants to know which agents are sitting in Dodek’s office, Novak would have to put his head around the door, but he decides not to. As soon as he decides this, he assumes the worst: that from now on, the two agents in Dodek’s office will tail him. This is not paranoia. He himself imposed the surveillance doctrine on his agents, which is based on the premise that the Okhrana is not hierarchical but cobweb-like, leaving all of its members equally vulnerable to investigation.

  Novak finds Akaky, predictably, in bed. After the required blessing, Avremaleh Rabinovits lunched on egg – an honour reserved for special guests – cucumber salad and lukewarm tea with dry semolina cake for dessert. He then went back to bed to continue his recovery from last night’s celebrations and come to grips with his pleasant return to the Jewish fold. Novak pokes Akaky’s belly with his cane.

  “Get up, we are leaving for Motal.”

  He is surprised when Akaky smiles in response.

  * * *

  The journey to Motal is short. They board a Baranavichy-bound train in Grodno and, when they arrive, Novak orders the newest carriage and freshest horses. That same evening Akim and Prokor set out for Motal in a barouche spacious enough for five passengers, boasting enormous wheels, copper-coloured spokes and fine leather seats, with a chassis resistant to all manner of shock. As the carriage rolls along, one cannot but admit that this is a fine chassis, dammit, this is what a chassis should be like. Little wonder that the pair arrives in Motal in less than a day.

  This time, they do not make their way to the market. Novak knows that if he repeats this mistake he might end up in a shtiebel, stare at undecipherable script in the afternoon and be gulping insipid cabbage soup by evening. Oh no. This time, he must immediately find the community leader, the rabbi, and make his generous offer discreetly: give up the culprits and we will spare the innocent. The time has come to tighten the strings.

  VII

  * * *

  Novak’s plan is a resounding success. Even if agents are tailing him, the only thing they can accuse him of is serendipity, that his breakthrough came quite by chance.

  Either way, when Akim and Prokor meet with Motal’s
rabbi, Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin, and tell him about their grand plans for the town – the building of a new yeshiva and renovation of the mikveh – they could not have imagined that, at that very moment, Mrs Rivkah Keismann would be waiting inside his office. Even if they had, they would not have thought her to be a person of interest to their investigation. But when the rabbi presents the elderly woman and tells them about her ill-fated daughter-in-law, Fanny Keismann, the combination of Fanny’s name and the fact of her disappearance beats in Prokor’s ears like drums in battle. He has to use every scrap of self-restraint to remain calm. Once Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin has explained about the disaster that struck the family and told them about the sister and her husband, Zvi-Meir, Prokor is overjoyed. Two birds with one stone: Fanny and Zvi-Meir belong to the same family. Why didn’t he work that out himself?

  And yet, something in the rabbi’s story bothers Novak. Reb Halperin describes the two disappearances, Zvi-Meir’s and Fanny’s, as completely unrelated incidents, but Novak is sure that the two are connected. After all, the murderess had revealed as much herself, when he gripped her throat.

  Novak decides that it is time to meet the Keismann family, who live in the nearby village of Upiravah, and to blockade Motal. When he finally reaches the Keismann home it is almost three weeks since Fanny’s departure, and by now not even a stork could leave Motal without Novak’s permission. Novak’s agents watch admiringly as he tightens the lacing of an invisible, close-fitting corset around the town. He has undercover police waiting on the other bank of the Yaselda, and further south, near the Keismanns’ village, a ringleader who will report for duty with his rabble, torches in hand, whenever so instructed. He has at his disposal a small group of soldiers camped out not far from Pinsk, and even several tramps scattered about the black bogs, ready to report on any new information. A crowd of agents and freshly recruited informants infiltrate Motal itself – in the tavern, the restaurant, the market square. One informant could sell cabbages to another without either of them realising who they were.