* * *
Novak arrives at the appointment with Mrs Keismann in Upiravah – yet another godforsaken hole – confident that he is about to solve the case. The pieces are lined up on the chessboard just the way he likes them, and even though his four rivals are still at large, their queen included, the rest are held in a clever trap. Let the queen roam free, let her watch her pawns collapse one by one. Let her scurry amid the ruins of her realm. Freedom is not always the mark of triumph, and no-one knows this better than Novak.
* * *
There is nothing suspicious in the courtyard of Fanny’s home. A few stray chickens, two geese and a vegetable patch. A simple wooden house but quite a large one, and from certain small details, Novak understands that this is a family of some means. And what about the children playing in the courtyard? First of all, it is a good thing they are here. The bargaining position of one’s opponents is substantially weakened once children are at stake. And second of all, the bright, penetrating eyes of the eldest daughter remind him of her mother. He will have to inquire about her name.
Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin ushers them into the house. He has just told Mrs Keismann about their encounter with Fanny and Zvi-Meir, as Akim interprets for Prokor. Now the rabbi asks the old lady to tell them anything that might help them find the two runaways.
“What is she telling him now?” Prokor asks Akim.
“That they’ve run out of his favourite goat’s cheese.”
“What does cheese have to do with anything?”
“The rabbi is hungry,” explains Akim.
While Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin pecks at bread and leftover cheese in a corner, the two of them sit before the elderly but surprisingly unwrinkled Mrs Keismann. Her anger appears to be centred in her eyes and the thick eyebrows hanging above them like carobs. It wouldn’t surprise them if she were blind, because her eyes remain motionless even when they sit right in front of her. Mrs Keismann appears to be repeating their questions to the walls and then answering herself with mutters and mumbles. Akim translates every word for Prokor.
Question: “You want me to tell you about Zvi-Meir and Fanny?”
Mutter: “They want me to talk about Zvi-Meir and Fanny. Did you hear that?”
Question: “How much time can you spare?”
Mumble: “They think I have time for them, I’m sick of talking.”
Question: “What do you know about these two?”
Hiss: “Well, what can anyone know? He is an imbecile and so is she.”
Novak, that is, Prokor, is beginning to fidget in his chair and asks Akaky, that is, Akim, to guide the lady with slightly more precise questions. When did they leave? Where did they go? Did they leave a note? Who was the last person to see them? How are the two missing family members related?
Question: “When did they leave, they ask? Who knows when they left?”
Mutter: “And to be honest, who cares? Do I care to count? These two ask many questions. Everyone is here until the day they decide to disappear. Why is it important all of a sudden? They haven’t been here for a while. What husband disappears on his wife? Poor Mende, marries a bright yeshiva student and finds out he is an indolent layabout. And Fanny: who ever heard of a bride who sends her mother-in-law to sleep in the courtyard?”
Question: “Where did they go? Do you think they’d tell me where they were going?”
Mumble: “That Zvi-Meir sat at the same table with me for every High Holiday dinner. Never said a single word to me. Philosophised all day long, much ado about nothing, that’s what he is. What do I know about the creation of the world, was I there when the world was created? Who am I to talk about Adam and Eve? Kvatsh mit zozze, nonsense in gravy. This is your Zvi-Meir. So now, before vanishing, you think he will come to me and tell me where he’s going? And Fanny? Even worse. I’m her children’s grandmother and she never thought of telling me anything. I’m not asking for much, really. I try to be on everybody’s good side, and maybe that’s a mistake. What do I get in return? I wait all day long for her to ask my advice: ‘Grandma, you have experience of life, I’d like to hear what you think. Grandma, what would you do? Grandma, what was it like for you?’ But will she? Never. She knows everything. So now, when she has this big secret that makes her run away from home, you think she will tell me all her secrets?”
Question: “Did she leave a note?”
Hiss: “What sort of a question is that? Am I a post office? A government bureau? A registrar? Do I walk around the house looking for notes? What do they know? They know nothing. They think that people’s lives are like a theatre show. What note? What on earth are they talking about? Can one break someone’s heart and leave a note? Destroy a family and say only a few parting words? What can one write, ‘Take care of yourselves until I return’? I don’t know how such people were raised.”
Novak is almost at the end of his tether. He is furious. This shrew had to arrive just when he thought he had the investigation in his pocket. For his part, Akim assumes an angel-like demeanour, and with his rosy skin and fish-like pout, he appears to hang on the old lady’s every word. Novak will be damned if Akaky is not pulling a trick or two. Dammit, he has probably warned the grandmother about him. Agitated, Novak grips Akaky’s wrist and whispers in his ear: “Listen to me, you idiot, tell her to stop babbling. I want straight answers. Give me each reply in a single sentence.”
“What do you want me to say?” Akaky whispers back.
“Tell her these precise words: ‘Mrs Keismann, in order to help you, we need you to answer us clearly, in a single sentence.’”
If Novak had only imagined the consequence of his request, he would have chosen his words more carefully.
Question: “To help me?”
Mutter: “They think they are helping me. This Cossack bursts into my house, upsets me, scares my grandchildren, and all for what? To help me! If I needed your help I would have begged the Blessed Holy One to free me from this nightmare they call life. Did I ever ask for anything more than bread, Torah and family? Did I ask for Avremaleh and Pinchasaleh Rabinovits? Did I tell anyone, ‘I wish two righteous men would renovate the mikveh’? Let me tell you something: our mikveh is fine as it is. New does not necessarily mean better. What would Natan-Berl’s father say if he saw who came to my help? Do you know how I started out in life? We had nothing at home. The well was four versts away. Nothing grew in the bogs. We had to sell our shoes to buy kartoshkes. And now you, of all people, you will help me?”
Question: “You ask for a single sentence?”
Hiss: “They want a short answer? Who are they, the sentence police? Tell me, please, when did I start working for someone who tells me how many words I can use? Because if this is the case, I demand full payment for every word I do not say, and believe me, no matter how much money you do or do not have, you will find yourselves out of pocket very quickly. ‘A single sentence’, they can tell that to their soldiers in the army, the ones with whom they did or didn’t eat pork and sang or didn’t sing in church, but not to Rivkah Keismann, who is still the master of her own tongue, and whoever tells her one more time ‘a single sentence’ will find himself out of her house.”
Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin, who has just finished an entire chunk of cheese, though not of the type he likes best, smiles indulgently and says: “I told you that Rivkah Keismann is the best!”
Novak is at his wits’ end. He could happily strangle Akaky and shoot the chubby rabbi. If only he had his pistol right now he would have rattled the old lady until she let every last cat out of the bag. His patience is exhausted. If one must have a trained ear in order to appreciate the most innovative composers, then clearly training is needed before listening to Mrs Keismann – a form of preparation that Novak lacks right now.
What is more, Novak has simply had enough. After the blow to his crushed leg, after meandering across the county, assuming several identities, solici
ting informants and enlisting treach-erous allies, he feels compelled to flex the muscles of the mighty Department for Public Security and Order. He fancies clenching his fist and delivering a blow that will leave Motal stunned. All he has to do is place the town under curfew and surround this house with police and soldiers. He knows what everyone will say. “See? Even Novak got sick of playing games. See? Even Novak resorts to Cossack methods.”
And maybe this is how things should be? Enough disguises: violence instead of subterfuge. True, he used to be an army major with a bright future ahead of him. True, he fought in Pleba and people still talk about his courageous leadership at the Shipka Pass. True, he witnessed the surrender of the great Othman Pasha. But what is he right now? How long can one cling to the past? When was the last time he looked at himself in the mirror and said: “You did well, Novak, you deserve the praise”? Who looks up to him? Albin Dodek and his herd of fools. The major in the world’s proudest army has become a shadow of his former self. Mulling this over, Novak thinks that contradicting old habits and imposing a curfew might not be such a bad idea. No-one will be able to keep up appearances anymore and when the games are over and all the cards are on the table, it won’t be long before he learns everything he needs to know. And maybe this will free him from the shackles of nostalgia for his army days so that he might finally come to terms with what he has become: a brute, no better than the worst of thugs . . .
Oh, bloody hell, no! There must be another way. If his con-clusion is that everything can be resolved by force, then he has devoted the second half of his career to worthless games of the mind and useless manipulations. If he is no better than Dodek, he might as well start misspelling his own letters. If an iron fist is all it takes, why should the Okhrana be a secret service? And what will Governor Gurko say when he hears about Novak’s loss of temper? How will the officers who have been trained by Novak react? Curfew? Extortion? Torture? Did they really travel all the way to Minsk to learn what anyone in their profession can do? He has to come up with another plan, even at the cost of losing two more days.
* * *
Reb Halperin, who has just swallowed his last mouthful of bread, beams at Akim and Prokor with unabashed delight. “Did you find out everything you wanted to know? Wonderful. We can go back to town for dinner with the local dignitaries.”
Akaky looks at Novak, who does not meet his eye but whispers, “Say that we thank them. We will not bother them anymore.”
As the two of them start for the door, and the rabbi sweeps the crumbs off the table and hurries after them, the children, who have been playing outside, come running into the house with a terrified woman in tow, and slam the door shut. Novak looks out the window. Dozens of mounted Okhrana agents are galloping towards the house, led by Albin Dodek. What can he be doing, Novak wonders, hoping it’s not him that the agents are after. Without a second thought, he ushers the family into a back room.
Dodek and the agents halt at the gate. The deputy slides down from his horse and salutes his commander standing on the veranda.
“Sir!”
“What are you doing, you ass?” Novak could slap him. Dodek has just blown his cover.
“We’ve come to arrest the family.”
“Arrest the family? Who told you to arrest the family?”
Dodek opens the gate and strides towards his commander. The goose retreats with its gander. The deputy climbs the steps and removes the silly bowler hat that makes secret police agents so easy to recognise.
“Things are getting out of hand, sir,” Dodek says, breathlessly, without looking at him. “People are talking.”
“‘People are talking’,” Novak says. “What can fools do other than talk?”
“And yet, sir, the situation is serious.”
“Who sent you over here?”
“You did, sir.”
“I sent you? I told you to wait! Who else is involved in this, Dodek? Who sent you?”
“Gosh, sir, I haven’t a clue what you mean by that, sir, everyone’s involved in this. The mess with all the dead bodies and all that is no secret. The whole district knows about it. Especially now that Governor Gurko is involved.”
“Gurko?” Novak says in bewilderment. “Did Governor Osip Gurko talk to you? Did he tell you to come here?”
“Why would he talk to me, sir?”
“You just mentioned Gurko!”
“No, you did, sir. When you sent the agents to Mishenkov, you told me to say that Gurko is involved.”
“Dodek!” Novak bellows. “That was only a threat!”
“How could I know that, sir?”
“So Gurko knows about this whole thing?”
“I have no idea.”
“How did you know where to find me? Who followed me?”
“No-one, sir, it was obvious you would be here.”
These last words shake Novak. He stares at his deputy, thunderstruck, taking in the full meaning of what he has just heard. Have his cunning methods become predictable? Did the slowest deputy in the armed forces, a man of feeble mind and threadbare brain, just guess Colonel Novak’s next move?
“Well. Now what?” Novak says, conceding that he has been caught unprepared.
“It’s all organised, sir. We’ve ordered a curfew. We are in full control of all entrances and exits, sir, the town is blockaded. Now we must arrest the relatives and interrogate them. A brilliant operation, sir, congratulations! Whether Gurko already knows or not, he will definitely be proud.”
Stunned, Novak scratches his head. Dodek stares at him as though he is a stranger, or perhaps a suspect, even. Suddenly, Colonel Novak has an idea. He thumps his cane on the ground and pulls a bitter face.
“Oh dear. You have made a serious mistake.”
“A mistake, sir?”
“Indeed. You acted too soon. You forgot about Zvi-Meir. He is the key to the entire affair.”
“Zvi-Meir?” the deputy asks, confused.
“Enough questions, Dodek! Send an urgent message to the agents tailing Zvi-Meir in Minsk. Tell them to be ready to arrest him.”
“Certainly, sir. Zvi-Meir. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Thinking is not a part of your job.”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“What good are the killers without their mastermind?”
“I quite agree, sir.”
“Off you go, then.”
Novak is relieved to see his deputy instructing the agents. It was lucky that Zvi-Meir came to mind when he did, otherwise Novak would have been caught completely off guard. He has managed to prove yet again that his thick-headed deputy is incapable of thinking creatively, because, like a short blanket, Dodek’s brain is destined to leave the essentials uncovered. To avoid finding himself in this position again, Novak makes a mental note to remember that this investigation is unique. Its twists and turns do not wrap themselves around the fugitives alone; they also grip the investigators by their throats. Is not that so?
Minsk
I
Written and signed in Minsk
By Zvi-Meir Speismann
On the twelfth day in the month of Elul, year 5654
Dear teachers and masters, paragons and friends, the loving and beloved, wise, sagacious and learned in the truths of the Torah, precious men of wisdom. To my beloved friend Rabbi Scheinfeld, and to my beloved friend, man of letters, the erudite Rabbi Kahanah, and to my beloved friend, the scholarly, pious Rabbi Leibowitz. I turn to you, three wise men, in peace, as your virtue sustains the world.
The man writing to you is none other than Zvi-Meir Speismann, the lad you expelled from the Volozhin Yeshiva eight years ago when he was of the tender age of eighteen. Fear not, I intend to neither mock nor malign you. My heart hasn’t a drop of bitterness, nor do I gloat over the final closing of Volozhin’s gates. I am no longer the pure, innocent man I used
to be. I, Zvi-Meir Speismann, was destined to follow the tormented path of the prophets.
I currently reside in Minsk’s lower market with neither a home nor means. My days are numbered, but I could not be happier. I have found my calling. My heart is alight with the flames of faith, and my spirit soars to the high Heavens. My words of truth have spread across Russia. Try as they might, my persecutors will never uproot the truth that has clung to so many hearts and won over countless souls. On the contrary, my death will only serve to emphasise the righteousness of my cause and prove the injustice I have endured. Contrary to what our tradition says, justice prevails regardless of whether it has the support of a majority. All that Truth needs is a harbinger, and a harbinger I have been for its cause.
Dear friends, homeless beggars have warned me that mighty legions are on my trail. I do not want to point fingers, but in trying to understand how it came to be that Zvi-Meir Speismann – a meek, obscure thinker, a subaltern scholar – has become a threat to the great Russian Empire, the answer appeared to me, shining with a thousand lights: you, members of the old guard, think my teachings pernicious. Blinded by your sagacity, you have become callous and aloof. Like those who heard the Prophets of Israel, driven by jealousy and knavery you refused to heed my words and cast me away.
In Motal I was an aspiring scholar (if rote and verbal somersaults can be described as “scholarship”). At the cheder the tutor used to call me “the little chucham” and sang my praises. My commitment to the Truth, not modesty, compels me to add that my fellow students were fools through no fault of their own. Convinced since infancy that they knew nothing and that their knowledge would have been but one drop from the ocean of the Torah, what reason did they have to study? The children sat staring at the window, waiting for the tutor to give permission to go out to play in the courtyard.
The Slaughterman's Daughter Page 39
