“Then I suggest that you send for him,” said the captain, and they carted her off to the stockade.
And here I was thinking that Kassy might be safe from persecution in the somewhat more tolerant Kingdom of Poland. Now I felt like a man wearing his best Shabbes clothes who suddenly needs to sift through a pile of manure in search of a lost penny. But it finally gave me somewhere to start.
I gave the houseboy my last German kreuzer and told him to seek out Rabbi Loew as fast as he could and alert him to Kassy the Bohemian's arrest. It was nearly ten groschen in Polish currency, and I wasn't on the public payroll yet. But who thinks about money at a time like this?
Then I cornered Mrs. Gromatsky as she was sweeping up the broken dishes.
“Where can I find some thieves in this town?”
“Try the City Hall.”
“I mean some real ganefs—cutpurses, whoremongers, coin-clippers—”
“Those paskudnyaks? All I can tell you is that the big crooks used to gather down by the Water Gate, but now most of them work on Wall Street.”
I grabbed my soft hat and set off for the ulica Muma, or Wall Street, so named because its back end lay in the shadows of the fortifications that formed a ring around the old city.
“Be careful,” Mrs. Gromatsky warned. “If one of those varlets kisses you, you better count your teeth.”
* * * *
The man who went by the name of Reb Schildsberg had lived in a large town house near the corner of Zydowska and Kramarska Streets, the informal borderline between the Jewish and Christian quarters, only a few steps from the main square. But the sun was low in the sky and the fog was already rolling in, and the thought of what they might do to Kassy after nightfall made me quicken my pace toward the southwestern part of the old city.
And nobody tried to stop me and ask what I was doing.
Despite the urgency of my mission, it was still a relief to leave Germany behind and be able to move about freely without having to wear that cursed Jew badge on my chest like a bright yellow target. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to breathe the air of freedom.
Or at least partial freedom. Because life in Poznan was no paradise for the dark-eyed People of the Book. For the past seven decades, the city fathers had issued one anti-Jewish decree after another, imposing strict limits on commercial and residential expansion to control the size of the city's Jewish population. And while there was no wall around the ghetto, as there was in other places, that just made it easier for the Christian mobs to attack us, prompting a number of royal proclamations that made the city council directly responsible for our safety, which helped a bit, God save King Sigismund III.
But a couple of years ago (1590 on the Christian calendar), a suspicious fire had torn through Jew Street, killing more than a dozen people and reducing an untold number of sacred Torah scrolls to ashes. The wealthiest merchant in Prague, Mordecai Meisel, had lent the Jews of Poznan ten thousand gildn to help them recover from the disaster, but the facades of many fine houses still showed the scars, like black claw marks left by some ravening creature emerging from the depths, its talons coated with pitch.
The tenements gave way to the vast Market Square, dominated by the enormous Ratusz, the Town Hall rebuilt in the Italian style after the fire of 1536. It dwarfed the humble Rozany Targ, the rose market, the only spot of color on this gray day. But I found the old weighing house far more interesting than the opulent Ratusz. With its street level Romanesque archways and high peaked roof, it resembled the Old-New Shul in Prague where Rabbi Loew had delivered some of his most incendiary sermons.
I crossed Water Street, which ran east to the famous Water Gate down by the river, and turned the opposite way, heading west toward Wall Street.
As the main square receded, the streets narrowed, drawing their seductive arms around me and nearly blocking out the sky. The houses grew thin and crooked, and the alleys between them ran wet with offal. Men stood in dark doorways offering to sell everything a man's heart desires at remarkably low cost. But somehow I chose not to purchase a cloak that would have rendered me impervious to weapons, or a potion that attracts gold, and I even turned down a number of opportunities to perform the generative act with any one of a dozen members of a tribe of slatternly women lining the foggy pathway like gaily painted milestones leading to the murky lights of a tavern.
Water dripped somewhere in the darkness as I approached the heavy wooden door.
The dank air filled my nostrils. And before I had taken three steps inside the tavern, several pairs of powerful hands grabbed me from behind and held me, while another pair of hands found my knife and took it from me.
A couple of flickering torches mounted on the eastern and western walls provided the only light, and I could just make out a row of scurvy-looking patrons against the bar, leaning back on their elbows and enjoying my plight. A couple of women tittered, their teeth glistening in the pale light.
The knave who had relieved me of my weapon strolled past the motley row of liquor-soaked lips buzzing with Polish and German thieves’ jargon, and handed my knife to a man standing behind a high-backed chair at the head of a long table. All I could see of him was a leather doublet and black leggings; his face was shrouded in darkness.
He turned the knife in his hands, no doubt noting its lack of jeweled ornamentation, and tested the blade against the edge of his thumb.
“I thought Jews weren't allowed to carry weapons,” the man said.
“I believe you'll find that the length of the blade is within the legal limit,” I said.
“I see that we have a law-abiding subject here,” he said, drawing more giggles from my shadowy female audience.
“Please—” He gestured to the seat at the foot of the table.
My captors marched me over and forced me to sit in the wobbly chair. They stepped back, remaining on either side of me with their arms folded and their weapons at the ready.
Their leader resumed toying with my knife, holding it by the blade and slapping the handle against his palm.
“Tell me, Jew, which king is the best in the world?” he asked.
“That's easy: a dead one.”
It was the standard answer to an old riddle, but it silenced the titters like a choke chain.
“The men in this land must learn to watch their words,” the leader said, pacing back and forth. “For certain words are like the heat that radiates from a glowing coal, which though unseen, may still harm you. You don't have to touch a red-hot coal to know that it can burn you, right?”
“I once did.”
The air in the tavern grew still and close, except for the faint sound of water dripping from a leaky tap.
A pair of crossed swords mounted on the wall to my left gleamed faintly in the torchlight, but I'd probably be cut down by three different hands before I could pry one of them loose.
So I continued: “As a child. I wanted to see how hot a coal was, so I touched one.”
A couple of women cringed and murmured things to each other that I did not catch.
“But I bet you learned a valuable lesson.”
“Apparently not,” I said, trying to keep the wobbly chair steady.
That set off another round of murmurings, expressing either awe at my bravery or astonishment at my foolishness. Or both.
“And what do you want from us?”
“I'm looking for a woman who's involved in a counterfeiting operation.”
I'd like to say that a collective gasp sucked the last bit of air out of the room, but it was worse than that. As if on cue, women bared their nails and concealed weapons came out of hiding.
The leader planted his fists on the tabletop and leaned into the light like an actor stepping downstage to address the audience. His hatchet-thin face looked even more gaunt due to the bushy eyebrows and black triangular beard casting deep shadows in the hollows of his cheeks.
“We've already heard that a foreign woman was arrested on a charge of counterfeiting
, and that she was seen in the company of a tall Jew newly arrived from Prague.”
So they already knew. I should have figured on that.
“But I see that you are a perceptive man,” he declared. “Then you should know that any unauthorized use of the king's likeness is an insult to his royal position. And that the charge of false coining buys you a quick trip to the gallows.”
“It is the same with Jews,” I replied. “Since it poses a danger to us all, anyone who is found to be doing business with coin-clippers and thieves is punished by being cut off from the community.”
“Not good enough,” said the leader, pushing off the table and resuming his vigorous pacing, which I somehow found more threatening than his eagle-eyed stare.
He dug into his purse, slapped a coin on the table and slid it toward me. It skidded to a halt within an arm's reach of me. I leaned forward and immediately recognized the square, curly-tipped cross dividing the coin into four equal quarters. A Spanish gold doubloon, worth more than thirty silver dalers, nearly a hundred zlotys in Polish coin, or three years’ salary for a lowly servant like me.
“It's fake,” the leader said. “And the law says I'm supposed to cut it up and bring it to the royal mint. So why do I still have it in my possession?”
“Because you want to get ahold of the person who passed it to you.”
He held his peace and looked at me, smiling without warmth.
“She claimed that she represented the Fuggers of Frankfurt.”
“Well, that can't be true because the Fuggers are based in Augsburg,” I said.
The corners of his mouth grew sharp.
“You certainly seem to have the knowledge,” he said. “But why should we help you with this?”
“To be honest, I don't know.”
Something that might have been a chuckle escaped from his throat, and he resumed pacing.
“A few years ago, Prince Albertus of Krakow employed some foreign magicians who claimed they could turn a pound of lead into a pound of gold.”
“That's impossible. Every alchemist knows that it takes gold to make gold.”
“Prince Albertus eventually came to the same conclusion, and had the thieves banished from his castle. But I heard that they ended up in Prague, reportedly making gold for Emperor Rudolph II.”
The thought struck me like a bell. Suddenly the leader turned and said, “Here's your knife back,” and flung it at me. But the trajectory was a bit short and it planted itself quivering in the tabletop before me, missing the edge (and my vitals) by about three inches.
I didn't flinch.
That seemed to satisfy him.
“If it's a counterfeiter you're after, you're in the wrong place,” he said. “We don't risk the noose for a bag of false coins.”
“No, I'm sure you only supply legitimate services.”
“But we can give you the name of someone who does.”
* * * *
I found her in the back room of a goldsmith's shop on Wet Street, wearing a loose red skirt and a tight-fitting bodice with red-and-black straps that exposed her smooth flesh from shoulder to shoulder, with a generous expanse in between. Her silky black hair was held in place by a golden headband, and matching star-shaped jewels dangled from her ears like a pair of radiant suns. There was a fierce intelligence in her eyes, but also an adamantine hardness which suggested that her mother wit leaned more toward the devious than the curious kind.
She didn't look anything like Kassy.
And she didn't notice me peering through the curtain because she was too busy leaning over the goldsmith's shoulder, watching intently as the older man polished a gold bracelet, pumping his foot in a steady rhythm to drive the buffing wheel round and round. The noise had covered my entrance.
The goldsmith kept the wheel spinning as he held the bracelet up to check the patina, then returned it to the buffing wheel. The woman's eyes sparkled like a child discovering the secrets of life's mysteries.
The goldsmith checked the bracelet's polished surface again, and let out an exasperated snort.
“You see? It's already turning red.” His foot hit the floor and the wheel began to slow.
“So don't put in so much copper next time.”
“Fascinating process, isn't it?” I said, pushing aside the curtain.
The old man jumped, but the woman's opal blue eyes burned with a lustful power and her eyebrows stood out like a pair of sharp sickles against her pale skin.
“Yes, I've always been captivated by the alchemy of metals,” she said smoothly, her bright red lips dancing the tarantella before collapsing into a tight, voluptuous bow. “How you can mix a couple of lowly elements like copper and tin to produce a glorious alloy of bronze.”
“Or in this case, how you can mix copper and silver to produce something that can pass for gold, at least until somebody rubs it too hard, or so I hear.”
“There's nothing wrong with making jewelry that looks like gold. You don't actually think this is a solid gold headband, do you?” she said, pulling the crescent-shaped band from her hair and holding it out for me to touch. Her waist curved waspishly, the gold and silver jewelry jingling on her wrists.
“Well, that's the tricky thing about this profession,” I said, stepping aside and inspecting the workbenches as if I had all the authority in the world to do so.
I went on: “These iron filings and grinding wheel, this pile of metal shavings and powders—these are all perfectly legitimate tools in the hands of a jeweler. But in the hands of a counterfeiter—”
“You better watch your tongue, Jew,” said the woman, her blue eyes smoldering with hatred.
“Why should I watch my tongue? I'm not the one facing a death sentence for violating the dignity of His Majesty the King.”
Her body seemed to compress, like a serpent coiling to strike. “How would you like to be found floating facedown in the River Warthe?”
“I'd much rather have you tell me what you know about the death of Reb Schildsberg.”
“That won't be necessary,” said a commanding voice behind me.
Damn, it was easy to sneak up on people in this room.
The captain of the guard was standing in the archway, legs apart. A dozen men armed with pikes and halberds were lined up in the hallway behind him, blocking the main escape route, and Kassy was slipping through them unimpeded. I glimpsed Rabbi Loew's gray-bearded profile through the gauntlet of pikes and helmets. He must have secured Kassy's freedom by his word alone. Even among the goyim, he had that kind of clout.
“Francesca! No!”
I spun around.
The woman he called Francesca had lunged sideways and grabbed the pile of metal shavings and powder in her fists, and when the pikemen rushed to seize her, she tried to swallow the evidence by stuffing it into her mouth.
Then suddenly her throat seemed to tighten and her face turned ruddy red and soon she was dry gagging, pink and silver spittle on her lips, and then she was turning purple, her hands clawing at her throat, till at last her eyes rolled back and her knees buckled.
“Verdammt—!”
“Na Boga—!”
“Nieszczesny dniu—!”
“Alle Teufel—!”
The pikemen swore in a mixture of Polish and German and the captain had to shout at them to seize the fleeing goldsmith, who began laying the blame on Francesca, Reb Schildsberg, and half the population of Wall Street before they got the iron cuffs halfway around his wrists.
Kassy sprang forward, unhindered by the guards, and grabbed Francesca's chin, pinching the hinge joint as hard as she could, and forcing the young woman's jaw open so she could pour the contents of a vial of black liquid down her throat. And in this manner she got the woman to retch up most of the foul silvery matter.
Streams of it ran down her chin and all over her fine outfit, forming a glittering puddle on the floor.
“Don't just stand there, fetch some water for her,” Kassy said.
The captain st
ood his ground while the sick woman's chest rose and fell like a wounded bird that we had just rescued from the bloody claws of a cat.
But eventually her breathing slowed to near normal, and the captain ordered one of his men to ladle out some water from the rain barrel out back.
The rest of us stood around like perfect models of ineffectiveness while Kassy prepared some herbs and boiled them in the water from the barrel. After letting it steep for a few minutes, Kassy asked me to help prop up the woman's head so that she could drink the cup of restorative tea that she had prepared for her.
And suddenly Francesca jerked forward, fell onto her hands and knees, and disgorged everything that she had consumed in the previous twelve hours. Thick rancid streams of yellow and black liquid mixed with semi-solid chunks of red and white. I think I even saw some green peas in there from the night before.
“Eighteen years in the galleys . . .” Francesca coughed and spat, her voice barely above a croak, her face hanging low, her silky black hair streaked with bits of silver and bile.
“Your punishment will be considerably worse than that, I can assure you,” said the captain.
Kassy's eyes cut sharply into him, but he didn't take any notice of her.
“He sentenced my father to eighteen years in the galleys,” Francesca repeated in a low whisper.
“Who did?” Kassy asked.
“Who do you think?” she said, pushing herself off the floor and squatting on the cold hearthstones, stirring up a cloud of cinders. “Who do you think runs this filthy operation?”
The goldsmith pleaded with her to keep silent.
“You keep out of this,” the captain warned, and turned back to the woman. “Surely you are referring to Herr Schildsberg?”
Francesca let out a sick laugh.
“All right. Who really runs it?” said Kassy.
AHMM, June 2012 Page 7
