“Well …”
“You can’t just get rid of me like this.” Hinde Shevach changed her tone. “Speak clearly. Why did you do it? You’re not just a street urchin, you’re the rabbi of Bechev.”
“No more rabbi.”
“God have mercy. There will be bedlam. Wait, I’ll bring you a glass of milk.”
Hinde Shevach withdrew. The rabbi heard her go down the steps. He seized his beard and swayed. A huge shadow wavered along the wall and ceiling. After a while Hinde Shevach returned. “There is no milk.”
“Nu.”
“I won’t go until you tell me why you left,” Hinde Shevach said.
“I wanted to know what the heretics say.”
“What do they say?”
“There are no heretics.”
“Is that so?”
“The whole world worships idols,” the rabbi muttered. “They invent gods and they serve them.”
“The Jews also?”
“Everybody.”
“Well, you’ve lost your mind.” Hinde Shevach remained standing for a while and stared, then she walked back to her bedroom.
The rabbi lay down on his bed fully clothed. He felt his strength leaving him—not ebbing away but all at once, rapidly. A light he never knew was there flickered in his brain. His hands and feet grew numb.
His head lay heavy on the pillow. After a time, the rabbi lifted an eyelid. The candle had burned out. A pre-dawn moon, jagged and dimmed by fog, shone through the window. In the east, the sky reddened. “Something is there,” the rabbi murmured.
The war between the rabbi of Bechev and God had come to an end.
Translated by the author and Rosanna Gerber
A Crown of Feathers
REB NAFTALI HOLISHITZER, the community leader in Krasnobród, was left in his old age with no children. One daughter had died in childbirth and the other in a cholera epidemic. A son had drowned when he tried to cross the San River on horseback. Reb Naftali had only one grandchild—a girl, Akhsa, an orphan. It was not the custom for a female to study at a yeshiva, because “the King’s daughter is all glorious within” and Jewish daughters are all the daughters of kings. But Akhsa studied at home. She dazzled everyone with her beauty, wisdom, and diligence. She had white skin and black hair; her eyes were blue.
Reb Naftali managed an estate that had belonged to the Prince Czartoryski. Since he owed Reb Naftali twenty thousand guldens, the prince’s property was a permanent pawn, and Reb Naftali had built for himself a water mill and a brewery and had sown hundreds of acres with hops. His wife, Nesha, came from a wealthy family in Prague. They could afford to hire the finest tutors for Akhsa. One taught her the Bible, another French, still another the pianoforte, and a fourth dancing. She learned everything quickly. At eight, she was playing chess with her grandfather. Reb Naftali didn’t need to offer a dowry for her marriage, since she was heir to his entire fortune.
Matches were sought for her early, but her grandmother was hard to please. She would look at a boy proposed by the marriage brokers and say, “He has the shoulders of a fool,” or, “He has the narrow forehead of an ignoramus.”
One day Nesha died unexpectedly. Reb Naftali was in his late seventies and it was unthinkable that he remarry. Half his day he devoted to religion, the other half to business. He rose at daybreak and pored over the Talmud and the Commentaries and wrote letters to community elders. When a man was sick, Reb Naftali went to comfort him. Twice a week he visited the poorhouse with Akhsa, who carried a contribution of soup and groats herself. More than once, Akhsa, the pampered and scholarly, rolled up her sleeves and made beds there.
In the summer, after midday sleep, Reb Naftali ordered his britska harnessed and he rode around the fields and village with Akhsa. While they rode, he discussed business, and it was known that he listened to her advice just as he had listened to her grandmother’s.
But there was one thing that Akhsa didn’t have—a friend. Her grandmother had tried to find friends for her; she had even lowered her standards and invited girls from Krasnobród. But Akhsa had no patience with their chatter about clothes and household matters. Since the tutors were all men, Akhsa was kept away from them, except for lessons. Now her grandfather became her only companion. Reb Naftali had met famous noblemen in his lifetime. He had been to fairs in Warsaw, Crakow, Danzig, and Königsberg. He would sit for hours with Akhsa and tell her about rabbis and miracle workers, about the disciples of the false Messiah Sabbatai Zevi, quarrels in the Sejm, the caprices of the Zamojskis, the Radziwills, and the Czartoryskis—their wives, lovers, courtiers. Sometimes Akhsa would cry out, “I wish you were my fiancé, not my grandfather!” and kiss his eyes and his white beard.
Reb Naftali would answer, “I’m not the only man in Poland. There are plenty like me, and young to boot.”
“Where, Grandfather? Where?”
After her grandmother’s death, Akhsa refused to rely on anyone else’s judgment in the choice of a husband—not even her grandfather’s. Just as her grandmother saw only bad, Reb Naftali saw only good. Akhsa demanded that the matchmakers allow her to meet her suitor, and Reb Naftali finally consented. The young pair would be brought together in a room, the door would be left open, and a deaf old woman servant would stand at the threshold to watch that the meeting be brief and without frivolity. As a rule, Akhsa stayed with the young man not more than a few minutes. Most of the suitors seemed dull and silly. Others tried to be clever and made undignified jokes. Akhsa dismissed them abruptly. How strange, but her grandmother still expressed her opinion. Once, Akhsa heard her say clearly, “He has the snout of a pig.” Another time, she said, “He talks like the standard letter book.”
Akhsa knew quite well that it was not her grandmother speaking. The dead don’t return from the other world to comment on prospective fiancés. Just the same, it was her grandmother’s voice, her style. Akhsa wanted to talk to her grandfather about it, but she was afraid he would think her crazy. Besides, her grandfather longed for his wife, and Akhsa didn’t want to stir up his grief.
When Reb Naftali Holishitzer realized that his granddaughter was driving away the matchmakers, he was troubled. Akhsa was now past her eighteenth year. The people in Krasnobród had begun to gossip—she was demanding a knight on a white horse or the moon in heaven; she would stay a spinster. Reb Naftali decided not to give in to her whims any more but to marry her off. He went to a yeshiva and brought back with him a young man named Zemach, an orphan and a devout scholar. He was dark as a gypsy, small, with broad shoulders. His sidelocks were thick. He was nearsighted and studied eighteen hours a day. The moment he reached Krasnobród, he went to the study house and began to sway in front of an open volume of the Talmud. His sidelocks swayed, too. Students came to talk with him, and he spoke without lifting his gaze from the book. He seemed to know the Talmud by heart, since he caught everyone misquoting.
Akhsa demanded a meeting, but Reb Naftali replied that this was conduct befitting tailors and shoemakers, not a girl of good breeding. He warned Akhsa that if she drove Zemach away he would disinherit her. Since men and women were in separate rooms during the engagement party, Akhsa had no chance of seeing Zemach until the marriage contract was to be signed. She looked at him and heard her grandmother say, “They’ve sold you shoddy goods.”
Her words were so clear it seemed to Akhsa that everyone should have heard them, but no one had. The girls and women crowded around her, congratulating her and praising her beauty, her dress, her jewelry. Her grandfather passed her the contract and a quill, and her grandmother cried out, “Don’t sign!” She grabbed Akhsa’s elbow and a blot formed on the paper.
Reb Naftali shouted, “What have you done!”
Akhsa tried to sign, but the pen fell from her hand. She burst into tears. “Grandfather, I can’t.”
“Akhsa, you shame me.”
“Grandfather, forgive me.” Akhsa covered her face with her hands. There was an outcry. Men hissed and women laughed and wept. Akhsa cried sile
ntly. They half led, half carried her to her room and put her on her bed.
Zemach exclaimed, “I don’t want to be married to this shrew!”
He pushed through the crowd and ran to get a wagon back to the yeshiva. Reb Naftali went after him, trying to pacify him with words and money, but Zemach threw Reb Naftali’s banknotes to the ground. Someone brought his wicker trunk from the inn where he had stayed. Before the wagon pulled away, Zemach cried out, “I don’t forgive her, and God won’t, either.”
For days after that, Akhsa was ill. Reb Naftali Holishitzer, who had been successful all his life, was not accustomed to failure. He became sick; his face took on a yellow pallor. Women and girls tried to comfort Akhsa. Rabbis and elders came to visit Reb Naftali, but he got weaker as the days passed. After a while, Akhsa gained back her strength and left her sickbed. She went to her grandfather’s room, bolting the door behind her. The maid who listened and spied through the keyhole reported that she had heard him say, “You are mad!”
Akhsa nursed her grandfather, brought him his medicine and bathed him with a sponge, but the old man developed an inflammation of the lungs. Blood ran from his nose. His urine stopped. Soon he died. He had written his will years before and left one-third of his estate to charity and the rest to Akhsa.
According to the law, one does not sit shivah in mourning after the death of a grandfather, but Akhsa went through the ceremony anyway. She sat on a low stool and read the book of Job. She ordered that no one be let in. She had shamed an orphan—a scholar—and caused the death of her grandfather. She became melancholy. Since she had read the story of Job before, she began to search in her grandfather’s library for another book to read. To her amazement, she found a Bible translated into Polish—the New Testament as well as the Old. Akhsa knew it was a forbidden book, but she turned the pages anyway. Had her grandfather read it, Akhsa wondered. No, it couldn’t be. She remembered that on the Gentile feast days, when holy icons and pictures were carried in processions near the house, she was not allowed to look out of the window. Her grandfather told her it was idolatry. She wondered if her grandmother had read this Bible. Among the pages she found some pressed cornflowers—a flower her grandmother had often picked. Grandmother came from Bohemia; it was said that her father had belonged to the Sabbatai Zevi sect. Akhsa recalled that Prince Czartoryski used to spend time with her grandmother when he visited the estate, and praised the way she spoke Polish. If she hadn’t been a Jewish girl, he said, he would have married her—a great compliment.
That night Akhsa read the New Testament to the last page. It was difficult for her to accept that Jesus was God’s only begotten son and that He rose from the grave, but she found this book more comforting to her tortured spirit than the castigating words of the prophets, who never mentioned the Kingdom of Heaven or the resurrection of the dead. All they promised was a good harvest for good deeds and starvation and plague for bad ones.
On the seventh night of shivah, Akhsa went to bed. The light was out and she was dozing when she heard footsteps that she recognized as her grandfather’s. In the darkness, her grandfather’s figure emerged: the light face, the white beard, the mild features, even the skullcap on his high forehead. He said in a quiet voice, “Akhsa, you have committed an injustice.”
Akhsa began to cry. “Grandfather, what should I do?”
“Everything can be corrected.”
“How?”
“Apologize to Zemach. Become his wife.”
“Grandfather, I hate him.”
“He is your destined one.”
He lingered for a moment, and Akhsa could smell his snuff, which he used to mix with cloves and smelling salts. Then he vanished and an empty space remained in the darkness. She was too amazed to be frightened. She leaned against the headboard, and after some time she slept.
She woke with a start. She heard her grandmother’s voice. This was not a murmuring like Grandfather’s but the strong voice of a living person. “Akhsa, my daughter.”
Akhsa burst into tears. “Grandmother, where are you?”
“I’m here.”
“What should I do?”
“Whatever your heart desires.”
“What, Grandmother?”
“Go to the priest. He will advise you.”
Akhsa became numb. Fear constricted her throat. She managed to say, “You’re not my grandmother. You’re a demon.”
“I am your grandmother. Do you remember how we went wading in the pond that summer night near the flat hill and you found a gulden in the water?”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
“I could give you other proof. Be it known that the Gentiles are right. Jesus of Nazareth is the Son of God. He was born of the Holy Spirit as prophesied. The rebellious Jews refused to accept the truth and therefore they are punished. The Messiah will not come to them because He is here already.”
“Grandmother, I’m afraid.”
“Akhsa, don’t listen!” her grandfather suddenly shouted into her right ear. “This isn’t your grandmother. It’s an evil spirit disguised to trick you. Don’t give in to his blasphemies. He will drag you into perdition.”
“Akhsa, that is not your grandfather but a goblin from behind the bathhouse,” Grandmother interrupted. “Zemach is a ne’er-do-well, and vengeful to boot. He will torment you, and the children he begets will be vermin like him. Save yourself while there is time. God is with the Gentiles.”
“Lilith! She-demon! Daughter of Ketev M’riri!” Grandfather growled.
“Liar!”
Grandfather became silent, but Grandmother continued to talk, although her voice faded. She said, “Your real grandfather learned the truth in Heaven and converted. They baptized him with heavenly water and he rests in Paradise. The saints are all bishops and cardinals. Those who remain stubborn are roasted in the fires of Gehenna. If you don’t believe me, ask for a sign.”
“What sign?”
“Unbutton your pillowcase, rip open the seams of the pillow, and there you will find a crown of feathers. No human hand could make a crown like this.”
Her grandmother disappeared, and Akhsa fell into a heavy sleep. At dawn, she awoke and lit a candle. She remembered her grandmother’s words, unbuttoned the pillowcase, and ripped open the pillow. What she saw was so extraordinary she could scarcely believe her eyes: down and feathers entwined into a crown, with little ornaments and complex designs no worldly master could have duplicated. On the top of the crown was a tiny cross. It was all so airy that Akhsa’s breath made it flutter. Akhsa gasped. Whoever had made this crown—an angel or a demon—had done his work in darkness, in the inside of a pillow. She was beholding a miracle. She extinguished the candle and stretched out on the bed. For a long time she lay without any thoughts. Then she went back to sleep.
In the morning when she awoke, Akhsa thought she had had a dream, but on the night table she saw the crown of feathers. The sun made it sparkle with the colors of the rainbow. It looked as if it were set with the smallest of gems. She sat and contemplated the wonder. Then she put on a black dress and a black shawl and asked that the carriage be brought round for her. She rode to the house where Koscik, the priest, resided. The housekeeper answered her knock. The priest was nearing seventy and he knew Akhsa. He had often come to the estate to bless the peasants’ bread at Easter time and to give rites to the dying and conduct weddings and funerals. One of Akhsa’s teachers had borrowed a Latin–Polish dictionary from him. Whenever the priest visited, Akhsa’s grandmother invited him to her parlor and they conversed over cake and vishniak.
The priest offered Akhsa a chair. She sat down and told him everything. He said, “Don’t go back to the Jews. Come to us. We will see to it that your fortune remains intact.”
“I forgot to take the crown. I want to have it with me.”
“Yes, my daughter, go and bring it.”
Akhsa went home, but a maid had cleaned her bedroom and dusted the night table; the crown had vanished. Akhsa searched in the garb
age ditch, in the slops, but not a trace could she find.
Soon after that, the terrible news was abroad in Krasnobród that Akhsa had converted.
Six years passed. Akhsa married and became the Squiress Maria Malkowska. The old squire, Wladyslaw Malkowski, had died without direct heir and had left his estate to his nephew Ludwik. Ludwik had remained a bachelor until he was forty-five, and it seemed he would never marry. He lived in his uncle’s castle with his spinster sister, Gloria. His love affairs were with peasant girls, and he had sired a number of bastards. He was small and light, with a blond goatee. Ludwik kept to himself, reading old books of history, religion, and genealogy. He smoked a porcelain pipe, drank alone, hunted by himself, and avoided the noblemen’s dances. The business of the estate he handled with a strong hand, and he made sure his bailiff never stole from him. His neighbors thought he was a pedant, and some considered him half mad. When Akhsa accepted the Christian faith, he asked her—now Maria—to marry him. Gossips said that Ludwik, the miser, had fallen in love with Maria’s inheritance. The priests and others persuaded Akhsa to accept Ludwik’s proposal. He was a descendant of the Polish king Leszczyński. Gloria, who was ten years older than Ludwik, opposed the match, but Ludwik for once did not listen to her.
The Jews of Krasnobród were afraid that Akhsa would become their enemy and instigate Ludwik against them, as happened with so many converts, but Ludwik continued to trade with the Jews, selling them fish, grain, and cattle. Zelig Frampoler, a court Jew, delivered all kinds of merchandise to the estate. Gloria remained the lady of the castle.
In the first weeks of their marriage, Akhsa and Ludwik took trips together in a surrey. Ludwik even began to pay visits to neighboring squires, and he talked of giving a ball. He confessed all his past adventures with women to Maria and promised to behave like a God-fearing Christian. But before long he fell back into his old ways; he withdrew from his neighbors, started up his affairs with peasant girls, and began to drink again. An angry silence hung between man and wife. Ludwik ceased coming to Maria’s bedroom, and she did not conceive. In time, they stopped dining at the same table, and when Ludwik needed to tell Maria something he sent a note with a servant. Gloria, who managed the finances, allowed her sister-in-law a gulden a week; Maria’s fortune now belonged to her husband. It became clear to Akhsa that God was punishing her and that nothing remained but to wait for death. But what would happen to her after she died? Would she be roasted on a bed of needles and be thrown into the waste of the netherworld? Would she be reincarnated as a dog, a mouse, a millstone?
The Collected Stories Page 48
