King of the Fields

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  “Why do you thank me?” Shliwka asked.

  “Because nothing is as bitter or as sweet as truth,” Cybula answered, astonished at his own words.

  (3)

  No sooner did Shliwka leave the house than Yagoda began to wail, “Matka is a whore! I’m not my father’s child!”

  She fell upon Cybula, crying, and within a moment his face was wet with her tears. Cybula said, “Your mother is a whore, but you are your father’s child.”

  “Oh, I want to die! I want to die!”

  “You will. Sooner than you think.”

  “I want to die with you.”

  “Yes, I am your god and you are god’s daughter,” Cybula tried to joke.

  “I don’t want to live!” Yagoda clung to Cybula’s neck. She may appear small and frail, he thought, but her arms are uncommonly powerful.

  “You are choking me,” he snapped.

  At that moment the door opened and Kora slipped into the room like a shadow. Yagoda was the first to recognize her mother’s silhouette, and she began to scream, “Matka, you are a whore! I am not your daughter!”

  “What happened to you? Whose daughter are you, then?”

  Cybula pushed Yagoda away from him. He wanted to grab Kora’s head and smash it against the oven stones. But instead he asked, “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

  “Why is Yagoda shrieking like a madwoman?”

  “Kora, your game is over,” Cybula said, surprised at his own words. He had not expected to speak to her. Kora did not move. She stood in the darkness as if frozen. Through the four-cornered hole in the wall only the light of the stars trickled into the room. Kora asked, “What game? What is over? Have you both lost your senses?”

  “Kora, you are a despicable, contemptible liar and traitor. Get out of here and never come back. If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll …”

  “What have I done? Why are you attacking me like this?”

  “Mother, you lay with Shliwka and with all the new enemies,” Yagoda shouted in a voice Cybula had never before heard. “You deceived both my father and Cybula. I am not your daughter. Get out of here; you are a whore, filth, a piece of dirt!”

  Kora shivered. “What has happened? Why Shliwka all of a sudden? Shliwka died a long time ago.”

  “Yagoda, be still!” Cybula ordered.

  “I will not be still,” Yagoda said. “Shliwka was here and he told us everything. You showed him the mark on your breast. You cavorted with him, and with others, you old bitch!”

  “Shliwka is alive? He was here?”

  “Yagoda, shut your mouth!” Cybula said, with warning in his voice. “No one was here, but we know everything, all your tricks, all your cunning games. You are a faithless bitch, a sly fox, a filthy pig. I should squash you as one squashes a beetle, but I don’t want to contaminate my foot with your blood.”

  “Kill her! Squash her!” Yagoda yelled.

  “Is this my daughter, whom I carried and brought into the world, or have you found someone new to take into your bed?”

  “Kora, it’s the truth.”

  “Why is she bellowing about Shliwka?” Kora asked. “I swear by the gods, I must be having a nightmare.”

  “You are not dreaming, Kora. You’ve whored with our enemies and murderers, even with those who raped and stabbed your own daughters. Your vile acts have now surfaced like oil on water. You flattered me, you told me I was the manliest man in all the world, and then you went to them complaining I was an old, weak, worn-out broom. Get out of here and don’t show us your loathsome face again. There are no gods, but if they do exist, they will judge you in the end. We, Yagoda and I, will leave the camp this very day. You will never know where our remains lie buried!”

  “Matka, get out of here!” Yagoda screamed.

  Kora seemed to totter. “You will not leave this place until you hear what I have to say.”

  “Why should we listen to the hissing of a snake?”

  “I may be a snake, Cybula, but I am your snake, faithful, devoted to you with my body, my soul, my every drop of blood. During the days when you were our camp’s judge you used to say that one must never listen to one side alone. And now suddenly some blabberer comes to you and tells you a pack of lies, and you immediately condemn me, without hearing what I have to say. Is this right?”

  “What do you have to say? And say it quickly.”

  “First of all, I want to say how dismal one feels when one carries, bears, suckles, raises a child who is so ready to attack its mother as this girl. I never knew her tongue was so biting, or that she knew such curses as she seems to know. I must believe that a smok or some other monster from the netherworld has settled in her throat. I will not forget this night until they put me in my grave and cover my eyes with earth. Second, I would like to ask whether Shliwka is really alive. He has come to disgrace me, to spread lies about me, to accuse me falsely and shorten my remaining years. You, Cybula, have always claimed that the god of all the gods was Shmiercz, the god of death. Soon he will take me to himself, the same as he takes all the others. The peace of the grave is not reserved for kniezes and krols, it comes to everyone. And you, my ungrateful daughter, prepare yourself as well, because your time will also come. Is Shliwka one of the riders?”

  “He came to ask where Krol Rudy’s loot was hidden,” Yagoda said.

  “I have begged you, Yagoda, to be still. Yes, he is alive and he was here. Why? Do you miss him?” Cybula asked.

  “He came here to uncover Krol Rudy’s booty and at the same time to cover me with shame?” Kora asked.

  “What he said was the truth,” Cybula answered. “He knew things that no one but you and I would know.”

  “What things?”

  “Enough. What sort of woman are you? A bloodsucker? A demon who flies about in the night like a bat? How many men do you need to satisfy you—a thousand?”

  “I may be all that, even worse. But there is one thing I want you to know: my love for you, Cybula, is stronger than the gods, stronger than the mountains, hotter than fire, deeper than the deepest abyss. Say what you like about me—you may be speaking the truth. But if you say that I do not love you, that would be a lie.”

  “You love everyone.”

  “No one but you.”

  “I can no longer stay here. I never wanted to be krol, nor do I want now to be the starszy. I must do what I have long wanted to do: run away from all people. Yagoda will come with me. You have some thirty riders here to occupy you, and more will come. Kora, go away from us. I don’t want to see your face and I don’t want to hear your voice.”

  “Matka, leave us alone,” Yagoda said.

  “Cybula is right to chastise me, even to kill me. If he wishes it, I will put down my head on this rock for him to chop off. But you, you vermin, depraved fruit of my womb, be still or I’ll …”

  “Who was my father?” Yagoda broke in.

  “Your father was Kostek, but you are not worthy of being his daughter, you speck of dirt. If you say another word to me, I’ll tear out your hair and you’ll be as bald as Kosoka.”

  “Kora, go!” Cybula said.

  “I’m going, I’m going. If you want to leave the camp, leave now. When dawn breaks, it will be too late. Where are you going, to the mountains? I wish you luck, Cybula.”

  “I don’t need luck.”

  “My life is done.” And Kora went out.

  (4)

  As Kora left the hut, voices were heard at the entrance and Laska walked in, agitated and panting. “Father!”

  “Laska!”

  “Father, two robbers rode off with our booty!” Laska spoke in a loud voice, like one who has met with a calamity. “I heard their noise outside, and saw two men riding away with our treasure. I shouted at them, but they galloped away. How did they know our secret? Who are they? Everything is lost!”

  “Hush, Daughter. Don’t shout. We don’t need Krol Rudy’s treasure. We live here, not in Miasto,” Cybula said. “How is P
tashek?”

  “His little head is hot. He refuses my milk. He wheezes and rattles like someone about to die. Paskuda told me to dig a little grave and put him there, in order to deceive the evil spirits and make them believe he is already dead. Now I have a real grave …” And Laska began to cry.

  “Daughter, it’s better this way. Let him die.”

  “Father, what are you saying?”

  “We are all doomed, Laska. We are not free men, we are slaves. Death is our only escape. It is better that Ptashek’s spirit should descend into the hollows of the earth than for him to grow to manhood a slave.”

  “What is the matter with you, Father? I cannot allow my child to die.”

  “He will die, anyway, Daughter. And if he lives—I don’t envy him.”

  “Where did Kora run to in the middle of the night?” Laska asked.

  “My matka is a whore,” Yagoda answered.

  “What?”

  “Yagoda, silence! Nothing, Daughter, nothing. Kora was always a whore. I knew it, but I pretended to see nothing. Laska, we are going to the mountains.” Cybula changed his voice. “I cannot remain here another day.”

  “Where are you going? When?”

  “Now. Wherever our feet carry us. We want to be out of the camp before the sun rises.”

  “And what will become of me?” Laska cried out.

  “Don’t wail, Laska,” Cybula said. “We all are lost, and we all must decide whether to flee or to stay with our new masters. They will be no better than the old ones. The others began their rule with a bloodbath, these new ones may have one a little later. Or perhaps not all at once, perhaps little by little. If you want, come with us. But you must decide this moment.”

  “What will become of my child? I cannot leave him and run.”

  “Bring him along.”

  “He will die on the way.”

  “If he dies, we will bury him.”

  “Father, what’s happened to you?” Laska began to wail.

  Cybula said, “Lower your voice, Laska, or you will awaken the camp. You don’t have to come with us now. We will be in the mountains, in the same cave to which you once came to arrange peace. Do you remember? Perhaps the new murderers will not begin to murder immediately. Whenever you feel ready, come and join us. If you want to stay here, stay. You are a pretty woman, perhaps someone will lie with you. This has been woman’s fate throughout the generations.”

  “Father …”

  “Laska, I can no longer argue with you. Take a look inside the pit near the linden tree. Perhaps something remains of the treasure. If you find something, go to Miasto. For the jewelry, you will get all that you need there. Yagoda, we are leaving!”

  “What shall I take along?” Yagoda asked.

  “Take only as much as you can carry. Your knife, your bow, several pelts. Don’t forget your shoes. Look, dawn is breaking. Laska, please go. They should not see you leaving our hut, they’ll think you helped us escape.”

  Cybula took Laska in his arms and kissed her—her eyes, her mouth, her forehead, both her cheeks. Her face was warm and wet. He pressed her to his chest, and for a moment father and daughter did not move. Then Cybula said, “Go, Laska.”

  “Oh, Tata,” and Laska went out.

  Wiping her tears, Yagoda asked, “Shall I take my pantaloons?”

  “Take whatever you want, but quickly!”

  “Shall I take the basket?”

  “Yes, if you can.”

  “What shall I do with the meat?”

  “We’ll kill fresh meat on the way.”

  “Shall I take the dress in which I was married?”

  “No. Yes.”

  A crimson light was shining through the hole in the hut’s wall when Cybula and Yagoda went outside. Yagoda carried all kinds of utensils, pots and knives. Despite his heavy heart, Cybula felt compelled to smile. He was also laden down with things brought back from Miasto. The two walked quickly, as quickly as their burdens permitted them. Luck was with them: both the camp and the new woyaks were fast asleep. Only the birds were up: they greeted the dawn each with its own innate song. Dew fell, and a white mist rose and curled over the freshly reaped field. Cybula had put on his zupan, and he wore his sword on his hip. On his feet were the boots Ben Dosa had sewn for him. They had leather laces which he wrapped around his calves. On his head he wore his fur hat. Although Yagoda had been crying, when she looked at Cybula she began to laugh.

  “Why are you laughing, Yagoda?”

  “Because today you really look like a krol.”

  A cool breeze blew from the mountains. Before long they were past the field. The trail meandered up to the mountains, or if taken downhill, it led to Miasto. Earlier generations had treaded these twisted paths when the Lesniks had had other camps for neighbors, and when crossing each other’s borders had been forbidden and necessitated fighting. Cybula took a last glance at the field, the stables, the barn. Once he had hoped that the field and the bread it enabled them to make would ennoble man, wipe out his thirst for blood, his craving for power, his hatred of others. But this had been only a futile hope. Cybula and Yagoda reached the forest; they crossed the stream. A generation ago someone had laid an oak trunk across its banks and the trunk remained, overgrown with moss, half decayed. Cybula knew that Krol Yodla and his men could easily capture the runaways on their horses. He therefore decided to avoid the main trail and to take small, winding backpaths.

  12

  In the Hands of the Gods

  As he and Kosoka traveled far beyond Miasto into strange lands, Ben Dosa remembered the names of the stars mentioned in the Book of Job and the saying about the scholar Samuel: He knew the roads of the sky as well as the roads of Nahardas, his own city. He also knew that the language of the land he and Kosoka were searching for—Rome or Italia—was Latin, and he even recalled the names of Italian coins from the Mishnah and the Gemara. But this did not always help them find their way in the maze of towns and roads. One thing Ben Dosa knew for certain was that the land of Israel was in the East, since the Jews in exile always turned their face toward the East while praying.

  On his pilgrimage Ben Dosa quickly discovered that Bishop Mieczyslaw and the other leaders of the new religion had amassed a great following. Jews as well as Roman and Greek Gentiles had taken on the faith of Jesus of Nazareth. They were now called Christians. Many of the Jews who converted were expelled to Rome, where, despite their loyalty to Jesus, they were imprisoned for false interpretation of the New Testament and sometimes for denying the existence of the ancient idols worshipped by the Romans and Greeks of former times.

  A day did not pass without Ben Dosa and Kosoka stumbling upon some Jewish fugitive on the road. Whenever he discovered a Jew who had become a follower of Jesus, a heated religious dispute erupted, often ending in verbal abuse and even blows. These Jews would roast in the fires of hell for their heresy. When he heard their strange tales, Ben Dosa screamed, tore his hair and his beard, quoted something in Hebrew, and slapped his head in rage and disgust. He kept referring to the false Messiah from Nazareth with degrading names. And though Kosoka could never understand what evil this man had done to deserve all these vile names, she, too, cursed the heretic, in her own Tatar language.

  How strange that some of these betrayers of Israel had heard of the Mishnah, the Gemara, and the other books Ben Dosa cited in his raging debates. Some of them had come from Babylon and others had left the land of Israel, often under the most hair-raising circumstances. They all seemed to Kosoka like members of one sick and deranged family that had become embroiled in bitter arguments and hatred for which there was no cure. If Kosoka could not understand a word of these religious discords, she faithfully stood by Ben Dosa, believing that he alone knew the real truth. Ben Dosa came to realize, after years of wandering, how thoroughly Kosoka had truly embraced God and the Torah. He remembered the words of the sages: In serving one’s selfish desires, one may come to the service of the Almighty.

  Every so often Ben
Dosa met people who believed as he did, and they fell upon one another with joy. They spoke of the Holy City, Jerusalem, which was teeming with scholars and preachers, as well as the adversaries who had brought about all the misfortunes their sages had forewarned them of.

  It was a long and arduous journey. Ben Dosa and Kosoka discovered new kinds of fields, bizarre customs, clothing, shoes, weapons, and vehicles they had never seen. They learned of unheard-of illnesses as well as new healing herbs, witchcraft, salves. They passed markets where criminals were tried on the streets and hung on the spot. Whores were sold and used in the open without any shame. People were beheaded on the road for robbing, for escaping from slavery, for selling men, women, and children into bondage, for rebelling against kings and war leaders. People called healers operated on the sick, wrenched out their teeth, applied salves to their wounds, and cut matted hair off their heads.

  Ben Dosa often comforted Kosoka by quoting from the Talmud: If you make an effort and find what you are looking for, this is believable. If you find it without making an effort, this is unbelievable. And so it came to pass, after many years of wandering, that Ben Dosa and Kosoka were finally approaching Rome. They had come to a place near the big city where Ben Dosa acquired a book of the Mishnah written by a scribe. He had also met a man who had studied a script of the Gemara. This man had left Rome after many Jews had been arrested for mentioning in their prayers their hope for the coming of the Messiah, the son of David, and for their return to the land of Israel. The man said that some Jewish-Christian females had been hiding in caves, called catacombs, and living according to the New Testament.

  In Rome, small clusters of Jews who still lived according to the Talmud were also hiding—not in caves, but in little villages where they were less harassed for religious reasons. They prayed in little huts, and a few busied themselves copying volumes of the Gemara. Ben Dosa and Kosoka arrived at one of these villages and there he told them his story: he had been kidnapped and sold as a slave. The rabbi of this group was against any effort to convert Kosoka to Judaism. Above the entrance to their little synagogue were inscribed Bilam’s words about the Jews in the time of Moses: A nation that dwells alone. The rabbi and his small congregation looked askance at Ben Dosa. To them he seemed like an adventurer who preached strange religious customs, and they could never be sure about his sincerity and his devotion to the faith. The rabbi addressed Ben Dosa in Aramaic. No one believed that Kosoka could become a true Jewess. Again and again the rabbi refused to let Kosoka convert and asked her many questions which she was incapable of answering. Did she truly believe that there was only one God and that he had given the Torah to Moses on Mount Sinai? Did she want to marry Ben Dosa only because he pleased her as a man? Was she ready to keep all 613 commandments and never miss or neglect a single one? The rabbi scolded her and treated her with suspicion, as if she was a Christian spy. He made her wash the floors and the pews of the little synagogue. Only after long conversations and examinations was she ready to immerse herself in the ritual bath and to assume the name of Sarah, as all female converts did in honor of the first Jewess, Sarai from Ur-Casdin, whose name had been changed from Sarai to Sarah. The women of the group spoke to her in broken Hebrew and Aramaic, and in the Jewish version of Latin mixed with Greek. They employed her as a maid, a cook, a handmaiden for their children and for the women who perform ablutions in the ritual bath after menstruation. It took some time before Sarah learned how to count seven clean days after her menstruation, and how to avoid lighting a fire on the Sabbath. She carried things on the Sabbath from the Eruv, a marked border which one is not allowed to cross or beyond which one may not carry anything on the Sabbath. However, more and more, the community agreed that she was genuinely willing to do her work and to learn humility and the proper Jewish conduct.