By the time Akim and Prokor reach Slonim, Novak is a wreck. During the day, the pain in his leg climbed up to his lower back, his saddle sores became a rash, and every stretch of his skin now flourishes a different hue on the red spectrum, becoming almost purple the closer it is to his groin. Novak, one should recall, is close to retirement, and his bones are not as robust as they used to be.
He works out the schedule of the next train to Bialystok and then to Grodno. The train ride does not alleviate any of his pain: the days of riding had already made his bones ache, and the tremor of the train gives them a thorough rattle. He arrives in Grodno exhausted, but on coming out of the train station, Novak draws encouragement from the town’s familiar sights: the Neman river encircling the town, the old castle (now an army base), and the spires of St Xavier’s that watch over the market. There is a limit to the suffering he can endure. Novak wishes he could make a stop at his local office. The five-day ride on horseback and the taxing journey on the night train have surely earned him the right to rest. But what would happen if someone, even just one Jew, saw him coming out of the Okhrana offices, which are right by the town hall and the market square? How would he continue going about as Pinchasaleh Rabinovits if he had been welcomed by secret agents? And yet, the desire to slip into a pleasant office, crack open a new bottle of slivovitz and change his socks is so overpowering that Novak tries to weave together some justification. Finally, he musters enough strength to accept that, in his pitiful current state, he is ideally suited to infiltrating the Jews at the market. He gives Akim lengthy instructions on how to proceed. First, he should tell their story as credibly as possible, say that they are starving, inquire about the town’s slaughterhouses; then ask off-handedly about the female butcher from Grodno, Fanny Schechter, the daughter of Meir-Anschil Schechter.
Everything goes according to plan. Akim quickly strikes up a conversation with a toothless old man oozing the sharp odour of the beetroot and radishes he sells. The vendor listens intently to Akim, and other curious souls begin to gather around them too. Touched by the story of the two lost Jews from Vitebsk, they generously offer them bread, onions and radishes. Novak is famished from the journey and devours the lot, mould and all, waiting for Akim to reach the crux of the matter.
When their audience hears Akim’s question about Fanny, Meir-Anschil Schechter’s daughter, they quickly huddle for a consultation. “Die vilde chaya?” says one. “Eine barbaren!” another replies. “Oistrakht, fairy tales,” the tailor scoffs, and Novak is bursting with curiosity. What the hell are they saying? Goddammit, what a strange language! What kind of tongue is Yiddish, exactly? Second-rate German? Bawdy Bavarian? Refined Prussian?
Akim’s face flushes at their comments. Novak tries to catch his eye, but Akim evades him and carries on listening to the crowd. Novak tries to motion him aside to hear the translation, but Akim ignores him. Novak tugs at his jacket. “What are they saying?” he demands and Akim mutters out of the corner of his mouth, “She’s not here.”
“What do you mean ‘she’s not here’?” Novak says, horrified. “Where is her family?”
Akim smiles, supposedly in reassurance, but Novak detects a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he says, “They are all in the afterworld.”
“What?” Novak yelps. It is all he can do not to shout. “Are you sure?”
Before Akim can answer him, some of the surrounding Jews start to usher them through the market, past the city’s two castles – the old and the new – that overlook the river, and then towards the main synagogue and into a dark, dank hovel, which turns out to be a restaurant. There they are served an odd-looking salad of cucumber with dill, a repulsive, gelatinous dish (probably some kind of fish), meatballs that taste like fried fingernails, and shredded carrot, spicy enough to burn your mouth. Novak forces himself to keep smiling as he tastes these foul foods and thanks everyone, “Dank! Dank!” – a word he picked up from Akim – noticing as he does so that dozens of curious Jews have gathered around him. They stand there, their eyes shining happily as they follow every bite he takes, making it impossible for him to spit anything into a napkin. The odd sip of slivovitz would have made the experience tolerable, or at least it would have refreshed his palate and tempered the flavours, but instead they serve him yash, a drink that is somewhere between brandy and rum mixed with cow piss. He empties one glass after another, without stopping, until his heart is aflame.
As soon as dinner is over, they are dragged along an alleyway to a large house with a spacious courtyard. Akaky manages to whisper to Novak, “We have ended up among the Hasidim, they’re taking us to the gute Yid, the good Jew, the rebbe, great-grandson of Rabbi Alexander Ziskind the Just, author of The Foundation and Root of Worship, hailed as a genius by the Vilna Gaon himself. It’s a great honour!”
“Lovely,” hisses Novak. “But what about Fanny Schechter?”
“I have no idea,” Akaky says with a shrug.
The rebbe welcomes them with a warm embrace and tearful eyes, as if they were his own, long-lost sons. Moments later, the synagogue gabbai has measured Novak for a kaftan, other hands have placed a fur hat on his head, tzitzit sprout underneath his shirt, and everyone dances around him in ecstatic circles. When it is time for prayer at the shtiebel – a shabby, bare and rather damp house of prayer crowded with a motley crew that reminds Novak of the market square – the men crammed around him bend back and forth, right and then left, wrapped in sacred shawls that smell of pickled cabbage. Instead of delighting the high Heavens with melodious sounds in perfect harmony, and purifying the air with incense and perfume, they moan and groan with the ecstasy of bleating sheep.
They shove a prayer book into his hands. One of the rebbe’s men stands beside him and helps him follow the angular script, word by word. After prayer they all come up to shake his hand and invite Avremaleh and Pinchasaleh for tisch. Novak is desperate for the evening to be over so that he can slide a cup of slivovitz down his throat to wash away the bad taste that lingers in his mouth, before grabbing Akaky Akakyevich by the throat to settle accounts. Yet before they sit down to eat once more, the rabbi gives a speech, wine glass in hand. And Novak finds himself following the others’ example, shouting “lechayim” when they shout, drinking when they drink, muttering when they mutter, sitting down when they sit down, singing when they sing, making merry when they make merry and dancing when they dance. He is served different dishes that nonetheless taste exactly like his previous meal, especially the yash. This time, however, Novak’s stomach is less quarrelsome, so he devours everything, regardless of taste, embracing the mauling of his senses by the hard drink and the heavy dancing.
By nightfall, instead of punching Akaky in the face for making him participate in this farce, Novak happily lies down on a rickety bed in a hut cleared of its inhabitants for his sake. He is at peace. Right now, Fanny Schechter is far from his mind, and he even manages to forget the torturous journey to Grodno. Soon after laying his head on the pillow, he falls fast asleep, still wearing his clothes, his heart uplifted by the echoes of the rabbi’s inscrutable speech.