They wake in the morning to discover that they have camped right on the edge of the city. The garrison commander knows that if a sniper was stationed in one of the nearby houses, they would have been an easy target. Zizek muses that if the city had walls and a sentry had pissed from one of the watchtowers, they would have all got wet. Adamsky is imagining the courtyard of his and Ada’s home: her misshapen face beaming, her buxom chest inviting beneath her apron. Two chickens are pecking at grains, and clothes in different sizes, from infant to old-timer, are waving in the last breeze of the summer. Each man to his own thoughts.
The soldiers are exhausted. The hussars’ faces are haggard, and dust fills the wrinkles in their faces. When the garrison commander orders them to fold up the tents and move out, they look at one another with disbelief.
Their entry into the city is smooth. Fanny thinks they would have been welcomed with the same indifference even if they’d been wearing Ottoman uniforms. A few clerks cackle like roosters by the station. Drowsy beggars slowly awaken and watch them pass with unease, as if they were trespassing on the soldiers’ space. Labourers arrive in the city hoping to be hired for the day. Fanny notices many Jews among them.
It would make sense for the commander to leave them in a tavern while the soldiers search for Zvi-Meir Speismann. But that is not how it works. As time passes, Fanny realises that they are aimlessly roaming the streets. Every now and again, two horsemen break away from the group and another pair joins them. This ruse, she surmises, is a precaution to ensure they are not being followed.
They start their search in the city centre. Fanny stares, wide-eyed, through the barouche window. She sees tall buildings, offices and factories, a theatre sign, and then another, and a café on every other corner. When do they ever work here in Minsk? And what is this – a horse-drawn omnibus? Good gracious! And this damp odour, could it be that homes here have running water? And the buildings, so grand, one floor wasn’t good enough for them? Must they have a view of . . . what is that? Such an impressive bridge!
The Jews here look different, too, with their shiny shoes, groomed beards and fancy caps. Good God, some of them are adorned with mink hats and others sport bowler hats like goyim. No-one would dare walk around Motal looking like that. Look, that man just pulled out a gold watch from his coat, and right behind him a bunch of Jews are sitting and joking with university students. Would one have to actually ask people about their denomination in order to know what it is?
They steer clear of the upper market square, which is overlooked by a palace – the governor’s probably – and cross a large river that must be the Svislach, heading east. When there are no longer any other carriages in sight and potholes multiply and the roads become narrow, they know they have reached the slums, known here as Minsk’s “swamp”, die Blotte, the Jewish neighbourhood. Fanny is surprised at the squalor and misery around her. In Minsk, they had told her, there are more soup kitchens than poor people. All a hungry man needs to do is turn his head and he will find a charity: Saviour of the Meek, Acts of Kindness, Charitable Dwelling, Tent of Israel . . . But the sight that Fanny sees from the window of her barouche is quite different: Jews with bent backs, shrouded in penury and weighed down by hunger. They look just like the crowds in Motal and Grodno, but perhaps it is their poverty that makes them so indistinguishable. Two elderly women are fighting over a customer on a street corner, each of them holding a basket of shrivelled cucumbers. One is yelling at the other: “You’ve already sold two today, now it’s my turn!” and her friend replies, “There are no queues here, Mrs Gurevits, this is a marketplace!”
After another tour of synagogues, Captain Istomin stops the search party near a conclave of locals, who do not seem to have noticed the strange procession of approaching soldiers. Captain Istomin dismounts and walks over to the barouche. “Well,” he growls at Fanny and Zizek, “hurry up, get out and ask about your man. We’ll keep close by.” With their sunken eyes and dazed expressions, Fanny and Zizek appear to have forgotten why they are there. “Go on,” the captain says. “You don’t want us to talk to them, do you? They’ll run away crying ‘Gevalt!’ and rouse the entire city.” Oddly enough, Fanny and Zizek still do not move. “These are your people!” the officer says loudly, and the huddled Jews raise their heads as one.
Istomin realises he is attracting unwanted attention and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Look, here’s the deal: no-one in our army can talk to any of your people without provoking hatred and suspicion. That is how things stand in Russia. That’s a fact. How will your story end? I do not know. But Colonel Pazhari has assigned this mission to me and I intend to follow it through. Now, kindly get out of the barouche and talk to these people, before they start a riot.”
The captain’s words make sense. Fanny and Zizek emerge from the carriage. The group of Jews stand firm, clinging to one another as if they are already under arrest. A few of them briefly raise their heads, and when Fanny and Zizek draw closer, they shove their hands into their pockets and tighten their kaftan belts.
“Sholem Aleichem,” Fanny begins, “a gute morgen.” The group step back as one, stumbling against each another as they retreat. If the garrison commander had approached them they would have known how to react. But a goy lady with fair hair and burning eyes who marches across the street and speaks fluent Yiddish? They’ve never seen such a mongrel in their life.
“Wart a minut! Halt! Wait a minute,” Fanny yells, and they turn to look at her, embarrassed. “We need to ask you something.”
“Fragen?” one of them repeats, nervously twiddling his sidelocks. “Ask a question? Nobody asks questions with soldiers backing them up. Their rifles are enough.”
Fanny tries to reassure them.
“You have nothing to worry about. They’re on our side.”
An old man bursts out laughing. “You are either a meshugene, completely mad, or a liar,” he says. “The army is never on our side.” He adds in a whisper, “The army is for pigs. And what makes you think that we are on the same side as you?”
“I’m sorry, but we come in peace,” Zizek Breshov says. Although he speaks in Polish, he accompanies his words with calming gestures, and the group appears to understand him.
“Please listen,” he says, “we mean no harm. We are looking for Zvi-Meir Speismann. That is all. Tell us where he is and we’ll be on our way.”
The men sigh with relief. “Zvi-Meir Speismann? Of course, Zvi-Meir Speismann. Who else but Zvi-Meir Speismann?” They repeat the name over and over again. The oldest among them, whose eyes seem to fill half his face, explains: “He’s a madman, a meshugener, debaucher, miscreant, shkotz. You’ve never seen anyone poorer in your life, it’s frightening. He lives in the street with rats for neighbours. He keeps saying he’s one of the gedoylim, but everyone knows that he’s no more than a sparrow-fart. His nose is always pointed at the heavens, intolerably arrogant he is, and he spares no-one his lectures. He is full of bitterness for the great Torah scholars, convinced that the illustrious Volozhin Yeshiva is a den of idiots. He keeps repeating an inane phrase like a prophecy – “faith is sin”, or the other way around, no-one can remember. He bases his entire thesis on the story of the Garden of Eden, and not a single soul has managed to understand what it is that he wants to say. He spends his days chasing after married women, drinking yash, and ending up in a tavern every so often. So, it’s Zvi-Meir Speismann you want? Please! Go to the lower market and inquire after him in the alleyways off Rakovias Street. It won’t be long before you see him in all his glory. He’s the one you’re after? Why didn’t you say so? You can have him!”
For some reason, Fanny feels a sudden pity for her brother-in-law. She of all people should have been glad to learn that Zvi-Meir is considered a fool. But right now, by God, she would rather save him from the herd of snitches that has gathered around her. As soon as they realised they wouldn’t be in danger if they talked about Zvi-Meir Speismann, they’d yapped like there was no tomorrow. They never thought to inquire about the woman interrogating them, or the man speaking Polish, not to mention their military escort. This group simply gave him away without batting an eyelash.
“Go to the lower market,” the old man reiterates, “and you are bound to find this Speismann character.” The others nod along with his every word, clearly proud to have this man speaking on their behalf.
While the old man relishes the admiring looks of his friends and enjoys their approval of his fine words, Zizek notices Fanny’s hand sliding towards her thigh, and he hastily grabs it and pulls it back. Fanny is exhausted, which might explain her rash action; until now, she has never dared to pull the knife on one of her own. Granted, she didn’t flinch when she slew the family of bandits, or when she slit the agents’ throats so swiftly, and if she’d had to pull her knife on the soldiers in the camp she would have done so at the drop of a hat. But now she feels the need to protect Zvi-Meir Speismann from her own people, a pack of wolves that has just feasted on his carcass. The old man’s words have struck a chord because they are true. He had said, “What makes you think we are on the same side?” Indeed, she is far from certain that they are on the same side, and if she’s not on their side, whose side is she on? This is why her hand reached for the scabbard on her thigh. If it hadn’t been for Zizek, who knows how this encounter would have ended.
“I’m sorry, thank you,” says Zizek, and drags her away.