Kindness is not necessarily accompanied by courage. If it were, could we distinguish one from the other? Kindness reveals itself in any manner of ways and sometimes, when it is uncoupled from courage, people do not recognise it.
People who see the world in black and white might argue that the Motalers’ welcome of the procession from Minsk was unkind. To wit, for the first time since they came under curfew, the residents opened their shutters and hurled a range of missiles at Fanny’s wagon: wood chips, apple peel and all manner of rotting vegetables. Before passing judgment, however, one should stop to consider the following. What would you do after a week-long curfew? What would you do if the lives of your children were at stake? First, you would begin by looking for the cause. Well, there’s no question on that score: Fanny Keismann has dragged the entire town into this mess. Second, you would imagine that you’ll breathe a sigh of relief when Fanny’s fiasco is resolved and the Okhrana’s agents have left town. Third, you would want to demonstrate your allegiance to the authorities: both to set yourself apart from those responsible for this fine kettle of fish, and to make sure the police have no reason to stay any longer. In short, with all that in mind, who wouldn’t throw rotten tomatoes at Fanny?
Nonetheless, we must add, the rough welcome of the prisoners’ wagon could have been far worse. The townspeople could have thrown stones at the offenders; instead, they pelted them with apple peel and twigs. They could have hurled insults at the ringleader; instead, they whispered their rebukes behind closed doors. In any other place, the prisoners would have arrived at their destination with swollen faces and clothes wet with rotten egg yolk. Whereas here, two of the five hussars picked up the apple peel that hit them and ate it. Such are Motal’s Jews: like no other.
Take Mina Gorfinkel for example. Some people say that Yoshke Berkovits was in love with her before he was snatched from his bed. Some can still recount how he floated on air after seeing her at the market square. Others still will swear that he has dreamed his entire life of the day when he would see her again. No-one can confirm whether any of this is true or not. In any event, close to fifty years had gone by since the Berkovits family’s tragedy, and Mina Gorfinkel obviously did not sit and wait for Yoshke. She married at fifteen and became a grandmother twenty-five years later. But when the procession drove past her house, she opened the shutters and took a peek at the detainees. “Who are they?” her sons asked. She could have answered “criminals, crooks” like everyone else, but instead she closed the shutters and said nothing.
At the Weitzmann house, now transformed into makeshift headquarters, Colonel Piotr Novak and the rest of the top brass are waiting. The governor, Field Marshal Osip Gurko, is sitting behind the desk, anxious to return to Minsk with clear-cut proof of a murder plot against the Czar. Colonel Piotr Novak is standing next to Gurko, tense, waiting for the outlaws to arrive. Albin Dodek and Haim-Lazer are just behind him. Neither man is pleased to be so close to the other. Haim-Lazer feels that he is on the wrong side of the barricade, a collaborator with the corrupt regime, whereas Dodek is unhappy at being forced to collaborate with a prisoner. Sitting across the desk with his back to the door is another surprising figure: Colonel David Pazhari. For now, he thinks he has come to join the investigators, but he is soon to join the suspects.
“A great honour, sir,” Novak says to Pazhari when they meet. “It’s not every day you meet the future chancellor’s nephew,” he adds, waiting for his reaction. Pazhari nods but cannot look the inspector in the eye. Novak assumes that Pazhari is experiencing a pang of conscience, but in truth the colonel is taken aback by the inspector’s gaunt face and frail posture. At the Shipka Pass, he had encountered a well-built colonel, whereas the man before him now reminds him of a house of cards – extract one and the entire edifice will come tumbling down.
Although he knows this is probably a bad idea, Pazhari feels he cannot repeat the mistake he made at the Shipka Pass. He takes Novak aside and looks directly into the inspector’s eyes. “Voivode,” he whispers in his ear, “we fought together at the Shipka.”
Novak’s face lights up. A long time has passed since someone has called him “Voivode” – Commander.
“Did we?” He tries to hide his excitement. So there is a man in the room other than Gurko who has seen the true Novak. A man who knows that whatever takes place in the room now will not be what Piotr Novak would have planned. A man who knows the difference between Albin Dodek and Piotr Novak.
“Some battle,” Novak raises his voice, wanting his agents to hear a conversation between two veterans, to show them what true courage looks like.
“I wanted to tell you that . . .” Pazhari lowers his voice, “I rode by your side when . . .”
Many things can be said about Novak, but slowness of mind is not one of them.
“For years I regretted not . . .”
“You have nothing to regret,” Novak says, with a grin. “The Turks fared worse than my leg, didn’t they?”
But this exchange leaves Novak feeling deeply troubled. On the one hand, the man here has seen him leading a cavalry regiment into battle. On the other hand, the same man saw him crawling on the ground like a lizard. This contrast – how should he put this – begs for reconciliation.
Gurko touches the inspector’s shoulder. “Is everything alright, my friend?”
Novak replies with a confident smile, “Perfectly, Your Excellency.”
When the prisoners are brought into headquarters, Pazhari turns pale at the sight of Captain Istomin in handcuffs. He signals to Novak that he wants to have a word before things get out of hand. The commander of the investigation nods and gets to his feet, but Albin Dodek winks at four of the agents and they step forward and disarm the colonel. Startled, Pazhari does not resist. Stripped of his sword and pistol, he goes back to being David from the orphanage. When they stand him next to Captain Istomin he hears in his head, “David, mon chéri, my sweet, my jewel, petit”, and starts looking for a way to escape. Strangely enough, he is relieved that the men who were his allies until a moment ago have now transformed into his bitter enemies.
At this point, Novak is no longer surprised by anything. Clearly, these decisions are no longer in his hands, even though he cannot say in whose hands they might be instead. As he bows his head to Pazhari, the colonel understands that he has reached the end of his road.
From right to left, the suspects standing in the office are: Colonel David Pazhari, Captain Istomin, five hussars, Zizek Breshov, Fanny Keismann, Zvi-Meir Speismann, Captain Adamsky (lying on a stretcher), and for lack of space the matchstick Shleiml Cantor squeezes in behind them, holding two planks. No-one would notice if he left the room with Olga, and yet he stays put.
“Well, Colonel Novak,” Field Marshal Osip Gurko calls to him, “shall we begin?”
Novak knows that whoever he questions first will provide the evidence that the people on the other side of the desk want to hear. He can easily trap Pazhari with the imaginary blood relation he never denied, accuse Captain Istomin and the hussars of treason, put the feeble-minded Zizek Breshov on the spot, produce several eyewitnesses to testify against Adamsky and present his own crushed leg as supporting evidence. As for Shleiml Cantor, well, this fount of information requires no further encouragement.
Any of these men would yield the desirable outcome, but he chooses to start with Fanny. He knows that he is the only man present, including Gurko, who is capable of confronting her. This is the moment he has been waiting for his entire career.
“Now, Mrs Keismann,” he begins in an impressive tone, “please identify the people standing here and describe the nature of your relationship with them.”
Fanny says nothing. This is an awkward moment. Novak decides he must refine his question.
“Oh bother,” Gurko suddenly stands up, “time is pressing. I have to be in Minsk the day after tomorrow. Give them their goddamned confessions, for God’s sake, and let them sign them.”
“Confessions?” Novak says, blankly. “What confessions?”
“Here.” His deputy Albin Dodek hands him the papers. Novak looks around, in terror. Any moment now – he can feel it – he too will join the shackled prisoners.
“Your Excellency,” Novak mutters. “What about the trial?”
“Trial?” Gurko asks, surprised. “And how long will that take? Do you think that in emergencies, when grave danger looms over the empire, we can afford to wait for trials to end?”
“All the same,” Novak says. “The trial is . . .” He cannot complete his sentence. The trial is . . . what? Goddammit, what is he trying to say? He doesn’t know. And yet, the trial is important, perhaps it is the most important thing of all.
“The trial might expose more accomplices,” Novak says finally, “other cells.”
“This is precisely your job, my dear Novak.” The tone of Gurko’s voice has changed. “We have not finished here, oh no. But right now, what we are looking for is deterrence.”
Novak is silent. He feels that his life is hanging by a thread. His trial has been cancelled against his wish. It can’t possibly end this way, without a trial.
Suddenly Fanny steps forward. Her wolf-like eyes consume the hearts of all men present. Each of them feels that they have been served a piece of death, a fragment of the End. She throws the document she has just been handed, her so-called confession, to the floor and says calmly, “I am not signing anything until I have seen my children.”
Novak is pleased. Now his colleagues, and Gurko most of all, will begin to understand just how complicated this investigation really is. They thought they could bury the case with fabricated confessions. Well, not with a woman like this.
“She can have her wish,” Gurko says and adds to Novak, “we’ll forge her signature. Are the gallows ready?”
“Gallows?” Novak chokes, flabbergasted.
He turns to the window and sees that five gallows have indeed sprouted in the market square overnight. How did he miss them? They stand before him like ancient trees, defiant. Who gave the order to erect them?
Pazhari steps forward and stands next to Fanny. “You can’t kill him.” He points at Zizek Breshov. “He is the Father.”
“The father,” Gurko echoes. “Whose father?”
“He has no children,” Dodek says. “We checked.”
Novak feels the blood drain from his face. His head swims. The Father! How could he have missed it? The Berkovits family, he’s such an idiot! Yoshke Berkovits who became Zizek Breshov, there is not a single soldier who doesn’t know his story. That’s why they were helped at the camp. For crying out loud, this is not a conspiracy at all, but a code of love and honour, a code that he himself used to follow.
Novak turns to Gurko. “Sir,” he begins – a strange way to address a count. “We must remember we are standing before Yoshke Berkovits, who is none other than the Father, General Radzetsky’s adjutant. We shouldn’t rush the decision.”
“I don’t know who ‘the Father’ is,” Gurko chuckles. “But General Radzetsky was an idiot.”
Novak turns red. He has never been humiliated like this in front of his men before, and Gurko leans towards him and whispers in his ear, “You know, my friend, we can always set up a sixth gallows out there.” He sniffs at Novak, and screws up his face, as if Novak is nothing more than a drunken beggar, then camouflages his disgust with a broad smile, from one tip of his magnificent moustache to the other.
“And what about them?” Dodek jerks his head towards Pazhari and his soldiers.
“They should be escorted back to the camp,” Novak says, “and face a court-martial.”
“No need,” Gurko says, “they can face a court-martial right here. Do you have anything to say in your defence?” he asks, turning to Pazhari.
The colonel lowers his eyes. Novak is stunned.
“Excellent,” says Gurko. “You are all hereby sentenced to death by firing squad, like the traitors that you are.”
Novak cannot believe his ears. Everything is happening so fast that he can’t even utter a single word before Colonel Pazhari, Captain Istomin and the five hussars are led out to the wall of a neighbouring old, black house with a low roof. The firing-squad commander yells something, Novak’s mind is wrapped in darkness, and gun blasts cut through the air. Peering through the window, Novak sees seven soldiers, including the colonel, lying on the ground in pools of blood.
“You’ve done a wonderful job, dear Novak.” Gurko pats Novak’s shoulder. “I’m off to Minsk. Send me a report after the hangings.”
“Certainly, Your Excellency,” Dodek replies in place of the dumbfounded Novak, and Gurko marches smartly away.
Novak leaves the house and limps over to Pazhari. On the one hand, there’s a man lying on the ground who has seen him leading a cavalry regiment into battle. On the other hand, there’s a man lying on the ground who has seen him crawling like a lizard. How can these opposites be reconciled? There’s the end of an era for you: an era of irresolution.