August 13, 1894
To
The Governor of Poland, Field Marshal Osip Gurko
Your Highness,
Please be advised that the investigation in the town of Motal has been completed. On your orders, the five suspects were put to death by hanging and the verdicts were delivered to their families. Although all suspects, including Zvi-Meir Speismann, are pawns of little consequence, the trail leads to St Petersburg’s upper echelons, and to Count Alexander Pazhari in particular. At present the cause of the uprising and its final goal remain unknown, but the main thrust of the investigation will now shift to the capital.
The army rebels were executed by a firing squad. Two of them were officers, one of whom held the rank of colonel. The possibility of Major General Mishenkov’s involvement in the affair should not be excluded. Throughout the investigation the camp commander was in Nesvizh, visiting the adviser Bobkov. The nature of the adviser’s ties with the Radziwills calls for further investigation.
A fire broke out shortly after the executions, and its flames consumed the synagogue and half the town’s main street. The cause does not appear to have been arson. As is well known, infernal heat and low-quality wood tend to favour the spread of fire. Nonetheless, there were no casualties and in due course the local assessor will report on the completion of the renovation works. Naturally, all expenses will be paid by the Jewish community.
The residents of Motal seem to have learned their lesson, but the Okhrana will increase surveillance around the black marshes of Polesia.
To conclude, a violent assault on the citizens’ security was foiled. It is believed, however, that the enemy we face is still lurking in the shadows and keeping his motives well hidden. It should come as no surprise if additional pockets of resistance are encountered.
Sincerely,
Colonel Piotr Novak
Commander of Grodno and Minsk Counties
The official letter Novak drafts clarifies one key feature of the investigation. Take the truth, turn it upside down, and you will come up with something Gurko wants to hear. In order to please his master Novak must reverse the course of events. Had he wanted to submit an honest report, however, he would have written more or less as follows:
Although the five suspects were executed, none of them died. True, Shleiml Cantor lost consciousness as the rope around his neck tightened and he had a brief encounter with the Angel of Death. But if you saw him now, you wouldn’t believe that only a week ago he was tied to a scaffold. He sits in Fanny Keismann’s house freely gorging himself on cheeses, but this time, he is not schnorring but making a living. And no, his job is not cheese-tasting. Shleiml Cantor has a real job: he has replaced Adamsky’s nurse and has become the Jew-hater’s caretaker. What is more, since the Keismanns never attend the Motal shul, the cantor sings to them constantly to make up for the prayers they miss.
The upshot of this is, well, rather problematic. For if Shleiml Cantor is staying at the Keismann household and is charged with caring for the anti-Semitic captain, this means that Adamsky must be staying close to Fanny’s home, which sounds absurd. Well, is a hut in the Keismanns’ courtyard close enough? Impossible. Is it the same hut where Rivkah Keismann once lived? Precisely! How on earth did Fanny agree to this? Well, it is easy for one to agree with one’s own ideas. And so Fanny has chosen to take into her ark a fine pair: a drunken vagabond and a battered tavern owner. God help them all. And didn’t Natan-Berl object? Well, Natan-Berl considers himself lucky that these are the only problems he has now.
Should we surmise that all five of the condemned partners in crime have reunited at the Keismann home? This is a strange question. Doesn’t Zvi-Meir have a home of his own? Why, then, should he dwell among the Keismanns? When he was removed from the scaffold, Zvi-Meir showed up at his parents’ home without saying a word. A week has passed and he has still not mentioned the Volozhin Yeshiva, nor has he uttered the names Adam and Eve, and he no longer maintains that sin is the pinnacle of faith. He looks for work from sunrise till sundown. Meanwhile, on Mende’s orders, he has cleaned up the courtyard, sowed vegetable seeds and travelled with their son Yankele all the way to Pinsk to buy cheap manure. Yesterday he asked the local tutor, the melamed, to refer to him young students in the afternoon hours, promising that he will teach them according to tradition and not according to his own “method”. He hugs his children every evening, and begs his wife to let him into her bed. Mende Speismann shows him no mercy, God help her, but promises that everything will be back to the way it was once he finds them a house of their own. What’s fair is fair.
Zizek is not staying with the Keismanns either. As soon as he parted with the noose, he marched straight to his home, the Yaselda river. He took off his clothes, swam across the mild stream and found his boat exactly where he had left it. The first thing he did was place a full barrel of rum on board, and then he went back to rowing between the banks. His first customer came yesterday and offered to pay him the fare, but Zizek ignored the outstretched hand and rowed him over to the other side.
And Natan-Berl? Ever since his wife’s return, he has tried to work out what he should say to her, but whenever the moment arrives he says nothing. Can he convince her not to repeat this deed ever again? Of course not. Does she admit to her own recklessness? Of course she does. Has she learned her lesson? She has, and yet, if the need should arise she will certainly leave again. Can anyone say anything to this woman? Natan-Berl is not one to back down easily, and so after a prolonged silence he declared: “My mother is not going back to the hut in the yard. That’s the end of it. Full stop.”
“Alright,” Fanny replied, and not another word was said.
It is not at all clear whether Natan-Berl’s declaration follows from a years-long protest against the mistreatment of his mother, or an attempt to show Fanny who wears the trousers in their home. Either way, Rivkah Keismann is finally experiencing the bliss she deserves in her ripe old age. Initially she hesitated to return to her son and daughter-in-law’s madhouse. On the one hand, she is not young anymore and would like to leave this world sooner rather than later. On the other hand, how can she leave them all in such a terrible state? The house is filthy and the grandchildren are undisciplined. Until now she has tried to keep everyone happy, which was a mistake. Enough is enough! She will show them how to run a household. Her daughter-in-law has much to learn. Indeed, Rivkah Keismann is not particularly educated, but she does have experience in abundance. “Mishka, don’t walk barefoot around the house! David, wipe up the water you just spilled! Shmulke, help your grandmother clean the house! Elisheva, little ones can be helpful too! And Gavriellah – where has she disappeared to again? God help me, I’m raising puppies, not children. Just look at my life. I would be better off dead.”
What about the executed soldiers, led by Colonel David Pazhari? Novak cannot decide if they were rebels or traitors. But there comes a moment in a soldier’s life, any soldier’s, when justice and the orders he receives clash. Novak knows that this is never easy, trust him. After all, the first thing a soldier is taught is to believe that orders and justice are one and the same. But once confronted with this dilemma, the soldier knows that opposing what his heart commands would make him a coward. For it is not only death that claims its victims, and charging at the enemy is not the only measure of courage. A just heart can also raise an army of its own, and fighting in its cause can be just as fatal.
As for the fire – or should we call it the arson? It is hard to say. Novak knows that not every resident of Motal attended the hangings. No matter. Everyone in Motal knows exactly who was absent. First and foremost, the Berkovits and Avramson families. When the police went from house to house and forced residents to attend the execution, they skipped both families. What could they have done? Slapped Leah Berkovits’ face? Twisted Mirka Avramson’s arm? The two old ladies would have looked at them with contempt and remained sitting. “Who are you to tell us what to do? You’ve already robbed us of our loved ones. Are you threatening an immovable rock with fists? Be our guests!”
Speaking of the Berkovits and Avramson families, Fanny’s cry of “Where is Gavriellah?” should not be forgotten. At least three informants reported to Novak that they saw a girl of about eight or nine entering the Berkovits household during curfew. Put two and two together and you will end up with a plausible conclusion: volatile revenge meets the Keismann spark.
Another factor that should be taken into account is the fire’s path. The blaze broke out in a house on the main street, not far from the Berkovits residence, and progressed directly towards the synagogue. While many of the nearby houses indeed burned down, other homes that were equally close were unscathed. The fire followed a precise path towards shul, as if someone had doused one house after another with something flammable, but skipped the homes of the local Poles. Can Novak be sure of this? It doesn’t matter. He has no solid evidence either way.
The Jews of Motal, however, are convinced that the fire was set by a rabble who came to town to start a pogrom. After all, the havoc wreaked on them in the past week can only be a sign of the authorities’ torturous persecution: one Jewess went astray and suddenly all żyds are barbaric murderers. This is all the muzhiks need to light up their imagination. They have no need for evidence before they burn and pillage. Where did they come from? There’s no shortage of possibilities. What did they want? Jewish blood and children’s tears.
The day after the fire, the townspeople went to the square to appraise the damage to the synagogue and calculate the cost of renovations. Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin placed a pushke for donations at the heart of the square and people flocked to leave money in the cup. This gesture must have ignited a miraculous spark: in an instant, pedlars sprang out of nowhere with carts crammed with vegetables and fruits. They were followed by wagons packed with goods, which reminded everyone that not only is the Sabbath approaching, but also the Yamim Noraim, the holiest days of the year, are nigh. A few shops opened. Fish for the Sabbath will not fall from the sky, will it?
The people of Motal and the Keismanns seem to have nothing in common. The village Jews are in the village, and the Motalers are in Motal. The Speismanns and the Keismanns have not renewed their relationship either. Mende will never forgive her sister for what she has done to her, and she keeps explaining to Zvi-Meir how unfortunate, how desperate a wife must be to leave her home at two hours past midnight. Zvi-Meir, for his part, sits across from his wife, browsing through an issue of Hamagid with the two digits that remain on his left hand. These pages, Speismann knows, will not print his name ever again. His sagacity will not make any waves either. But, hand on heart, can this even be called a proper newspaper? Such low standards, such prolixity, the folly and whims of exhibitionists eager to become famous. Just look at this advert: “The voice of a merry and contented wife”, who would like to thank the Blessed Holy One for having kindly and graciously given her a roof over her head and two darling children. For heaven’s sake, is this a way to write? This newspaper is only good for wrapping fish. Shame on anyone whose name makes its way into these pages.
The previous night, after evening prayer, the Speismanns were seen arguing in the street, and not about the Torah either. Mende said something and Zvi-Meir clapped his hands over his ears. Mende kept on babbling, and Zvi-Meir lost his patience and roared, “Quiet, you hen! Enough with your nonsense!” What happened there? No-one knows. But judging by the angry tone, the epithet “hen” should not be taken for an affectionate pet name.
This is what Novak would have written, more or less, had he wanted to tell the truth about the investigation, and then he would have added:
To conclude, Field Marshal Osip Gurko, celebrated Governor of Poland, there has been no violent attack on the citizens’ personal security. The threat we face is indeed hidden from us, but only because we refuse to see the world as it truly is.
Yours unfaithfully,
Piotr
Novak and his interpreter, Haim-Lazer, stand at the entrance to the village of Upiravah, some seven versts away from Motal. Before returning to St Petersburg, Novak wants to talk to Fanny Keismann one last time. He has no need of an interpreter anymore and so he asks Haim-Lazer to wait by the carriage.
“It’s so peaceful here,” Haim-Lazer observes. “Life in Motal seems to be slowly returning to its old course.”
“If that is what you think,” Novak says as he limps away, “then you’ve learned nothing.”
“Are you leaving me here unsupervised?” Haim-Lazer calls after him.
“I live in hope that I won’t have to see you when I return.”
From a distance, the Keismann home looks like the neighbouring houses, but as Novak approaches, he notices that it has been extended at the rear. A few chickens wander in the yard, geese stretch their necks out at him, and a one-eyed sheep dog alerts its master to Novak’s arrival. Natan-Berl appears in the doorway, holding his youngest daughter, Elisheva, in his arms. The bear recognises Novak and tries to read his face. Before long he understands that it’s not him the inspector has come to speak to and he mumbles a few words into the house.
Fanny comes to the door, accompanied by Gavriellah. Natan-Berl asks her to go back inside, but she takes the hand of her eldest and walks over to the gate. Novak cannot stop staring at the girl’s eyes – they are unmistakably her mother’s – and advances towards them along the fence with the help of his cane until he reaches the gate.
“Would you like to come in?” Fanny asks.
“No,” Novak says, surprised. “No.”
“I was expecting your visit,” she says.
Novak is silent.
“Have you come to arrest me?” she asks, staring at him intently.
Noticing the movement of her left hand he readies his cane, just in case.
“No.” Novak says, looking at her gravely. “I have no intention of harming you, and I hope this is mutual, yes?”
Without warning, Fanny pulls out the knife and hands it to him. Stunned, the inspector looks at the tiny blade she has just placed in his palm. He cannot believe that something so small has slit so many throats with such precision.
“So why are you here?” she asks, scanning his melancholy face.
What does she see? He would have liked to ask her. A coward? A wretch? A drunk? A decent man?
“I have come to warn you,” he says. He bows and returns the knife to her. He expects the obvious questions: “Warn against what? Against whom?” But Fanny simply nods. Understood.
Novak turns and walks away, ambling hesitantly, his cane barely supporting his weight. Fanny’s gaze follows him, her hand still holding the knife tightly. She can neither throw it away nor strap it back on her thigh. She glances down at Gavriellah, who looks back pleadingly, and she hands over to her eldest child the inheritance she had received from her father. Gavriellah’s eyes glisten with pride, and Fanny smiles back, suppressing tears.
The Polesian expanses are crisp, the birch trees rise up straight into the sky and the storks survey the bright fields. Underneath it all the black marshes seethe as their putrid waters flow into the rivers. Distant clouds herald the arrival of autumn rainfall, after which everything will be covered in snow. The rains of the Flood started falling many aeons ago, Fanny knows, and they continue to fall now. The world is on the verge of catastrophe, and what has happened in the last few weeks is nothing compared to what is yet to come. Still, no-one rushes into the ark while the soil is yet to be submerged, and a slow decline is still unfelt. There’s always time for a miracle, isn’t there?
On his way north towards Telekhany, Novak rides through Motal and witnesses a strange scene. By the riverbank, Zizek is sitting in his boat, minding his own business, nestling a cup of rum in his hands. Two horses are standing there: one with a sway back, the other swishing its tail. And although they are not tethered, they calmly chew their hay. A very old, haggard lady is making her way toward the riverbank, a fair distance from Zizek. Novak cannot tell who she is at first, but as she draws closer, he recognises the wrinkled face of Leah Berkovits.
The young steed neighs, his older friend grunts, and the scar-mouthed hulk notices the elderly woman approaching. One would assume that Zizek would jump to his feet with alacrity. After all, he has been waiting to see her for years. But lo and behold, he does not go out of his way. He places his cup on the seat and helps the old woman into his boat. She, for her part, says nothing and merely sits across from the burly man. There’s no “meine zisalle”, no “my boy”, and no “Mamaleh is here”.
Zizek rows across the still water with a placid face. When they reach the middle of the river, he stops the boat as he does with all his passengers. He offers her rum from the barrel. The old lady grimaces but then she thinks better of it, snatches the cup with her sinewy hand, and downs the drink in a single gulp. Zizek nods and continues to row towards the opposite bank.
THE END