MINYAN AT THE PAPERMAKERS’ SHUL was always crowded. Though the attendees were not worthy of praying in the Great Synagogue itself, they considered themselves second only to that honorable congregation, as the business of paper—in all stages of its life from pulp and rag to printed book—had long been Esrog’s most prosperous industry. The older men talked a lot about how things had been better before Isser was born, when the censors were less strict and the road that passed by Esrog better traveled, but Isser only halfway believed any of it. Their crown prince of a shul was made of wood and plaster, and its floors creaked and snapped like gunshots throughout the services, making it difficult to keep one’s place.
He was used to being accosted outside the shul by Kalman Senderovich’s messengers—Ostap, usually. He expected to see the other boy today, lurking outside, and was surprised when he didn’t.
Instead, he found the messenger waiting inside, head down over a siddur like all the others. It was Kalman himself, and Isser’s heart sank into his boots. He hadn’t expected Kalman to actually answer his summons. He didn’t feel ready to talk to him.
Reluctantly, he slid into the bench at Kalman’s elbow, mouthing the blessings while he searched for the right place in the prayer book. Kalman glanced sideways at him and gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. That was all. He was going to make Isser wait until the conclusion of the service. Isser felt himself sweating from more than the stuffy air of the crowded shul.
When services ended and the men gathered around the stove for gossip and snifters of vodka, Kalman stepped aside into the alcove that hid the women’s gallery stairs, and Isser tucked himself into the shadows beside him.
“Do you have the book?” Kalman said, without even a greeting.
“I have questions,” said Isser. “Before I turn that thing over to you and make an enemy of the rebbe for my life. Why is this worth risking your daughter’s engagement for? You can’t really believe it’s magic.”
His hands were clammy. He stuffed them in his pockets so as not to show his nerves. Kalman was giving him the slightly pitying look he always used when Isser talked back to him.
“I think you know the book is genuine,” Kalman said. “I would not waste my time for a bit of fakery. And for all his flaws, neither would Nachum-Eydl. I ask you again, have you brought it?”
“Why?” Isser repeated stubbornly. “I looked into it. The old women say the first rebbe used that book to keep the Angel of Death off our backs somehow. Can’t be so much protection, people die in Esrog all the time. But it’s got to do something, or you wouldn’t care if he had it. Right? So what is it doing, really?”
“Who have you been talking to?” Kalman demanded. He moved closer in the small space, cornering Isser against the door. “You were to keep this business completely secret.”
“I didn’t tell anyone I had it,” Isser whispered. “I’m not an idiot. It’s just gossip. No one knows about it.”
“The rebbe’s protection is genuine,” Kalman said, relenting a little and taking half a step back. “But flawed. The contract prevents certain kinds of change from reaching the city. In the shelter of the rebbe’s magic, Esrog stagnates. You’re young, perhaps you haven’t seen it. But we were a gem once, this city. Once, you would not have questioned that the angels held us in favor. Now our streets are littered with beggars, trade flows miles to the east along the railroad, and the people turn to desperate superstition instead of taking action.”
“So?” Isser prompted, when the lumber merchant trailed off into a contemplative silence. “What is it you want the book for?”
“The world has changed,” said Kalman. “We must change. I intend to destroy it.”
“But you just said it protects us.”
Kalman shook his head slightly. “Israel, you understand the modern world. I know you do. Those pamphlets you peddle—Jewish Emancipation, accusations against the kahal, encouraging women to read. You understand that those ideas are dangerous. You understand the risk, but you’re clever. You see that the danger is necessary. I don’t agree with those sentimental stories about overturning society and whatnot, but I appreciate your conviction. You’re a clever young man. That’s why I entrusted this task to you.”
“What happens when you destroy it, though? How do we know it doesn’t call down a disaster on our heads? It’s the Book of the Angel of Death. Do Angels of Death listen to reason?”
“It is a risk,” Kalman agreed. “A risk balanced against a certainty. If Esrog doesn’t change, we will all be lost. I am trusting you with this. You could destroy me. Take this to the rebbe, and it’s all over—my daughter’s wedding, my place on the council. And he would destroy Esrog along with me.”
Isser hesitated, biting his thumbnail.
“I buried your mother,” Kalman said, leaning closer and laying a gentle hand on Isser’s shoulder. “I paid for her funeral. I saw to it that when Nachum-Eydl needed someone to take his son’s place in the secular school, it was you who received an education. You’d be up to your ankles in the muck down in the river bottom still, and you’d never have had a single thought about politics without me. Now they’re taking my daughter. You’re the closest to a son that I have—my Kaddish. I need you to help me with this.”
“Why not just talk to the rebbe?” Isser murmured.
“Do you think I haven’t? That I haven’t argued over this with him? He insists that we must stand together.”
His eyes were dark and intense. He truly believed what he was saying.
But Kalman always believed his own words.
I’m not your Kaddish, Isser thought.
“It’s here,” he said, taking the pamphlet from his vest pocket. “I only wanted to hear … to know that you had a plan for it.”
Ostap was waiting for Kalman on the street outside, and Isser felt his eyes on the back of his neck, cold as ice, until he turned the corner into the alley. Guilt, stalking him like a hunting dog.
He wished he hadn’t given up his knife.