SHIMEN THE PAPERMAKER did not know more than the printer, or else he was even better at hiding it. They spent the rest of the day circling the printers’ district, being sent from one person to the next with barely more than the repeated warning not to get tangled up in Isser’s trouble. Adela and Sam seemed to have endless stamina for being on their feet, but Sorel couldn’t take it in the end and demanded they stop for a rest and something to eat just before sunset.
She was starting to worry about the decreasing weight of the sock holding her coins, but there was nothing to be done about it—she couldn’t think and she couldn’t walk without food in her. When they passed a kosher house serving massive plates of fried potatoes and herring, Sorel planted her feet and refused to go farther.
“Either they’re all in on it together, or nobody actually knows anything anyway,” she said, when Adela looked reluctant to give up the chase. “Come on, you have to eat.”
“My family are going to know something’s wrong by now,” said Adela, aggravated. “I should be going back to Kuritsev.”
Sam, always easygoing, was already moving to the tavern door. “Alter’s right. Come on. No one’s talking.”
Adela heaved a sigh and followed them inside. They found a spot in a corner to sit, and Sorel paid for two plates of potatoes. Adela had claimed that she wasn’t hungry, but once the food was in front of her she started eating with almost as much enthusiasm as Sorel, while Sam watched them both with an expression of benign amusement.
“I just want to find him,” said Adela. “Or find his book, or—I just want to know what he was doing. We aren’t supposed to have secrets from each other.”
She gave Sorel a hungry look as she spoke, which made Sorel’s heart flip over uneasily. It wasn’t that the look was unwelcome, actually she quite liked the idea of Adela looking at her with such intensity. But she wanted it to be her Adela was seeing. She knew Adela’s stare was for Isser, and he wasn’t even there.
“I don’t know the answer to that,” she said reluctantly. It felt wrong to lie, though the temptation was there. Just to make Adela keep looking at her. She couldn’t think of how to phrase a lie without alerting Sam to the fact that she was either dybbuk-ridden or a madman, anyway.
“We’ve talked to criminals, and we’ve talked to honest tradesmen,” said Sam. “Who’s left?”
“Women?” said Sorel.
Sam shrugged. Adela chewed her lip, looking thoughtful.
“He sold pamphlets in the mother tongue,” said Sam. “He could be selling them to mothers, no?”
He had a point, but Sorel didn’t like it. She stuffed her mouth full of potatoes so she’d have an excuse for not speaking for a moment. The truth was she still worried that any women she spoke to would see through her, see through Alter—even though Adela hadn’t. And how did one start a conversation with a woman, anyway? Where did you even find them?
“I meant the Hasidim, though,” said Sam. “Didn’t Yoshke mention something?”
“The one Yoshke told us about was Shulem-Yontif, who they mentioned at the printers too,” said Adela.
“But he’s no good,” said Sorel. “We talked to him already. And he’s a damp noodle.”
Sam looked between them, a silent request for more details. Adela was scowling in Sorel’s direction.
“He is a damp noodle, but that doesn’t mean he’s not involved,” she insisted. “What is it with you, Alter? Every time someone mentions a specific name you say it can’t be him. Can’t be Kalman the lumber merchant—when everyone knows Kalman and everyone knows he’s ruthless. Can’t be Shulem-Yontif either.”
“But you saw him,” said Sorel.
“I saw someone frightened,” said Adela. “Frightened doesn’t mean not guilty. And he’s a hasid who’s been reading books he isn’t supposed to. Don’t you think we shouldn’t rule out the one person we know is hiding something?”
“Everyone we’ve talked to is hiding something!” Sorel exclaimed. “Yoshke has things to hide, and no one likes him, you said yourself he’s suspicious. As well as those goyim who almost shot us!”
“We know something now that we didn’t know when we talked to Shulem-Yontif,” Adela said, lowering her voice deliberately. “We know he was the last to see Isser.”
“We don’t,” said Sorel stubbornly. “All we know is Isser said he was going to see him. We don’t know that Isser made it to the meeting.”
Sam was watching both of their faces with an expression of mild confusion. “Who is Shulem-Yontif?”
Sorel stabbed a potato with her fork. “He’s the hasid Yoshke mentioned, and we found out Isser was teaching him Russian.”
“And he’s Kalman’s son-in-law,” said Adela. “Except also, he isn’t actually, because the bride drowned in the river before they could be married. So he’s involved in two deaths.”
“Do you know Isser is dead, God forbid?” said Sam mildly.
“It seems silly to assume he isn’t,” said Adela.
“We don’t know Shulem-Yontif had anything to do with the drowning either,” said Sorel. “I mean she just drowned. It doesn’t even have to be murder.”
Adela looked exasperated. “Be reasonable, Alter.”
It was a tall order, when nothing that had happened for the last week or more had been reasonable. But it seemed like a bad idea to keep fighting with Adela in public, so she jammed her mouth full of food once again and refused to speak. They ate the rest of their meal in huffy silence.
THEY HAD INTENDED to spend the night in Isser’s room again, but when they turned into his street they found it tense with the unmistakable air of a neighborhood where something was amiss. Skin crawling, Sorel withdrew the knife from her pocket and held it with both hands in front of her as they made their way quietly between the darkened houses. Nearer the courtyard, there were a handful of men standing in their own doorways, watching the street. They could have possibly just been getting some air, maybe sharing a bit of gossip, but they were too alert. Their eyes followed Sorel and the others as they approached the courtyard, then one of the men spoke up.
“Wouldn’t go back there if you’re Isser’s friends.”
“You’re the ones asking about him, aren’t you?” said the man in the next door over. “Watch your backs. Someone got a sniff of you, I’ll bet. They’re turning over his rooms again.”
“Who is?” Sorel asked. All that tramping around the city and the people they’d been searching for were here all along? And the neighbors knew it? She made herself lower the knife so it wouldn’t appear she was threatening him.
“Some hooligans. Best stay out of it, lad.”
Sorel, Sam, and Adela retreated to the next alley to deliberate. They all agreed that one of them should look and see if they recognized any of the so-called hooligans, but they disagreed on who it should be. Neither Sorel nor Adela was willing to back down, and at last Sam heaved a sigh and suggested they both go together.
“Only don’t kill each other on the way,” he said. “I’ll watch your backs, how’s that? And don’t confront them, please.”
“Not if we’re outnumbered, anyway,” said Sorel.
“Not at all,” said Sam, but with a tone of resignation.
Sorel and Adela cut through the alley to the other side of the courtyard, where they could approach Isser’s rooms from what would hopefully be an unexpected angle: another alleyway that was barely more than a crack between two walls, with ditch water running along it. It smelled terrible, but it afforded them a shadowy place to peer out into the courtyard and watch the stairs without making themselves obvious.
There was a man at the bottom of the stairs, standing in a guard’s stance but with an air of impatience. Not just a guard’s stance, Sorel realized when lamplight from an open window glinted off his buttons—he was a city guard. She felt suddenly sick, remembering her escape, and had to step back and lean for a moment against the wall.
Adela, still watching, took in a sharp breath.
“Yoshke!” she hissed, waving to Sorel to join her at the mouth of the alley.
A group of men was coming down the stairs, a couple carrying lanterns. Yoshke was indeed one of them, and the others she thought were gentiles. They looked more like Pavlikov’s comrades than like guardsmen, but the guardsman was clearly part of the group. They were engaged in a discussion Sorel and Adela were too far away to hear—Yoshke gesticulating as if he were trying to get a point across, the other men shaking their heads—and then the group broke up. The gentiles left Yoshke alone by the well, head down.
“Let’s get him,” Sorel whispered in Adela’s ear. “Two of us, one of him.”
She was worried that after their argument Adela wouldn’t go along with it, but Adela nodded and stepped forward. Sorel drew the knife and leapt after her, automatically putting herself between Yoshke and the exit to the main street. Yoshke looked up and jumped sideways, trying to run, but not fast enough—Adela caught him by the back of the collar and Sorel planted herself, and her knife, in front of him.
“So!” she said. “You’re not in league with Pavlikov, is it? You don’t have anything to do with whatever’s going on between him and Isser? You don’t know what Isser’s been up to or where he’s gone? Have I got all that right?”
Yoshke was looking at the knife. When he showed no sign of trying to wrench himself out of her grip, Adela let go of his jacket and stepped back, but only far enough that she was closer to the well. Her hand hovered close to the handle of the heavy bucket that sat on top of the well cover.
“You left me with Pavlikov!” Yoshke said, holding up his hands. “They thought I’d set them up! I had to show them Isser’s room to prove I’m not in league with you.”
Sorel took a step closer to him, keeping the knife low, at gut level. There was a vicious satisfaction in it, being the one offering threats instead of responding to them. She felt a little of Isser’s rage bubbling up again, the memory of the strength he’d used to turn over the table in Pavlikov’s room. “It would be a terrible shame if you were lying to us, Yoshke. After you brought us into danger.”
“It wasn’t dangerous!” Yoshke exclaimed. “Not until you started acting crazy. Who the hell are you, anyway? What was that? How did you know about—” He looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “How do you know Pavlikov’s business? You’re not even from Esrog; no one’s seen you before.”
“You think I’d share that information with you?” said Sorel. “What did you think you’d find in Isser’s rooms?”
“I hoped I’d find Isser,” said Yoshke, backing away from her a step. “But someone’s turned the place over. Listen, Pavlikov wants your head. I don’t know what you did to him, but he wants your beitzim in a pickle jar.”
“Thanks for the warning,” said Adela. “But it isn’t exactly a surprise.”
“He’s been raving about it all night,” said Yoshke. “If I were you, I’d get out of the city. Speedily.”
“Not until we finish our business here,” said Adela. “Were you looking for anything else in Isser’s rooms?”
“What?” said Yoshke. “Like money? Everyone knows he doesn’t have any. He’s always feeding that old blind beggar woman or buying fish for alley cats or some other foolishness.”
Adela looked at Sorel. Her eyes said “Is he lying?”
Sorel couldn’t claim to be an expert, but he didn’t seem to be. He was trying to make eye contact with her, for one. For another, he hadn’t tried to run again, and he certainly could have.
“Look,” said Yoshke. “I don’t know anything more, all right? I showed those guys the rooms, they didn’t find anything, and now they’re spitting mad, and I’m getting out of here. I’m going back to Kuritsev, all right? So don’t try to talk to me again. I never want to see you, ever,” he added, throwing a hand in Sorel’s direction. “You’re a madman.”
He tried to take a step to the side, but she and Adela mirrored the movement, keeping him cornered, Adela picking up the bucket in a smooth motion.
“Not so fast,” said Sorel. “Do you know anything about a book called Sefer Dumah?”
Yoshke blinked at her. It was a very convincing impression of bafflement, if false. “I don’t read Hebrew,” he said shortly. “Now can I go?”
Sorel looked at Adela for guidance. Adela gave it a second’s thought, then waved a hand. “All right, go then. But if I hear that you haven’t left town after all, I’m letting Alter be as crazy as he likes.”
Yoshke grimaced and slipped out from between them, walking briskly out of the courtyard as if he really wanted to run, but didn’t want to compromise his dignity. Sorel put her knife away, a little reluctantly. Something in her wanted to chase after him and jump on his neck.
“He didn’t know the room was already searched,” said Adela. “And if Pavlikov needed Yoshke to show him where it was, that means it wasn’t him that did it either.”
“Do you think the neighbors know, after all?” Sorel asked. “They could have been bribed, or threatened. If it was city guards, like that one just now, they wouldn’t want to talk about it, would they?”
“And if it was Jews, they might not have noticed,” said Adela. “Who’d notice a Jew in a Jewish neighborhood?”
It was an unsatisfying conclusion. They stood there a moment longer, then Adela sighed and waved for Sorel to follow her back down the alley. They found Sam where they’d left him, sitting on his heels under the eaves of a house and chatting with the housewife about the weather.
“Pavlikov’s men have been searching the apartment,” Adela told him. “And it seems it wasn’t them who did it the first time, either. They were upset that they hadn’t found anything. We can’t sleep there. Anyone could come back. I suppose we’re lucky they didn’t come back last night,” she added, with a troubled glance in Sorel’s direction.
Sorel had to agree. She’d been so deeply asleep, she might not have woken up if someone had.
To cover the unpleasant feeling, she returned Adela’s look with a grin. “How do you feel about cemeteries?”