Zaddik, page 26
“Don’t,” said Moyshe.
“I can’t hear you, butcher.” Shmielewicz bent over to bring his face close to Moyshe’s. “Speak up.”
Moyshe saw Shmielewicz’s huge face looming over him, and he spat. Shmielewicz wiped the spittle off his lips and then hooked his right index finger under Moyshe’s eye and popped it out of its socket.
Moyshe ben Areyn screamed as the pain exploded in his head. He flipped over onto his belly and tried to push his eye back into place. He wanted to stop screaming, but he couldn’t. He wanted to faint, but the gift of unconsciousness would not come. Then he vomited. Shmielewicz laughed, and the twins joined him.
“What’s the matter, butcher?” Shmielewicz asked. “Did you eat some of the meat you sell to Christians?”
Moyshe crawled toward Shmielewicz, his right hand cupping his eye, holding it up to his face. “Anders,” he moaned, spitting blood. “Don’t do this. All your life you’ve known me. For God’s sake, don’t.”
“Maybe you’re right, butcher,” Shmielewicz said, winking at the boys. “Yes, God knows, I’ve known you all my life. All my life you’ve been an arrogant piece of filth. But I’ll tell you what. If you kiss my foot, maybe I’ll let you live. I’ll think about it. If you kiss my foot. Will you kiss my foot?”
Moyshe reached for his boot.
“No, Jew. Not my boot. My foot.”
Shmielewicz sat down, pulled off his left boot, and stuck his foot into Moyshe’s face. “Now kiss it, Jew. Kiss my foot.”
Through a red haze, Moyshe saw Shmielewicz’s chalky-white foot. It was covered with red-and-black sores and cuts; the nails of his toes were brown, ragged, and chewed. The smell, like spoiled milk, hit Moyshe’s nose and he gagged.
“Come on, Jew, before I change my mind. Are you too proud, you bastard, you piece of filth? Kiss it now.”
Moyshe bent down toward Shmielewicz’s foot, took it in his hand, and then shoved it into his mouth, biting down as hard as he could, shaking the foot back and forth like a dog with a bone. Blood, hot and salty, filled his mouth as he heard Shmielewicz roar.
“Get him off me!” yelled Shmielewicz, sliding off the chair to the floor.
The two boys began beating Moyshe with their rifles, but still he held on, biting, chewing, feeling the bones in Shmielewicz’s foot crack between his teeth.
“Shoot him, shoot him, for Christ’s sake!” Shmielewicz shrieked.
The boy with the dirty face pressed the barrel of his rifle into Moyshe’s ear and pulled the trigger. The sound of the explosion made the boy jump, as blood and brain and bits of bone spattered the kitchen floor.
“He won’t let go,” Shmielewicz moaned.
“He’s dead,” cried the boy. “He’s dead.”
“He won’t let go, I tell you!” Shmielewicz shouted.
“He’s dead, he’s dead,” repeated the frightened boy, while the other kneeled down to try to pry Moyshe ben Areyn’s dead jaws open.
“Smash his jaw with your rifle, smash his head in,” said Shmielewicz.
The two boys began pounding Moyshe’s shattered skull. His other eye fell and dangled from its broken socket. Finally they crushed the jaw, freeing Shmielewicz’s mangled foot, which gushed blood.
“Help me, get me out of here,” Shmielewicz cried, and the boys lifted him off the floor and dragged him into the street.
A small crowd, drawn by the screams and shots, stood silently in the mud in the narrow street in front of Moyshe ben Areyn’s home. Other people leaned out their windows and watched.
“Get out of here or I’ll shoot,” yelled one of the boys, waving his rifle.
The crowd fell back a few paces. The boy fired a shot into the air, and the crowd fell back a few steps more. The boys, Shmielewicz hanging heavily from their shoulders, edged sideways down the street, their backs to the houses, their eyes wide with fear.
“Take me home, and then tell Count Josep,” said Shmielewicz, his voice strangled with pain. “Tell him I need him.”
***
“Then we went into Moyshe ben Areyn’s house,” the rough-looking man told Hirsh Leib. “And when we saw what we saw, what I have just told you, you could hear our screams all along Butcher Street. Women and men. If you had seen it, Rabbi, you would have screamed, too.”
Chapter 41 The Jewish Cemetery
Lublin
Thursday, October 14
THE MEN OF THE KHEVREH KADISHA, the Burial Society, carried Moyshe ben Areyn’s shattered body out of his house. Because he had been murdered, they did not perform the rite of taharah, purification of corpses. They did not pour water over his body, wash his head with wine and egg beaten together, clean and trim his hair and nails, and wrap him in his tallis and a white shroud. As a sign of wrath, Moyshe ben Areyn would be buried as he was found, in his blood-soaked clothing.
When the Khevreh Kadisha notified the gravediggers at the bes-oylem, the cemetery, they began to dig. If they hurried, Moyshe ben Areyn could be buried before candlelighting. As it is written, “His body shall not remain at night, but thou shalt surely bury him the same day.” Let the Christians leave their mothers and fathers, their sons and daughters, to lie rotting in their homes and churches for days and days. Jews would not insult their dead so.
The sun was low in the sky, and the air had an autumnal chill as the ben Areyns began carrying their brother’s body, lying face up on a wide board, down the narrow streets of Lublin to the bes-oylem. Only the grotesque ruin of his shattered head was covered by a cloth. As they carried their burden east toward the river and Death Bridge, people began to fall in with the procession, some tearing their clothes, others weeping. As it was written, “The Holy One, blessed be He, counts the tears shed for the death of a virtuous person, and He stores them up in His treasure house.”
It was said that one who saw a funeral and failed to join it was like one who mocked the poor. And it was also said that by joining a procession one prevented the death of little children, God forbid.
The beggars had also heard of Moyshe ben Areyn’s murder, and dozens lined Death Road, chanting, “Tsdokeh saves from death.” And no one passed them without reaching into their pockets for a little something.
By the time the procession had crossed the old, creaking Death Bridge, and the body had reached the bes-oylem, at least a hundred people were walking slowly behind it, including Hirsh Leib and Rebbe Yakov Yitzhak, the Seer of Lublin.
The bodies of the couple murdered at the Seer’s hoyf had been taken away earlier by the suddenly busy Burial Society. But as no one knew their identities, the Seer had declared that their funeral could be put off until tomorrow morning while an attempt was made to find their relatives, if any. Of course, it could not be delayed longer than that, as soon it would be the Sabbath when graves could not be dug.
Hirsh Leib and the Seer stopped at the bes-oylem gates. It was not permitted for kohanim, firstborn sons of Israel’s ancient hereditary priest class, to defile themselves by coming too close to death. So they stood apart—like two old crows, thought Hirsh Leib—and watched the burial, as Moyshe ben Areyn’s body was laid in its grave with two boards on either side of the corpse and one on top of it. (The ben Areyn family had always scorned coffins as an indulgence of the rich.) A bit of earth from the Holy Land was placed in the body’s mouth.
The butcher’s rabbi, Reb Shelomo, recited the kaddish and then chanted a psalm. Then Moyshe ben Areyn’s brothers took turns shoveling dirt until the grave was filled and the earth smoothed over.
“So much death,” said Hirsh Leib, who had torn the lapel of his coat twice to signify his mourning for both the Holy Yehudi and Moyshe ben Areyn.
The Seer remained silent. Some people, leaving the bes-oylem, began to approach him, to ask him for his blessing, but when they saw that he had cloaked himself in distance, his eyes fixed upon the setting sun, they turned away with mumbled apologies.
“All this evil,” Hirsh Leib said when the cemetery was again empty of all but the dead.
“It is only with our poor, human understanding that we look at events and call them evil,” said the Seer. “Once, Rabbi Zusya of Hanipol was asked to explain the existence of evil. ‘What is evil?’ he replied.
“You must try to cultivate that inspired innocence, Hirsh Leib. In time, you may even come to understand what Elijah told you about your sickness.”
Hirsh Leib felt shame color his cheeks.
“Do you think I do not know about your drinking, my friend?” asked the Seer. “And do you think I do not know that you met Elijah on the road yesterday and gave him a ride to our home? What did he tell you?”
“I don’t remember,” said Hirsh Leib. “It made no sense.”
“But if you know it made no sense, then certainly you remember what it was,” said the Seer. “Come, tell me.”
“That nasty old man was truly Elijah?”
“Of course.”
Hirsh Leib walked a few steps in silence, asking himself how he could have failed to recognize the prophet. The Yehudi had known him. The Seer had known him. Of course, what did the Seer not see with that one, huge, gray-blue eye that alternately warmed and chilled Hirsh Leib’s soul? Finally he responded.
“He said I should comfort a policeman. He said that would redeem me. But the police rob and kill us.”
“Remember, my friend, there is no before or after in the Torah.”
“You mean this policeman may have already lived?”
“Or has not yet been born,” said the Seer.
“But how can I comfort someone who has not yet been born? The dead, at least, I could summon in prayer, in memory. But the unborn? It is impossible.”
“As Rabbi Zusya might have said, what does impossible mean? Anyway, you have already seen this man. When you arrived in Lublin, and came to see me on the hill, he was standing behind me with a woman. I did not see them, because they are not bound to me. But when you saw them, I felt their presence.”
“I don’t understand,” said Hirsh Leib.
“I pray you will. Come,” said the Seer. “It’s time to return to the sukkah for our evening prayers. The stars will soon be out.”
The Seer and Hirsh Leib turned their backs on the cemetery and the setting sun and began walking in the gathering gloom, their shadows running down the road before them.
“You see, Hirsh Leib,” the Seer said suddenly, “as the Yehudi, may his memory protect us, said, ‘The important thing is not to mix the good with the bad. A hair of goodness is enough if only it has not the slightest trace of bad.’
“And what is the test of goodness? How can we know it? The Yehudi said it is the love of Israel. And by that he meant the love of our fellow man, for all men are Israel, Jew or Christian. This is why we have summoned all the Hasidim to Lublin. We gather here for the love of Israel, may it grow in our hearts.
“The brandy you drink, Hirsh Leib, separates you from Israel. It poisons your heart, and you turn away from those who love you. You look around and you see evil, and you forget that the Holy One, blessed is He, has created this world for His pleasure and yours.
“These terrible times,” the Seer said, stopping and placing his right hand on Hirsh Leib’s shoulder, looking into his eyes, “only tell me that the hour is approaching. Prepare yourself, Hirsh Leib. Simkhas Torah is only a few days off, and the Corsican is on his way. I have seen him, disguised, accompanied by a prince and a beggar.”
“Tell me, Rabbi Yitzhak,” said Hirsh Leib, “why did the Yehudi die? Why now?”
The Seer walked a few paces. “He could not be a part of this thing we do,” he answered, sighing.
“Did he, perhaps, see a trace, a hair of bad in this good, Rabbi Yitzhak?” asked Hirsh Leib.
“Perhaps,” said the Seer.
“And if we fail?”
“As Rabbi Yitzhak, I see suffering beyond measure. But if I were Rabbi Zusya, I would say, What is failure?”
They had just reached the river upon whose banks Hirsh Leib had slept the night before when a dark-haired, richly dressed man on horseback rode up the decrepit bridge from the Lublin side and halted in the middle.
“So, Jew,” said Count Josep Czartoryski, his horse’s hooves clattering on the bridge’s rotting boards, “you must be that great fraud, the so-called Seer of Lublin.”
“I am Rabbi Yakov Yitzhak, my lord,” said the Seer.
Czartoryski spurred his horse over the bridge and pulled up right in front of the Seer and Hirsh Leib. Hirsh Leib could smell the horse’s breath and see the foamy sweat on his flanks.
“You are the devil himself,” said Czartoryski, “and I would be doing God’s will by cutting off your beard and head. But why should I soil my hands with your blood? The people of Lublin will do it for me.”
“As you will, my lord,” said the Seer.
“Don’t play the humble Jew with me, you devil,” said Czartoryski. “I can smell your pride. You,” he said, addressing Hirsh Leib. “I do not recognize you.”
Hirsh Leib stared at the count.
“Answer me, you insolent pig. Who are you?”
“I am Hirsh Leib, of Orlik.”
“The people of Lublin are tired of all you filthy Jews,” said Czartoryski. “I know. They come to me and they tell me that they’re tired of being robbed in their homes and in the market by scheming, lying Jews. They tell me that they’re tired of seeing their land cursed by your blasphemies. They’re tired of seeing their children murdered so that their innocent blood can be used to bake your ceremonial bread.”
“That’s a lie,” said Hirsh Leib. “A blood libel.”
“Is it?” asked Czartoryski, smiling. “Well, perhaps you should petition the tsar. Tell the tsar your troubles. Or maybe you should go to Elba and tell Bonaparte. Bonaparte loves the Jews, doesn’t he? Or is Elba too far away? He is in Elba, isn’t he? Isn’t the anti-Christ still dwelling in Elba?…
“What’s the matter?” asked Czartoryski. “You’re so quiet. Jews usually have so much to say.
“By the way, who was it you buried today? A butcher, wasn’t it? Your butchers are the ones who slaughter our children, aren’t they? I was just going to ride over to your cemetery to let my horse relieve himself on the butcher’s grave.”
Czartoryski jerked the reins and his horse reared, pawing the air. The Seer and Hirsh Leib fell back, and Czartoryski laughed.
“You Jews think you’re so clever. But the people are rising and soon there won’t be a Jew left in Poland. At least not a living one.”
“Amen,” whispered the Seer as Czartoryski spurred his horse toward the cemetery.
“Do you have any doubts now, Hirsh Leib?” asked the Seer. “This porets speaks the truth. We can stay in Poland no longer. Only death awaits us here.”
“He knows,” said Hirsh Leib, terrified. “He knows everything. Napoleon. The diamond. His brother told him.”
“If he did, it doesn’t matter,” the Seer said. “We will all be murdered unless we can get to the Holy Land. Our fate lies in the hands of the Lord, and in the hands of His instrument, Napoleon.”
Chapter 42 The Seer’s Study House
Lublin
Friday, October 15
HAD PRINCE ADAM told his brother about the diamond, about Napoleon? Once again the Seer let his soul go forth, flying over the forests, over the roofs of Warsaw. Once again it flew through the windows of Marie Waleska’s home and hovered there. And this, as the Seer would tell Hirsh Leib, was what he saw and what he understood:
He’s completely mad, thought Prince Adam Jerzy Czartoryski as he sat on the edge of Marie Waleska’s bed and watched Napoleon adjust his false beard in Waleska’s bedroom mirror. For the past day and a half Czartoryski had listened to Bonaparte complain about Talleyrand’s treachery, Tsar Alexander’s stupidity, his wife’s, Marie Louise’s, promiscuity, the physical decline of his first wife, Josephine (particularly the sad state of her once magnificent ass), the shrewishness and cruelty of his mistress, Marie Waleska, the horrible conditions under which he was forced to live at Elba, and the pitiable state of his bowels. It was an endless river of words, a ceaseless torrent of abuse and self-pity that was interrupted only when he turned his attention to consuming the astonishing amounts of food Waleska brought to his table four and five times a day.
There were baskets of eggs—boiled, baked, and fried. There were meats served in sauces, and meats baked in dough, and meats ground into sausage. He devoured fish and fowl of every description, fruits and vegetables without number, and, it seemed to Czartoryski, every pastry devised by every chef in Warsaw. And he washed it all down with buckets of coffee and jeroboams of champagne, claret, port, and brandy. There was nothing, it seemed, that Napoleon would not lower into his guts with an appetite that did not seem in the least diminished by the violent cramps that doubled him over every morning and every evening.
And now, to Czartoryski’s exhausted despair, the exiled emperor was determined to journey to Lublin disguised as a Jew.
Napoleon’s adjutant, Sergeant Betrand, had managed to scrounge up a battered black coat and an equally disreputable black hat for his emperor, and now he presented Napoleon with the pièce de résistance, the beard that he had purchased from the Grand Theater of Warsaw.
“They were performing The Merchant of Venice, mon empereur,” Betrand said. “That, they told me, is the beard of the Jew Shylock.”
“And what will Shylock wear?” Napoleon asked.
“I do not know, mon empereur,” said Betrand.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Napoleon. “I know the plays of that Englishman. Shakespeare, yes? Hamlet. The Moor of Venice. Poor stuff. Very poor. Lacking in nobility, in grace, in grandeur. Completely lacking. I am surprised the Grand Theater wastes its time with such nonsense. Now, Racine—there was an artist. But such is the decline of the world. What is excellent is ignored, what is common is exalted. That’s rather well put, don’t you think, Czartoryski?”
“Yes, my lord. Very well put.”
