The Forbidden Book, page 8
Sorel had read as many Russian novels as she could, and so she had images of such places in her head, but the prickle of romance that one felt when Pushkin described it was entirely absent when one was actually standing in the room, being stared at by a bunch of young gentile men in flashy jackets. At the same time, she felt a prickle of familiarity. She had been somewhere like this before—she was sure of it. But she didn’t like it. She had not wanted to be there, she thought. The feeling was fleeting, elusive, like accidentally touching a bruise she hadn’t known was there. It was gone as soon as she tried to examine it more closely.
“You didn’t tell us you were bringing Queen Esther,” said the young man who sat at the head of the large table. He was a bit older than Yoshke or Sorel, in his twenties, but he had the same mustache as Yoshke, and the same slicked-back hair. She thought perhaps this was the model Yoshke meant to emulate. It looked better on Yoshke, truth be told. The gentile was blond with nearly no eyebrows and a mustache too light to really give shape to his face. He looked to Sorel like a nocturnal creature that had crawled from under a fallen log.
She didn’t like how he was looking at Adela, either.
“Christian girls have nothing on a real Jewess,” he was saying. “Yoshke told me he had business associates who needed to talk to me! But this is a princess! Come, have a seat. Make room for her, you trolls!”
The wave of his hand sent a couple of the gamblers slouching reluctantly to a corner. Adela sat without taking the angry look off her face, and Sorel sat next to her so that if anyone tried to touch either of them, he’d get a knife in the face. Yoshke, despite there not being enough room on the bench for three, squeezed himself in next to Sorel, while Sam kept standing behind them, quiet as a golem.
“You’re Pavlikov?” Adela said. “I’m looking for Isser Jacobs.”
Pavlikov blinked and kept blinking for what struck Sorel as an excessive amount of time. She could almost see him arranging a story in his head. “Isser Jacobs? Oh, don’t let’s talk about that little mosquito. Surely, you’re not his sister?”
“I am,” said Adela. She took no time to blink and consider, she simply said it. Sorel felt a stir of affection that wasn’t entirely hers—a flash of a memory, Adela defending her on a muddy street, the two of them holding hands.
Isser?
He didn’t respond, but she could feel him. He was there again. What was keeping him? She could use his help. Surely he’d know what questions to ask Pavlikov to get answers.
“I’m looking for him,” said Adela. “He hasn’t been home. I heard you know everything that goes on in Esrog.”
“Well,” said Pavlikov. “Isn’t that flattering. I may know a thing or two, but I’m not in the habit of giving away secrets to just anyone—you understand.”
Sorel saw where Yoshke got his attitude from. It wasn’t any more charming the second time around. “Do you give away secrets to people who beat you at cards?” she asked brashly.
“Alter,” said Sam, in a low warning voice.
“Who’s this?” said Pavlikov, speaking to Yoshke. “Isser’s brother? His rabbi?”
“You couldn’t expect a girl to come alone, could you?” said Sorel. “Of course she brought help. Don’t be stupid.”
“Alter,” said Sam again.
“You look like a man who knows how to make bets,” said Sorel, looking Pavlikov in the face. “So go on, bet me that I can’t beat you at a hand. If I win, tell us all you know about Isser. If you win, we’ll just stop bothering you.”
“If I win, I’d like a kiss from the Queen of Persia,” said Pavlikov.
Sorel was opening her mouth to make a counteroffer when Adela said “Done” and slapped the table. Their audience of sodden gentiles applauded and broke out in delighted laughter.
Sam leaned down to whisper in Sorel’s ear. “Are you even any good at cards?”
She had no reason to think so, but Isser, her yetzer-hara, was fully awake now. She could feel him sitting in her skin, looking out through her eyes. She could also feel his indignation. She was being reckless, and he didn’t like it.
What kind of mess have you put us in now? he said in her ear. Then, out loud, in her own voice: “I’m very good.”
CHAPTER
9
THE GAME WAS DURAK. Sorel had never played it, but watched her own hands take the cards with practiced movements. When Pavlikov looked into her eyes, he frowned, as if he saw something there that gave him pause.
It’s like a duel, Isser whispered in her ear.
Do you think a good Jewish girl fights duels? she shot back at him.
I think a good Jewish girl would have thought of that before she issued a challenge, he said. But you’re not a good Jewish girl anyway. So. It’s about timing and confidence. You’re not very good at timing, but you’ve got confidence, haven’t you?
He’d been cutting the deck while they talked, throwing aside the low numbered cards. The game needed four, so Yoshke took a hand to their right, and Pavlikov waved Sam to switch places with Adela to their left.
“So you don’t think we’re cheating you by collaborating,” he said, giving Sorel a poisonous grin. “Do you know the game, Moses?”
Sam blinked at him placidly and didn’t bother to correct him. “I know the game.”
The key is to keep your head. Be patient, Isser was explaining as he dealt them each their hand of six. You have to have stamina for the endgame. Can you do that?
Do I have a choice? Sorel asked, watching his hands. They didn’t move like hers—she almost didn’t recognize them. Aren’t you controlling this?
It’s just that you aren’t very cooperative, he said. You ignored me entirely last night. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. We aren’t to focus on Pavlikov. Let him think we can’t keep ahold of him. It’s Yoshke we’re after. Make him miserable.
Sorel glanced to her right and saw Yoshke looking uncomfortable, frowning at his cards. She didn’t think it would be too difficult to make him miserable. Pavlikov had implicitly claimed him for the goyish side of the table, but he was still Jewish, after all, and if she wanted to remind everyone of that she could. And he had the look of a man with a bad starting hand.
I meant in the game, said Isser, in a tone of irony, but if you want to be rude to him I wouldn’t mind that, either.
Sorel wished she could swat him, but he was inside her head. Is there a way to stop you from knowing what I’m thinking?
The pause before he responded made her think there was, but he didn’t want her to know about it. I’ve never been a dybbuk before, Alter. Maybe ask a rabbi.
Sorel flipped over the trump with a slap. Hearts. Sam had the first attack with Pavlikov to defend—they weren’t playing as teams, despite Pavlikov’s sneering suggestion of collaboration. First between Sorel and Pavlikov to discard their hand would be the winner. Sam took forever to choose his card and Isser hissed in Sorel’s ear to stop fidgeting. She forced her tapping foot to still.
Let him beat Sam, Isser said, shuffling the cards in their hand into some kind of order. Then he’ll attack Yoshke, and we pile on. It’s better playing a hand of four; Pavlikov isn’t a good sideways thinker.
Sure enough, Pavlikov gave them an odd look when they declined to join the attack. So did Yoshke, his eyes lingering on their face as Sam picked up the losing cards. Sorel could feel Isser counting, keeping track of what had been played. It gave her a headache.
“Not much good for a bet if neither of us wins,” Pavlikov said. “What’s the matter? Bad hand?”
Don’t answer that, said Isser. Sorel could feel his focus moving away, and her hands were her own again.
I’m not an idiot, she replied.
Yoshke’s got an eight, he said. But play the seven. Either Sam will play his ten or we can let Yoshke attack us.
How do you know that? Sorel glanced sideways at Yoshke. Aren’t you in my head?
Not really. He didn’t elaborate. She laid down the card. Yoshke played the eight with a look of relief. Sorel felt Adela at her shoulder, watching, as Sam declined to join the attack.
“What is it you need Isser for, anyway?” said Pavlikov.
“Owes me money,” Sorel heard her voice say as she slapped down the cards to ward off Yoshke’s attack. “Why? Remembered something after all?”
“If I were him, I’d have skipped town,” said Pavlikov, casually.
Adela grabbed Sorel’s shoulder for support, leaning forward. “Why?”
Pavlikov shrugged and waved the cards in his hand, as if to remind them that they were playing for the answers. “I don’t want to disappoint you, princess, but your brother’s got enemies. Not just the authorities, either. If you do find him, I’d tell him to watch his back.”
Sorel was trying to remember which cards were in play, but the warmth of Adela’s grip on her shoulder was strangely distracting. Pull yourself together! Isser hissed.
“Who else?” said Adela. “You?”
“Me?” Pavlikov looked around at his friends, theatrically. “Lads, would I waste my time making an enemy of some petty bookselling Jew?”
There was a murmur of dissent.
“I have bigger fish to fry,” said Pavlikov. “What do I care if your people are reading satanic books? The world can go to the devil for all I care.”
“But you’d care if you thought someone was muscling in on your turf,” said Isser. Their hand couldn’t defend; Sorel picked up the cards. “Say, if you thought someone else had counterfeit stamps. You’d care about that, no?”
Pavlikov frowned. “I’d care, but Isser wasn’t in that business, and Yoshke here gives me a fair cut—he likes his nose the shape it is, don’t you, Yoshke.”
“Right,” said Yoshke. “Isser wasn’t in that business.”
“I’d ask your fellow Jews,” said Pavlikov, joining the attack on Sam’s card. “Remember that bad business when we were all children? That was over books, wasn’t it?”
“What bad business?” said Sorel, before Isser could respond—she felt his irritation. “Between the Hasidim and the merchants?”
“All I remember is when they fished the man out of the river,” said Pavlikov. “All us kids went down to watch them do it, didn’t we, Yoshke.”
Sam said something under his breath, Sorel thought she heard Hebrew. Probably a blessing for the long-dead man.
“I didn’t actually see him,” said Yoshke, glancing up at Adela as if to ward off disapproval.
“No one ever proved it was Jews that did that,” said Sam.
“Did what, for God’s sake?” said Sorel. “I don’t remember this at all.”
“Not from Esrog, are you,” said Pavlikov, as if Esrog were the center of the world.
“As it happens, I’m not. Not that it’s any business of yours.”
“There was a miracle worker here before the rebbe they have now,” explained Sam, gently. Sorel was almost as irritated by the helpful tone as she had been by everyone talking around her. “They found him in the river drowned, may he rest in peace.”
“Everyone knows it was the Jews that did it,” said Pavlikov. He was grinning, and the grin made Sorel play a trump from her hand to take the grin away. She felt Isser’s irritation at her impulsiveness.
He’s trying to make you angry, Alter. Ignore it. Wait.
“Why would the Jews have done it?” she demanded, ignoring him instead.
“God knows,” said Pavlikov.
“It can’t have anything to do with Isser anyway,” said Adela, though her voice was tense. “That was between the Hasidim and the kahal. Isser doesn’t have anything to do with either.”
“He has something to do with one hasid,” said Yoshke, doubtfully. He was holding his cards loosely, almost as if he’d forgotten he was playing. He looked a bit sick.
“It was that rich bastard from the estate over to the south,” said Pavlikov, speaking over Yoshke. “That’s who everyone said was behind it. What’s his name, the lumber merchant.”
“Kalman,” said Yoshke.
CHAPTER
10
SOREL TRIED TO SPEAK at the same time as Isser, and they choked on the words, coughing until Adela slapped them on the back.
“It can’t be Kalman!” Sorel exclaimed. “Why would he do that?”
Pavlikov shrugged.
“Because he’s in charge of the kahal,” said Yoshke. “So he says what goes and what doesn’t, at least for the Jews. That’s why. It was a squabble between the Hasidim and the merchants, that’s what everyone says. About who’d get to lead the Esroger Jews.”
“Yes, all right.” Sorel slapped down a card without really thinking, annoyed at everyone, though she couldn’t have said why. It wasn’t as if she liked her father. But to think of him ordering a murder? It was impossible. “So he’s a leader. But he wouldn’t have had someone killed!”
“You know him?” Sam asked.
Sorel sputtered for a second.
God preserve us, said Isser, exasperated and unhelpful. No one likes Kalman, stop defending him.
“I don’t know him,” she said. “Only he, well, he gives tzedakah for the widows and orphans in my village.”
“Guilty conscience,” said Pavlikov, knowingly.
“Ridiculous,” said Sorel. “He’s friends with the rebbe, too, isn’t he? His daughter’s married the rebbe’s son.”
“That’s politics,” said Yoshke. “Everyone knows it. Even the Christians.” With a nod toward Pavlikov.
Sorel bit her tongue to stop from saying that Christians having heard a rumor did not make that rumor true.
“None of this has anything to do with Isser,” said Sam, his calm tone cutting through the argument. “And it’s old news, anyway, from when the lot of you were in short pants.”
“Maybe Kalman doesn’t like modern politics,” said Pavlikov. “German politics. That’s most of what Isser sells, isn’t it? Revolution. Not that I’ve read it.”
“Isser sells whatever people want to buy, like anyone,” said Yoshke. Sorel felt an odd spark of affection for him—not hers. Isser’s, touched at the unexpected defense. “And Christians want to read the German pamphlets too.”
“So what you’re saying is that the whole of Esrog could know where Isser is, because the whole of Esrog either bought from him or didn’t want people buying from him,” said Adela. “But no one actually knows. Is that it?”
“That’s a question to be answered when your yeshiva boy picks up his next hand,” said Pavlikov, winking at her. Sorel seethed. Her hand was indeed swollen, certainly more than Sam’s next to her; she wished they were playing as teams after all, as Sam or Yoshke going out would have no effect on the bet.
So much for being good at cards, she thought at Isser.
You’re the one who made a couple of bad plays in a row. His voice was sharp. Calm down and let me lead again.
I’m not stopping you!
You are stopping me. I was trying to speak. She could feel him wrestling her for control, now that she stopped to think about it. Tugging at her from inside her bones. She huffed out an irritable breath and tried to recapture the feeling of freedom she’d got the first time Isser took over, when he leapt from the window on her feet.
Thank you, he said, in a singularly ungrateful tone, and her hands started to reshuffle their cards without her. She could feel Adela’s tension where the other girl stood close behind them. Isser was counting cards again, and Sorel’s attention wandered. Yoshke, to their right, looked uncomfortable still. Sam looked as if he were thinking very hard as he frowned at his cards. Pavlikov’s gang of card players had gotten bored and wandered back to their own tables, though one or two of them seemed to be listening, more alert and less drunk than the others.
“I think you’re lying,” Isser said to Pavlikov. “I think someone told you Isser was selling counterfeit stamps and you got angry and killed him.”
Pavlikov laughed, a loud, shocked exclamation. Adela drew in a breath.
“Killed him? I didn’t need to kill him! If I had that kind of trouble from him, I’d just run him off. You think he’s that important?”
“He was blackmailing you,” Isser said. Sorel tried to read him, but she couldn’t tell if he meant it or if he was just trying to provoke Pavlikov into a confession.
“With what?” said Pavlikov. “Don’t be absurd. Even if he had one of my secrets, who would he tell?”
“The kahal,” said Isser. “The same Kalman you hate so much. The rebbe, even. And they’d tell the governor.”
“Tell the governor what?” said Pavlikov. “The governor doesn’t care what any of us do.”
“That you’ve been smuggling arms from Poland,” said Isser.
The room went silent. Suddenly everyone, even the drunkest of Pavlikov’s friends, was listening. Yoshke moved away from Sorel-Isser, as if they were suddenly poisonous.
“I’m out,” said Sam, into the silence. He slid his final card onto the table and held up his empty hands.
“Get out,” Pavlikov snapped, raising his voice. No one moved. “Get out! Everyone out!” He waved his hands, shooing the drunken audience away. “Mind your own business! You too,” he snapped at Yoshke, who hadn’t moved. And to Sam, “And you.”
The room cleared. Adela stood firm at Sorel’s back.
Pavlikov laid down his cards and leaned forward on his elbows, staring into Sorel’s face.
“Who have you been talking to?”
Isser shrugged their shoulders. “I thought we were playing for answers.”
“Damn the game!” Pavlikov snapped. “The bet is off. Was it you?” He looked up at Adela. “Did he tell you? You’re keeping his secrets?”
