The Books of Jacob

by Olga Tokarczuk

  Załuski would like to go to Kraków to see his dying brother, but December has been strangely warm—the rivers have flooded, and many roads are impassable, so that he, too, is dependent upon Sołtyk’s mortar post.

  There is now talk of a papal letter regarding the matter of the ongoing—though lately less frequent—accusations against the Jews of using Christian blood. Rome’s stance is clear and irrevocable: such accusations have no basis whatsoever. This embitters Kajetan Sołtyk, as he confides over dinner to his friends Katarzyna Kossakowska and the bishop Joseph Załuski.

  “I have heard the testimonies myself. I sat through a whole trial.”

  “I’d be curious as to what kinds of things Your Excellency would say under torture,” Kossakowska says, making a wry face.

  Załuski, too, is familiar with the matter, as Sołtyk related to him in great detail the events in Markowa Wolica several years ago.

  “I would like to broach this subject in some sort of scholarly work,” he says slowly. “And take the time to study all the sources to which I have access in the library. And there are numerous sources on it from all over the world. If the bishop were not taking up so much of my time . . .”

  He would like nothing more than to immerse himself completely in his studies and never leave his library. But there is a pained expression on his lively face, which displays every shade of emotion. He says:

  “What a shame that everything must be written in French now, rather than in our holy Latin, which, too, discourages me from writing, for my French is not the best. And yet everything is suddenly parlez, parlez . . . ,” he says, trying to mock this language he doesn’t like.

  “. . . the words are all so sorry.” Kossakowska finishes the popular Polish phrase on his behalf. “As though one’s throat were all dried out from speaking it.”

  A servant instantly appears to refill her glass.

  “I can only summarize my views.” Bishop Załuski looks attentively at Sołtyk, but the latter is fully absorbed in nibbling meat off rabbit bones and seems not to hear. So he turns to Kossakowska, who has already finished eating and is now fidgeting, wanting to smoke her pipe:

  “I have based these views on an in-depth study of sources, but above all on my reflections upon them, as facts recorded and promulgated without rational reflection can be misleading.”

  He pauses for a moment as though attempting to recall those facts. In the end, he says:

  “So I came to the conclusion that the whole misunderstanding arose from a simple mistake with words, or rather, with Hebrew letters. The Hebrew word d‑a‑m”—the bishop now traces the Hebrew signs on the table with his finger—“means at once ‘money’ and ‘blood,’ which might lead to any variety of misrepresentation—when we say that the Jews lust after money, it seems that we are saying they lust after blood. And to this was added the popular fantasy that it was Christian blood. That is where the whole fairy tale came from. And there might also be a second reason: during weddings, they give the newlyweds a drink of wine and myrtle known as h-a-d-a-s, and they call blood h-a‑d-a-m, which could have also led to accusations. ‘Hadam,’ ‘hadas’—they’re practically the same, do you see, Your Ladyship? Our nuncio is right.”

  Bishop Sołtyk throws the little bones he hasn’t quite finished working on onto the table and roughly pushes his plate away.

  “Your Excellency is making a mockery of me and my testimony,” he says, surprisingly calmly, but in a formal tone.

  Kossakowska leans in to both of them, these corpulent men with the snow-white napkins at their throats, their cheeks red from wine:

  “Truth for truth’s sake is not worth looking into. The truth in itself is always complicated. What we want to know is what truth we can use, and how.”

  And not concerning herself with etiquette, she goes ahead and lights her pipe.

  In the morning, the mortar post finally delivers the sad news that the Bishop of Kraków Andrzej Załuski has died. In the afternoon, Kajetan Sołtyk appears before the king. It is December 16, 1758.

  Mrs. Kossakowska, wife of the castellan of Kamieniec, writes to Senator Łubieński, Bishop of Lwów

  Katarzyna goes nowhere without Agnieszka, and everyone knows that nothing can get done without her there now. Lately the castellan himself makes appointments with his wife through Agnieszka. Agnieszka is serious and silent. A “walking mystery,” the castellan calls her, or a “Maid of Orleans.” But in her company, his wife softens, and the blade of her malice, which has so often smitten her husband, is blunted. Now the three of them eat dinner together, and—it must be admitted—since Agnieszka took over the kitchen, their meals have started tasting better. The two women even sleep in the same room. Let the girls do as they please, thinks the castellan.

  Now Agnieszka unbraids her mistress’s and dear friend’s hair before the mirror, so as to brush it and rebraid it before she goes to bed.

  “I’m losing hair,” says Mrs. Kossakowska. “I’m practically bald already.”

  “What are you talking about? Your hair has always been this way, thin but strong.”

  “No, I’m practically bald. Don’t be silly—don’t lie to me . . . Who cares about hair! I am required to wear bonnets, regardless.”

  Agnieszka patiently brushes her thin hair. Mrs. Kossakowska shuts her eyes.

  Suddenly she gives a start, so that Agnieszka’s hand freezes where it is over her head.

  “One more letter, my dear,” she says. “I forgot.”

  “No, no, my lady. Work is done for the day,” answers Agnieszka, going back to her brushing.

  Then Mrs. Kossakowska grabs her by the waist and sits her down on her lap. The girl doesn’t resist. She is smiling. Mrs. Kossakowska kisses her neck.

  “Just one little note to that pompous, sad old bishop.”

  “Fine, but from bed, and with your broth.”

  “You’re a little shrew, you know that?” says Katarzyna, petting Agnieszka between the shoulder blades, like a dog, and then releasing her from her embrace.

  Then, sitting in bed, leaning back against large cushions, almost invisible beneath the flounces of her nightcap, she dictates:

  Having returned to Podolia, I hasten to send Your Excellency my warmest Greetings, heartily congratulating you on the Lwów Bishopric after the terrible Misfortune that befell Your Excellency’s Predecessor, Mikołaj Dembowski, may he rest in Peace.

  At the same Time, I wish to recommend to you, Father, a distant Relative of my Husband, one Antoni Kossakowski, who after many years of far-flung Peregrinations has come back into the Arms of the Republic of Nobles and has just now come to me with a Petition, asking for my Intercession as a Relation of his. This Kossakowski has a great Talent in all the oriental Languages, but especially in Hebrew. I have no Doubt that Your Excellency’s keen Attention has already turned to those miserable Jews who, like blind Men, seek the true Faith, feeling their Way toward the one Light of the Christian Religion, which I heard about here in Kamieniec, as everyone is now discussing it. We were able to get Backing from the King for those pour Souls, and I am wholeheartedly with them, also because I have long since looked at them, these Children of Moses, and seen their difficult Lives here, for which they are responsible so long as they hold on to their Jewish Superstitions. I would be extremely grateful for any little Word from Your Excellency, though of course I have no wish to fatigue or annoy.

  I will soon be traveling to Lwów, I am only waiting for the Weather to improve, and I relish the great Hope that I shall find Your Excellency in good Health. And may Your Excellency never forget that you are always very welcome here, whether in Kamieniec, where my Husband can more often be found, or in Busk, where I am frequently.

  Father Pikulski writes to Senator Łubieński, Bishop of Lwów

  I wish to inform Your Excellency that during your absence from Lwów I have managed to discreetly glean some information about Mrs. Kossakowska’s protégé. It turns out that Mr. Moliwda (his name apparently comes from an island o
n the Greek seas that belongs to him, although confirmation of such a thing is impossible) spent a certain portion of his tempestuous life in Wallachia, where he was a superior, or, as they called it, an elder in a community that seems to have been of Bogomils, also known to us as the Khlysts, or Whips. But he is in fact none other than Antoni Kossakowski of the Ślepowron coat of arms, the son of a man named Remigian, a Hussar ensign, while his mother came from the Kamieński family of Żmudź. For twenty-four years, he was considered missing. And only now has he reappeared in his native country under the pseudonym of “Moliwda.”

  On the subject of this heresy that has been festering for many years amongst the faithful Orthodox, I know only that they believe that the world was not created by a living God, but rather by his evil brother, Satanael. This is why all manner of evil and death prevails upon the earth. This renegade Satanael assembled the world out of matter, but he was unable to breathe life into it, so he asked the good God to do that. God, in turn, gave souls to every creature, which is why they believe that matter is evil, while the soul is good. They also believe that the Messiah will come a second time, and some believe that this Messiah will come in the guise of a woman. The followers of these sects are Wallachian peasants, but there are also some fugitives who have escaped into the Turkish lands, Cossacks and even Ruthenian peasants, runaways and people of the lowest station, the very poorest. Further, I learned that a sizable role is played there by the so-called Mother of God, whom they choose by election; it must always be a woman of impeccable beauty, and a virgin. They do not eat meat, do not drink wine or vodka (which surprises me, since I had information from Warsaw that this Moliwda hardly shies away from alcoholic drinks; this may be a proof that he has broken with the sect), and do not recognize the sacrament of marriage, believing children born of such unions to be cursed. They do believe, meanwhile, in spiritual love between human persons, and when this occurs, corporeal communion is considered holy. Even in a group setting.

  Our holy universal Church condemns without exception such terrible heresies, but it is too great and powerful to trouble itself with such aberrations. The most important thing for the Church has always been the salvation of the souls of the faithful. This is why I inform Your Excellency of these suspicions with genuine aggravation. Can a man who has given himself through and through to heretical notions, and who strives to be of service to other heretics, be worthy of our trust? In our beloved Commonwealth, which survives in its greatness only thanks to our collective faith in the universal Catholic Church, there lurks yet the unrelenting danger of schism. The forces of dissenters are still encroaching from east and west, which is why we must all remain highly vigilant. I feel the necessity of this vigilance particularly acutely as a monk.

  At the same time, I would pass over in silence certain matters that are of some significance to our joint inquiry. This Kossakowski-Moliwda is fluent in several languages, and his best languages are Turkish and ancient Hebrew, as well as Greek, Russian, and of course Latin and French. He has extensive knowledge of the Orient, is versed in multiple academic fields and also writes poetry. These talents have no doubt kept him afloat over the course of his turbulent life, and they might come in handy to us, if we could be certain of his dedication to the cause . . .

  From Antoni Moliwda-Kossakowski to His Excellency Bishop Łubieński

  It makes me very happy indeed that I might at once present my report to Your Excellency, for it is my opinion that my observations may—even if only slightly—illuminate the highly complicated matter of the anti-Talmudists, completely inconceivable to us Christians, as we are unable to penetrate with clear understanding the dark, tangled secrets of the Jewish faith, nor can we penetrate in full the murky Jewish soul. Your Excellency sent me to follow the matter of Jacob Leybowicz Frank and his disciples at close range, but since this famous Jacob Frank is not in our country, and since, as a Turkish citizen, he remains under the protection of the Turks and is no doubt in his home in Giurgiu, I went to Satanów, where a Jewish trial against the anti-Talmudists took place, which I was able to spend a day observing.

  It is a nice little town, fairly clean and bright, located on a tall embankment, with an enormous synagogue that towers over the town. Around it is the Jewish district, in total some several dozen houses that reach all the way up to the market square, where the Jewish merchants have taken charge of all the town’s trade. There the Talmudist Jews in their synagogue of such extravagant dimensions held their trial against the heretics. There were many interested persons in the audience, not only Israelites but also curious Christians, and I even saw a few of the local nobles, who, however, grew bored by the Jewish language, which is incomprehensible to them, and quickly departed.

  It is with sadness that I must assert and reveal to Your Excellency that what I glimpsed there did not even remotely resemble a trial and was instead an attack of rabid rabbis upon frightened and perfectly innocent small-time merchants, who, terrified, said whatever came into their minds, and in this way condemned not only themselves but also their brothers and sisters. The vitriol that accompanied the charges was so great that I feared for the lives of the defendants, who had to bring in people from the manor of the lord of that region, strong Cossack farmhands, to keep the frenzied crowd from descending into terrible mob rule. For they were suspected of practices of adultery according to which wives would leave their husbands and be subsequently recognized as whores. Much of their property was taken from them, and they were released with only what they could carry in their hands. There is no mercy for them when their own people attack them, and our system cannot defend them against that. There has already been a first victim, one Libera of Brzeżany, tortured to death for wanting to speak on behalf of Jacob Frank. The news that these Frankists are under the protection of the king himself has evidently not reached as far as here.

  I understand Your Excellency’s agitation at the excommunico known in Hebrew as “herem,” and I share that agitation. Lest one doubt the mysterious workings of that curse and its diabolical powers, I had visible evidence of how it plays out here on earth—it places certain people outside the law, thereby putting their lives, their possessions, and their bodily integrity at risk.

  In Poland, on the lands inhabited by our Christian population, the little bits of truth that reach us are gleaned by the sweat of the brow. But we also have here living with us millions belonging to the oldest people among all civilizations, that is, the Jewish people, who from the depths of their synagogues have never in so many centuries ceased to raise to heaven that plaintive cry, resembling nothing else in this world. It is a cry of abandonment, of being forsaken by God. If there is something that might bring heavenly truth down to earth, is it not those cries, in which these people concentrate and express their entire lives?

  It is a paradox that the care these people need now cannot come from their co-religionists, but only from us, their younger brothers in faith. Many of them have begun to approach us with the same kind of trust with which little children approached Jesus Christ, Our Lord.

  That is why I am asking you, Your Excellency, to consider another ecclesiastical audience with these same people, and a simultaneous summons to a disputation with their accusers, the Satanów rabbi, the Lwów rabbi, the Brody and Łuck rabbis, as well as all the others who made such serious accusations against them and in consequence of the results cast a curse upon them. We are not afraid of Jewish curses, just as we are not afraid of any other Jewish superstitions, but we do wish to stand in defense of the persecuted and provide them the right to speak for themselves.

  Moliwda ends this letter with a great, elegant flourish and sprinkles it with sand. When it has dried, he starts to write another, in Turkish, in tiny script. He begins: “My Jacob.”

  Knives and forks

  Hana, Jacob’s young wife, loves order in her luggage, knowing where everything is packed—her scarves, her shoes, her oils, the ointments for her pimples. In her even, somewhat hulking hand, she loves to
make lists of the things she has packed, and then she feels like she reigns over the world, like she’s its queen. Nothing worse than disorder and chaos. Hana waits until the ink on her list dries, strokes the end of the feather with the tip of her finger—her fingers are slender, shapely, with nice nails, although Hana can’t keep herself from biting them from time to time.

  Now she’s writing down the things she will take to Poland in two months, when Jacob will have made the arrangements, and when it will have gotten warmer. They will go in two carriages, with seven horses. In one carriage, she will go with Avacha, Immanuel, and the nanny, a young girl named Lisha. In the second carriage will be the servants and the luggage arranged in a pyramid and tied with strings. Her brother, Hayim, will travel on horseback along with his friends, who will help defend this feminine excursion.

  Her breasts, swollen with milk, weigh her down. As soon as she thinks of them or of the child, droplets of milk emerge just like that, of their own accord, as though unable to wait for the tiny little lips of the infant, and wet patches form on her light shift. Her stomach hasn’t gone down entirely, either—she gained a lot of weight during this second pregnancy, even though the boy was born on the small side. As it turned out, he was born on the same day that Jacob and the whole company crossed via the Dniester into Poland; for this reason, Jacob bade her in a letter to name their son Immanuel.

  Hana stands and picks up Immanuel, sits with him, and rests him on her belly. Her breast seems to almost engulf the baby’s head. The boy’s face is lovely, olive hued, with light blue lids delicate as flower petals. Avacha watches her mother from the corner, furious, pretending to be playing, though in fact she is constantly observing the two of them. She wants to be breastfed as well, but Hana swats her daughter away like a pestering fly: You’re too big!