The Books of Jacob

by Olga Tokarczuk

  It is a September sky—cool and distant, the sun slowly growing orange, and the Jewish women of Częstochowa have arranged to meet up on the road to the Jewish cemetery, they’re headed there now, the older ones wearing thick skirts conferring in a whisper, waiting up for each other as they go.

  On the terrible days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, kneytlakh legn takes place—the measuring of graves. The women measure out the cemeteries with a string, then wind the string back up around a bobbin, for later use as candlewicks; some of the women will also use it to tell fortunes. Each of them murmurs a prayer under her breath, and they look like witches in their wide, ruffled skirts, which catch on blackberry thorns and rustle among the dry yellow leaves.

  Once, Yente herself measured the graves, believing it to be the duty of every woman to measure how much room was left for the dead, or whether there was any room at all, before any new living people were born. It is a kind of bookkeeping that women take care of—women are always better, in any case, at keeping the accounts.

  But what reason do they have for measuring the graves and cemeteries? After all, the dead are not contained in their graves—Yente has learned this only now, however, after plunging thousands of wicks into wax. Graves are in fact altogether pointless, since the dead ignore them and roam—the dead are everywhere. Yente sees them all the time, as if through glass, for however much she might like to join their ranks, she can’t. Where is this? It’s hard to say. They behold the world as if from behind a windowpane, inspecting it and always coveting something inside it. Yente tries to figure out what the faces they make mean, likewise their gestures, and in the end, she gets it: The dead would like to be talked about; they are hungry, and that is their food. What they want from us is our attention.

  And Yente notices something else—that that attention is inequitably distributed. Some people are spoken about a great deal, with myriad words pronounced about them. Of others, people utter not a single word, nary a syllable, ever. Those dead will flicker out after a while, moving away from the glass, disappearing somewhere into the back. There are a great many of that latter group, millions of them, completely forgotten. No one even knows they lived on earth. There is no trace of them, which is why they are freed faster, and depart. And maybe that’s a good thing. Yente would depart, as well, if only she could. If only she weren’t still bound by that powerful word she swallowed. The little piece of paper is gone, and there’s no trace left of the string. It’s all dissolved, and the tiniest particles of light have been absorbed into matter. All that remains is the word like a rock that reckless Elisha Shorr employed to tether Yente.

  Old Shorr departed not too long ago, she saw him dart past near her—a great sage, father of five sons and one daughter, grandfather of many grandchildren, now a blurred streak. She also saw a little child zip by. It was Immanuel, son of Jacob and Hana, not much more than a year old.

  A letter with this news was smuggled to Jacob by Kazimierz. Hana wrote it in Turkish, in vague terms, as if to conceal a great secret. Or perhaps in embarrassment that this had happened to them? They were not supposed to die, after all. Ever. Jacob reads it several times. Each time he stands up and starts pacing the tower. A little piece of paper falls out of the letter, cut out crooked, with some kind of animal painted onto it in red. It might be a shaggy little dog. At the bottom it says: Rutka. He assumes it’s from his daughter, and only now does his throat clench, and his eyes fill with tears. But he doesn’t cry.

  A letter from Nahman Jakubowski to the Lord in Częstochowa

  It is not until he gets the next letter that Jacob is really thrown offbalance. From the first words, Nahman’s tone annoys him; he can hear his voice, tearful, pathetic, like the whining of a dog. If Nahman were here, Jacob would hit him in the face and watch the blood stream from his nose. It is a good thing he did not allow this traitor to come up to the little window when he was here.

  . . . O Jacob, my name is, after all, Piotr Jakubowski, and that name is a testament to the extent to which I am yours. My heart came very near to breaking as I stood here, so close to You, yet unable either to see You or to hear Your voice. I had, by way of consolation, only the thought that You were so close, and that we were breathing one and the same air, and so I went up to the high wall that separates Your prison from the town. It seemed to me a veritable wailing wall. With sadness I learned of Your serious illness and can imagine the loneliness You must bear here, being so unaccustomed to not having people gathered around You.

  You know that I constantly love You, and that I am ready to sacrifice everything for You. If I said something against You, it was not out of any ill will, but rather a deep sense of Your mission, of our calling, which consumed my mind completely. I also confess to fear, which with its power nearly knocked me, a coward, off my feet. You know how very miserable I am, but it was not for my flaws that You made me Your right-hand man, but for my better qualities, of which I might dare remind You now, were it not for the fact that I was forced to abandon You then.

  Jacob casts the letter aside in anger and spits. Nahman’s voice falls silent in his head, but not for long. Jacob picks up the letter and keeps reading:

  So many of us have now sought shelter, whether in the capital or under the protection of the wealthy, and there we are trying to live, and be guided by our own hands, believing in your imminent return and every day awaiting your arrival . . .

  You Yourself once told us in Ivanie about two kinds of people. Of some you said that they were filled with darkness, people who believe that the world as it is is evil and unjust, and that we must simply adapt to it and play that game, become the same as the world. And of the other sort, you said that they are the ones suffused with light, people who believe that the world is evil and terrible, but that it can always be changed. And that we ought not to assimilate to this world, but rather to be strangers in it and command it to surrender to us and get better. This I recalled, standing at the base of that high wall. Yet now, Jacob, I number among the first kind. I have lost the will to live without You by my side. I also think I am not the only one to react in this way to Your disappearance. Only now do we see how very painful is Your absence. May God judge us, we thought we had killed You.

  I came directly from Warsaw, where many of us went and settled in a perfect stupor, not knowing what had happened to You. At first many, I among them, followed Your Hana to Kobyłka, near Warsaw, a village that belongs to Bishop Załuski, which had been set aside for us at Mrs. Kossakowska’s behest. But it was cramped for us there, and gloomy, the bishop’s house neglected and the bishop’s servants mistrustful of us. As it lies so close to Warsaw, gradually some wanted to take the initiative to seek some engagement there, so as not to sit around idle at the bishop’s expense, and not to wander around other people’s homes. Those who wished to return to Podolia, like the Rudnickis, quickly got organized, and Hirsh, or Rudnicki, went to check if it would be possible. But he soon realized, as we did after him, that there was nothing left for us there, that we will never return to our villages and homes now. All of it is gone. You were right that in being baptized, we were taking a step into the abyss. And we took that step, and then we were as though suspended in our fall, not knowing where and when the process of falling would end, nor indeed how. Would we be crushed to smithereens, or would we be saved? Would we emerge intact or broken?

  The first thing that started was blame. Who said what and when. Our words were used against You, but we were not innocent. After baptism, many of us in desperation grasped for our new life as if it were a treasure. We changed our attire and hid our customs in deep closets, so as to pretend to be people we were not at all. Once more we are strangers, for even in the best clothes, with a cross on our breast, smooth-shaven and well-behaved whenever we open our mouths, you can recognize us by our accent. And so, fleeing our own foreignness, so mocked and despised, we became like puppets among men.

  Slowly we are becoming selfish and indifferent, and although the company
keeps together, the most basic things have become the most important: how to survive, how to handle ourselves in this struggle, how to feed the children and put a roof over their heads. Many of us would have tried for some sort of work, but there is no way to do so, for we do not know whether we will stay here, what the good Mrs. Kossakowska will come up with on our behalf, and whether it is even worth staying with her. Those who have money have managed to get by, like the Wołowskis, who have made investments in Warsaw, but others, the poor, with whom you had us share in Ivanie, must now solicit aid. And if this continues, we will be scattered, and it will be like when a person blows onto a fistful of sand.

  Our position is undoubtedly better than when we were ordinary Jews. The Wołowskis and the other ennobled converts have the best situation, but many cannot afford the baksheesh for a title. Franciszek and his brother have a distillery in Leszno. Now it will bring them more income, as they have acquired new clients. Nussen’s son, Krysa, now called Krysiński, has just opened a shop with leather goods, he brings them in from Turkey, and I have seen the elegant ladies who buy gloves from him. Such men are managing fine. And their closest relatives, like the Rudnickis or the Lanckorońskis, or whatever their names ended up being. Hayah’s husband, Hirsh, has grown old and ill. Hayah is a great lady, and we try to look after her here, but she is not suited for this homelessness. It is a good thing she has such wise and capable daughters.

  The Wołowskis immediately gave their children up to religious schools, wanting to educate them not as merchants, but rather as officers and lawyers. They have been trying to talk everyone into doing this, but not everyone can afford it. As you commanded us, we have been marrying our children to each other, and so Franciszek Wołowski has now married his son Jędrzej to the daughter of his brother Jan, I don’t remember what the girl is called now. The nuptials are only temporary, only recognized by us for now, since according to Polish law they are still minors, and therefore cannot wed.

  Hana is trying ceaselessly to be allowed to see You—You know that, for You get her letters. That Kossakowska woman has been a great help to her, promising to arrange a visit with the king himself, but when the king will come to Warsaw, no one knows.

  I have tried to comfort Hana since the death of Immanuel, but she does not care for me. She keeps more with the Zwierzchowskis, and it is they who tend to little Avachunia. Kossakowska fusses over Hana as she would over a daughter. She plans to house her on one of her estates, give her room and board, and Avacha a good education. Avacha gets whatever she wants out of her. You must not worry about her, she is a very wise little girl, and since God has taken Your only son, she must console You. She has a teacher who is teaching her to play the piano.

  Now that there is the possibility of conveying letters, I will send a messenger from Warsaw every ten days. And I believe that every splinter will be removed from Your heart, and the wound will heal, for we are miserable and stupid, thrown into something we cannot possibly understand, which only You can fathom.

  Finally, I will tell you that I understand what happened as follows: You had to go to jail so that all the prophecies could be fulfilled—the Messiah must fall as absolutely low as possible. And when I saw You, led out with a bruised face, when you said to us: “Spit on this fire,” I realized that this was how it was supposed to be, and that the workings of salvation had gotten back on track, in gear, like a clock that measures time in eons—You had to fall, and I had to push You.

  Jacob lies on his back on his cot in the tower of the Częstochowa fortress, and the letter he has been holding falls to the floor. Through the tiny window, better for shooting than for looking out of, he sees the stars. He feels as though he has found himself inside a deep well, whence the stars are better visible than they are from the earth’s surface, for the well acts as a telescope that brings celestial bodies nearer and causes them to appear within arm’s reach.

  From there, Yente looks at Jacob.

  The tower stands in a fortress surrounded by high walls, and that fortress is on a hill, at the foot of which lies, barely visible in the darkness, a poorly lit little town. And all of this is located in an undulating countryside covered in dense forests. And farther on extends the great plain of the center of Europe, circumfused with the waters of the seas and the oceans. Finally, Europe itself, seen from Yente’s position on high, becomes the size of a coin, and out of the darkness emerges the planet’s majestic curvature, so that it looks like a freshly shelled green pea.

  Gifts from the Besht

  Nahman, Piotr Jakubowski, who rarely leaves his little office these days, bites into the fresh pods of green peas brought to him by his son, Aron. He pulled them out of his pocket crumpled and snapped, but they are still tasty and crunchy. Aron has come to say goodbye to his father: he is going back to Busk, and once there, he will, as his father once did, join a caravan setting out to Turkey for tobacco and precious stones. Jakubowski rarely sees him; the boy stayed in Busk with his mother and grandparents when the divorce was finalized. But he is proud of him. Aron, like his mother, is short and swarthy, resembling a Turk. He has already mastered Turkish. He also knows German, since he has gone to Breslau and Dresden with Osman Czerniawski.

  Nahman has just finished writing a letter and is now folding it very carefully. Aron glances at the Turkish script, no doubt guessing who his father is writing to.

  They hug and kiss each other on the lips, as father and son. At the door, Aron looks over his shoulder at his father, who is small and thin, with matted hair and a torn little caftan. Then he goes.

  The Baal Shem Tov passed away in this year, 1760, but Jakubowski didn’t write to Jacob of it. Jacob never respected the Hasidim, saying they were fools, although he seemed to be afraid of the Besht. He never concealed the satisfaction it gave him to win people away from the Besht. And there were quite a few of them.

  They are saying that the Besht died because his heart broke at the news of hundreds of Jews converting. That his heart broke, in other words, because of Jacob Frank. Jakubowski isn’t sure—will this news please Jacob? Maybe he should write of it to him?

  Jakubowski was hired by Shlomo, Franciszek Wołowski, to sit in a small office counting barrels of beer. There isn’t too much to do, since the brewery is just starting. Jakubowski tallies the deliveries, full and empty barrels, sending products all over the city and to taverns on the outskirts. At first, Wołowski sent him to scout for new clients around Warsaw, but he gave that up. As Piotr Jakubowski, Nahman still looks sluggish somehow, unconvincing, even dressed up in a kontusz. The Jews have not wanted to buy beer since their baptism, and the non-Jews look with suspicion upon this little redheaded man with the mien of a chicken. That’s what Franciszek says about him—that Nahman looks like a chicken. The first time Jakubowski heard this, it hurt his feelings. He would have thought that with his auburn hair and his cleverness he was more like a fox.

  The truth is that he has not felt good for some time, either on his own or in company. Lately he has been thinking about giving up this anxious waiting game in Warsaw, this hoping for some kind of miracle, and instead setting out east, for Międzybóż, but then little Immanuel died, and the first thought that came into Nahman’s mind was that the Besht had taken the little boy with him, and that this made sense. The Besht took the child in his arms and carried him away, into the night—to protect him from them. So it occurred to Nahman-Jakubowski, and he even wrote it down, with a racing heart, in the margins of his book.

  Recently in Warsaw it was said that when, sometime during his illness, the Baal Shem Tov came to expect that he would die, he had all of his students gather around him, and he gave them the objects he had been using himself up until then. To one he gave a snuffbox, to another a prayer shawl, to another a beloved psalter. When he got to his favorite student, however, none of his property remained. The Besht said that he would give him his stories: “You will travel the world so that people might hear these stories.” The student, truth be told, was none too pleased
with such an inheritance, for he was quite poor and would have preferred to receive something more material.

  He forgot about it for a time, however, and lived in poverty as a milkman. Until one day the news reached his village that some wealthy man in Russia would pay a great deal to hear some stories about the Besht. Then the milkman’s neighbors reminded him of his inheritance and sent him off to Russia. When he got there, it turned out that this man hungering for stories was the head of the kahal, a man who was prosperous, but sad.

  A small feast was organized, to which important guests were invited. The milkman was seated in the middle, and after an abundant refreshment, once things had quieted down, he was asked to begin. He opened his mouth, took a big breath—and nothing. He had forgotten everything. He sat down, confused, and the other guests showed all their disappointment. So it went the next night, too. And the next. It seemed that the milkman had lost the power of speech. Thus, very ashamed, he quietly made preparations to take his leave. But once he was sitting in the wagon, he experienced a kind of breakthrough, and his memory, so vast until then, so filled with stories, let slip one little reminiscence. He seized on this minor occurrence and had the horses stopped. He hopped out of the cart and said to his host, who had just been bidding him farewell in an icy tone: “I remembered something. One minor occurrence. Nothing major . . .”

  And he began to speak:

  “One time, the Baal Shem Tov came and grabbed me in the night while I was sleeping, telling me to harness the horses and go with him to a distant village. There he got out in front of one rich house by the church, where a candle was still burning, and he disappeared inside it for half an hour. When he returned, he was somewhat agitated and asked to go home.”

  Here the milkman cut off again and fell silent. “And? What happened next?” the others asked him, but then, to everyone’s amazement, the head of the kahal burst into tears, sobbing loudly, unable to control himself. Only after a while, when he had calmed down a little bit, did he say: “I was that man to whom the Baal Shem Tov paid a visit.” Understanding nothing, everyone demanded further explanation with their eyes.