Small Worlds

by Allen Hoffman

  Except for Froika Waksman, no one felt serious concern over the events at the pond. Certainly the rebbe didn’t this morning; he was not suffering in tears. He seemed not to be suffering at all. He was sitting in a near stupor, expressionless and unresponsive to the services. The rebbe’s momentous return had been discussed for hours. Such miraculous ecstasy could not be maintained in active consciousness for very long. It could continue to loom large, miraculous, and majestic only as a part of the past, to which it had already been consigned. The one thing that might have occasioned comment, and indeed still did so in various homes, was the death of Grannie Zara, but she was thought to be the absolute antithesis of the pure, holy rebbe. How could any discussion of the impure witch pollute the domain of the holy miracle worker?

  Yechiel’s attendance was indeed a farewell. He had decided that his presence in the beis midrash was no insult to the rebbe. Quite the contrary, the rebbe could take pride in it as an affirmation of his prediction, but Yechiel suspected that this morning the Krimsker Rebbe did not even know who was in the beis midrash. Yechiel’s presence was an insult only to himself, but he chose to accept that and appreciated the lack of enthusiasm and fervor that gave him a respite from his difficult dilemmas. He wondered where Grisha was and what he was doing.

  Matti Sternweiss also appreciated the dull, unemotional atmosphere. Last night he had stealthily washed in the yard and then sneaked into the house. His father had awakened him all too early for prayers. In the quiet, soporific, subdued mood of the beis midrash he could slump forward and doze. His father had nudged him awake several times, but not very vigorously. How could he? Matti exhibited the same sluggish behavior as the holy rebbe.

  The day grew brighter, and the heat increased. Birds returned to their nests or roosts, and dogs sought the shade. Inside the Krimsk beis midrash the droning murmurs continued. The service wound on its way for hours as slowly, inexorably, and almost as impersonally as the River Nedd twisting through the forests and fields under an impossibly bright sun, beseeched by the myriad creatures that came to siphon life from the edges of its sustaining flow. Indoors and chanting to itself, the Krimsk Tisha B’Av service progressed, isolated and insulated from external events. The hasidim felt the heat, but they did not see the sun.

  The River Nedd lay exposed. When the denizens of Krimichak and the residents of the outlying hamlets and farms crossed the bridge toward Krimsk, their shadows stained the river’s bright, reflecting surface. Their slender scythes, pronged pitchforks, curved picks, and thick clubs that coursed ominously through the air danced innocently and lightly as reedlike shadows in the brilliant waters below. The mob’s harsh, bloodthirsty grumbling, however, echoed loudly across the placid river.

  The hasidim in the beis midrash saw neither the goyim nor the steely glint of the sun off their blades. They did not hear them enter Krimsk, and they did not smell the smoke when Wotek the herdsman set fire to the largest and most handsome building in Krimsk, the Angel of Death synagogue.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CASIMIR AND TADEUSZ’S ARRIVAL BACK IN KRIMICHAK had created a great stir. Within minutes, everyone had heard how several score of Jewish ruffians lay in wait by the dark pond for innocent Polish children. The diabolical Yids had attacked Casimir with a poisonous frog named Rabbi Chananiak. Soon after, Grannie Zara’s cottage burned to the ground, and Yiddish voices had been heard in the vicinity at the time of the blaze.

  Different theories quickly developed. Some people maintained that Grannie Zara was a Jew. How else could one explain her dipping at the Krimsk side of the pond and muttering Hebrew prayers? Although she did not keep her monthly appointment in human form, appearing as a frog she had attacked the Polish boys. Why were the Jews forever visiting her? And why had Grannie Zara saved them from a Cossack pogrom? Pretending to be one of them, Grannie Zara had tricked Krimichak. Hadn’t the Jews prospered while Krimichak languished? Because of Grannie Zara the Jews had built a synagogue in Krimsk larger and grander than any church in the district. Additional proofs of her Jewish identity were adduced. She was so very neat, once she had lit a candle on Friday nights, and Zloty, that miserable, rapacious Jewish beast, had disappeared with her foxy, deceitful Jewish mug.

  Others remained convinced that Grannie Zara had been a good Christian witch all her life, and that she had saved Krimichak from the satanic Jewish plague of Krimsk. No Jew, no matter how vicious and deceitful, had dared attack a Krimichak child while she lived. The Jews had flocked to her and begged for her blessings, but now that Grannie Zara lay dead—her body not even cold in the grave—they attacked her flock and burnt her Christian home. How that neat, angelic cottage must have stuck in their filthy, lice-ridden Jewish craw! And where was that noble, loyal, leonine creature, Zloty? Grannie Zara’s beloved companion had to be driven off her mistress’s body with torches. Zloty would never have disappeared on her own; the Jews must have trapped and killed her. They must be stopped before they put all of Krimichak to the torch.

  Krimichak debated some minor points. The “Jewish” school wondered why a Christian witch would be uttering Jewish prayers. That was easy: the only way to fight fire was with fire. And the “Christian” school wondered why the Jews would bother to burn down the home of a Jewish witch. But nothing could be simpler: they did it to destroy Hebrew amulets, prayer books, family bibles, and other evidence of her Jewishness. These discussions were very much halfhearted, because they were irrelevant.

  Jewish thugs had attempted to murder young Polish children, and everyone knew why Jews wanted innocent blood. How clever to do it so much in advance of Passover that no one would suspect their true motive! Equally undeniable was the arson that had destroyed Grannie Zara’s cottage. Early in the morning all of Krimichak had visited the scene of the skullduggery. In the still morning air the smoke huddled like a poisonous mushroom in a domeshaped mass where her home had been.

  Both schools agreed that the poisonous mushroom must also be sown in Krimsk, and both agreed that the target should be the synagogue grander than any church. With allies easily recruited from the countryside, and undeterred by their differing yells of “Death to the Yid witch!” and “Death to the Yid witch-killers!” the mob crossed the bridge to Krimsk. They were indeed wise in ignoring their vocal variorum, for as they approached the synagogue, they were chanting only one slogan, “Death to the Yids!”

  The goyim noticed immediately that the streets of Krimsk were absolutely empty. It was as if they had come to destroy a ghost town or to slaughter a beast that had already died. They had expected some form of opposition, no matter how feeble. Something that at least would prove entertaining: a cripple to be chased, a child to be maimed, a cow to be stuck with an unclean knife so the stinking holy Jew could not even gorge himself on its nonkosher carcass. The absence of life unnerved them, and they fell strangely quiet. It was as if the want of focus had undermined their resolve, which lacked steel because Grannie Zara’s death, the very thing that had motivated them, also left them vulnerable. If a Yid, as some suspected, Grannie Zara might still champion the Jews even after her death as she had at the pond. If a Christian, as others thought, she was no longer alive to protect her holy flock.

  In that moment of hesitation, the fears that had fueled them turned to debilitate them. Perhaps they had walked into a trap? In this mire of indecision, Wotek stepped forth to save the day.

  He commandeered a torch and, eyes bright with brutal lust, bellowed in his deep, forceful voice, “We’ve come this far. Let’s see some flames!”

  “Yes, yes, flames!” the crowd echoed instantly.

  “The windows!” someone screamed, and a group of men dashed around to both sides of the building and with their pitchforks and scythes quickly smashed both panes and frames in the huge mullioned windows. Wotek flung in the first torch. All the others quickly followed.

  Moving back to enjoy the flames, the crowd leaned on their pitchforks and other instruments of mayhem to view more comfortably the conflagratio
n that they had come to understand as their just portion.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE HASIDIM AT THE BACK OF THE BEIS MIDRASH WERE desultorily following the reading of the lengthy laments, whose archaic, poetic language was beyond their appreciation. Idly glancing about for any minor distraction, they were unexpectedly treated to a major one when Yudel the Litvak burst through the doors into the beis midrash. Looking in astonishment at the intruder, who had never before so much as peeked inside, they exclaimed to each other, “It’s the Litvak!” Without acknowledging their greeting, Yudel, breathless and red as a beet, ran into the center of the hall and shouted, “Jews! A catastrophe! The goyim are burning the Angel of Death!”

  Punctuated by oys and gevalts, and even short screams, a shudder of horror swept through the beis midrash. Some hasidim leaped to their feet; others sat glued to their seats. All eyes turned to the Krimsker Rebbe, but the rebbe, lower than everyone, fingering a book of lamentations, rocked with his head collapsed onto his chest in the most abject, depressed mourning. The Krimsker Rebbe continued to doze through Yudel’s stentorian announcement and the congregation’s frightened response. Sweating with fear, Reb Yechezkal bent over and touched his shoulder. The rebbe snorted and tried to ignore the intrusion. Reb Yechezkal lightly shook his shoulder. The rebbe’s eyes opened into his most obtuse hazel stare.

  “Rebbe! Rebbe! The goyim are burning the Angel of Death!” Reb Yechezkal called out.

  His eyes open, the rebbe continued to rock slowly without registering any comprehension.

  “Rebbe,” Reb Yechezkal cried, tears streaming down his cheeks, “the goyim are in Krimsk and they are burning the Angel of Death!”

  “Eieeee!” A piercing shriek burst quickly and powerfully from the rebbe, as if it were an instant involuntary reflex to a burning hot metal hook raking his flesh. In one swift leap he stood on his feet, with his arms outstretched above his head both in supplication to heaven and in exhortation to his holy hasidim. His eyes blazing in righteous fury and impassioned indignation, he demanded and importuned, “We must save the sacred Torah scrolls!” and in his stocking feet he burst for the door. Rushing down the aisle, he sidestepped seated hasidim and leaped over benches. Those in his path remembered the burning eyes and the long coat, beard, and side curls all swinging behind in a desperate effort to hang onto the flying rebbe.

  The hasidim who were already on their feet immediately began running after him. Those seated jumped up in hot pursuit. Even Yudel the Litvak found himself sprinting after the Krimsker Rebbe. Within seconds the beis midrash was totally empty and all of the hasidim, led by the rebbe, were racing through the streets toward the Angel of Death.

  The younger men kept pace with the rebbe, but the older ones lagged behind as the congregation stretched into a frenzied black stream that only a volcano or some vent in the earth’s surface could spew forth in such elemental, fiery fury. When this frenzied behemoth of charging bodies burst into the marketplace and saw the yelloworange flames eating through the roof of the grand building, it emitted a collective gasping groan that echoed across the square as a massive roar.

  The Krimichak goyim, pacifically enjoying the blaze with good-natured enthusiasm, turned to find themselves, if not the target of this black, minatory rush, at least an imperiled object in its path. This dark, impassioned flood must certainly overwhelm them. Instinctively, they retreated by several paces.

  Some goyim suddenly discovered the serendipitous presence of honest farm implements that could be mustered in defense of their lives. Others were delightfully surprised that the cudgels and clubs upon which they happened to be leaning could, in an emergency, be used to protect themselves. Feeling very much the aggrieved party, they anxiously observed the frenzied hasidim, led by an unfamiliar man, charge toward them. As he drew closer, they noticed that neither he nor his followers wore shoes. The stocking feet stimulated a tinge of curiosity that lessened the goyim’s fear.

  When the black swarm came within several meters of a thunderous encounter, the delirious leader, suddenly ignoring all of Krimichak, raced up to tug on the front door of the burning synagogue. Even by pulling with all his might, however, he could not budge the heavy oak doors. The rebbe stepped back and frantically waved over some of the husky young hasidim, but their joint efforts proved equally unsuccessful. The rebbe then spun toward the goyim and pointed to someone with an ax.

  “You, with the ax, open those doors immediately!” he demanded in a tone of absolute authority.

  Not only did the designated man respectfully step forward but so did two others, axes in hand.

  “Immediately!” the rebbe commanded.

  As they raced toward the doors, they cursorily nodded in respect to the rebbe. With a wave of his arm, he encouraged them.

  Like metal tongues whose appetites are never sated, the axes bit into the wood, spitting chips with gusto. With several blows, the handles and locks had been chopped out. The rebbe removed his black caftan as the axes knocked out the metal chocks that pinned the doors to the threshold.

  Reb Yechezkal, panting from his sprint, ran forward to grab the rebbe’s arm. The rebbe tried to push off the larger man. Their task complete, the axemen turned to the rebbe for instructions.

  “Don’t go in there!” Reb Yechezkal cried. “It’s death!”

  “Let go!” the rebbe snapped in fury.

  “Let me do it!” Reb Zelig volunteered.

  The rebbe turned to Reb Zelig and commanded, “Get him off of me!” Promptly taking Reb Yechezkal into his powerful grasp, Reb Zelig liberated the rebbe.

  “Open the doors! Open the gates of righteousness!” he screamed at the goyim.

  They quickly hooked the doors with their axheads and pulled them open. The blistering wave of heat that burst out was only a harbinger of the crackling flames that promised to incinerate any creature who dared enter. The hot gases escaping the inferno bit at the flesh and licked the eyes that were already blinking from the dazzling veil of shimmering flame itself. Shielding their faces, everyone but the rebbe dropped back. He just squinted with his hazel eyes, searching for the path that he knew must exist through that glittering destructive splendor. Behind him, even the goyim were yelling, “No! No!” He sensed that his one hope was to the left; there the fire seemed less dense. Digging his stocking feet into the dust for a good start, he could hear nothing, and the alarmed spectators could barely hear themselves; for further inside some of the roof beams had thunderously hurtled down in an incandescent shower of sparks. The conflagration sucked oxygen in a deafening, gluttonous roar.

  The rebbe dashed forward and felt the severe increase in heat before he had completed his first step. Through the open doors he perceived an area in the wall of flames that was less bright; it appeared to the rebbe as a shadow of dark flame on the brighter flames. Focusing on that relatively dark patch—it glimmered with the gleam of lesser combustion—the Krimsker Rebbe pictured himself racing through it and into the synagogue toward the holy ark on the innermost wall. And, indeed, squinting as he was from the blinding surfeit of light, he could see a shimmering figure that flickered in shadowy silhouette. Initially the rebbe interpreted this as a prophetic guide whom he must follow through the hellish oven, but as he approached the doorway, he perceived that the ethereal figure was rushing forward to meet him. He understood at once that this was the Angel Gabriel, who has dominion over fire. No mere guide, Gabriel would shield him in his heavenly embrace as he had Daniel and Abraham in infinitely hotter furnaces. Not wanting to delay his rendezvous with the archangel, the rebbe surged forward. Not until he planted his foot upon the stone step before the doorway did he notice that the angel was protectively clutching something in his arms. The rebbe suddenly straightened up in miraculous greeting and reached out in a welcoming embrace.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  AFTER YECHIEL HAD CLIMBED OUT THE WINDOW OF the Angel of Death, Grisha had stealthily smoked a cigarette, cupping his hand over the red glow so that no chance passe
rby could possibly see anything. While smoking, he thought about Yechiel. He very much wanted the young scholar to join the Leninist group. Yechiel seemed at least as bright as Trotsky, that other precocious Jewish boy, whose real name was Bronstein—what would Katzman become? . . . But Grisha knew that he was letting his personal feelings cloud his scientific, revolutionary judgment. Yechiel was too contemplative. Such a talmudic mind lacked the decisiveness to be a party theorist. The Krimsker Rebbe himself could be an excellent party theorist; he was bold, brilliant, and incisive. Do not underestimate evil! Grisha could build some fiery revolutionary harangues around that pithy statement. What a shame that such a treasure of a man as the rebbe should be wasting his time as a mystical mentor for a few families in this backwater.

  In preparation for sleep, Grisha carefully extinguished his cigarette. If he set out at dawn, he could cover enough distance to permit a comfortable rest during the burning midday hours. His revolutionary senses and discipline in good order, he carefully closed the window and slept under a bench to avoid detection by a passerby in case he should oversleep.

  Grisha did not oversleep. Knowing exactly where he was, he opened his eyes as the dull but increasing light told him that it was exactly dawn. He lay quietly and listened intently. Hearing nothing, he sat up and looked around warily. All was still.

  He crawled out from under the bench and stretching, sat up. It was stuffy inside the closed building, and he knew that outside the air would be at its coolest and freshest. He quickly reached for his knapsack and raised himself off the floor to sit on the bench while organizing his departure. All he had to do was put on his cap, take his knapsack to the window, open the window, flip the sack through, following after it himself, and close the window, and he would be on his way.