AHMM, April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "He would probably put off the Shabbes prayers until our fair companion can be cleared of this unjust accusation."

  "Precisely, Rabbi Benyamin."

  They say that the material universe God created only lasts for six days at a time, and that Shabbes is needed to renew it another six days. But in this instance, I figured that the universe would just have to wait a little bit longer.

  * * * *

  Ever since our Masters were princes in Palestine, it has been our custom that the shrouds of the rich must be no different from the shrouds of the poor. But the Strekov family had no such customs. They had planted so many oversized monuments to their glorious dead in the mossy soil around their ancestral home that with a little help from the fog, the place looked like a haunted castle, right down to the tarnished coat of arms over the gate with the double-headed eagle on a field of red and white, and a couple of ancient gravestones bearing the German form of the family name: Schreckenstein.

  The great hall was drafty and cold, and the iron cressets filled with burning oil made the shadows dance like demented warlocks around an unholy fire. The bloody shroud the villagers had thrown over Sir Tadeusz's naked wounds swayed in the breeze, as if the corpse were still stirring.

  The men who had carried him to this resting place stood silently with their caps in their hands and their eyes wandering around the hall, marveling at the high-vaulted windows and the tapestries hanging on ropes of spun gold.

  Lord Strekov was a broad-chested man with a weathered face framed by a thick mane of graying hair that was parted in the middle. His dark red velvet doublet was crisscrossed by two ribbons of brocade that formed a large black and silver X over his heart. He stood before us with his hands squarely on his hips and demanded to know who was guilty of this murder. A young noble who must have been his son, Sir Mateusz, stood by his side glaring at us, his eyes blazing with hatred.

  Father Stefan explained that the woman being held under guard before him, Kassandra the Bohemian, was discovered standing over the body of Lord Strekov's eldest son in the clearing shortly after having failed the trial by water, her body having been summarily rejected by the blessed spirits of the river.

  "But these strangers,” said the priest, referring to us, “are conducting what they call an ‘investigation’ to root out the guilty party and spare the young woman's life."

  "Who granted them such authority?” said Lord Strekov, his voice echoing around the pillars of his stately hall.

  "My Lord,” said Rabbi Loew, bowing deeply, “since we were exiled from the Land of Israel, the Divine Presence accompanies us wherever we go."

  "Divine Presence, hell. When I find out who did this, I'll grind them up like a bunch of Cossack dogs. I'll even pay for the privilege."

  He dug a coin out of his purse and tossed it at me. I caught it in mid air and saved myself the indignity of having to scrounge around on the floor for it, even though handling money is forbidden on Shabbes. Lord Strekov was impressed with my reflexes, and he smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

  The coin was a three-groschen piece of little value, faced with a standing eagle whose tongue was sticking out so far it looked like it was being strangled.

  "Well, since we're now working for you,” I said, dropping the coin into my purse, “my first bit of advice would be that you'll never completely crush the Cossacks, no matter how many horsemen you have at your command."

  "Don't talk to me about conquering your neighbor's land, Jew. Because you're not innocent, either. I've heard about what the Hebrews did to the Canaanites, and the slaughtering of the Philistines in Gaza."

  "So you know about our violent past. I admit that it's rather shameful. Still, that's nothing compared to what the Ca—” I stopped myself from saying Catholics. “—what the Conquistadors did when they arrived in the Americas, and killed a million natives in the West Indies, and many more in Mexico and Peru."

  Lord Strekov stared at me, as if he were considering my words.

  Finally, he said, “America? What is this America of which you speak?"

  Father Stefan told him that about a hundred years ago, a group of Spanish sailors claimed to have found a new land on the other side of the ocean, but the Lord dismissed the priest's words as so much nonsense.

  "I expect better work from the people in my service,” said Lord Strekov, laying his hand upon his sword.

  That's when Kassy spoke up, God bless her. “My Lord, surely you have heard of the Great Rabbi Loew of Prague? This is he, standing before you, with his disciple Rabbi Benyamin, and if we do not always understand all of their pronouncements, that is because they sometimes speak in tongues as only the truly enlightened mystics can do."

  "The Rabbi Loew?” asked Lord Strekov, his eyes ablaze. “The rabbi who brought a man of clay to life by reciting a verse from the seventh chapter of the Second Book of Genesis?"

  There is no Second Book of Genesis, but we heartily agreed with our host.

  "If anyone can solve this dreadful crime, surely you can,” he said. “Join us by the pripetshik! We will take one last meal with our beloved son."

  "But Father—!” Sir Mateusz protested. But Lord Strekov silenced him, as the men who had carried the nobleman's body up the hill grinned at the prospect of a fine feast at their Lord's expense.

  "We gladly accept Your Lordship's gracious offer,” said Rabbi Loew. “But we need to wash our hands first."

  The peasants rolled their eyes and shook their heads at our peculiar Jewish ways, but Lord Strekov ordered his servants to fetch a basin of water so we could wash.

  I absorbed their suspicious stares as the servants brought out the basin. And when I said the blessing and washed my hands, you'd have thought we were sacrificing a goat in Satan's name from the way they stared at the swirling water. I finished the ritual and held my hands up, letting the drops fall into the basin. The ripples cast strange shadows on the bottom of the basin, the dark rings colliding with one another and forming an ever-shifting pattern like a watery spiderweb, which only reminded me of our urgent need to discover a pattern connecting the three victims, besides the missing shoes.

  So I wasn't prepared for it when young Sir Mateusz came at us drawing his sword and cursing, and kicked the basin out of the servants’ hands, spilling its contents across the floor. I reached automatically for my knife (not that it would have done me any good), but the hotheaded youth's father called him to task, and advised him to settle down and treat their guests properly. Sir Mateusz returned his sword to its sheath, but his bright blue eyes beamed defiantly at me for several seconds.

  "What did you think of that little display?” Rabbi Loew asked, propping his staff against the table's edge as we took our places at low end of the banquet hall, well below the salt.

  "I don't think he likes me."

  "I mean, do you think he was truly possessed by the spirit of vengeance, or was he just trying to redirect the guilt toward us?"

  "Who knows what normal behavior is around here?” said Kassy. “These nobles can get away with anything they want. There was this Hungarian countess who—"

  Kassy lowered her voice as people took their seats nearby, and told me the horrifying details of one noblewoman's quest for eternal youth, which led her to bathe once a month in the blood of a sixteen-year-old virgin from her domains.

  I winced at the idea of bathing in fresh buckets of blood still warm from the body. Then a company of servants came trooping under the archway bearing enormous trays of roast lamb, and the meat was carved up and served on wooden boards whose trenches filled with bright red lamb's blood. We held up our hands and politely refused to eat such an abomination. A couple of the lord's servants sneered at us, but Lord Strekov clapped his hands and ordered his servants to bring us something else.

  My old friend Kazimir took the seat next to me and set to work ripping the bloody meat from a shank bone, chewing with his mouth open. Then he broke open the bone so he could suck out the marrow with a series of loud, wet sl
urps.

  There must have been a closet Jew in the kitchen, because soon the servants reappeared with three portions of trout smothered in garlic, onions, vinegar, and pepper.

  "Have some vishniak," said Kazimir, spilling some cherry brandy into my glass.

  "Thanks,” I said. “Would you like to try some of my fish?"

  "I don't eat Jew food,” he said matter-of-factly, and slammed back a heavy slug of brandy.

  "Right. Well, uh, na zdrovye." I toasted him, and took a sip of brandy.

  "What are we going to do?” Kassy whispered. “Time is running out."

  I let the drink slide down my throat and warm my kishkes.

  "In the Gospel of Mark,” I said, “there is a moment when it was so crowded around your Lord Jesus that the people couldn't get through the door to hear him preach. What did they do?"

  Kassy stared blankly at the table.

  "They went in through the roof,” said Father Stefan, looking at me with new eyes.

  "Exactly. When the direct route isn't working, you have to find another way around."

  "Well, we better find it fast,” Kassy said. “I mean, we need to build a convincing argument based on material evidence, and we're dealing with a man who's never heard of the Americas."

  "Rabbi Troki was the same way,” said Rabbi Loew, dismissing her concerns with a wave of his hand. “Always too absorbed in his studies to keep up with the latest trends."

  "Trends? How could he not know about America?"

  Father Stefan answered as plainly as his position allowed: “Lord Strekov has been extremely busy keeping a steady hand on his affairs and a roving eye on the peasant women, and peopling the land with his progeny."

  Something clicked in my head, and I asked the priest to tell me again about Father Szymon's recent legal decisions.

  But soon it was time to end the conversation as Lord Strekov called for us all to rise and observe a moment of silence in honor of his lost heir. A pair of servants brought in a bolt of white fabric and began to unfold it, revealing the Strekov coat of arms in glistening red and gold beadwork. Sir Tadeusz's burial shroud was a family heirloom made of fine cloth with golden embroidery around the edges. It was twice the length of the nobleman's body when fully unfurled, and the peasants stood there with their mouths hanging open, spellbound by its shimmering beauty.

  Another pair of servants commenced the delicate task of gathering the coarse cloth that held Sir Tadeusz's body in its bloodstained embrace. Bits of grass and earth came loose, and the servants were trying to slide the cloth from under his hips when a carving knife slipped from the folds of rough fabric and clattered to the floor.

  For a moment, all was still beneath the vaulted roof. The servants and revelers stood gawking like a bunch of gargoyles with rainspouts where their mouths should be. Then one of the servants reached out to touch the knife and Rabbi Loew leapt to his feet.

  "Don't touch a thing!” he commanded, as his staff fell to the floor.

  Every man in the hall, noble or servant, was equally dumbfounded. But in an instant Lord Strekov took charge and allowed the three of us to come forward to examine the knife, providing that we touched nothing ourselves and that our examination was performed in full view of all those present. That was to be expected. But I didn't expect those burly peasants to clear the benches and crowd in close around us, every one of them puffing hot, stinking breath down our necks.

  We asked them to step back a bit, but their desire to see a genuine murder weapon was a lot stronger than their interest in careful observation and analysis.

  When I finally got someone to bring over a torch and we got a good look at the blade, there didn't seem to be much blood on it at all. Perhaps the knife had belonged to Sir Tadeusz? No, it was too crude to be a nobleman's dagger. His sword had been made of damask steel inlaid with gold filigree.

  "Your eyes are better than mine, Rabbi Benyamin,” said Rabbi Loew, straightening up with an old man's groan. “Take a close look and tell me what you see."

  I crouched on one knee and studied the scarred blade by the flickering light.

  "Hold that steady, will you?” I asked. A pair of bondsmen obliged by supporting the torch with both hands.

  A couple of faint streaks of reddish brown matter caught the light, thinner than the finest thread.

  "It looks like someone tried to wipe the blood off this blade."

  Sir Mateusz ordered the servants to yank the burlap aside, then he pawed and pulled at his brother's clothing, until a flap of cloth fell open revealing two wide streaks of rusty brown that could only have been made by someone wiping the blood from both sides of a knife.

  "Ah!” he cried. “Just like you said. It's been wiped clean."

  "Not completely."

  The handle glimmered dully with traces of another substance, but the peasants kept blocking the light.

  "Bring us a pot of water,” said Rabbi Loew.

  "Fresh, clean water,” I stipulated.

  "And enough wood to bring it to a boil."

  In no time the servants had a cauldron of water bubbling away in the fireplace. Rabbi Loew instructed them to remove it from the fire and set it on the flagstones in front of the hearth.

  When the water stopped sloshing around, Rabbi Loew asked Lord Strekov to wrap the knife carefully in a clean napkin and drop it in the pot.

  The servants had some trouble finding a clean napkin, and when they finally found one and placed it in their master's hands, Lord Strekov stood there with his arm outstretched, the napkin stirring in the drafty air.

  "Father,” he said, calling the priest.

  "Yes, my son?"

  "Is this sort of Jewish magic permitted?"

  "My Lord, I have yet to see any magic performed before my eyes this evening, Jewish or otherwise."

  But Lord Strekov was still unsure of himself, which must have been a new feeling for him.

  "There is a new kind of magical art,” I said. “A natural magic that opens the doors to new knowledge and new worlds. And it involves nothing unholy, because like all learning, it ultimately comes from the five Books of Moses, which the Christians call the Pentateuch."

  "Explain,” said Lord Strekov.

  "What we seek comes to us through nothing more than precise observation of the workings of God's world."

  Lord Strekov's eyes flitted to the right, then back at me. I followed his gaze to his son, Mateusz.

  From what I know of the laws of succession among the nobility, if we couldn't name the true murderer, Lord Strekov would always have to wonder if his younger son had a hand in his elder son's death. What was it like to live that way? To spend your days worrying if your own flesh and blood might yield to the urge to take sole possession of your property and treasure, whatever the cost?

  Lord Strekov broke from his rigid stance and picked up the knife with the napkin, marched toward us, and dropped the knife into the steaming cauldron.

  The knife sank to the bottom and landed with a muffled klunk, leaving a trail of tiny bubbles in the steaming water. The surface rippled from the disturbance, then began to settle. Some of the bubbles brought up particles with a faint reddish tinge, and for a moment I stopped feeling the hot breath of peasants on the back of my neck. Eventually other bubbles came up, bringing traces of an oily substance with an undeniable hint of blue. Rabbi Loew dipped a bit of parchment into the water and drew it out, then he held it up and showed us that the substance had adhered to it.

  It was blue dye.

  Lord Strekov saw the signs and recognized their meaning. Every man in the room did the same. But if His Lordship knew something, he did not reveal it to us.

  But he could not stop all the tongues from running rampant and filling the hall with murmurs, until Rabbi Loew silenced them by pounding the floor with his staff. When all eyes were upon him, the rabbi raised his arms like the fabled councilor in the court of King Solomon and took four strides to the east, marked the corner with his staff, then took a stride to the
north, and repeated the process, marking each corner of the slim rectangle until he ended up right back where he started.

  "What is the meaning of this?” Lord Strekov demanded.

  "I have just measured off the limits of your grave, My Lord,” said Rabbi Loew, playing out a scene from a Yiddish moral tale published in Prague about twenty years earlier. “Know well that when you die, this is all the territory that you will possess."

  The imaginary rectangle beneath the rabbi's staff suddenly seemed more real than the actual planks that made up the floor.

  "You can't ask me to point him out to you,” said Lord Strekov.

  "That's all right,” I said. “I think we can find him easily enough."

  Lord Strekov's face fell, and I knew that we would have our man before the night was through.

  * * * *

  The Zohar says that just before the Most High brought His light into the world, He created all the souls that humanity would ever need, and that each soul descends to join its designated body when the appointed time comes. But what if a soul doesn't want to descend from the heavenly spheres? Perhaps that would explain why some men seem to be missing a part of their soul.

  The part that feels.

  Rabbi Isaac of Safed says that such a man who yields to his anger is possessed by a strange god and thereby commits the sin of idolatry. But is it still a sin if he becomes possessed against his will? I don't know the full explanation, but perhaps one day, God willing, I will go to Safed and ask Rabbi Isaac's disciples to clarify what their master actually said.

  * * * *

  The night was clear and the full moon defined the edges of the sloping roofs and crooked chimneys as sharply as if they were paper cutouts.

  One of Lord Strekov's squires pounded on the door of the dyer's home with a mailed fist.

  "Open up, Horshky!"

  The pounding was loud enough to startle the elves that sleep under the eaves of these country cottages.

  A woman's voice answered: “Who is it?"

  "Lord Strekov's men! Open up!"