“Here, Zizek Breshov.” She hands him the reins. “Here you go; I will take the old one.”
Zizek cannot utter a word in response before she turns towards the veteran steed, which nervously shifts back and forth, rocking the cart and advising them that he has no intention of pulling all that weight on his own. Fanny tries to quash the dissent with a brandishing of the whip, and the horse punishes her for this insolence by shoving her straight into a muddy puddle.
Zizek rushes to help her up, failing to hide the beginnings of a smile at the sight of Fanny wallowing in the muck. She sees his scarred lips starting to twitch, and bursts out laughing.
“This is quite a horse indeed!” she says, imitating the voice of the gang leader, and they both collapse with the contagious laughter of madness and despair.
Fanny seizes Zizek’s hand and pulls herself out of the muddy embarrassment, and they sit together at the edge of the pond, which, at first light and from a distance, had struck them as a lake, and now, close up, reeks of swamp. They gaze out at the boggy plain, which resembles the surface of a burnt cake, and they peer at each other, their energy spent. When they had first set out on this journey, they could not have dreamt that by this point they would be in the middle of nowhere with three corpses to their credit. Zizek pulls out his snuff box and wipes his nose with his sleeve, and Fanny notices that the cut in his lip is deep and still oozing.
When they are under way again, he pours out two cups of rum and proposes a new plan, with the sudden excitement of one who has found a precious thing believed lost for ever.
“Baranavichy!”
“What?” Fanny says, taken aback.
“Baranavichy. I’m sorry, but I know the owner of a small inn there, perhaps you can stay there, just for a few nights, until they stop searching.” Zizek fires out his words at great speed, without pausing for breath, as if compelled by a need to make up for lost time. “In the meantime, you must burn the bloodstained uniform, please – do it quickly – and get yourself new clothes, of course.”
“Not ‘myself’, Zizek Breshov,” she corrects him. “Ourselves.”
“I’m sorry, but you must ride to the next village and rely on the villagers’ charity for food and clothes, there isn’t any other choice. Anyway, you won’t be able to linger there for more than an hour, any rumour about two killers wandering between towns will spread quickly, and this is why you can’t keep travelling at night. Your only option is to blend in, to pretend you have a family there, a father and daughter. If they ask questions, say nothing. And then go to the inn, you can stay there for a few nights, until they call off the search.”
“We can stay there, you mean,” she says. “I am not going anywhere without you.”
“Hurry, please,” he says, again ignoring her.
Fanny stares at him in amazement. The revival of Zizek’s speech is dazzling, but why won’t he include himself in the plans he is making for her? She doesn’t know. But his instructions sound reasonable, and so she answers his pleading gaze with a nod. Apparently petrified by the outpouring of his own words, Zizek lowers his eyes, reins in the horses, and gets to work. He gathers the uniform, coat and jacket and rolls them in thorny bracken he pulls up from the edge of the bog. He sets fire to this incriminating bundle and stokes the flames to ensure that his entire military past is incinerated. A whole life goes up in flames, and Zizek looks at Fanny, his face furrowed with anguish, like a man who has just lost everything he owns. He purses his lips with the intensity of a starved baby. Fanny takes his arm, still stunned by the verbal stream that just gushed from the man whom everyone considered the town fool, and together, caked in dried mud, they stand and watch the dying flames.
VIII
* * *
Emboldened by the success of the first stage of Zizek’s plan, they climb back onto the cart and set off for the next village. But before they have gone very far, the remainder of the plan suddenly goes up in smoke: they come across a man lying face down by the side of the road. Zizek shakes the reins to urge the horses to speed up, but the old horse chooses to slow its pace instead, making it very difficult to ignore the body. They can see at once that the man is an unfortunate Jew, wearing a torn kaftan tied at the waist and a tattered hat covering half his head.
Two black ravens perch on the brim of the deceased’s hat and peck at his neck, and Fanny mumbles, “We should at least . . .”
Zizek puts a stop to this at once. “I’m sorry, but it’s out of the question.”
But just when it seems that the danger is past and that the stranger at the roadside cannot trouble them unless they torment themselves by looking back, Zizek pulls the horses to a halt. He takes a shovel from one of the crates in the cart, alights with a groan and limps with his bruised body and wracked nerves back towards the corpse.
Fanny jumps down and hurries after him, and turns the man onto his back – only to discover that he is still breathing. Elated, she yells, “He’s alive!”, but the expression on Zizek’s face tells her that they now have a new dilemma: how will they flee with a Jew suspended between this world and the next?
He gives Fanny an apologetic look. If the stranger were dead, they would be able to bury him properly, but in their present circumstances they will be risking their lives to save a stranger whose own life is hanging by a thread. Zizek shuffles back towards the cart, gesturing to Fanny to be reasonable and follow him, but then he sees, horrified, that Fanny is bending over the Jew and pulling out her knife. Has the woman gone mad? Will she now dispatch everyone they meet on this road as a matter of course? Then he realises that she is merely cutting the stranger’s sidelocks and trimming his beard a little to try and disguise his Jewish appearance, and then she calls to Zizek and beckons to him to bring the cart back. Zizek refuses and implores her to leave the Jew where he is, but, with an unnerving stubbornness, she bends down to wrap the stranger’s arm around her neck.
* * *
As they ride on to the village, with the unconscious fellow now reposing in the back of the wagon, Fanny explains to Zizek that the authorities are searching for a couple, a man and a woman, not a trio. In other words, they might have just arranged an alibi for themselves. If the human toothpick in the back there recovers, perhaps he will sacrifice the truthfulness of his testimony for them, in gratitude for having had his life saved? He won’t even have to lie – not knowingly, at least. They will help him refresh his memory.
“Can’t you see, Zizek Breshov, this Jew is a sign from Heaven?”
Zizek looks up at the skies, his wounds raked by the sun’s scorching fingers, then glances back at the Jew who has been sent to save them, and whose sidelocks and beard have been trimmed to hide his incriminating Jewishness, with limited success. All Zizek can do is nod at Fanny in reluctant agreement.
As soon as they enter the village, their peril becomes clear. Usually, when strangers arrive in a village during the summer months, the locals greet them and offer them borscht and salted fish, or at least some sweetened tea. But not a single household is prepared to offer hospitality today. To the gentiles, the unconscious man in the cart, whose lips are cracked and whose beard was undoubtedly clipped in haste, is Jewish; even if a cross had been carved into his forehead, he would remain a Jew, and they are immediately wary of the Poles (supposedly a father and daughter) who are transporting him. The inhabitants of the three houses with mezuzahs on their doorposts – that is, the few Jews, yishuvnikim, who are still living among the peasants – are also suspicious, although they flag down the cart nonetheless and throw them an old blanket, a shirt with a hole in it, mouldy bread and half-rotten fruit, and even a broken stool.
Fanny knows that they are living on borrowed time. These one-street villages never fail to miss even the arrival of a new fly, and every insect buzz is taken for a sting. Nevertheless, they manage to amass enough alms-clothes to put together a change of peasant outfits: Fanny in a red dress, tri
mmed with pins instead of buttons, a babushka coat and a head scarf. Zizek puts on a ragged woollen tunic, a peasant’s jacket and a worn red sash. They are given permission to draw water from a well to fill their flasks and let their horses drink. Someone sees Zizek’s bruised face and tosses them bandages and a bottle of herbal medicine, and someone else adds a flask of smelling salts, perhaps to help revive the man lying in the back of the cart. Fanny knows how country life works, knows that their strange appearance will have already become the topic of the day. It is time to disappear, they must hasten on to Baranavichy before rumour of the three dead bodies reaches the village.
Thanks perhaps to the smelling salts, the old Jew finally wakes, his black eyes widening at the sight of Zizek’s scarred face looming over him. He tries to get to his feet and flee from the wagon, but his legs tangle like a newborn lamb’s, and he collapses again. However, once he has understood that the horses have been stopped for him and that he has been offered water and dry bread, he is no longer in such a rush to get up. His back aches and his muscles are feeble, but if he could only take a bite from one of those apples that his saviours have accumulated on their travels through the village, his body would surely regain its strength. On the other hand, he has bad teeth, so perhaps they would be so kind as to peel and slice the apple for him? It doesn’t take long for Fanny and Zizek to discover that this Jew is quite demanding.
He tells them that his name is Shleiml and that he is a hazan, a cantor. Fanny is surprised by this revelation. Hazanim are usually devout men, greatly respected by Jewish communities. What has happened to him, and why was he lying at the side of the road in a filthy kaftan? What is more, how can he understand their Polish? Hazanim usually speak only Yiddish and Hebrew; they have no use for other languages. Shleiml the Cantor merely shrugs and offers no answer. They found him by the wayside? He is surprised. Perhaps he fell victim to sunstroke, or maybe he was robbed by bandits – yes, yes, it’s all coming back to him now: there were two of them, maybe even three, ogres, sons of giants, who accosted him, demanding to know why he was roaming around the villages on foot like a government spy, and he explained to them that he is a hazan, delighting the Jews with his beautiful melodies. And the bandits asked him what kind of profession is that, and he replied, certainly a most honourable occupation. Then they forced him to demonstrate his talents, and sing for them – and to illustrate this point in his story, Shleiml Cantor launches into song for Fanny and Zizek, as he did for the bandits: “Adon olaaam osherrr molochhh . . .”
“Enough!” Zizek claps his hands over his ears and looks at Fanny in horror, as if to say, I’m sorry, but if Shleiml is a hazan then Zizek is the Czar. It then dawns on them why this songbird has been forced to wander destitute about the villages: he was struck by neither sunstroke nor bandits. He is simply a cantor who sings like a bar-mitzvah boy whose audience prays for him to become mute.
All the same, Shleiml the Cantor is now stretching out his hand in expectation of payment for his toil. Fanny cannot help herself and bursts out laughing. Undeterred, the cantor goes on, “Be-terremmm kolll yetzirrr nivraaa . . .”, his hand still outstretched, and it becomes clear that he will continue to sing until a few copecks have landed in his palm. When Fanny pulls out two coins from her sash, they realise that this hazan does not earn his living by singing, but rather by being paid to stop. He immediately feels “much better” and is ready to hop down from the cart and be on his way, knowing he will not squeeze any more money from these shegetz peasants. He must keep courting the custom of country Jews, who may be inclined to listen to his charming melodies, or else beg him to stop. But before he can take a step, Zizek seizes him by his collar. “If you please, Cantor, you are coming with us to Baranavichy.”
As they ride on, the hazan starts singing again, “Azzzai molochhh shemooo nikraaa . . .”, but Fanny waves at him to stop pushing his luck, because Zizek is already at the end of his tether. She tries to ask him where he studied, where he comes from and where his home is, and his answers make his story even clearer. Shleiml the Cantor is a homeless, uneducated nobody who can sing “Adon Olam” and a handful of piyutim for the mussaf prayer for Rosh Hashanah. He travels the countryside, away from the big cities, where synagogues are scarce and Jewish yishuvnikim are willing to pay generously to listen to the tunes they grew up hearing, or for the abrupt truncation thereof. He picked up his Polish as he lurked in taverns, back when his business prospered and his lucky streak in cards and chequers was guided by interventions from On High. But, now that he is better known in the area, his income has dwindled. He is banned from entering taverns and no longer offered a place to sleep in the stables. His former gambling colleagues have ruined his reputation, denied him a livelihood, and ultimately caused his collapse at the roadside. And now, if they would be so kind as to explain, why is his presence required in Baranavichy? Not that he has anything against the town, it’s actually quite pleasant, with many Jews and a nice synagogue and a mikveh and a market and tavern. But it is still a town just like any other, and houses there are not made of gold, so perhaps the lady could plead with the nice gentleman holding the reins to let Shleiml the Cantor get down from the cart?
Fanny looks at Zizek and they know that the time has come to refresh the hazan’s memory. So Fanny explains to Shleiml the Cantor that he has been riding with them for the past two days – can he not remember? They picked him up near Telekhany, he asked them to drop him off in one of the villages, but then he was sun-struck and lost the soundness of his mind. This is why they are taking him to Baranavichy, to the large Jewish community there. Perhaps he can find work there, or maybe receive charitable help, but in any event he will be out of harm’s way.
Shleiml mulls this over as he scratches his clipped beard and feels about for his missing sidelocks, and only then does he realise that they have desecrated his Jewishness. He thanks Fanny for her well-intentioned act, even though her description of the past two days sounds rather odd to him. He could have sworn that he only lay in the ditch for an hour, two hours at most; could it be that this sorry state really lasted for whole two days? Let it be so. Anyway, if it was indeed two days, and he is not saying it wasn’t, then he must be even more debilitated than he first thought. His body has clearly reached its limits, and if he does not have more food and water in double and quadruple amounts he surely won’t make it. Fanny cuts him another slice of bread and sneaks him another apple, and Zizek grips the reins and stares straight ahead, trying to keep his ire in check. Since they mentioned Baranavichy, the cantor goes on, it is a lovely town indeed, and a large Jewish community is usually an advantage. But Shleiml the Cantor has reason to expect quite a few, well, disagreements there and also, it would seem he has some debts from various card games and chequers matches where the Guiding Hand had left him to his own devices. And then the chief cantor of the town, fearing competition, has declared war on Shleiml’s livelihood and forbidden him to sing anymore. Shleiml the Cantor’s vocal style, he was told, is no longer welcome in Baranavichy, and should he try singing there again, the authorities would be called in. In short, seeing as they are forcing him to visit a town where they know he will be in danger, Shleiml the Cantor would like to know if he isn’t entitled to any form of compensation other than the bread?
Fanny and Zizek are doubly relieved when they reach Bara-navichy at sunset, because another day of riding with such a schnorrer would have cost them the shirts off their backs.
IX
* * *
The town of Baranavichy has three inns. The one on Post Street is run by Tomashevsky, a man with a highly developed business sense and a hatred of paying taxes. Consequently, tax collectors and police officers frequently install themselves there, enjoying free drinks and “veal sausages” with the compliments of the house. Which really means that they must endure a menu that is entirely derived from cabbage: cabbage soup and cabbage salad and cabbage sausages and cabbage pie, all of which Tomashevsky passes off as “mea
t delicacies”. But nobody goes there just for the food, and hungry drunks do not have refined tastes. It is unlikely, Piotr Novak thinks, that the killers will go to Tomashevsky’s, and he is thankful to be spared the dubious pleasure of this cabbage den.
The second inn, on Alexander Street, is run by Vozhnyak. Even before entering the main hall, one finds oneself in a sumptuous foyer with a doorman and a place for coats. The inn’s walls are made of stone, for a change; there is a fireplace in every room and imported alcohol is served – French, at that. Anyone wishing to see and be seen in Baranavichy will come to Vozhnyak’s dressed in their finest, to smoke cigars and enjoy fine brandies. Is this a fitting locale for killers on the run? It seems unlikely, Novak decides, thinking regretfully of the fine caviar he enjoyed there on previous occasions.
All things considered, it seems likely that if the killers do indeed reach Baranavichy, and if they lack contacts in the town, they will put themselves up at Patrick Adamsky’s tavern, down one of the alleyways off Marinska Street.
A wastrel in threadbare clothes is slumped in there at this very moment, one of his soot-stained cheeks resting on a table. He orders a second shot of the cheapest vodka, a sort of jaundiced, urine-coloured juice probably concocted in a soap factory, and, when no-one is looking, he empties the drink under his chair into one of the cracks in the wooden floor. Then, he carefully pours himself a shot from the slivovitz bottle hidden in one of the pockets of the rags he calls his clothes. While there is certainly a chance of making himself conspicuous among the crowd of tramps, it is worth the risk, if only to remind himself that, unlike all the other derelicts around him, he still has a shred of dignity left.
The Slaughterman's Daughter Page 11