The Slaughterman's Daughter

by Yaniv Iczkovits

  The army general stands at the top of the pyramid, a prince or a count who can recite French chansons and Italian arias. By the light of the night lamp he pores over Machiavelli’s The Prince, and takes morning walks through the camp to survey his domain. The average general can command twenty thousand subordinates or more without having fired a single round in a real battle. He will have acquired his professional qualifications at the military academy in St Petersburg, studying mostly obsolete tactical manuals written by inflexible conservative strategists like Professor Levitzky. The main flaws in the leadership skills of such a general are usually: foot-dragging over decisions, failing to exploit an advantage, failing to engage the enemy, striving too hard to engage the enemy, strategic miscalculation, insufficient familiarity with the terrain, ill-judged division of his soldiers, and, in short, a general lack of any understanding of the battlefield whatsoever. A typical general will conceal his incompetence by claiming to be hiding his “true” intentions and his “secret” manoeuvres. After all, his subordinates cannot fathom the wider picture as he can, and lack the totality of detailed information that he alone has at his disposal. Nonetheless, despite the resentment they harbour towards him, the general’s subordinates still idolise him and address him as “Your Magnificence”, no less. The very fact that he is the one in possession of this rank, rather than anyone else, makes everyone think there must be something special about him, even if it is not so immediately apparent. After all, in the absence of substantive reasons for such admiration, they can still talk endlessly with him about the fine Sobranie cigarettes he keeps in the golden box in his coat pocket.

  At the military camp near the town of Nesvizh, just by the village of Uzanka, everything is running more or less as it should, under the command of Lieutenant General Mishenkov. The General himself is not in camp right now. Two days earlier, he was invited to a feast at the assessor’s house and he has not yet returned. At the military academy, Mishenkov learned that a good commander is judged by how well his unit functions in his absence, and he often tests the strength of his leadership skills by disappearing from the camp for days on end – sometimes weeks – and leaving his deputy, Major General David Pazhari, in charge. Every time Mishenkov returns, he is pleased to note the fruits of his superb leadership: the camp is shipshape, training is progressing according to schedule and all the reports are waiting for him on his desk, scrupulously filled in by his second-in-command.

  IV

  * * *

  Another day in the camp is drawing to a close. Weapons have been polished to a mirror-like sheen, all equipment has been stored, and a changing of the guard is about to take place. And then the sergeant in charge spots a wagon carrying three beggars approaching in the distance, and sends out two soldiers to see them off.

  The fugitives have been travelling along back roads all day. As they have gradually begun to trust each other, they have taken turns to keep watch, giving the others a chance to sleep. First Fanny joined the cantor in the back of the wagon, then Zizek replaced her, and even Adamsky allowed himself to doze next to the urine-drenched drunkard. People are pigs. It’s a rotten world.

  They re-emerge onto the open road and a great field stretches before them, the site of the army camp well known to Adamsky. Two infantrymen are approaching, their rifles shouldered and cigarettes hanging from their lips. One of them picks up a stone and throws it in their direction, and Adamsky stands up on the wagon’s platform and waves his arms about like a man lost at sea.

  “Get lost, you fools,” the other soldier calls, indifferently, and continues his relaxed stroll towards them, as his comrade picks up another stone.

  Zizek tightens the reins and halts the wagon. The two soldiers also stop, keeping their distance, and the second soldier, who is now rolling another cigarette, calls to them again, “Get out of here, scum,” without even looking in their direction. The soldiers exchange a few words and laugh, clearly enjoying their respite from camp.

  “I am Captain Adamsky,” shouts the man who until recently had been the owner of a disreputable tavern. “Third Regiment, Fifth Division, Eleventh Army.”

  “And I am Peter the Great,” the first soldier shouts back, and hits the wagon with his next stone. Enraged, Adamsky, jumps down from the wagon.

  “Soldier,” he roars, “I demand to speak to your superior!”

  “He’s right here,” says the first soldier, pointing at the second, who is now choking with laughter, expelling cigarette smoke through his nostrils.

  “And who is your superior?” Adamsky asks the second soldier.

  “He is,” the second soldier says, pointing at the first, who picks up yet another stone and bounces it towards Adamsky’s boots.

  “And who do the two of you report to?” Adamsky says, now walking towards them.

  “To Him.” they both point at the sky, and the stone-loving soldier says, “Seriously, Grandpa, not another step closer, we don’t want to hurt you.”

  Adamsky looks back at Zizek and Fanny in a fury, his face purple, his jaw clenched. He climbs back on the wagon and snatches the reins from Zizek.

  The horses notice that a different hand is now grasping the reins, a hand that pulls at them aggressively and urgently, but they heed Adamsky even as he directs them straight at the guards. Suddenly alarmed, the cigarette-smoking soldier grabs his rifle and fires a shot in the air. The horses baulk at the explosion, but keep going, and the stone-throwing soldier brandishes his rifle with a bayonet at the end of its barrel. Fanny’s hand twitches towards her knife, but Adamsky anticipates her actions, and warns her with a sharp look to not even think of such a thing.

  “I am Captain Adamsky,” he bawls again. “Third Regiment, Fifth Division, Eleventh Army.”

  “Stop, or I’ll shoot!” shouts the formerly amused soldier, now terrified.

  The rifle shots are heard in the barracks, and in times of peace and boredom such a sound can easily fire up the imagination. Soon two more hussars approach, the first to respond, quickly followed by dozens of other soldiers eager to engage in battle. Before long the wagon is surrounded by an entire infantry platoon, and the first two soldiers, the unexpected heroes of the hour, give an account of the incident thus far. They gave the trespassers a warning, and then pelted them with stones to ensure they got the message. But then one of the wagon’s passengers, either a fool or a madman, yelled at them: “I am Captain Something, of Such-and-Such Regiment, and Such-and Such Division,” and started racing the wagon in their direction, intending to run them over. With no other choice, they fired their rifles in the air to end the assault.

  Silence falls on the rocky field cut through with rivulets that the sun has carved with its blades, stagnant waters welling up in the crepuscular light like shed blood. A sword is drawn, with the squeaking sound of a bird’s chirp, by a stocky, broad-shouldered hussar whose face is sweet as a child’s. He stops his horse behind the wagon and peers inside, looking for the source of the strange noises coming from within. To his surprise, he discovers a drowsy fellow lying there, soaked in urine, with a sloppily trimmed beard and grog-reddened cheeks. The passenger rubs his eyes, twists a lock of his hair around a finger, and then sucks on his thumb – why not? These are the last indulgent moments of his slumber. When he opens his eyes again, he sees more or less what he was expecting, and, being accustomed to waking up to bedlam, he raises his hand to his forehead, still lying on his back, and salutes the sword-wielding soldier.

  The hussar lets out a roar of laughter and the soldiers guffaw too, even without being able to apprehend the ridiculous sight in full. But Adamsky knows every nuance of this laughter, and he knows that there is a sinister side to the soldiers’ relief. They have all realised that the wagon poses not a threat of danger, but an opportunity to loot. Sure enough, the hussar is already rummaging through the empty sacks on the wagon and eyeing the barrel of rum. Adamsky draws himself up to his full height and turns on him
.

  “I am Captain Adamsky!” he bellows. “Third Regiment, Fifth Division, Eleventh Army!”

  “You are nothing more than a filthy żyds” the hussar scoffs. “Stay where you are.”

  Many things can be said about Patrick Adamsky. Filthy? Sure. A depraved inn keeper? Definitely. A pimp and a scoundrel? Why not. But a żyds? Anyone suggesting this does so at his own peril. Adamsky has devoted too much of his life to the single goal of eras-ing his past and denying his identity. No fat non-commissioned hussar will return him to the night when he was abducted by Leib Stein. For this reason, Adamsky doesn’t pause to consider whether this is the best time or the right course of action – surrounded as they are by an entire infantry unit – before leaping at the soldier, throwing him off his horse and wrestling with him in the muddy road. Surprisingly, no-one rushes to disentangle the brawl and slice Adamsky in half, and Adamsky realises that if he can ignore the disadvantages of his own age, he can withstand the counter-attack of a hussar who is thirty years younger than him.

  Captain Adamsky did not make a name for himself because of his size or strength, but because of his wild temper, which was like that of a ravenous predator. While his comrades stormed enemy positions, throwing fists and blows and rolling on the ground until they could grab an enemy by his throat, Adamsky bared his teeth and tore off noses and ears, rammed his fingers into eye sockets, and tore the skin off necks and mouths. Overpowering his foes without much effort, he would leave them bleeding on the ground, ripped and gouged, feeling after a missing earlobe or piece of nostril. This included not only his own melees but also the entire course of the battles he fought in. Turkish soldiers watched the Czar’s wolf in disbelief as he flashed blood-dripping teeth and amber eyes thirsty for yet another fight. Nobody else fought that way, shedding every shred of their humanity, or worse, mercilessly striving to crush the very possibility of being humane.

  Now, though, Adamsky feels his bones shattering under the hammering fists of the hussar, his legs buckling like pillars on the brink of collapse and his ribs cracking beneath the strain. And yet, mustering his strength, he leans forwards and sinks his teeth into his rival’s chin. The hussar is taken aback by this novel type of assault and tries to shake off the wild brute, but Adamsky’s jaws are ripping into his flesh. The watching soldiers can only watch in astonishment as their comrade screams in pain, fending off the attack on what is left of his chin with one hand and punching thin air with the other. Facing him with his newly gained upper hand, Adamsky tries his luck again. “I am Captain Adamsky,” he says, spitting out bits of leftover chin. “Third Regiment, Fifth Division, Eleventh Army.”

  The bleeding hussar draws his pistol from its holster and aims it at Adamsky. But his grip is weak and he fires too low, and the bullet swishes past the captain’s knee and shatters a spoke on one of the wagon wheels. Adamsky is on the point of his next charge, but another bullet whistles past his ear, this time fired from behind him. He turns to find the other hussar, a lieutenant, shouldering a smoking rifle and drawing a pistol.

  “What do you want, Captain?” the lieutenant asks, quite politely. His bright eyes have a slight squint, and his full head of blonde hair has not yet had a taste of the trenches.

  “Who wants to know?” Adamsky pants, wiping his mouth. “You or the gun?”

  “The gun is to be sure that you will not kiss me on the chin,” the lieutenant replies, pleased with the rumble of laughing soldiers around him. “I, on the other hand, would like to know why you aren’t getting the hell out of here.”

  “Shoot him!” yells the bleeding torn-faced hussar, his eyes still searching for the rest of his chin on the ground.

  “I want to talk in private,” Adamsky says.

  “You are in no position to bargain,” the officer says, raising his voice.

  “I am a captain in the Czar’s army,” Adamsky says. “I have served Russia for thirty-five years.”

  “Shoot him!” the maimed hussar shrieks, as the magnitude of the damage done to his face begins to dawn on him.

  “Served Russia?” the lieutenant laughs, ignoring his comrade’s torment. “You served yourself, your family.”

  “And risked my life!” Adamsky is dumbfounded. No-one would have dared to speak like this in his day, certainly not hussars, and certainly not before the ears of infantrymen.

  “And you were paid handsomely for it, were you not?”

  “You evidently haven’t been in battle, boy,” Adamsky hisses, taking a step towards him. “I demand to speak privately with your commanding officer.”

  “As you wish,” the lieutenant says and cocks his pistol. “I will make sure your last words are relayed to him.”

  A deathly silence falls. The gun and Adamsky’s obstinacy confront each other. Both are made of steel. The troops wait for a signal to storm the wagon. Fanny and Zizek huddle together, and even the cantor is watching, wondering whether this might be a good time to try a burst of “Adon Olam” to break the tension.

  “Shoot him!” the hussar implores.

  The night before, when Adamsky still had something to lose, he had acted like a complete fool and risked everything he owned for Yoshke’s sake. Now, when he has nothing to lose, he still acts like a complete fool and ignores the barrel of a gun pointed between his eyes. One can only conclude that Adamsky is an imbecile, putting his life in the hands of a junior lieutenant whose sharp tongue has already demonstrated cruelty and malice, not uncommon traits in the younger generation. He must have been educated in one of those bourgeois schools that, rather than teaching their students to show respect and seek justice, expose them to the web of interests and hypocrisy behind those “principles”. They hide their corrupted souls behind quotation marks, which, like laundry pegs, fasten words to the washing lines of cynicism to desiccate their beautiful meaning – to the point where conscience and dignity become empty words invoked in intellectual jousting sessions with their friends.

  Who knows if the blonde lieutenant will really pull the trigger? Adamsky takes another step in his direction all the same.

  Stupidity, perhaps even superciliousness, must be admirable qualities in the army, because still the lieutenant hesitates to pull the trigger, and a murmur of admiration begins to rise from the soldiers standing around Captain Adamsky. Without a doubt this man is an officer, a fearless warrior, and the thought of splitting his skull with a bullet seems inappropriate under the circumstances. Adamsky considers taking another step, but of all the stupid things he has done so far, he decides that continuing to edge forwards in the twilight, surrounded by twenty soldiers who are watching his every move, would be pushing his luck. So he breaks off his ceremony of careful approach and confidently strides towards the young officer, who realises that, now that the old man has taken such a risk, he cannot respond with a cowardly blast of the gun. If he has to wrestle in the dirt and risk the integrity of his pretty face, so be it. Even the bleeding hussar is holding his peace, hoping that he will not be the only one to come out of this incident humiliated.

  The young lieutenant, however, dismounts from his horse and leads Adamsky out of the circle of watching soldiers. They talk quietly for a few moments. The lieutenant points towards the camp, Adamsky draws something on the ground, and then they continue to exchange quiet remarks for a long while. Finally, they return to the group, arm in arm like old friends. Adamsky points at Zizek, and Fanny is convinced that the sheigetz has made yet another deal behind her back. The captain will extract himself and Zizek from the situation, and she, along with the cantor, will be left as easy prey for the mob. But then the lieutenant asks Fanny for permission to climb onto the wagon, and gives Zizek a warm handshake.

  “It is a great honour, sir,” the officer whispers. “Had we only known, all of this could have been avoided.” He smiles apologetically at Fanny, too. “I beg you, madam, forgive us for our lack of manners.” Without further ado, he turns to the wat
ching soldiers. “These people are our guests of honour for the coming days. If I hear that any of you have dared to approach them without permission, I will personally remove his tongue.”

  Adamsky climbs back onto the wagon and sits beside Zizek. Fanny, still eyeing him with contempt, cannot help herself and demands, “What did you say to him?”

  “Two words, that’s all,” Adamsky says.

  “Zvi-Meir?” Fanny asks, in disbelief.

  “Zvi-Meir?” Adamsky says. “What the hell is a Zvi-Meir?”

  “Never mind,” Fanny growls.

  “I said to him, ‘Yoshke Berkovits’,” Adamsky says, mysteriously, and Fanny notices an almost imperceptible change in Zizek’s expression.

  “Yoshke Berkovits?”

  “That was all that had to be said,” the captain replies. “Fucking hell.”

  V

  * * *

  Some people can never be satisfied. They have an image in their heads of how things should be, and if reality does not fit the image in their head they never suspect that there might be something wrong with the image, but blame reality instead. Well, Shleiml Cantor does not have any images in his head. Like most beggars, his life is a succession of humble wants, momentary aspiration and immediate gratification.

  An orphan since childhood, as the Almighty had wished, he was first sent to his uncle in Krakow, then to his great-uncle in Pinsk, and from the moment he could think for himself, he made a living polishing shoes for a pittance. If only there were a tale to tell about how, soon thereafter, he had caught the attention of a wealthy philanthropist who had extracted him from poverty and given him his first opportunity in life! How nice would it have been to imagine Shleiml Cantor as an apprentice metalworker who ended up as the owner of a railway construction company. Alas, his expectations of the Creator were far more modest. If all He had done was produce bread from the earth and not bring it to Shleiml’s mouth, this would have been enough. If all He had done was to bring it to Shleiml’s mouth, where the bread would prove unpleasant, this would have been enough. If the bread had tasted fine and He hadn’t send a potato his way every now and again, this would have been enough. If He had sent a spud his way every now and again, but did not let him have chicken thighs on the High Holidays, this would have been enough. If He had let him have chicken thighs on the High Holidays, but not gladdened his heart with brandy, this would have been enough. If He had gladdened his heart with brandy and not blessed him with the talent of singing “Adon Olam”, this would have been enough. Yet the Merciful Father doubled and trebled Shleiml’s good fortune, and often treated him to a stable or a barn for laying his head to rest. Can anyone appreciate Shleiml Cantor’s joy as he walks through the snowy nights of Uzda, stray dogs barking from all directions, when suddenly a Jew comes out to open the stable gate for him? Can anyone picture the moment when he is generously invited to join a festive dinner, take off his water-soaked boots and huddle with his hosts around the stove? Can anyone fathom how lucky he is?