But the Almighty’s charity is boundless and He does not turn His back on Shleiml Cantor. Look at him now, as the itinerant cantor is ceremoniously led into an army base. And he is shown the way to a tent! They give him a folding bed, with a mattress! And they give him a uniform, a clean set! True, it is too big, but why should a man complain when his own rags are soaked in . . . well, fortunately no-one has noticed. Now the emaciated cantor is wearing the uniform of the Czarist army, ready to entertain the soldiers by singing “Adon Olam”, especially when they are asking him such welcome questions. Have you eaten? No! Have you had anything to drink? Would you like to, maybe? Yes!
Frankly, the sour-faced trio that came along with him are ruining the atmosphere. He recognises one of them by his menacing eyes, but cannot remember from where. The lady who dragged him into this adventure seems out of sorts and won’t stop rubbing her cheek. He must remember to have a little heart-to-heart with her. A few words from Shleiml Cantor might improve her mood, and if not, a song will surely do it. And the burly character with the scarred mouth they call Zizek is so sombre that one might think he had just witnessed the third destruction of the Temple. They all sit dejected, as if disaster were about to strike, while bread, potatoes and preserved meats are brought into their tent. One piece of advice from Shleiml Cantor: disaster may or may not strike, but in the meantime, they should straighten their backs and enjoy a feast the likes of which he hasn’t seen in a very long time. But while the itinerant cantor is asking for more bread, without caring whether it was baked today or the week before, the three of them are sitting sullen-faced, picking at crumbs, drinking little and exchanging morose glances.
Any fool, and Shleiml Cantor is no exception, knows that the human soul separates itself from the body at the point of death with great agony. Most people imagine that the soul extracts itself from its corporeal bonds on one’s deathbed and ascends On High. But Shleiml Cantor is convinced that most people do not understand that it is the body that separates itself from the soul and withers away, because people yield to their mental torments from their most tender age to the point where, like his travelling companions, their anxieties deny them the pleasure of bread and potatoes. This is what happened to Adam and Eve, who were given the Garden of Eden to satisfy all of their desires, and instead of indulging in the bounty of God’s creation agonised over the prohibition to eat of just one particular fruit. So from the time of First Man until today, people learn to ignore their child-like bodies, which scream whenever they do not eat or sleep, imagining that the needs of the soul are more important. Unlike them, the cantor’s soul cleaves to his body, and when the latter asks for more bread, the spirit obeys. And when the body asks for more potatoes, the spirit says: no reason to delay. And when the body asks, is there any brandy, the spirit joyously replies, why not? By all means, have as much as you like.
Therefore, the cantor does not adopt the indifferent diet of his three companions. Their stomachs must be thinking that their mouths have lost their mind. And if they leave something on their plate, be it a crust of bread or a potato, he immediately inquires after it. Is it not to your liking? Why aren’t you eating? And what about this? Such a pity to leave all this food on the plate. What a shame. And when a soldier walks into the tent to inquire after them, the cantor does not clam up like his friends for fear that they will be thrown out into the black bogs, but shamelessly asks the soldier if he might wet his throat with anything other than tepid water. Any “variety” would do. The strange humour of the wretched rake makes the soldier grow serious, and for a moment it seems that the itinerant cantor will be punched in the face. But then the soldier walks out of the tent without a word, returning with two bottles of mead a moment later. And the cantor is beaming.
His melancholy troupe, however, obstinately refuses the drink, as if they were in the middle of serious negotiations. Is what is on offer so bad? A bit of joy for the heart and repose for the body? What is it exactly, that they are refusing? To feel better than they are feeling right now? There’s no reason for him to complain, though. Sometimes people’s souls isolate them from reality, forcing their minds to become obsessed with tomorrow and yesterday, chances and risks. This way, they leave freedom to those whose eyes are intent on the present and whose souls follow their bodies. Indulging in a tin of preserved meat and two bottles of mead never hurt anyone.
VI
* * *
Adamsky cannot stand his present company. Were it not for his old friend, Yoshke Berkovits, he would have liked to burn down this tent along with all its occupants. The cantor is a gluttonous pig. In an hour’s time they’ll find him snoring and pissing himself again. The woman is so bitter she has not even deigned to thank him for saving her life. She thinks she can depend on her knife as if that blade could help her inside an army camp teeming with ruthless soldiers. What is it with these Jews? Why are they always waiting for the next catastrophe? Why are they always bracing themselves for disaster?
Adamsky remembers the day Stara Zagora went up in flames. The Turkish forces and the Bashi-Bazouk unit had raided and ransacked the city. Adamsky’s regiment was called in for support a few hours too late, and when he reached the city outskirts he watched a long trail of Bulgarian refugees, including Jews, with wagons loaded with all they could salvage from their burnt homes. They seemed to have thrown onto the wagons a stool here, a shelf there, a few blankets, without rationale or order, probably leaving jewels and valuables behind.
The Bashi-Bazouk, a barbaric pack of mercenaries wearing broad sashes and red turbans, armed with pistols, shibriya daggers and cries of “Allahu Akbar”, terrorised the town, massacred the residents who failed to escape – more than ten thousand of them – gang-raped women and plucked ears and genitals from dead bodies.
Adamsky will never forget the appalling sight. A valley of death with scorched, defiled corpses, a cloud of stench and decay, and swarms of blue and green flies. A herd of dumbstruck survivors crawled out from this mayhem: screaming babies, shushing mothers, petrified children and stunned fathers pulling stubborn mules. Their hesitant steps proved that they were not fleeing the havoc. They lingered amid the carnage, coalescing with it. Subhuman faces passed by Adamsky without saying a word, piercing him with their gaze: now what? Where do we go? How could you let this happen? They even burned down the church, the savages!
Suddenly he heard animated voices and saw a mule approaching, pulling a wagon with a large Jewish family: elderly people, women and children. Leading the mule, the men of the family were engrossed in a heated debate. Half-suffocated by the smoke they had inhaled, the elderly in the wagon seemed barely alive. The women were dehydrated. Remembering the sound of Yiddish from childhood, Adamsky became interested in the men’s conversation.
“They are fighting each other, the Muslims and the Christians, and we pay the price,” said one.
“This is how it has always been,” added another.
“But what do the Turks have against us?” a third one asked. “We sold them three tons of wheat this year alone.”
“The Turks have always hated us,” a fourth said.
A fifth man did not say a word.
“And when the Bulgarians return with the Russian army,” the first one said, “will it be any better?”
“Worse,” the second said.
“One is as bad as the other,” the third observed.
“The Bulgarians have always hated us,” the fourth asserted.
The fifth man remained silent, gritting his teeth.
“They burned down the yeshiva,” the first declared.
“And burned the Torah scroll,” the second hissed.
“Itzhak Galet, Aryeh’s father, was killed.”
“Itzhak Galet always had it in for me,” the fourth said wistfully.
The fifth remained mute and glum.
Adamsky continued eavesdropping because he could not believe how isolated and ind
ifferent these people were, living in their own little world. Why did they not even mention the terrible disaster that was befalling the city and its residents? As far as they were concerned, the catastrophe affected only them, their family and their synagogue. They were innocent and everyone else was to blame. In their eyes, anyone who did not speak their language was useful only for trade. Their obliviousness had led them to think that they could sell wheat to the Russian army one day, then to the Turkish army the next, and continue to be seen as neutral.
Most of all, though, Adamsky noticed the men’s relief, detecting beneath their fatigue and the soot on their faces a hint of elation, as if the disaster they had expected, once it had finally struck, had released them from the claws of anxiety. And then Adamsky realised that these people did not anticipate catas-trophe but lived it, letting it shape their way of looking at the world. Disaster was not a possibility but a necessity. The seeds of destruction did not lie idly in the hands of barbarians but were sown everywhere. And so, if a goy refused their offer in business negotiations, he couldn’t possibly be a businessman making a business decision but had to be a murderous Jew-hater, who would show up at their doorstep one day with a mob wielding torches and pitchforks.
And now, just as expected, Fanny is sitting next to him absorbed in bitter contemplation, even though he has just found an ideal hiding place for her. Without him, she would have been hanging from a noose by now, and he still can’t understand why on earth he has risked his life and defied fate for her sake. It is time to understand what he has really got himself into, and he demands that she tell him who the hell is this Zvi-Meir, and how is he connected to Yoshke Berkovits. So Fanny reluctantly tells him about her sister Mende Speismann (how interesting) who was abandoned by her husband Zvi-Meir (oh, really? Adamsky is on the verge of tears), and that she, Mende’s sister, simply wanted to go to Minsk and confront the missing husband (so . . . when does the real story begin?).
This is the real story.
What?!
That is to say, more or less – the rest wasn’t planned. They were attacked on the road, things happened, they escaped and found themselves in trouble with the law, and he knows the rest.
“That’s it?”
Fanny nods.
“I’ll be damned. Fucking hell.”
Adamsky takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes and sinks back onto his bed. Shleiml Cantor, who has also just heard the story for the first time, raises his glass of mead. “Lechayim! May we find the scoundrel Zvi-Meir as soon as possible!” Adamsky opens his eyes and looks at the imbecile, and then at the woman who has just explained to him, drily and coldly, the ridiculous reason why he has just lost everything. He shifts his gaze to his friend, hoping for an explanation, if only a partial one. But his friend is still suffering and withdrawn, refusing food with a shrug. Yoshke’s face offers no shadow of an explanation for why he has pulled Adamsky into this pathetic entanglement.
Adamsky remembers how he heard about the betrayal of his brother as he was cleaning the latrines in the camp. Another boy, who had been abducted from Pinsk, told him about the rumours from Motal. In return for generous rewards, a neighbour of his uncle and aunt, Itche-Schepsl Gurevits, an expert on cleaning pendulum clocks, would tell the assessor about the tax evaders and name-forgers among his Jewish brethren. A staunch Misnagid, he began by betraying his arch-enemies, the Hasidic Jews. But in due course he also started singing about his fellow Misnagdim, and some say that he even grassed up his own brother-in-law. Everyone knew, and turned a blind eye because his actions rarely affected them directly, and because they did not want to get into trouble with the authorities themselves. The police searching for Adamsky’s brother, Motl Avramson, ended up contacting Itche-Schepsl Gurevits, who said that he hadn’t noticed any suspicious activity in the Avramson house, but that perhaps their papers should be checked more carefully. That was all.
Everyone knew what the outcome of his betrayal would be and nobody did a damned thing. Behind his back, they said that Itche-Schepsl polished the clocks as though he were cleaning his conscience. But as long as the skies did not fall on his head, Itche-Schepsl Gurevits continued to walk around Motal as if nothing had happened, attending the evening prayer at shul like clockwork.
Then one day he disappeared from his home and never returned. Who had abducted him? Well, it’s not hard to guess. What hellish torments did he suffer? One can quite easily imagine. All that can be said is that when Adamsky pierced him with a dagger and threw his corpse into the Polesian marshlands, he felt that he had irreparably severed his bond with his people and that, from now on, he would only face them at the other end of a blade. And now, the humiliated captain stands up and furiously leaves the tent, although not before noticing that Fanny, that brazen woman, is staring at him with her frozen, wolf-like gaze, almost threatening him. He has been a fool until now. From this point onwards, everything will change.
VII
* * *
Fanny never dreamed that she would don the uniform of the Czarist army. But here she is, in an army camp, wearing a green tunic and baggy trousers, a lone woman surrounded by thousands of men. On one side of her sits a dim-witted beggar and on her other side sits Zizek from the Yaselda. It turns out that Zizek is a famous war hero. How else can one explain the hospitality they started enjoying as soon as the name of Yoshke Berkovits was mentioned? In the past few days, she had actually begun to like him, thinking that she could detect in his bright eyes a heart-wrenching fragility. Instead of the clumsy man who sat in his boat with a bovine mien reeking of gefilte fish, she had started to notice his softer side, his hair always carefully combed over to one side, forehead taut and nostrils alert. And now it emerges that Zizek is a ruthless killer who has butchered enemy soldiers by the dozen, maybe even by the hundreds.
She wonders if it is just happenstance that she has ended up in the company of killers. How could it not have occurred to her as she left her home at two hours past midnight, travelling by back roads, that it would be impossible for her to reach Zvi-Meir without passing through places where a Jewish prayer shawl has never been seen, where no Jewish woman has set foot before?
Her longing for her children is like a rock rolling down a mountainside, subject to the force of gravity and the momentum of necessity. She rolls towards them in dreams that shatter when she wakes. In her imagination she runs her fingers through the hairs on Natan-Berl’s back the same way he touches the ends of his prayer shawl, the tzitzit, one tassel at a time, and then she kneads the fat on his shoulders. She tortures herself for not being there to put her children to bed and watch over them as they sleep, for listening instead to Shleiml Cantor ostentatiously releasing belches that stink of tinned meat. She misses and yearns and she is exhausted, but there is one thing she does not feel: regret. No, she has no regrets. How could she?
As they were led into the army base and made their way through the fanfare, army officers bowing and waving at them, Fanny hoped that her mother was watching from above. Malka Schechter used to sit in her room, overwrought with anxiety, muttering, “With God’s help everything will be alright.” This phrase was her mother’s favourite, always accompanied by a heavy sigh, which perturbed the other family members all the more. Nothing terrified her mother more than the unknown. In her eyes, an uncertain future was a greater threat than a concrete disaster. Malka Schechter never stopped complaining that if only she could be told where and when catastrophe would strike, she would be able to deal with it. It was the element of surprise she could not tolerate. And while she knew that her daughters’ odds of being run over by a cart were close to nothing, the possibility existed nonetheless! If two children out of a hundred died of diphtheria, those two were clearly destined to be her own daughters! What is the difference between the odds of two to one hundred and two to two? For this reason, she wove a dense web of mental constructions of “if . . . then . . .”, thinking that she could at least keep the “if” side o
f the question under her control. If she does this and that, such and such will happen. And so, with God’s help, everything will be alright.
From a young age, Fanny had watched her mother hiding in her bed as the layers of her humanity peeled away from her, one by one. “Not now, Fannychka, not now, Mamme is tired.” Hearing her daughters moving about the house, she would emit that same heavy sigh that thundered in the girls’ ears like storm clouds, pelting down the words, “With God’s help everything will be alright.” The night her mother died and her body was placed in the kitchen until morning, Fanny could not close her eyes. As disasters raged in her imagination she began weaving her own “if . . . then . . .” constructions. Praying that with God’s help everything would be alright, she had wet her bed.
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