The Slaughterman's Daughter

by Yaniv Iczkovits

  The next day the boy presented himself at the city head-quarters and enlisted in an imperial military school in the east, beyond the Ural Mountains. When asked for his name and from whence he came he replied, “David Pazhari, St Petersburg,” and noticed that his interviewers’ faces had grown suddenly intent. “Are you related to Count Pazhari of St Petersburg?”

  “Of course, I am related to Pazhari,” David replied, as if this were obvious.

  “You are one of His Highness’s sons?” they inquired, intrigued.

  At this point, David realised that there had been some misunderstanding, but decided to stick with his story. “I’m his nephew,” he muttered. “His sons’ cousin.”

  Count Alexander Pazhari of St Petersburg was one of the best- known and most venerated men in the empire. He was among the Czar’s closest and most influential advisers, and an almost certain bet for the job of chancellor, the highest position in political office. He lived on Nevsky Prospect – where else? – and he was an intimate friend of the Stroganov family. David Pazhari, the boy now considered the relative of this senior statesman, was received in the army camp with a respect reserved for kings. His comrades treated him with great politeness, officers demanded weekly reports about his well-being, and every commander who took Pazhari on a mission of any sort deemed it necessary to state for the record that he had been scarred between his lip and nose prior to his stationing with their unit.

  It soon emerged, however, that the pampered boy was quite a military talent. He did well in his studies, took on the strongest opponents, proved an excellent shot and quickly adapted to the climate. In winter, he walked around without any furs and at mealtimes he was satisfied with only a scrap of bread with some cheese and jam.

  Pazhari’s rapid rise up the ranks was absolutely justified. If his last name gave him any advantage, it was only that every commander wished to have him stationed in his unit. Over time, rumours began to spread in the capital about Count Pazhari’s nephew warrior, who was by then a junior officer, and, surprisingly, the count did not deny the connection. None of Count Pazhari’s sons – a bunch of indolent brats to a man – had chosen to serve their country in the army. The only requests they made were “Papa, make me an adviser here”, “Papa, let me open a law firm there”. Papa, Papa, Papa. They didn’t have a shred of decency between them. It would do the family no harm if it became known that one of its descendants was a true-blue military officer.

  If anyone discussed David Pazhari with him, the count would evade the matter of his descent. “Your Excellency, we hear that David Pazhari is doing well,” they would tell him. “Not even thirty years old, and he’s already been promoted to captain.”

  “A jolly good fellow,” the count would reply, enthusiastically. “I always knew that he was destined for great things.”

  When David Pazhari was promoted to colonel at the age of thirty-five, he started receiving offers to join the civil service. Pazhari turned them all down, determined to remain with his soldiers.

  “Your Excellency,” Alexander Pazhari was asked in St Petersburg, “what is wrong with your nephew? Does he mean to grow old at the barracks?”

  “David Pazhari is no ordinary man,” the count said. “The blood of princes runs through his veins.”

  VII

  * * *

  As Pazhari sits down before Zizek and Fanny, he feels as if his whole life has been leading up to this moment, the peak of his existence, no less. When he had first heard the Father’s story, he had known at once that he had met him before, that their paths had crossed at the Komarovs’. The fugitive that he had concealed in the shed had been Yoshke Berkovits. Pazhari felt it in his bones. People who knew more about the Father’s legend would have probably made a more reasonable assumption: it could not have been Yoshke Berkovits whom Pazhari had met in the shed, but it might have been Motl Avramson, Pesach’s renegade brother. It had been roughly at that time and in that area that Motl had fled; many details matched, more or less. Naturally, only a kind-hearted orphan like Pazhari, even once he had become a colonel and deputy camp commander, could believe that in the vast Russian expanses that stretch between the empire’s preposterously long borders, such a coincidence could be possible. Once he heard about the Father, this conviction settled in his mind and would not relent, as if there had been no other thieving boys in the empire, including żyds, that he could have met. In fact, his belief was quite unfounded, but nonetheless, Pazhari’s fancy might still benefit the arrested pair, which is a serendipitous coincidence in and of itself.

  “So, what brings you here?” Pazhari says to the stunned duo, sitting across from him on the velvet sofa.

  They say nothing.

  “You are Zizek Breshov, correct?” Pazhari asks this obvious question with the idea of drawing the man into the conversation.

  No comment.

  “And you?” He turns to Fanny. “Do you know that half the empire is chasing you?”

  Pazhari notices a strange change in her face. Her eyes have turned predatory and her face is tense. Her left hand is sliding down towards her leg. Something’s up.

  “Fanny,” Breshov snaps, and Pazhari is taken aback. Could he have underestimated this lady?

  “I’m sorry, but . . .” his guest says.

  “It’s fine,” Pazhari mutters, “no harm done.”

  The deputy camp commander thinks of his pistol. One false move and he will draw. He has no intention of becoming the next victim of this strange pair, whatever their mysterious motives. Pazhari knows that now is not the time for rash acts. If the woman realises that he noticed her sliding hand, she might be spurred to execute her plan. In his many years as an officer he has learned that if a soldier lies to your face, it’s best to avoid a direct confrontation and give him a chance to repent. Confront a conman with his lies and he will always feel guilty in your presence and loathe you for ever.

  “Are you going to give us up?” the woman asks, almost making him feel that an answer in the affirmative would seal his fate. The gall!

  “No,” Pazhari says.

  “How can we believe you?” Fanny demands.

  “Madam, I can tell that my language does not come naturally to you,” Pazhari says, trying to politely put her in her place. He points at Breshov. “You had better let him speak.”

  “I’m sorry, but . . .” Breshov bows his head.

  “There’s no need to apologise. Why are you here?”

  “We are . . . Please, you must hurry . . .” Zizek stutters, “Patrick . . . Adamsky . . . is . . . hot-headed . . . he—”

  “—he is an imbecile,” Fanny says. “Lucky they caught him before he took us all down with him.”

  “I cannot help him,” the colonel says, looking directly at Zizek. “He’ll be hanged soon, and trust me, they’ll be doing him a fav-our. You, on the other hand . . .”

  Pazhari is completely unprepared for what follows. Zizek buries his face in his hands and dissolves into tears. The colonel watches him in bewilderment. The man whimpers, then howls, gasps and shudders. The hulk is a broken man, sobbing, “Pesach . . . Pesach . . .”, and smothers his scarred mouth with the crook of his arm.

  “Zizek.” The woman strokes the back of his head. “Pesach Avramson has been Patrick Adamsky for a long time. Do you understand that?”

  “Look,” the colonel leans towards them. “I’ll see what I can do about Pesach . . . I mean, Adamsky.”

  Zizek raises his bright eyes to Pazhari like a man who has just seen a miracle.

  “I don’t care if the suspicions about you are true or unfounded,” Pazhari goes on. “In fact, it’s better if you don’t tell me whether you are responsible for this killing spree or not. I have just one very simple question: what are you doing here, and where would you like to go?”

  “To Zvi-Meir Speismann,” Fanny says, at once.

  “Zvi-Meir who?”


  “Zvi-Meir Speismann,” she says. “My sister’s husband. He is in Minsk.”

  “I’m sorry, but . . .” Zizek mumbles. “You said, about Pesach . . . he is—”

  “Don’t worry.” Pazhari touches Zizek’s arm. “I’ll see to it that your friend does not come to any harm.” He has no idea how he will keep this reckless promise.

  “Please,” Zizek whispers, looking anxiously at Pazhari’s hand as if it were a snake twisting around his forearm.

  “I’ll personally take care of Adamsky,” the colonel says, embarrassed. “Just tell me what happened to Zvi-Meir?”

  “Nothing happened to Zvi-Meir,” says Fanny. “That’s the problem.”

  Pazhari says nothing and looks at Zizek, who is looking at the ground.

  Fanny launches into her story. “He abandoned my sister and his children, and now he must be held to account.”

  The colonel crosses his arms and shifts uneasily in his chair. “And what does Breshov have to do with it?”

  “Breshov is helping me. I’m his niece.”

  “You mean to say he’s helping your sister, whose husband is in Minsk. If you are Breshov’s niece, then so is she.”

  “Exactly. Yes.”

  “And Pesach? I mean, Patrick?”

  “He is connected to Breshov,” Fanny says.

  “And the fourth man?”

  “He’s not connected to anything.”

  “I’m sorry,” Breshov says again.

  “No need to apologise,” Pazhari soothes him. “It’s quite alright.”

  I’ve got myself into one hell of a mess, Pazhari thinks as he asks them politely, “Would you mind waiting?”

  Pazhari hurries along to the garrison to make sure that they do not maul Adamsky any further, but his deputy’s expression tells him that it’s too late. The prisoner is lying unconscious, and every member of his guard detail has soundly pummelled him. One of them even went as far as to tear off his earlobe with a wild bite, which he then chewed and lustily swallowed. Adamsky smiled briefly at him before fainting. Only a true savage can appreciate the savagery of another.

  Pazhari knows that if Zizek sees him in this state their entire quest will come to an end. On the other hand, how will it benefit Pazhari, if it continues? How should he know? What good comes out of hiding a fugitive in his shed? Less food and fewer blankets. Some will say that the colonel is soft and overly kind, but anyone who has seen him in the trenches will vouch that he is tough. Then why is he scheming like an outlaw? Well, these are too many questions to answer all at once. He has no idea.

  As he returns to Mishenkov’s office, where the duo awaits him, Pazhari concludes that it would make most sense to split the group in two. Zizek and Fanny will be escorted to Minsk, where they will sort things out with Zvi-Meir. The other two, including the fatally wounded Adamsky, will wait for them here in the camp, if, that is, their fourth companion can be found. In the meantime, Pazhari will delay Novak with some excuse or other, throw him a bone, fabricate red herrings, and when that story runs out, he will have to give one of them up, presumably the fourth miscreant. But before he can reach the office, he hears a garrison officer yelling in the distance: “Attention! General Mishenkov, sir! At your command!”

  VIII

  * * *

  Lieutenant General Mishenkov usually sends prior notice of his return to camp. Two days before he arrives, he sends a messenger to obtain reports about the units’ status and training progress. In his meeting with his deputy two days later, Mishenkov and Pazhari go through the updates that have been submitted for the general’s review.

  Mishenkov: “So, old man, I understand that you know all about the successful artillery manoeuvre.”

  Pazhari: “Certainly, sir! It went very well.”

  Mishenkov: “Did you know that only two soldiers defected this month, old man? This is excellent news.”

  Pazhari: “Yes, sir! Bazarov and Gossin. We will find them.”

  Mishenkov: “Well, when you do, hang them by their ankles, spare them no mercy.”

  Pazhari: “Naturally, sir.”

  Mishenkov: “And I understand that only twelve men have died of typhoid, I think this is quite an achievement.”

  Pazhari: “Yes, sir, I mean no, I mean, relatively speaking . . .”

  The second thing Mishenkov likes to do when he returns is to change some aspect of the camp’s routine. There is much that is not to his liking, but he does not want to rock the boat too much. On one occasion, the flags annoyed him: “Old man, we cannot display the symbols of the empire on these rags. Replace them immediately!” Another time, it was the horses: “Why don’t they report to roll call together with the cavalrymen? Prepare them to join the ranks!” To stave off Mishenkov’s preposterous orders, Pazhari stays their execution, approaching the general an hour later to suggest attenuating amendments: there are no new flags in storage to replace the ones they already have and new ones would have to be ordered from Minsk; it’s an excellent idea to include the horses in the roll call, but, overworked as they are, the grooms would collapse if this were added to their tasks. Wouldn’t it be just as effective to have the hussars inspect their steeds in the stables? “Certainly, old man,” Mishenkov readily agrees, glad to see his orders’ contribution to the spirit of the unit. “That is exactly what I meant. Let’s do it that way.”

  Mishenkov started calling Pazhari “old man” from the day he, Mishenkov, was made a general. Pazhari is older by several years, and this nickname is Mishenkov’s way of reminding Pazhari that age, experience, and certainly pedigree are not necessary for promotion in the army. Just look at him, Lieutenant General Mishenkov, the son of a lesser nobleman than Count Alexander Pazhari, who grew up in Kazan, not St Petersburg, and nonetheless made it to lieutenant general first. What does Pazhari have to say about that?

  Pazhari, of course, was offered Mishenkov’s rank four years earlier, but turned it down after telling his superiors that he preferred to spend his time with the troops rather than with a desk. And the colonel does not want to stand out from the crowd too much. If the lie that had catapulted him to such a senior position was ever exposed, he would instantly lose everything he had.

  In any event, Mishenkov is now returning from his latest jaunt on horseback. He is followed by a barouche driven by his personal coachman, who is trying to keep up with the general, mercilessly rattling his passengers, uniformed men who seem to be adjutants from another unit.

  “Old man!” Mishenkov exclaims, waving and reining in his horse. “I hope you have good news for me.”

  “Always, sir,” Pazhari replies. “Of course.”

  “So, you captured them?”

  “Who?” Pazhari says, pretending not to understand.

  “To my office, now,” Mishenkov orders as he dismounts. “Now.”

  When, minutes earlier, Pazhari had heard a garrison officer shouting, “Attention! General Mishenkov, sir! At your command!”, he had bolted back into the office, pushed Zizek and Fanny out of the tent’s rear exit, and ordered the garrison commander to place them immediately under arrest and hide them in a remote cell with Adamsky.

  “It is my duty to inform you that the troops will refuse to follow this order, sir. No-one will agree to lock up the Father.”

  “This is the only way to save him,” Pazhari had urged. “You must tell them that.”

  By the time Mishenkov enters his quarters, Fanny and Zizek are already in the safety of a fetid cell. As the hole they were thrown into is right next to a sewer, the stench of their prison cell prompts Fanny to vomit. For his part, Mishenkov empties his bowels more conventionally after his long ride, and then proceeds to slice himself some sausage and dip it in caviar.

  Spotting a cup on his desk, the general raises it to his nostrils and exclaims, “My rum!” He turns to Pazhari, who shrugs helplessly, clears his throat and says, “I h
elped myself, sir.”

  “Oh, no need to explain,” Mishenkov beams, “go ahead.” He shoves the expensive bottle into his deputy’s hands and looks expectantly at Pazhari, like a chef waiting for his diner’s approval. “Is my rum not the best you have ever tasted?”

  Pazhari nods in embarrassment. Mishenkov grows serious. “Well, we have two urgent matters. Firstly, as I arrived, I noticed the tents of the Second Regiment. Why aren’t they closer to the First Regiment’s encampment? The regiments look as though they are facing off like enemies. Tell them to bring the encampments closer and remove the fences.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pazhari replies, knowing that he will have to approach Mishenkov later to suggest they relocate just the one tent that had actually struck the general as being too far away from the others. It would take more than a month to shift an entire regimental camp.

  “And on to the other matter, old man. As I was sitting with the adviser Bobkov – you know Bobkov, don’t you? He’s a good man, very close to Anton and Maria.” Pazhari smiles to himself at Mishenkov’s penchant for name-dropping. Anton and Maria Radziwill are the aristocracy’s golden couple. It is highly doubtful that Mishenkov has ever met them.

  “Well, we were discussing army business and state affairs, and Bobkov told me that Anton and Maria are organising a ball in Berlin, and that they are insisting I do everything I can to attend. They are just an adorable couple, Anton and Maria. Anyway, at that moment, two secret agents stormed in without bothering to knock, frightening the ladies. ‘What’s happened?’ I demanded. ‘What do you want?’ And they told me they had a message from Novak. I calmed the others down and retired with the agents to the library. How did he find me at Bobkov’s, this Novak character? The Devil knows. But he found me alright. What is more, he instructed his agents to tell me to order all the units under my command to join the search for four fugitives. Did you hear that? Who does he think he is, telling me how my units should operate? He was a sorry major when he retired from the army. We’ll show him. We will capture these renegades alright, at all costs.”