Passers-by hollered, “Get a job, you are selling garbage!” I replied only with pure, innocent words. Tell me, what world are we living in, bereft of any truth or spirit, whose dwellers are no better than beasts? Few stopped to listen to my sermons, few threw copecks at my feet, and only my fellow tramps helped me to a bowl of hot soup every day. I did not approach the house of alms and never set foot in a tavern. Beloved teachers, I was all mind, happy and proud of my work.
A few weeks ago I heard that the police were looking for me. “Look out, Zvi-Meir!” a beggar whispered in my ear. “You are being watched.” Looking to my right and left, I saw dubious characters on a street corner. I walked over to the square and there they were, hiding in a cloud of cigarette smoke on the stairway to the church. Quietly, I slipped into the cold synagogue, die kalte Shul, and saw them pulling out their notepads to make notes.
Who sent them after me? There is no room for doubt. It was the heads of the closed Volozhin Yeshiva. Venerable sages, erudite scholars began fearing the ideas of Zvi-Meir Speismann. They noticed new life, a waft of fresh air rev-iving the residents of Minsk. The rascal’s wise teachings spread by word of mouth, and before long people began to realise that religious faith is conditional upon the freedom of choice. Suddenly they saw Jewish men who agree to wear top hats and suits becoming clerks. Looking at the clock they realise that those Jewish men are working in their offices until late and do not attend synagogue for the evening prayer. And as the word spread the community leaders had no choice but to unite and fight to the death the man they had denounced: me, Zvi-Meir Speismann. But cold water, dear sirs, will not put out the sun.
You sent informants to the police to warn them of the great peril to the empire: Zvi-Meir Speismann, a meek, yet shrewd Jew, who is a tad more discerning than you are. What is more, it was just brought to my knowledge that the army has joined the hunt. I have become the nation’s enemy number one. There has been no greater threat to the Czar since Napoleon Bonaparte.
Well, dear sons, your deeds did me justice. I stand before the burning bush I craved, only this time it is not the bush that will go up in flames but the prophet. His body will indeed be consumed, dear disciples, but not his spirit. His name will be on everyone’s lips in Motal. He will return to his wife and children on the wings of glory to right the wrong they were served. The tale has reached its end. My work in this world is done. Send my love to the members of my people whom I have consecrated and to my family, whom I have loved more than anything.
Yours sincerely,
Zvi-Meir Speismann
A simple man
Minsk, year 5654
II
* * *
Their travels along the road from the barracks to Minsk with a military escort are very different from the wayfarers’ previous journey. First, only three of them remain. Shleiml Cantor’s whereabouts are unknown. Second, this time they are taking the main road, calmly and confidently. The sleepy passengers in the carts that pass them tremble with fear as soon as they recognise the approaching caravan. Innocent travellers look away like culprits, troublemakers bow their heads submissively. Everyone tenses at the sight of them and breathes a sigh of relief when their convoy moves on.
The summer heat makes one discover new parts of one’s body, parts that would have been ignored had they not become moist and sticky. On the first night, they stop for several hours in a field of sugar beet. The garrison commander, Captain Istomin, leaves two guards to watch over the barouche and permits the other soldiers to take a nap on the ground. The repose is too brief, the horses are tired, and the captain tells the two women in the barouche, Fanny and the nurse, to cover their injured passenger with a blanket. Only one of them obliges, and Istomin is taken aback by the other woman’s indifference. He gives her an authoritative glare, which she counters with her predatory wolf’s eyes. He wonders whether he should assert his military rank, but, on further reflection, he decides that she might just refuse and humiliate him.
Fanny’s eyes follow Captain Istomin’s sturdy back as it walks away from the carriage, and then glance down at the nurse’s uniform she is wearing. She has lost track of the identities she has assumed over the course of this journey.
One might suppose she feels guilty for the precarious position in which she now finds herself. Had she not left Motal at two hours past midnight, one family (albeit a family of thieves) would still be alive. Two agents, family men, would have also returned home. And the two men by her side – one suspended between the world of the living and the world of the dead, the other between the past and the present – would have stayed put, the former in a shoddy tavern, the latter in a boat, and neither would ever have risked an encounter with the gallows. She would have gone on with her life, Mende would have recovered, and Zvi-Meir Speismann – well, perhaps being Zvi-Meir Speismann is sufficient punishment in itself.
And yet, even when that detective gripped her neck in the dead of the night, his fruity breath on her face, she did not consider going back to Motal. If she makes it to Minsk, she is sure to meet with the man from the Okhrana again, but the thought of hiding from him doesn’t cross her mind. It has been a while since she has known whether she is running away from her pursuers or rushing towards them.
The nurse looks at Fanny reprovingly. Some women are infuriated by other women’s indolence. Seeing little difference, if any, between a world where such women exist and a world where they do not, they ask, “Well, is this sloth useful in any way?” And since they consider existence and usefulness one and the same, they conclude that a lack of usefulness means they do not exist. Every simple action – covering a wounded man with a blanket, for one – becomes an exhibition for them. The nurse beside Fanny shakes out the blankets over the side of the wagon, folds two of them four times and lays them on different parts of Adamsky’s body. Then she unfolds the blankets, spreads them over him again, smoothing out the folds, and sighs. Then she rubs oil and ointments on his injured body, busily administers painkillers and herbal concoctions, and emphasises Fanny’s idleness all the more.
Fanny starts to feel as though everyone is against her: detectives, soldiers, sentries, law-enforcement officers, hangmen, judges. Even her travel companions. If Adamsky were healthy he would not have been able to control himself. And Zizek: he has taken nothing but blows on her behalf from the moment he joined her journey. And her family? Natan-Berl must be fuming. Returning home in the evening he probably ignores her place on the bench at the dining table. He sits down to eat his dinner, plays with the children and goes to bed. If their mother’s name is mentioned, he turns away as if he has heard a word in a foreign language. In his eyes she does not exist if she is not there. He will say his piece only when she returns. Gavriellah, her eldest, cannot replace her mother, no matter how sensible she might be. Her other children, dear God, must be at a loss to know how to deal with their resentment. Whereas Rivkah Keismann must be elated, surely.
Fanny remembers how she used to run her fingers through Elisheva’s hair every evening, tuck the blankets over David’s feet, and slip into her bed, feeling in her bones that disaster was imminent. Life cannot remain so peaceful for long, this much she knows, and danger is never far from home. Her world – the tranquil, serene, wonderful world she aches to rejoin – was founded on injustice, to which she was an accomplice. Her well-ordered life played dare with justice as she kept turning a blind eye to the catastrophes on her doorstep. “Not now, Fannychka, not now, Mamme is tired.”
And so she shut herself up in her home, closed the shutters and locked the door. She was perfectly satisfied in her kingdom, thanking the Creator for her healthy children and husband. She was grateful for every breath her Mishka drew, overjoyed for every word of Hebrew that Gavriellah learned. Doubtless, the tragedies that befell her neighbours must have happened for a reason. Her mother had taught her that. Carelessness, negligence, transgression; in hindsight, any disaster could have been
predicted. And the past is a prophecy that conceals the bitter truth: Fanny has control over nothing. Fannychka cannot control a damned thing. “Not now, Fannychka, Mamme is tired.”
And you, Fanny Keismann, your ruin was also predicted. Were they right? For years, Mende hinted that the townspeople were sneering at Fanny’s decision to live among the village goyim. Her sister kept telling her the town wanted the Keismanns to return to the fold: those who sleep with dogs should not be surprised if . . . But Fanny did not repay her sister in kind. She did not tell Mende what people were saying about her husband, that Zvi-Meir Speismann was a buffoon posing as a genius, a man who should learn a trade instead of pretending to be the nation’s leader.
Once Zvi-Meir had abandoned her sister, however, it was nigh-on impossible to ignore the slander. Fanny was forced to hear the insults that circulated, especially those by other women. What else could be expected of such a couple, they said. At first, they blamed Zvi-Meir for being a hopeless failure in the guise of a tzaddik. Then, in due course, they began to name Mende’s faults, one by one. After all, a vigilant, firm and responsible wife does not let her household fall apart. They blamed her for her own predicament, for being a husbandless wife, as if she were responsible for Zvi-Meir’s flight. Fanny wanted to tear out her hair when this calumny reached her ears.
Then it was too late. Mende almost drowned and was rescued from the river by Zizek, the man believed by all to be the village fool, who is now sitting by her side, holding the hand of his battered whoremaster of a friend.
Of course, a stern lecture awaits her at the gates of Motal. She will definitely be scolded for the path she has taken. How could two wrongs yield justice for her sister? A delegation of rabbis could have brought back Zvi-Meir without leaving a trail of dead bodies behind them. A letter from his parents might have gone much further than Fanny’s hobnobbing with hoodlums. Why did you look for adventure, Fanny Keismann? If that was all you wanted, you shouldn’t have pleaded the cause of justice in vain. There are hundreds of women like your sister. Why don’t you track down every wayward husband in Grodno County? You could at least confess that you have been acting out of self-interest: after all, the world will not mend its ways thanks to you. If you really cared so much about rescuing your sister, you could have taken a different path. And if you were guided by another cause, now is the time to admit it. In short, what is it?
* * *
She doesn’t know. The one thing she knows for certain is that it is too late to turn back.
III
* * *
By the end of the third day of their journey, they can see the lights of Minsk shimmering in the distance. Nonetheless, the garrison commander orders his troops to make camp again. Fanny is surprised to see that they are not staying in a tavern after such a long journey, with aching backs, dusty beards, sooty faces and parched throats. The soldiers’ encounter with the hard ground does nothing to improve their morale.
They eat the few vegetables they have left, courgettes mostly, and a few bitter, limp cabbages they gathered as they marched across fields. The soldiers sit apart from the three companions, and it doesn’t take long for their group to emit drunken laughter and pipe smoke. A hussar humbly approaches the Father and invites him to join them. Zizek refuses, and the soldier kisses his hand and shoves dried sausage, tobacco and crackers into the pockets of his shirt.
The nurse prepares one of the tents for their wounded friend and motions to Zizek and Fanny to stay in the other tent. Zizek, however, will not leave Adamsky, and sleeping by herself seems like a bad idea to Fanny. She looks around, uneasily, hoping to catch Zizek’s attention. His unshaven face is sunburned, his scarred mouth is drooling, and his eyes glisten in the lantern’s weak light.
“Please, Mrs Keismann,” he says, “let’s stay with them.”
Fanny sighs with relief and enters the small, cramped tent. The odours of rum and urine blend with the smell of old bandages and antiseptic. Zizek hands her a piece of cheese and breaks a cracker with his teeth for them to share. They munch their crackers, then silence falls and only the beating of their hearts remains. A strange sense of kinship seeps into Fanny’s beleaguered body, and emotion overwhelms her. Who would have believed she would make it this far?
“Zizek Breshov,” she whispers, “why did you come with me?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Keismann,” he says at once, without looking at her, as if this sentence has been ready in his throat for a long time, “but you came to me.”
“Many people came to you, yet you obliged only me.”
“Many came?” He coughs heavily. “I’m sorry to say this, Mrs Keismann, but no-one else came. Only you.”
Before she falls asleep, he sighs and mutters, “You and him.”
IV
* * *
They wake in the morning to discover that they have camped right on the edge of the city. The garrison commander knows that if a sniper was stationed in one of the nearby houses, they would have been an easy target. Zizek muses that if the city had walls and a sentry had pissed from one of the watchtowers, they would have all got wet. Adamsky is imagining the courtyard of his and Ada’s home: her misshapen face beaming, her buxom chest inviting beneath her apron. Two chickens are pecking at grains, and clothes in different sizes, from infant to old-timer, are waving in the last breeze of the summer. Each man to his own thoughts.
The soldiers are exhausted. The hussars’ faces are haggard, and dust fills the wrinkles in their faces. When the garrison commander orders them to fold up the tents and move out, they look at one another with disbelief.
Their entry into the city is smooth. Fanny thinks they would have been welcomed with the same indifference even if they’d been wearing Ottoman uniforms. A few clerks cackle like roosters by the station. Drowsy beggars slowly awaken and watch them pass with unease, as if they were trespassing on the soldiers’ space. Labourers arrive in the city hoping to be hired for the day. Fanny notices many Jews among them.
It would make sense for the commander to leave them in a tavern while the soldiers search for Zvi-Meir Speismann. But that is not how it works. As time passes, Fanny realises that they are aimlessly roaming the streets. Every now and again, two horsemen break away from the group and another pair joins them. This ruse, she surmises, is a precaution to ensure they are not being followed.
They start their search in the city centre. Fanny stares, wide-eyed, through the barouche window. She sees tall buildings, offices and factories, a theatre sign, and then another, and a café on every other corner. When do they ever work here in Minsk? And what is this – a horse-drawn omnibus? Good gracious! And this damp odour, could it be that homes here have running water? And the buildings, so grand, one floor wasn’t good enough for them? Must they have a view of . . . what is that? Such an impressive bridge!
The Jews here look different, too, with their shiny shoes, groomed beards and fancy caps. Good God, some of them are adorned with mink hats and others sport bowler hats like goyim. No-one would dare walk around Motal looking like that. Look, that man just pulled out a gold watch from his coat, and right behind him a bunch of Jews are sitting and joking with university students. Would one have to actually ask people about their denomination in order to know what it is?
They steer clear of the upper market square, which is overlooked by a palace – the governor’s probably – and cross a large river that must be the Svislach, heading east. When there are no longer any other carriages in sight and potholes multiply and the roads become narrow, they know they have reached the slums, known here as Minsk’s “swamp”, die Blotte, the Jewish neighbourhood. Fanny is surprised at the squalor and misery around her. In Minsk, they had told her, there are more soup kitchens than poor people. All a hungry man needs to do is turn his head and he will find a charity: Saviour of the Meek, Acts of Kindness, Charitable Dwelling, Tent of Israel . . . But the sight that Fanny sees from the window of her barouche
is quite different: Jews with bent backs, shrouded in penury and weighed down by hunger. They look just like the crowds in Motal and Grodno, but perhaps it is their poverty that makes them so indistinguishable. Two elderly women are fighting over a customer on a street corner, each of them holding a basket of shrivelled cucumbers. One is yelling at the other: “You’ve already sold two today, now it’s my turn!” and her friend replies, “There are no queues here, Mrs Gurevits, this is a marketplace!”
After another tour of synagogues, Captain Istomin stops the search party near a conclave of locals, who do not seem to have noticed the strange procession of approaching soldiers. Captain Istomin dismounts and walks over to the barouche. “Well,” he growls at Fanny and Zizek, “hurry up, get out and ask about your man. We’ll keep close by.” With their sunken eyes and dazed expressions, Fanny and Zizek appear to have forgotten why they are there. “Go on,” the captain says. “You don’t want us to talk to them, do you? They’ll run away crying ‘Gevalt!’ and rouse the entire city.” Oddly enough, Fanny and Zizek still do not move. “These are your people!” the officer says loudly, and the huddled Jews raise their heads as one.
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