The Slaughterman's Daughter

by Yaniv Iczkovits

  Istomin realises he is attracting unwanted attention and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Look, here’s the deal: no-one in our army can talk to any of your people without provoking hatred and suspicion. That is how things stand in Russia. That’s a fact. How will your story end? I do not know. But Colonel Pazhari has assigned this mission to me and I intend to follow it through. Now, kindly get out of the barouche and talk to these people, before they start a riot.”

  The captain’s words make sense. Fanny and Zizek emerge from the carriage. The group of Jews stand firm, clinging to one another as if they are already under arrest. A few of them briefly raise their heads, and when Fanny and Zizek draw closer, they shove their hands into their pockets and tighten their kaftan belts.

  “Sholem Aleichem,” Fanny begins, “a gute morgen.” The group step back as one, stumbling against each another as they retreat. If the garrison commander had approached them they would have known how to react. But a goy lady with fair hair and burning eyes who marches across the street and speaks fluent Yiddish? They’ve never seen such a mongrel in their life.

  “Wart a minut! Halt! Wait a minute,” Fanny yells, and they turn to look at her, embarrassed. “We need to ask you something.”

  “Fragen?” one of them repeats, nervously twiddling his sidelocks. “Ask a question? Nobody asks questions with soldiers backing them up. Their rifles are enough.”

  Fanny tries to reassure them.

  “You have nothing to worry about. They’re on our side.”

  An old man bursts out laughing. “You are either a meshugene, completely mad, or a liar,” he says. “The army is never on our side.” He adds in a whisper, “The army is for pigs. And what makes you think that we are on the same side as you?”

  “I’m sorry, but we come in peace,” Zizek Breshov says. Although he speaks in Polish, he accompanies his words with calming gestures, and the group appears to understand him.

  “Please listen,” he says, “we mean no harm. We are looking for Zvi-Meir Speismann. That is all. Tell us where he is and we’ll be on our way.”

  The men sigh with relief. “Zvi-Meir Speismann? Of course, Zvi-Meir Speismann. Who else but Zvi-Meir Speismann?” They repeat the name over and over again. The oldest among them, whose eyes seem to fill half his face, explains: “He’s a madman, a meshugener, debaucher, miscreant, shkotz. You’ve never seen anyone poorer in your life, it’s frightening. He lives in the street with rats for neighbours. He keeps saying he’s one of the gedoylim, but everyone knows that he’s no more than a sparrow-fart. His nose is always pointed at the heavens, intolerably arrogant he is, and he spares no-one his lectures. He is full of bitterness for the great Torah scholars, convinced that the illustrious Volozhin Yeshiva is a den of idiots. He keeps repeating an inane phrase like a prophecy – “faith is sin”, or the other way around, no-one can remember. He bases his entire thesis on the story of the Garden of Eden, and not a single soul has managed to understand what it is that he wants to say. He spends his days chasing after married women, drinking yash, and ending up in a tavern every so often. So, it’s Zvi-Meir Speismann you want? Please! Go to the lower market and inquire after him in the alleyways off Rakovias Street. It won’t be long before you see him in all his glory. He’s the one you’re after? Why didn’t you say so? You can have him!”

  For some reason, Fanny feels a sudden pity for her brother-in-law. She of all people should have been glad to learn that Zvi-Meir is considered a fool. But right now, by God, she would rather save him from the herd of snitches that has gathered around her. As soon as they realised they wouldn’t be in danger if they talked about Zvi-Meir Speismann, they’d yapped like there was no tomorrow. They never thought to inquire about the woman interrogating them, or the man speaking Polish, not to mention their military escort. This group simply gave him away without batting an eyelash.

  “Go to the lower market,” the old man reiterates, “and you are bound to find this Speismann character.” The others nod along with his every word, clearly proud to have this man speaking on their behalf.

  While the old man relishes the admiring looks of his friends and enjoys their approval of his fine words, Zizek notices Fanny’s hand sliding towards her thigh, and he hastily grabs it and pulls it back. Fanny is exhausted, which might explain her rash action; until now, she has never dared to pull the knife on one of her own. Granted, she didn’t flinch when she slew the family of bandits, or when she slit the agents’ throats so swiftly, and if she’d had to pull her knife on the soldiers in the camp she would have done so at the drop of a hat. But now she feels the need to protect Zvi-Meir Speismann from her own people, a pack of wolves that has just feasted on his carcass. The old man’s words have struck a chord because they are true. He had said, “What makes you think we are on the same side?” Indeed, she is far from certain that they are on the same side, and if she’s not on their side, whose side is she on? This is why her hand reached for the scabbard on her thigh. If it hadn’t been for Zizek, who knows how this encounter would have ended.

  “I’m sorry, thank you,” says Zizek, and drags her away.

  V

  * * *

  At the lower market, of all places, where bribes are usually effective, they hear conflicting reports regarding Zvi-Meir’s whereabouts. The finger of a potato vendor points them in the direction of a small synagogue near the cemetery. Another finger, a balding beggar’s, sends them over to a soup kitchen run by Saviours of the Meek. A luftmensch they come across claims he only arrived in town yesterday from Vitebsk and knows nothing about what goes on in the city. And a boy with a bundle of rags says he has never heard of anyone called Zvi-Meir Speismann. The money they offer in exchange for information doesn’t help; perhaps it only serves to increase the confusion. They attract a herd of beggars, each attempting to prove that the information he has merits a reward. It is only after making several tours around the market that they notice a beggar standing with a few drunks on the corner of a nearby street (if a row of wooden huts can be called a street), imploring passers-by: “Come and hear the words of a simple man, Zvi-Meir Speismann, who has little by way of fortune, but from whose mouth the truth flows.”

  Fanny and Zizek approach the self-declared prophet. Hair as lank as drooping stalks falls over his face and hides his eyes, but Fanny can clearly recognise the voice of her brother-in-law, the man who destroyed her sister’s life. Contrary to how she remembers it, his voice is free from sarcasm and conceit, from a wish to remonstrate and condescend. “Come and hear the words of a simple man,” he invites them, and Fanny notices a half-open bag on the ground beside him, containing a thin blanket, a few cabbage leaves and a piece of stale bread.

  Fanny approaches Zvi-Meir. She faces a perspiring prophet in tatters, wearing torn shoes and reeking of onion. His left hand is missing three fingers. Zizek stays back, not wanting to intrude on a family affair that does not concern him.

  “Come close and listen!” Zvi-Meir calls to Fanny, his head bowed. “Fear not, I am a simple man, Zvi-Meir Speismann is my name. Ask anyone in Minsk and they will tell you who I am. You can invite your husband, too, dear lady. He needn’t fear my words, their wisdom speaks for itself.”

  “Zvi-Meir,” Fanny begins, unable to make out his eyes through his long hair.

  “Yes, Zvi-Meir is my name, you can ask anyone. In public people will tell you I am a fool, but ask them in private and they will tell you about my virtues. By God, madam, they sent the Imperial Army after me. And who am I? My name is of no consequence. I am a simple person, just like yourself. I don’t ask for anything.”

  “Zvi-Meir,” she tries again, her voice trembling.

  “I am indeed Zvi-Meir, my dear, I can hear apprehension in your voice.” He extends his mutilated hand towards her, stretching out a finger and a thumb. “Everybody knows that you should stay away from Zvi-Meir. His words are dangerous and the gedoylim disapprove of him. And yet, just like you, e
veryone comes to listen. And why? Because the truth has no need for approval; the truth has no need for gullible herds. Lies can be spread among the masses, but the truth touches the hearts of individual souls. If you have a soul that craves wisdom, then one of these days you will find yourself here, at Zvi-Meir Speismann’s hall of learning.”

  “Zvi-Meir, it’s me, Fanny Keismann.”

  Good God! The first flash of his gaze startles her. Behind his crust of poverty and his filthy stalks of hair, there burns a pair of bright green, zealous eyes. His face is handsome, although his smile reveals several missing teeth.

  “Fanny Keismann?” he whispers, tears welling up in his eyes. “Is Mende here too? And my babies, Mirl and Yankele? How I miss them, oh my, oh can it be? Has my reputation reached as far as Motal? Do I hold sway in the district of Kobryn and in Grodno County?”

  Fanny says nothing. Oddly enough, she is touched by his words.

  Suddenly, they hear a commotion from a nearby rooftop. A boy’s voice, shouting, “Zvi-Meir Speismann! Run for your life! The soldiers are here!” The prophet raises his head and sees, over Fanny’s shoulder, Captain Istomin and his soldiers coming towards him. A broad smile stretches across his broken face and he begins to rock backwards and forwards in prayer.

  “At long last, Fanny Keismann,” he whispers in a trembling voice. “My children will finally have a father they can be proud of. Tell them how soldiers came to take their father away. Tell them how their father shook the world with the truths he taught. They must know that everything I did was for their sake, and that even if they suffer, it will not have been in vain. And kiss Mende, my beloved, who must think that I have aggrieved her for no reason. She probably thinks that I haunted bordellos, or went in search of fame and fortune. By God, Fanny, it would have been so much easier to explain my decision if I had opened a match factory. It would have been so much easier to convince them of my love if I had tried to support them through trade. But all I asked for my family was wisdom and integrity. You must tell her how her husband became the terror of the corrupt and the senseless. Will you?”

  Captain Istomin approaches and Zvi-Meir stretches out his wrists to be handcuffed. “I fear nothing,” declares the prophet. “I am prepared to pay the price for justice.”

  “Come on!” the officer says to Fanny in Polish. “We have to go! Did you get what you wanted from this good-for-nothing?”

  “I need just a few more minutes,” Fanny replies.

  Zvi-Meir shoves his hands back into Captain Istomin’s face, begging for handcuffs. “Don’t try to defend me, Fanny Keismann! I’ve been waiting for them to come. By God, I’ve been waiting for them for years.”

  “Tell him to get his filthy hands out of my face,” growls the garrison commander.

  “Zvi-Meir,” Fanny turns back to her brother-in-law, “I came all this way to get you to sign a writ of divorce. You are coming with me to the head of the rabbinical court in Minsk, and in his presence, you will sign a writ of divorce from my sister.”

  “Divorce?” Zvi-Meir mumbles. “What do you mean ‘divorce’?”

  “A gett, Zvi-Meir, you will sign a gett.”

  Zvi-Meir rummages in his nose but comes up with nothing. He tilts his head and stands on one leg as if trying to drain his ear. “I don’t understand.” He raises his voice as though addressing a crowd. “A minute before I am hanged in the city square, you want me to sign a gett to divorce your sister?”

  “No-one is about to hang you, Zvi-Meir Speismann,” Fanny murmurs.

  “Fanny Keismann!” roars the prophet. “Do you not see the military force that surrounds me? Has a squad of half a dozen hussars gathered in the lower market for no reason? Who do you think sent them?”

  “I did, Zvi-Meir,” she says. “I sent them.”

  “You?” the prophet chuckles. “Since when did you become a general in the Czar’s army?”

  “Zvi-Meir,” Fanny is pleading now. “Come with me and sign the gett.”

  “A gett?” he thunders. “What’s that got to do with anything? I love my children, and no wife is more devoted than Mende Speismann. I would give up my life for their sake!”

  “Zvi-Meir!” She grabs him by the arm. “Get yourself into the barouche so we can go to the rabbi. Otherwise, you are coming back to Motal with me.”

  “Motal?” His eyes glisten and his voice grows soft.

  He sinks to the ground and hides his face in his hands. His shoulders quiver. He starts to cry. Raising his head a little, he inspects his maimed hand. “How can I go back to Motal?” he asks his palms. “My children can’t see me like this, a certified failure, a penniless beggar, the joke of the city.”

  “Come on, Zvi-Meir.” Curious faces gather around them as she tries to stand him up.

  Zvi-Meir’s hair falls forward, covering his wet face, and he starts mumbling. “Why would God lay down prohibitions for those who cannot grasp them? Adam reflected on the prohibition and failed to grasp its magnitude. What is this like? This is like seeing a line drawn on the ground separating nothing from nothing and being told, ‘Do not cross this line.’”

  Standing over Zvi-Meir, Fanny begins to feel uncomfortable. More and more people are gathering around the strange scene, eager to solve the mystery: why has such a menacing army detail been called in to capture a trembling leaf? Vagrants and merchants, old people and children flock to them, all curious to see what will become of the wretched Zvi-Meir.

  Captain Istomin walks up to her again. “See what you’ve done? This racket is about to spread to other neighbourhoods.” With a hand on the hilt of his sword, he turns to Zvi-Meir. “Get up!” he orders, and the prophet lurches forwards with outstretched arms, begging for handcuffs again. “Behold, House of Israel!” Zvi-Meir yells. “Here I am, Zvi-Meir Speismann, enemy of the nation, whose wisdom threatens the gedoylim to the point where they have called in the Czar’s army to arrest me for committing the crime of striving for truth and justice!”

  “Zvi-Meir,” says Fanny, grimly, “come with us to sign the writ of divorce.”

  “They want me to divorce the truth, gentlemen! They want me to sign a false confession! Beloved teachers and masters, I will never sign this piece of paper! I will never part with justice!”

  The crowd gathered around them is growing larger by the minute. Curiosity is at fever pitch. People have begun nosing around the barouche and speculation abounds. The horses’ path through the crowd is blocked, and Captain Istomin draws his sword and orders the crowd to retreat. His five hussars, all unaccustomed to handling civil disorder, follow suit.

  And then, at that moment, several members of the crowd sweep off their black kaftans, and Fanny realises she is surrounded by undercover detectives, true blue secret agents to challenge Captain Istomin and his hussars. They have placed snipers on rooftops, blocked all the surrounding streets and alleyways and locked the crowds in an airtight trap. They drag the hussars from their horses in the blink of an eye, and not one, not two, but three officers leap into the carriage, pinning down the patient and his nurse. Captain Istomin manages to draw his pistol, but five more agents restrain and disarm him. Not a single shot was fired, not a single tooth was lost, and no noses were punched in the process.

  As for Fanny and Zizek, no-one comes near them. More than twenty police surround them and their commander orders Fanny to take out the blade hidden under her skirts and lay it on the ground. His intelligence was accurate, and now more than twenty bullets lie in wait in the surrounding gun barrels, in case either Fanny or Zizek, and especially Fanny, makes a suspicious gesture. She pulls out the knife and puts it on the ground, Zizek raises his arms in surrender, and four thugs step forward and club him in the stomach. Fanny turns in his direction, but, anticipating her move, one of the brutes sends a fist flying into her right cheek. As she falls to the ground, just before she loses consciousness, Fanny senses the blow’s might, which unleashes
first a kind of metallic pain, then a sense of humiliation, and then finally an epiphany. She has been expecting this punch her entire life without realising it, and now that it has arrived, as four men rush to cuff her arms and legs, she feels enormously relieved.

  A moment later, uniformed police in their fancy caps pop up out of nowhere. Apparently, this is a complex operation involving more than two hundred men. Their commander instructs his deputy to send an urgent message to Motal: “Inspector Novak, we have arrested the suspects: woman, man, Adamsky and Zvi-Meir Speismann. Detail from Mishenkov’s unit led by Captain Istomin also taken in for questioning. Suspect described as ‘toothpick’ still missing, will be tracked soon. Convoy to arrive in Motal in three days.” Then the commander lights his pipe and barks, “To the railway station, let’s go!”

  Motal

  I

  * * *

  On the umpteenth morning of his service, Corporal Shleiml Cantor is woken for duty for by an irritating fly that rests on the tip of his nose, and realises that he is hungry.

  The previous evening was something special. There was one last bottle of yash left, a sleeve of fine sausage (kosher of course), half a loaf of bread, three crackers and an apple. Cantor worked out that if he ate half of that he would be full, which is indeed what transpired. And yet he could not stop thinking about the half-meal that remained . . .

  Now that the fly is shooed away and the food crate is open, he is about to invite Olga – “Shall we eat?” – but there is no food left. Cantor looks over at his companion, embarrassed. He has been caught off guard. She stares back at him, her arms folded and her mouth askew. It’s bad enough that he had to replace Oleg in such a forlorn corner of the camp, not to mention the unbearable heat he has to endure, but are the guard and his companion expected to live on fresh air alone? What good is a sentry if his body is trembling with weakness? If Cantor is to regain his strength, he must have something to eat as soon as possible. Without stopping to consider his duty, the cantor rises, stretches his limbs and leaves his post, pulling Olga along with him. Unaccustomed to movement, she falls apart. But Cantor is not one to turn his back on disadvantage or disability. He takes his beloved in his arms like a bridegroom and sets off for the camp to replenish his supplies.