Alas, neither Cantor’s sense of direction nor his faculty of reasoning is his forte. He remembers that, when he first came to Oleg’s guard post, he walked in the direction of the sun. Therefore, he surmises, he should walk in the sun’s direction in order to return, and he cheerfully sets off in the wrong direction. What will the soldiers say when they see him again, after all this time? What will they say when they see that he does not return alone, but with a companion?
After half a day’s march “towards camp”, Cantor arrives at a small shack that might be described as a bar. The corporal enters the place holding Olga, and immediately notices a certain attitude of deference towards him. The men would never dare abuse him to their heart’s content, he thinks, because now he is wearing the uniform of the Czar’s army. He sits Olga in a chair next to him, slaps the table and calls out, “Can’t a corporal and a lady get a drink around here?”
The roars of laughter that follow are heard all the way to Nesvizh, perhaps even as far as Baranavichy, if one has the sharp hearing of an owl. But ordinary passers-by have no need of superhuman senses to realise that something is up at the local bar and they flock to enjoy the show of an ass of a Jew with a clipped beard and shorn sidelocks posing as a soldier, married to a wooden plank, issuing orders to everyone around him.
Needless to say, they sit down with him, listen to his stories and let him run up a heavy debt in a card game he was sure he could win. Once he realises that his uniform will not extract him from this one, he offers to repay his debt by singing “Adon Olam”, or by ceasing to sing it. His debtors, however, prefer to give him a thorough beating.
What is Shleiml left with? No food, no drink, and very few teeth. He is saved only by the passage of time, for the simple reason that at some point the muzhiks drift away to their homes and let him be. Shleiml Cantor leaves the bar with a hardly a spot on his body unbruised, wearing neither uniform nor insignia, but with no hard feelings either. Sometimes you’re up and sometimes you’re down, and right now he’s down. So what? At least he has Olga, even if she is pretty battered and bruised herself.
At dawn, a rickety wagon carrying potatoes drives past him. The cantor gathers Olga in his arms, mounts the wagon and the couple reaches the nearby town not long after. Those who are quick to conclude that good souls are an extinct species should feel ashamed, heretics that they are. To wit, as they approach Baranavichy the wagon’s driver yells at Cantor, “Now get out, you wretch!” and throws a quarter of a loaf of bread after him. Shleiml thanks the farmer for his free ride, and marches on towards Baranavichy. But alas, Baranavichy is no place to be if you are the local cantor’s rival, let alone if you are one of four murder suspects in a town swarming with secret agents, all on high alert for your arrival.
Naively enough, Cantor does not consider himself to be linked to the murders in question. More fearful of his professional nemesis than the law, he avoids the synagogue and enters a local tavern on the main street in the hope of an encounter with Lady Luck. This time, he isn’t punched. Instead, he is surprised to encounter eyes registering his resemblance to the facial composite on the “wanted” notices pasted all over town. Before an hour goes by, he is handcuffed and on his way to meet Inspector Novak in Motal, his hands still clasping two broken planks and a sheet of tarpaulin.
II
* * *
There are moments in the life of a nation, thinks Colonel Novak, which portend its demise. The end always begins with something small, a trifle, which would have gone away had it been taken care of promptly. And yet, once it has taken root, it is almost impossible to eradicate, as its tendrils reach into the remotest corners of the empire.
The military and the police, those hallmarks of state rule, are supposed to be on the same side: the former fighting against threats from without, the latter fighting threats from within. Now they are flexing their mighty muscles at one another in a tense confrontation. Clearly, the army has been trying to shield the four suspects, and there is no doubt that Colonel Pazhari lied through his teeth in his report about “Zizek Adamsky” and “Patrick Breshov”. What is more, Novak has now conducted a thorough inquiry into David Pazhari’s true descent. Why? Well, surprisingly enough, no-one had ever thought to try it before him. In order to have a nephew, Count Alexander Pazhari would have to have a sibling, and indeed he has: a sister. Except not a single soul in St Petersburg ever recalls having seen the sister, who is well known in many circles, pregnant. Drunk? Absolutely. Making an exhibition of herself with a friend named Dushinka? On occasion. Committing adultery? Careful now, her husband doesn’t suspect a thing. But pregnant? Oh no, not even St Petersburg corsets could have hidden it if she was. Therefore, Count Alexander Pazhari of St Petersburg should be put under surveillance, because for some reason he has never bothered to deny this bogus family connection with the illustrious officer. Truth be told, it was thanks to this discovery that the entire affair came to light. At long last, the whole chain of events related to this case leads to a powerful and influential man from the capital. This is the only plausible explanation for the decision of a fake nobleman who has become a senior army officer to put his life on the line for four murder suspects. It also serves to explain why Captain Istomin, an impressive officer with an impeccable record, did the same.
Based on this, it can be assumed that Alexander Pazhari is a decadent count who for some reason is unhappy with his lot. On some whim or other, he recruited several henchmen to stir up disorder in Kobryn District. What is surprising about his plan is that he managed to recruit Jews for his scheme, despite their usual caution, which suggests that he must have made them an offer they could not refuse. There are people, among them fools and intellectuals, who believe that the żyds are plotting to take over the world. Novak will be bitterly disappointed if his investigation ends up supporting the prejudices of those buffoons and geniuses. Unfortunately, for now he has no other theory, but the theory he doesn’t have preoccupies him far more than the one that he does. Has he missed something? He cannot tell. Still, it is safe to say that everyone mixed up in this affair knew that the Okhrana was pursuing them, and yet they were not deterred. This is exactly what the end of a nation looks like, when people no longer think that the law is synonymous with justice.
But why should he be surprised? All he needs to do is take a look at his own men. He is surrounded by a pack of idiots. Thankfully Albin Dodek is at least not a drunk, but the rest of them reek of vodka and do not even try to hide it with fruit liqueur. They burn their stomachs with cheap kvass and then go out to make night arrests. They are incapable of any manner of thought, reflection or meditation. Being told to “bring in so-and-so”, they go and do it, no questions asked. Yet another sign of the nation’s demise: oafs filling the ranks of its police and security forces.
And what about the commander-in-chief, His Excellency Field Marshal Gurko, the celebrated governor? Why the hell did Gurko entrust him with this pestiferous role in the first place? Why hasn’t he invited Novak for a private audience in so many years? When Gurko had convinced him to accept the job, he had told him, “Piotr, I need you here. You know why.” And he did know, at least he thought he knew. But now, Mr Governor, dammit, I don’t understand a thing. Where is the respect that was promised me? Not the respect that derives from status or pay, but respect for one’s profession? All I am is a soldier, Field Marshal Gurko, all I ever wanted to be was a soldier. I always faced other armed soldiers, just like me. I faced forces that were organised just like my own. With flags flying just like mine. But as soon as I was hurled from a horse and crushed my leg, I became little more than a sewer rat.
Now my enemies have inferior firepower, their forces are in disarray, and, lacking any kind of banner, they hold fast to some trenchant belief or other instead. How did this come about? Did you imagine that you were sending me to a different battlefield? Or did you already know, back when you invited me to your office and buttered me up with flattery, noticing
my limp, that a disabled man like me is only fit for lurking in the empire’s sewers? Is it perhaps true, Mr Gurko, honourable Governor, that you have not invited me to your office because you can’t look a rat in the eye? There’s another sign for the nation’s imminent downfall: the commander of the investigation is on the brink of going mad.
“Sir.” Dodek makes him start. “He’s ready.”
“He’s ready?” Novak says, trying to keep up. “Who is ready?”
III
* * *
When Novak realises that his honourable guest is Shleiml Cantor, his morale finally collapses and he drops his cane. Thus far, he has learned nothing new from any of the interviews he has conducted in Motal, including the “conversation” with that mute recluse, Natan-Berl, and the monologue of the infinitely loquacious Rivkah Keismann.
Novak has no intention of asking the local townsmen about Colonel David Pazhari, and clearly it would be pointless to ask them about Count Alexander Pazhari, of whom they have never heard. In fact, it is doubtful whether any Motalite has ever met a Russian nobleman. As soon as they hear the name “St Petersburg” they flap their arms about as if they are drowning. They find the very mention of the capital abhorrent; to their ears, it sounds like a word in a fancy language they do not understand.
However, he can’t complain about the locals – Jews or gentiles – who are cooperating without protest. Reports stream in detailing matters Novak could not care less about: tax evasion, suspected insurrection, defections and God knows what else. They have even snitched on the local adulterers, down to the very last one. This has created a paradox: the residents, wishing for the curfew to lift and the Okhrana agents to leave, have been falling over themselves to give Novak information that only convinces him of the necessity of the secret police’s presence in the town. Motal, it turns out, is not as innocent as it first appeared. There is solid evidence for the presence of Palestine dreamers, and even the odd communist pamphlet has been sighted. The townsmen disclose this information under the assumption that the Department for Public Security and Order is in Motal to take care of a specific issue that the curfew should resolve. None of the residents imagines that the blockade is an end in and of itself and that the Okhrana has quite different concerns on its mind.
Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin is especially diligent and is proving to be a great help. Indeed, at first he was hurt and reticent. He had treated Akim and Prokor as though they were his own sons. Other towns had driven them away, but he had generously opened the doors of his congregation to them. And how did they repay him? They sowed false hopes in his heart, then took off their disguises and pulled out their identification papers. Shame on them, the villains. What a disgrace.
It did not take long for the rabbi to realise, however, that as a public figure he does not have the luxury of yielding to his private emotions. He must protect his community and make amends for his mistakes. As it happens, Novak has appointed him as the townsmen’s representative to the authorities. The rabbi goes from house to house, pleads with his congregants to answer questions, tells them about recent developments and then goes back to Prokor, that is, Piotr Novak, and tells him everything he knows.
If only a week ago someone had told Colonel Piotr Novak, the Okhrana commander of the north-western districts, that he would interview Yoshke-Mendel the store owner, interrogate Schneider the tailor, press Liedermann the cobbler for answers, probe Grossman the handkerchief vendor, rattle Blumenkrantz the pâtissier, sweet-talk Isaac Holz the lumber merchant, whisper in the ear of Mordecai Schatz the book-cart owner, and even yell at Simcha-Zissel Resnick the butcher (who won’t stop talking about Mende Speismann’s lust for fresh meat, for some reason) – Novak would have told them that they were mad. He does not trouble himself with such useless interrogations. That’s what Dodek is for, even if his deputy is a specialist in keeping the chaff and throwing away the grain. And yet, despite talking with so many locals, Novak cannot put the pieces together to form a cohesive picture, and he certainly cannot link it with the count, His Highness Alexander Pazhari of St Petersburg.
Only two families in the town refuse to talk to Novak, and remain indifferent to threats or intimidation. Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin pleaded their defence and begged the inspector not to demolish their homes. “These are two stubborn families,” he explained, “and they know nothing in any case.”
“How can they know nothing?” Novak said, furiously. “They are the Berkovits and the Avramson families! Their sons are my suspects!”
“True,” the rabbi touched his forehead and heart, “but the families lost all contact with Pesach Avramson and Yoshke Berkovits when the boys were twelve.”
“How is that possible?” Novak asked, and immediately regretted the question, which prompted a thirty-minute lecture from the rabbi.
It is hard to recall every detail of the rabbi’s outpouring, but the gist of it is that, long ago, a terrible tragedy took place. The authorities tore Jewish boys away from their homes. No family would volunteer its progeny, forcing community leaders to decide who to part with. Could there be a more thankless task? After many calculations, they announced their decision in good faith and without prejudice. “If my children had been the ones chosen to go,” the rabbi ran his hand through his tousled beard, “wouldn’t I have given them up? Let me put it this way, dear sir, even though you are not well versed in the Old Testament: did Abraham not give up Isaac? This is all there is to it.
“Well,” the rabbi continued, “these two families refused to accept the community’s decision. We spared nothing in our attempt to be reconciled with them. But they would never forgive and forget. You should know this, Inspector Novak: every Jew is like a link in a chain, we are all connected by an unbreakable bond. Zizek Breshov and Patrick Adamsky are links that fell out of the chain. Their families made things worse by choosing to deny that this bond exists at all. Of course, one should not be judged in one’s hour of sorrow, but in this case, sorrow threatened to undo the very fabric of the community.”
In one of his few lapses of judgment, Novak loses control. He takes four agents and breaks into the Berkovits household. The father, of course, has long been dead, and only one brother still lives with the mother. Novak orders two agents to interrogate the mother in front of her son to extract information from her, but to his surprise, this yields nothing whatsoever. Never mind the fact that they get next to no information out of the son, even when he is forced to watch as his mother is pinned down by two Cossacks, but the old lady herself remains quite unruffled. She is beyond fear, Novak thinks to himself. This woman is nothing but wrinkles; life has already squeezed her down to her last drop, nothing more can be wrung from her now.
It suddenly dawned on Novak that when the state completely crushes its citizens, it only makes them immune to threats. A state seeking to secure absolute control over its citizens must leave them something precious, a modicum of freedom to cling to. He orders his men to leave the Berkovits house at once, and does not bother to go to the Avramsons’.
As the operation drags on, Novak orders his temporary headquarters to be set up in a house near the synagogue, leaving only one room to the family living there, the Weitzmanns. Once Novak is settled, the town’s residents are called in for questioning one by one, and interrogated in the courtyard. Akaky Akakyevich, formerly known as Akim and now going by his birth name, Haim-Lazer, serves as Novak’s interpreter. The inspector knows that once he has questioned everyone else, it will be his interpreter’s turn for a grilling. Something about Haim-Lazer’s frequent smiles, grimaces and teasing gives Novak the feeling of being in the hands of someone who is anything but submissive and who might even turn out to be dangerous.
“What do you think?” Novak asks him after they have questioned Mikhail Andreyevich, the driver of the wagon that took Fanny out of Motal on the night of her escape. Not only was Mikhail’s testimony completely useless, he kept coughing up phlegm and didn’t
trouble to keep it in his mouth.
“This is hilarious,” the interpreter chortles.
“What’s hilarious about five dead bodies?” Novak demands.
“Nothing,” Haim-Lazer says quickly, seeming to recall that he is not free from danger himself. “I mean, these people have no idea, they live like their ancestors did a century ago.”
“Why don’t you give them one of your pamphlets,” Novak suggests, but he knows that there is something to his interpreter’s observation. This obsolete way of life, here in Motal, is doomed to disappear. He will gain nothing by questioning these crackpots.
“When all of this is over, I will leave for New York,” Haim-Lazer says unexpectedly.
“New York?” Novak says. “How does that fit in with your socialist ideas?”
“It doesn’t,” replies Haim-Lazer, “but this place is doomed.”
Novak decides to stop questioning the local residents. The rest of the investigation is not faring too badly, overall. Colonel Pazhari has been summoned to Motal to “testify” about the suspects’ whereabouts. Novak does not want to arrest the colonel with an armed unit right behind him, which is why he prefers to meet Pazhari when the suspicions against him are still not official. The colonel will arrive in Motal cocksure, only to find himself in chains.
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