The Slaughterman's Daughter

by Yaniv Iczkovits

  At this point, Novak is no longer surprised by anything. Clearly, these decisions are no longer in his hands, even though he cannot say in whose hands they might be instead. As he bows his head to Pazhari, the colonel understands that he has reached the end of his road.

  From right to left, the suspects standing in the office are: Colonel David Pazhari, Captain Istomin, five hussars, Zizek Breshov, Fanny Keismann, Zvi-Meir Speismann, Captain Adamsky (lying on a stretcher), and for lack of space the matchstick Shleiml Cantor squeezes in behind them, holding two planks. No-one would notice if he left the room with Olga, and yet he stays put.

  “Well, Colonel Novak,” Field Marshal Osip Gurko calls to him, “shall we begin?”

  Novak knows that whoever he questions first will provide the evidence that the people on the other side of the desk want to hear. He can easily trap Pazhari with the imaginary blood relation he never denied, accuse Captain Istomin and the hussars of treason, put the feeble-minded Zizek Breshov on the spot, produce several eyewitnesses to testify against Adamsky and present his own crushed leg as supporting evidence. As for Shleiml Cantor, well, this fount of information requires no further encouragement.

  Any of these men would yield the desirable outcome, but he chooses to start with Fanny. He knows that he is the only man present, including Gurko, who is capable of confronting her. This is the moment he has been waiting for his entire career.

  “Now, Mrs Keismann,” he begins in an impressive tone, “please identify the people standing here and describe the nature of your relationship with them.”

  Fanny says nothing. This is an awkward moment. Novak decides he must refine his question.

  “Oh bother,” Gurko suddenly stands up, “time is pressing. I have to be in Minsk the day after tomorrow. Give them their goddamned confessions, for God’s sake, and let them sign them.”

  “Confessions?” Novak says, blankly. “What confessions?”

  “Here.” His deputy Albin Dodek hands him the papers. Novak looks around, in terror. Any moment now – he can feel it – he too will join the shackled prisoners.

  “Your Excellency,” Novak mutters. “What about the trial?”

  “Trial?” Gurko asks, surprised. “And how long will that take? Do you think that in emergencies, when grave danger looms over the empire, we can afford to wait for trials to end?”

  “All the same,” Novak says. “The trial is . . .” He cannot complete his sentence. The trial is . . . what? Goddammit, what is he trying to say? He doesn’t know. And yet, the trial is important, perhaps it is the most important thing of all.

  “The trial might expose more accomplices,” Novak says finally, “other cells.”

  “This is precisely your job, my dear Novak.” The tone of Gurko’s voice has changed. “We have not finished here, oh no. But right now, what we are looking for is deterrence.”

  Novak is silent. He feels that his life is hanging by a thread. His trial has been cancelled against his wish. It can’t possibly end this way, without a trial.

  Suddenly Fanny steps forward. Her wolf-like eyes consume the hearts of all men present. Each of them feels that they have been served a piece of death, a fragment of the End. She throws the document she has just been handed, her so-called confession, to the floor and says calmly, “I am not signing anything until I have seen my children.”

  Novak is pleased. Now his colleagues, and Gurko most of all, will begin to understand just how complicated this investigation really is. They thought they could bury the case with fabricated confessions. Well, not with a woman like this.

  “She can have her wish,” Gurko says and adds to Novak, “we’ll forge her signature. Are the gallows ready?”

  “Gallows?” Novak chokes, flabbergasted.

  He turns to the window and sees that five gallows have indeed sprouted in the market square overnight. How did he miss them? They stand before him like ancient trees, defiant. Who gave the order to erect them?

  Pazhari steps forward and stands next to Fanny. “You can’t kill him.” He points at Zizek Breshov. “He is the Father.”

  “The father,” Gurko echoes. “Whose father?”

  “He has no children,” Dodek says. “We checked.”

  Novak feels the blood drain from his face. His head swims. The Father! How could he have missed it? The Berkovits family, he’s such an idiot! Yoshke Berkovits who became Zizek Breshov, there is not a single soldier who doesn’t know his story. That’s why they were helped at the camp. For crying out loud, this is not a conspiracy at all, but a code of love and honour, a code that he himself used to follow.

  Novak turns to Gurko. “Sir,” he begins – a strange way to address a count. “We must remember we are standing before Yoshke Berkovits, who is none other than the Father, General Radzetsky’s adjutant. We shouldn’t rush the decision.”

  “I don’t know who ‘the Father’ is,” Gurko chuckles. “But General Radzetsky was an idiot.”

  Novak turns red. He has never been humiliated like this in front of his men before, and Gurko leans towards him and whispers in his ear, “You know, my friend, we can always set up a sixth gallows out there.” He sniffs at Novak, and screws up his face, as if Novak is nothing more than a drunken beggar, then camouflages his disgust with a broad smile, from one tip of his magnificent moustache to the other.

  “And what about them?” Dodek jerks his head towards Pazhari and his soldiers.

  “They should be escorted back to the camp,” Novak says, “and face a court-martial.”

  “No need,” Gurko says, “they can face a court-martial right here. Do you have anything to say in your defence?” he asks, turning to Pazhari.

  The colonel lowers his eyes. Novak is stunned.

  “Excellent,” says Gurko. “You are all hereby sentenced to death by firing squad, like the traitors that you are.”

  Novak cannot believe his ears. Everything is happening so fast that he can’t even utter a single word before Colonel Pazhari, Captain Istomin and the five hussars are led out to the wall of a neighbouring old, black house with a low roof. The firing-squad commander yells something, Novak’s mind is wrapped in darkness, and gun blasts cut through the air. Peering through the window, Novak sees seven soldiers, including the colonel, lying on the ground in pools of blood.

  “You’ve done a wonderful job, dear Novak.” Gurko pats Novak’s shoulder. “I’m off to Minsk. Send me a report after the hangings.”

  “Certainly, Your Excellency,” Dodek replies in place of the dumbfounded Novak, and Gurko marches smartly away.

  Novak leaves the house and limps over to Pazhari. On the one hand, there’s a man lying on the ground who has seen him leading a cavalry regiment into battle. On the other hand, there’s a man lying on the ground who has seen him crawling like a lizard. How can these opposites be reconciled? There’s the end of an era for you: an era of irresolution.

  VIII

  * * *

  If a twig does not want to be washed down a river, what should it do? It can ask, or even beg the stream not to carry it away. But the river itself has no say. Being a river it flows relentlessly, and it is one and the same whether it sweeps along a twig or a baby squirrel in the process.

  Such is the situation in Novak’s makeshift office. The moment Field Marshal Gurko leaves the room there is no stopping the onrush. Like the flow of a river, the Okhrana agents cannot turn against their own nature, and after honouring the five remaining condemned prisoners with punches and kicks, they go out to gather spectators for the hangings.

  In less than two hours, the market square is packed with the residents of Motal and its environs. The agents storm one house after another, dragging out women and children, leaving only to gentiles the choice of whether or not to follow them. Yoshke Mendel is standing beside his shop mumbling “many thanks” out of habit. Simcha-Zissel Resnick, having been dragged away from th
e shop that is also his home, has left his wife and children in hiding. Two informants notice that he is without his family and ask him where they are. His first stutter earns him a slap in the face, his second stutter costs him the contents of his pockets, and his tears prompt the agents to break into his house, kick his wife and children over to the square and turn his shed upside down in search of his finest meat.

  Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin goes from house to house and pleads with the inhabitants to come out. “Haven’t you heard what happened to Simcha-Zissel?” he asks. “Don’t try to be clever. Soon we will put all of this behind us, with God’s help.”

  Gathering together in the market square raises everyone’s morale. Blumenkrantz winks at Schneider, Grossman teases Isaac Holz, asking whether he sold them the wood for the scaffolds. After spending a week under curfew, isolated in their homes, they stand together to face a single fate. Being a tightly knit community, they know that police officers and agents cannot infiltrate their ranks, which is reassuring. After a while, the children run out of patience and start playing hide-and-seek. Their parents are their hiding places, and the little ones roam free, laughing and shrieking with joy. They are in a festive mood. There’s nothing wrong with that. What else can their parents do – tell them the truth?

  Two barouches make their way through the crowd, escorted by the secret police agents. The nosiest people by the carriages peer inside and report their findings to the rest. In one carriage sits poor Mende Speismann. What her sister has done to her is abominable. Fanny has publicly humiliated her, brought her good name into disrepute and turned her into the joke of the town. There is not a single household in Kobryn District and Grodno County that hasn’t heard about Mende Speismann’s misery. Now she is holding her two children close, unaware that she, Yankele and Mirl are about to see Zvi-Meir for the first time in a year, under mortifying circumstances.

  In the second carriage sits Natan-Berl. A mighty bear in handcuffs who keeps his head bowed. His mother, Rivkah Keismann, is sobbing by his side. This is not how a bubbe should end her days. She would have been better off dead. She draws her strength from the need to protect her grandchildren, even though the eldest has disappeared. The last she saw of Gavriellah was yesterday, and she is worried sick. What a rebellious little girl. But how could she not be? She is taking after her mother, if this daughter-in-law of hers can be called a mother at all. What woman would do such a thing to her children?

  The carriages drive past Rochaleh Speismann, Zvi-Meir’s mother. Catching a glimpse of Mende’s face, she raises her eyes to the heavens: “Blessed Holy One, I have toiled my whole life, and for what? If You reserved one act of grace for an entire lifetime, You should use it now: save the meek! Rescue my son from the hand of the gentiles and spare my grandchildren.” Eliyahu Speismann also tries to look up, but his bent back only permits him to see right in front of him. In his attempt, his gaze rests upon the five sets of gallows and the stool beneath each noose.

  IX

  * * *

  The execution has not been planned well. The scaffolds have been built too close to the Weitzmanns’ house, where the condemned prisoners are held. The quintet has little time to reflect on their last moments, and the mob has no space in which to cheer and jeer. Instead of being led through the crowd, the guards and prisoners advance down a side street. Those who blink at the wrong moment because of the blinding sunlight miss the procession altogether and by the time they reopen their eyes, they find that the prisoners are already tied to the poles.

  Novak stands to one side and observes the unfolding of events. He has no wish to participate in the execution proceedings and he has no power to stop them. He watches Dodek scurrying back and forth, brandishing papers. There can be no doubt now: someone who is not Novak is running the show. The hangmen are obviously rookies. It would surprise him if they knew how to tie a noose. There’s the beginning of a new era: everything must be done with haste while patience is considered the Devil’s work.

  This general state of carelessness gives the condemned companions more time to accept their hour of reckoning. There’s neither pomp nor circumstance. The hangmen put the rope around their necks with the indifference of tailors taking measurements for new clothes. The stools on which the prisoners stand have been carried out from various houses, each is of a different height and colour. A circus, that’s what this execution is.

  Of the five, Shleiml Cantor is the only one to lose his composure when the noose is tightened around his neck.

  He tries singing “Adon Olam”, yells “Help!” at Olga and then turns to the crowd. “This is the Father!” he shouts, pointing at Zizek Breshov. “The Father!”

  A subdued Zvi-Meir Speismann does not scan the crowd for his wife and children. Before his capture, he had finished putting together what was to be his final sermon. It was tremendous, a speech not to be forgotten, words that were to enter the annals of history. But now his lips are sealed, and his one hand feels the empty space left by the three missing fingers of the other.

  Patrick Adamsky requires special treatment. Half-conscious, he can only stand if he is supported on both sides, but he protests – can’t they see that Ada is trying to rock their baby to sleep in her arms? Shush, quiet please! People are pigs.

  Zizek Breshov stares at the crowd. Does he really? Well, his eyes are open. His tongue feels the scar in his mouth, and, wishing he could smoke, he is reminded of the tobacco box he was robbed of on the road to Telekhany. This scene should frighten Zizek to the point of petrification. But the truth is that he hasn’t felt this tranquil for a very long time. When the child Yoshke Berkovits rode into that accursed night with Leib Stein the abductor and his pack of thugs, he knew that a chasm had opened up between him and Motal. On one side of the abyss he stood together with the Avramson brothers, while on its other side stood, well, everything else. One is born into the bosom of one’s family. A baby utters a word and immediately seeks its parents’ approval. It stands on its feet and looks to them for reassurance. From morning until evening, it is told that it means the world to them. Then one fine day the world sacrifices the boy to Moloch. His parents go into mourning, the congregation feels as if a piece of its own flesh has been torn away, but the world keeps turning. Overnight, the boy comes to learn that his own world and the big wide world are not one and the same. He is left hanging like a loose bandage on a wound, waiting to be ripped off.

  And now Zizek turns his calm, blue eyes to the square and recognises twelve-year-old Mina Gorfinkel in the crowd. She holds the tips of her hair and twists her braids, holding in her hand a rag doll her mother had made for her. Mina’s older brothers tease her, and Yoshke wants to help her but fears their reaction. His bones are on fire as she passes by and he knows he will never let her down. His family will finally overcome penury, once he becomes a revered scholar who will make Mina proud. He aches to approach her but worries that his tongue will fail him. Then she is gone. Oh well. They have their entire lives ahead of them. The world will bring them together, one step at a time, and Motal will celebrate their unification in holy matrimony.

  X

  * * *

  In the absence of speeches or requests for final words (good grief, the hangmen’s faces aren’t even covered), it is not entirely clear when the time has come to kick away the stools and put an end to the matter. Since no specific time has been designated for the execution, no-one can be certain whether or not it is running late. There is a rumour that they want a painter or a photographer to capture the event, but no-one knows for sure.

  Even the spectators’ behaviour is unconventional. Where are the tomatoes, the torches, the abuse? They stand with gaping mouths as if they are watching an auction of diamonds they’ll never be able to afford. Novak stands amid the crowd, helpless, focusing on the only thing that gives him consolation: Fanny Keismann.

  Fanny is not searching for an opportunity to strike. There’s no shortage of daggers, some o
f them are even within her reach, but she does not want her children to witness a gory escape attempt that is doomed to fail. Caught off-guard by the unexpectedly fast turn of events, Fanny’s hopes of a last-minute reprieve are slowly evaporating.

  She spots Natan-Berl’s hairy arm in one of the barouches. Now his face turns the other way, and she prays to God that the tiny hand she can see on his chest isn’t . . . yes, it is Elisheva’s. Her youngest daughter is sitting in her husband’s lap, pulling at his shirt. Natan-Berl is pointing at the window opposite Fanny to distract the toddler, who points too and laughs.

  In vain Fanny tries to catch Natan-Berl’s gaze. Now he is entertaining Mishka, David and Shmulke with a strange game he has just made up involving his handcuffs. The three boys are bent over the irons, trying to prise them off his wrists. The agents let them play. Natan-Berl will do anything to prevent his children from seeing their mother on the gallows.

  A heavy lump lodges itself in Fanny’s throat. Her husband is behaving most sensibly. No child should see their mother like this. But brave as she might be, she needs their attention right now. In defiance of anything that might be considered for the good of the children, she screams with a mad despair: “Mishka! Elisheva! David! Shmulke! Gavriellah!”

  The crowd falls deathly silent. All eyes are turned to the carriage carrying the Keismann family. The children anxiously look through its window. Are they dreaming or did they just hear their mother’s voice? She calls again: “Mishka! Elisheva! David! Shmulke! Gavriellah!”

  Natan-Berl stares at her, utterly wretched. His face is seething with rage and his fists are clenched. She sends him a pleading look. Something, God knows what, compelled her to vanish into the night at two hours past midnight. Why her, of all people? He does not know. And now, disregarding all reason, she has to hear herself calling out to her children. She has to see them see her. Is she wrong? She must be. But Natan-Berl is used to her mistakes.