The Slaughterman's Daughter

by Yaniv Iczkovits

  The commotion that ensues signals to the powers that be that they had better draw the proceedings to a close. One of the boys tries to break out of the barouche, as police officers struggle to keep his two daredevil brothers from leaping out of the window. Deafening screams of “Mamme, Mamme!” are met with “Mishka! Elisheva! Mamme is here! Where is Gavriellah?” Natan-Berl tries to calm them down. His children, however, crush his face in their attempts to escape from the carriage, at which point one of the policemen goes one step too far. As Mishka squeezes himself out of a window, the officer grabs him by the throat and slaps his face. The crowd holds its breath. Shocked, Mishka looks around, trembling. Realising that the entire town is watching him, the boy breaks into heart-wrenching cries, “Mamme! Mamaleh!” Fanny bites her tongue as Natan-Berl tears his shirt in a wild attempt to break free from his shackles. The other officers reach for their guns, the situation is getting out of hand.

  Fanny looks at the crowd. Now! Now is the moment! Her mind calls to the people. There are thirty policemen and maybe ten more agents but there are more than a thousand of you, dammit. No-one budges. Ashamed, the people in the square look at one another meekly, standing in the sunlight like a herd without its shepherd. The odd man might sneak a furious look at the officers, but otherwise his face remains dull and his posture submissive. When the noose is placed around Fanny’s neck she hears, “Not now, Fannychka, not now. Mamme is tired,” and knows that not only is her mother tired, but the entire world is tired. The crowd caves in under the weight of exhaustion and terror. Despite their enormous collective power, they are weaker and meeker than one man. Could it be that fear is not just an emotion that overtakes them, but rather a choice, a deliberate choice that prevails over everything?

  As the rope cuts into her neck, Fanny tries to ignore her resentment and focus on her children. But she finds it impossible to suppress her loathing for the human backdrop in the square. Her blood is boiling. As long as they can open their shops the next day, they will continue to stand docilely at public hangings. Not more than a day will pass before sounds of bargaining over radishes and haberdashery will rise again from the market. They will tell her story between a purchase and a sale. “A deranged woman,” they will say, “since childhood” – adding a word about her companions, “drifters and renegades”. Indeed, it is a fact: those who don’t resist don’t get hurt, and those who don’t look for trouble don’t find it. And Fanny Keismann? No-one asked a mother to leave her home at two hours past midnight.

  And yet, the execution does not grant the townspeople the relief they were hoping for. The first to be pushed from their stool is Shleiml Cantor. But, being such a lightweight, the matchstick’s neck does not break, and although the rope tightens around his trachea, he remains alive. He jerks his head, left and right, explaining the mistake to his hangmen. “Wait a minute, take me down here, wait, there’s something wrong with the rope, just a second, it’s strangling me, listen a minute, sir, Olga! Wait, you don’t understand, I wasn’t even— They took me— Why so tight with the rope?” Slowly, the verbal flux subsides. “What . . . just a second . . . this is wrong . . . Olga . . . the rope . . .”

  The second in line is Patrick Adamsky. In spite of his stupor, his legs refuse to leave the stool. The hangmen kick it and move back quickly, having heard from several different people the stories about torn earlobes and gouged-out eyes. Mustering a hidden strength, Adamsky clings to the stool, imagining that his children are jumping on him and hugging his neck. What a joy! Ada, standing beside him, watching, is beaming. The house is warm and fragrant, and soon they will sit down to eat. One of his children goes too far. Adamsky loses his breath. Wait a minute, this isn’t his boy. Who broke into his house? People are pigs, goddammit, they never leave him be.

  The third to be pushed from the stool is Zvi-Meir Speismann, refusing to the end to sign his gett. His three missing fingers allow him to remove a hand from his cuffs, and he manages to grab hold of his hangman’s uniform. “Severing the marital bond?” he says to the executioner. “What for? I will never give her a gett! Never!” he yelps through his blanket of hair.

  The fourth to follow is Zizek Breshov. The executioners appear to have forgotten how tall and broad he is. As soon as they kick the stool away, his feet land flat on the ground. With no other choice, three agents try to pull at his noose in order to asphyxiate him instead of breaking his neck. Zizek’s eyes glisten as his tongue licks his scar. He hasn’t been to Motal’s market square since he was twelve, but nothing has changed. Then as now, people stood in the square yelling, “Thieves is what you are!” Then, as now, they whined and moaned, “Killers!” His return is not an attempt to heal the rift; it is his final breakaway.

  As a boy he was torn not only from his hometown but also from its language. He’d forgotten hordes of words. When Rabbi Schneerson from the Society for the Resurrection of the Dead delivered his mother’s letters to the army camp, Zizek never understood why she addressed him as “my boy”, who is “meine zisalle”, and how come “Mamaleh is here”, why does she claim that her heart burns with longing for him? He read the words over and over, and felt guilty: what child does not understand his mother tongue? He thought about writing back but never knew what he should write. He did not send her a single letter.

  Fanny Keismann is fifth. Now, for some reason, everyone is looking the other way. She is not as skinny as Cantor and not as tall as Zizek. Her hands are bound and her legs cannot cling to the stool. There will be no need to make any adjustments here. One kick to the stool and her neck will break. Off you go. But then a strange smell starts to rise. Is someone cooking potatoes? This is hardly the moment. Oh no. Something is burning. Good God! A pitch-black cloud is billowing from the direction of the Yaselda and sulphur is raining down from the sky. The hangmen let go of the ropes, and Dodek screams at his agents to draw their weapons as Novak watches an incendiary monster spitting fire in all directions.

  Stupendous flames rise instantly, setting an entire street ablaze. Sounds of explosions come from the burning houses as thick smoke escapes from them like a demon. “The synagogue!” yells Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin and runs towards the inferno. But before he can cross the square the roof of the beit midrash crashes into the heart of the conflagration. The crowd disperses in a panic. One man yells, “To the river!”, another, “To the well!”, and a third recalls that Motal has a fire-fighting wagon. The heat closes in on the crowd, defiant of the brave few who try to come near it with buckets of water. Parents shield their children, covering their faces with clothes they have shed, and they all flee. Even the agents and police officers, including the ad hoc hangmen, run for their lives. Only one of them refuses to give up, the one who answers to the name of Albin Dodek. His commander Piotr Novak is standing close by.

  “Come on!” Dodek pleads with Novak, burying his scorched face in his shirt. “Help me, we must make sure that the five of them are dead!”

  Novak does not move.

  “The law is the law,” Dodek screams. “Help me!”

  “Righto! Pull the first rope,” Novak yells, approaching his deputy. And as Albin Dodek takes the rope that is still attached to Shleiml Cantor, Novak draws his sword and impales his deputy’s heart until the blade protrudes from Dodek’s beefy back.

  “What conclusion would you write in your notepad now?” he asks his deputy, who stares back at him with a glazed expression, as he sinks to his knees.

  The Yaselda River

  August 13, 1894

  To

  The Governor of Poland, Field Marshal Osip Gurko

  Your Highness,

  Please be advised that the investigation in the town of Motal has been completed. On your orders, the five suspects were put to death by hanging and the verdicts were delivered to their families. Although all suspects, including Zvi-Meir Speismann, are pawns of little consequence, the trail leads to St Petersburg’s upper echelons, and to Cou
nt Alexander Pazhari in particular. At present the cause of the uprising and its final goal remain unknown, but the main thrust of the investigation will now shift to the capital.

  The army rebels were executed by a firing squad. Two of them were officers, one of whom held the rank of colonel. The possibility of Major General Mishenkov’s involvement in the affair should not be excluded. Throughout the investigation the camp commander was in Nesvizh, visiting the adviser Bobkov. The nature of the adviser’s ties with the Radziwills calls for further investigation.

  A fire broke out shortly after the executions, and its flames consumed the synagogue and half the town’s main street. The cause does not appear to have been arson. As is well known, infernal heat and low-quality wood tend to favour the spread of fire. Nonetheless, there were no casualties and in due course the local assessor will report on the completion of the renovation works. Naturally, all expenses will be paid by the Jewish community.

  The residents of Motal seem to have learned their lesson, but the Okhrana will increase surveillance around the black marshes of Polesia.

  To conclude, a violent assault on the citizens’ security was foiled. It is believed, however, that the enemy we face is still lurking in the shadows and keeping his motives well hidden. It should come as no surprise if additional pockets of resistance are encountered.

  Sincerely,

  Colonel Piotr Novak

  Commander of Grodno and Minsk Counties

  * * *

  The official letter Novak drafts clarifies one key feature of the investigation. Take the truth, turn it upside down, and you will come up with something Gurko wants to hear. In order to please his master Novak must reverse the course of events. Had he wanted to submit an honest report, however, he would have written more or less as follows:

  Although the five suspects were executed, none of them died. True, Shleiml Cantor lost consciousness as the rope around his neck tightened and he had a brief encounter with the Angel of Death. But if you saw him now, you wouldn’t believe that only a week ago he was tied to a scaffold. He sits in Fanny Keismann’s house freely gorging himself on cheeses, but this time, he is not schnorring but making a living. And no, his job is not cheese-tasting. Shleiml Cantor has a real job: he has replaced Adamsky’s nurse and has become the Jew-hater’s caretaker. What is more, since the Keismanns never attend the Motal shul, the cantor sings to them constantly to make up for the prayers they miss.

  The upshot of this is, well, rather problematic. For if Shleiml Cantor is staying at the Keismann household and is charged with caring for the anti-Semitic captain, this means that Adamsky must be staying close to Fanny’s home, which sounds absurd. Well, is a hut in the Keismanns’ courtyard close enough? Impossible. Is it the same hut where Rivkah Keismann once lived? Precisely! How on earth did Fanny agree to this? Well, it is easy for one to agree with one’s own ideas. And so Fanny has chosen to take into her ark a fine pair: a drunken vagabond and a battered tavern owner. God help them all. And didn’t Natan-Berl object? Well, Natan-Berl considers himself lucky that these are the only problems he has now.

  Should we surmise that all five of the condemned partners in crime have reunited at the Keismann home? This is a strange question. Doesn’t Zvi-Meir have a home of his own? Why, then, should he dwell among the Keismanns? When he was removed from the scaffold, Zvi-Meir showed up at his parents’ home without saying a word. A week has passed and he has still not mentioned the Volozhin Yeshiva, nor has he uttered the names Adam and Eve, and he no longer maintains that sin is the pinnacle of faith. He looks for work from sunrise till sundown. Meanwhile, on Mende’s orders, he has cleaned up the courtyard, sowed vegetable seeds and travelled with their son Yankele all the way to Pinsk to buy cheap manure. Yesterday he asked the local tutor, the melamed, to refer to him young students in the afternoon hours, promising that he will teach them according to tradition and not according to his own “method”. He hugs his children every evening, and begs his wife to let him into her bed. Mende Speismann shows him no mercy, God help her, but promises that everything will be back to the way it was once he finds them a house of their own. What’s fair is fair.

  Zizek is not staying with the Keismanns either. As soon as he parted with the noose, he marched straight to his home, the Yaselda river. He took off his clothes, swam across the mild stream and found his boat exactly where he had left it. The first thing he did was place a full barrel of rum on board, and then he went back to rowing between the banks. His first customer came yesterday and offered to pay him the fare, but Zizek ignored the outstretched hand and rowed him over to the other side.

  And Natan-Berl? Ever since his wife’s return, he has tried to work out what he should say to her, but whenever the moment arrives he says nothing. Can he convince her not to repeat this deed ever again? Of course not. Does she admit to her own recklessness? Of course she does. Has she learned her lesson? She has, and yet, if the need should arise she will certainly leave again. Can anyone say anything to this woman? Natan-Berl is not one to back down easily, and so after a prolonged silence he declared: “My mother is not going back to the hut in the yard. That’s the end of it. Full stop.”

  “Alright,” Fanny replied, and not another word was said.

  It is not at all clear whether Natan-Berl’s declaration follows from a years-long protest against the mistreatment of his mother, or an attempt to show Fanny who wears the trousers in their home. Either way, Rivkah Keismann is finally experiencing the bliss she deserves in her ripe old age. Initially she hesitated to return to her son and daughter-in-law’s madhouse. On the one hand, she is not young anymore and would like to leave this world sooner rather than later. On the other hand, how can she leave them all in such a terrible state? The house is filthy and the grandchildren are undisciplined. Until now she has tried to keep everyone happy, which was a mistake. Enough is enough! She will show them how to run a household. Her daughter-in-law has much to learn. Indeed, Rivkah Keismann is not particularly educated, but she does have experience in abundance. “Mishka, don’t walk barefoot around the house! David, wipe up the water you just spilled! Shmulke, help your grandmother clean the house! Elisheva, little ones can be helpful too! And Gavriellah – where has she disappeared to again? God help me, I’m raising puppies, not children. Just look at my life. I would be better off dead.”

  What about the executed soldiers, led by Colonel David Pazhari? Novak cannot decide if they were rebels or traitors. But there comes a moment in a soldier’s life, any soldier’s, when justice and the orders he receives clash. Novak knows that this is never easy, trust him. After all, the first thing a soldier is taught is to believe that orders and justice are one and the same. But once confronted with this dilemma, the soldier knows that opposing what his heart commands would make him a coward. For it is not only death that claims its victims, and charging at the enemy is not the only measure of courage. A just heart can also raise an army of its own, and fighting in its cause can be just as fatal.

  As for the fire – or should we call it the arson? It is hard to say. Novak knows that not every resident of Motal attended the hangings. No matter. Everyone in Motal knows exactly who was absent. First and foremost, the Berkovits and Avramson families. When the police went from house to house and forced residents to attend the execution, they skipped both families. What could they have done? Slapped Leah Berkovits’ face? Twisted Mirka Avramson’s arm? The two old ladies would have looked at them with contempt and remained sitting. “Who are you to tell us what to do? You’ve already robbed us of our loved ones. Are you threatening an immovable rock with fists? Be our guests!”

  Speaking of the Berkovits and Avramson families, Fanny’s cry of “Where is Gavriellah?” should not be forgotten. At least three informants reported to Novak that they saw a girl of about eight or nine entering the Berkovits household during curfew. Put two and two together and you will end up with a plausible conclusion: volati
le revenge meets the Keismann spark.

  Another factor that should be taken into account is the fire’s path. The blaze broke out in a house on the main street, not far from the Berkovits residence, and progressed directly towards the synagogue. While many of the nearby houses indeed burned down, other homes that were equally close were unscathed. The fire followed a precise path towards shul, as if someone had doused one house after another with something flammable, but skipped the homes of the local Poles. Can Novak be sure of this? It doesn’t matter. He has no solid evidence either way.

  The Jews of Motal, however, are convinced that the fire was set by a rabble who came to town to start a pogrom. After all, the havoc wreaked on them in the past week can only be a sign of the authorities’ torturous persecution: one Jewess went astray and suddenly all żyds are barbaric murderers. This is all the muzhiks need to light up their imagination. They have no need for evidence before they burn and pillage. Where did they come from? There’s no shortage of possibilities. What did they want? Jewish blood and children’s tears.

  The day after the fire, the townspeople went to the square to appraise the damage to the synagogue and calculate the cost of renovations. Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin placed a pushke for donations at the heart of the square and people flocked to leave money in the cup. This gesture must have ignited a miraculous spark: in an instant, pedlars sprang out of nowhere with carts crammed with vegetables and fruits. They were followed by wagons packed with goods, which reminded everyone that not only is the Sabbath approaching, but also the Yamim Noraim, the holiest days of the year, are nigh. A few shops opened. Fish for the Sabbath will not fall from the sky, will it?