The people of Motal and the Keismanns seem to have nothing in common. The village Jews are in the village, and the Motalers are in Motal. The Speismanns and the Keismanns have not renewed their relationship either. Mende will never forgive her sister for what she has done to her, and she keeps explaining to Zvi-Meir how unfortunate, how desperate a wife must be to leave her home at two hours past midnight. Zvi-Meir, for his part, sits across from his wife, browsing through an issue of Hamagid with the two digits that remain on his left hand. These pages, Speismann knows, will not print his name ever again. His sagacity will not make any waves either. But, hand on heart, can this even be called a proper newspaper? Such low standards, such prolixity, the folly and whims of exhibitionists eager to become famous. Just look at this advert: “The voice of a merry and contented wife”, who would like to thank the Blessed Holy One for having kindly and graciously given her a roof over her head and two darling children. For heaven’s sake, is this a way to write? This newspaper is only good for wrapping fish. Shame on anyone whose name makes its way into these pages.
The previous night, after evening prayer, the Speismanns were seen arguing in the street, and not about the Torah either. Mende said something and Zvi-Meir clapped his hands over his ears. Mende kept on babbling, and Zvi-Meir lost his patience and roared, “Quiet, you hen! Enough with your nonsense!” What happened there? No-one knows. But judging by the angry tone, the epithet “hen” should not be taken for an affectionate pet name.
* * *
This is what Novak would have written, more or less, had he wanted to tell the truth about the investigation, and then he would have added:
To conclude, Field Marshal Osip Gurko, celebrated Governor of Poland, there has been no violent attack on the citizens’ personal security. The threat we face is indeed hidden from us, but only because we refuse to see the world as it truly is.
Yours unfaithfully,
Piotr
* * *
Novak and his interpreter, Haim-Lazer, stand at the entrance to the village of Upiravah, some seven versts away from Motal. Before returning to St Petersburg, Novak wants to talk to Fanny Keismann one last time. He has no need of an interpreter anymore and so he asks Haim-Lazer to wait by the carriage.
“It’s so peaceful here,” Haim-Lazer observes. “Life in Motal seems to be slowly returning to its old course.”
“If that is what you think,” Novak says as he limps away, “then you’ve learned nothing.”
“Are you leaving me here unsupervised?” Haim-Lazer calls after him.
“I live in hope that I won’t have to see you when I return.”
From a distance, the Keismann home looks like the neighbouring houses, but as Novak approaches, he notices that it has been extended at the rear. A few chickens wander in the yard, geese stretch their necks out at him, and a one-eyed sheep dog alerts its master to Novak’s arrival. Natan-Berl appears in the doorway, holding his youngest daughter, Elisheva, in his arms. The bear recognises Novak and tries to read his face. Before long he understands that it’s not him the inspector has come to speak to and he mumbles a few words into the house.
Fanny comes to the door, accompanied by Gavriellah. Natan-Berl asks her to go back inside, but she takes the hand of her eldest and walks over to the gate. Novak cannot stop staring at the girl’s eyes – they are unmistakably her mother’s – and advances towards them along the fence with the help of his cane until he reaches the gate.
“Would you like to come in?” Fanny asks.
“No,” Novak says, surprised. “No.”
“I was expecting your visit,” she says.
Novak is silent.
“Have you come to arrest me?” she asks, staring at him intently.
Noticing the movement of her left hand he readies his cane, just in case.
“No.” Novak says, looking at her gravely. “I have no intention of harming you, and I hope this is mutual, yes?”
Without warning, Fanny pulls out the knife and hands it to him. Stunned, the inspector looks at the tiny blade she has just placed in his palm. He cannot believe that something so small has slit so many throats with such precision.
“So why are you here?” she asks, scanning his melancholy face.
What does she see? He would have liked to ask her. A coward? A wretch? A drunk? A decent man?
“I have come to warn you,” he says. He bows and returns the knife to her. He expects the obvious questions: “Warn against what? Against whom?” But Fanny simply nods. Understood.
Novak turns and walks away, ambling hesitantly, his cane barely supporting his weight. Fanny’s gaze follows him, her hand still holding the knife tightly. She can neither throw it away nor strap it back on her thigh. She glances down at Gavriellah, who looks back pleadingly, and she hands over to her eldest child the inheritance she had received from her father. Gavriellah’s eyes glisten with pride, and Fanny smiles back, suppressing tears.
The Polesian expanses are crisp, the birch trees rise up straight into the sky and the storks survey the bright fields. Underneath it all the black marshes seethe as their putrid waters flow into the rivers. Distant clouds herald the arrival of autumn rainfall, after which everything will be covered in snow. The rains of the Flood started falling many aeons ago, Fanny knows, and they continue to fall now. The world is on the verge of catastrophe, and what has happened in the last few weeks is nothing compared to what is yet to come. Still, no-one rushes into the ark while the soil is yet to be submerged, and a slow decline is still unfelt. There’s always time for a miracle, isn’t there?
* * *
On his way north towards Telekhany, Novak rides through Motal and witnesses a strange scene. By the riverbank, Zizek is sitting in his boat, minding his own business, nestling a cup of rum in his hands. Two horses are standing there: one with a sway back, the other swishing its tail. And although they are not tethered, they calmly chew their hay. A very old, haggard lady is making her way toward the riverbank, a fair distance from Zizek. Novak cannot tell who she is at first, but as she draws closer, he recognises the wrinkled face of Leah Berkovits.
The young steed neighs, his older friend grunts, and the scar-mouthed hulk notices the elderly woman approaching. One would assume that Zizek would jump to his feet with alacrity. After all, he has been waiting to see her for years. But lo and behold, he does not go out of his way. He places his cup on the seat and helps the old woman into his boat. She, for her part, says nothing and merely sits across from the burly man. There’s no “meine zisalle”, no “my boy”, and no “Mamaleh is here”.
Zizek rows across the still water with a placid face. When they reach the middle of the river, he stops the boat as he does with all his passengers. He offers her rum from the barrel. The old lady grimaces but then she thinks better of it, snatches the cup with her sinewy hand, and downs the drink in a single gulp. Zizek nods and continues to row towards the opposite bank.
THE END
yaniv iczkovits is an award-winning author and was formerly a lecturer in philosophy at the University of Tel Aviv. His previous works include Pulse (2007), Adam and Sophie (2009), and Wittgenstein’s Ethical Thought (2012), based on his academic work. In 2002, he was an inaugural signatory of the “combatants’ letter,” in which hundreds of Israeli soldiers affirmed their refusal to fight in the occupied territories, and he spent a month in military prison as a result. The Slaughterman’s Daughter is his third novel and won the Ramat Gan Prize and the Agnon Prize in 2015, the first time the prize had been awarded in ten years. It was also shortlisted for the Sapir Prize. Yaniv Iczkovits previously held a postdoctoral fellowship at Columbia University and lives with his family in Tel Aviv.
orr scharf teaches cultural studies and translation theory at the University of Haifa. He is the author of Thinking in Translation: Scripture and Redemption in the Thought of Franz Rosenzweig (De Gruyter, 2019). The
Slaughterman’s Daughter is his first literary translation.
house of anansi press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.
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