beer and bread, preparing the samovar, transporting freight, and buying
goods on market days.
Since early modern times, the Catholic Church had spoken out
against arrangements involving direct physical contact between Jews
and Christians. Sexual relations between Jewish employers and their
Christian maids were not uncommon, and authorities viewed poor
maidens as particularly vulnerable to temptations. Cautioning against
the Jewish employment of Christian wet nurses, governesses, and ser-
vants, the Catholic Church threw its moral power into imposing strict
cultural boundaries.16 To avoid violent religious encounters, including
blood accusations, Jewish councils imposed the ecclesiastical legislation
on their own communities.17
The realities on the ground made it nearly impossible to limit social
interactions.18 Nevertheless, long after the partitions of the common-
wealth, Russian authorities tried to regulate Jewish- Christian domestic
arrangements.19 Sensational stories of conversions, secret liaisons, and
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the Velizh affair
sexual transgression heightened fears of young maidens falling prey to
Jewish influence. In 1817, for instance, two Catholic domestic servants
decided to secretly convert to Judaism in a Jewish cemetery so as to
escape notice. Subsequently, one of the women agreed to marry a Jewish
man. The Jew forced his young impressionable wife and her friend to
relocate to a nearby province to start a new life, where he eventually
abandoned both women, leaving them to their own tragic fate.20
As this and other similar cases were being adjudicated, the Russian
government passed a series of laws that banned peasants from working
for and with Jews in almost every capacity (from transportation to con-
struction to domestic service): Jews who maintained post offices were
not permitted to reside in buildings occupied by Christian workers,
Jewish artisans could work with a Christian apprentice only when one
other Christian worker was present, Christian wet nurses were banned
from feeding Jewish children under any circumstances, and Jews were
prohibited from employing Christian servants in intimate domestic
spaces. All these prohibitions emerged out of fears that young Christian
women would develop intimate ties with Jewish men and be tempted
to convert to the Jewish faith.21
Concerns over proselytism and debauchery intensified as communi-
ties of ethnic Russians known as Subbotniks (or Sabbatarians) appeared
in the 1820s in Astrakhan, Riazan, and Saratov provinces. Although
their beliefs and practices varied widely, Subbotniks generally followed
Jewish teachings and ethical traditions, with some going so far as mar-
rying Jews, observing Jewish dietary customs and holidays, praying in
Hebrew, and wearing fringed garments and phylacteries. Almost always,
officials attributed the growth of the sectarian communities to perni-
cious Jewish influence on Russian peasantry. In an effort to limit bound-
ary crossings, the Russian government took drastic steps by uprooting
and banishing Subbotniks to the far corners of the empire.22
The story Terenteeva told thus resonated with profound anxieties
of Jewish enticement and transgression that were being discussed in
administrative circles. Strakhov understood that female domestic ser-
vants played an important economic role in the Jewish household and
that they had access to its most intimate quarters. It was not unusual
for servants to eat with Jewish families at the same table, instruct Jewish children in their languages, and sleep with Jews in the same room.
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67
The intimacy of the domestic arrangements meant that impressiona-
ble young women would invariably learn Jewish customs and rituals
not only by observation but also by active participation.23 Terenteeva’s
confession revealed many new insights, although on occasion she said
things that directly contradicted her previous statements. Strakhov was
well aware of this fact. But at this point in the investigation, he showed
no interest in forcing his star witness to resolve the ambiguities. Instead, what he decided to do was to push ahead with his work. He summoned
two crucial witnesses, Avdotia Maksimova and Praskoviia Kozlovskaia,
into the interrogation chamber, both of whom, it turned out, had direct
knowledge of Jewish ways of life.
While working as a domestic servant for the Tsetlin family, Avdotia
Maksimova was able to learn Yiddish quite well. Although she had a
hard time expressing herself in the language, she had no problem under-
standing everything the Jews talked about. This is why Strakhov con-
sidered Avdotia a particularly important witness in the case. Strakhov
talked with her on December 4, 1825, almost two weeks after he first
interviewed Terenteeva. In painstaking detail, she described how for four
straight days she transferred the boy back and forth between Khanna’s
and Mirka’s homes. At times, she made the short walk across the mar-
ket square under the cover of darkness. On other occasions, she did so
during broad daylight. One day in particular stood out for her. Khanna
asked Avdotia to go over to Mirka’s tavern to purchase a glass of red wine
for her ill son. When she went down to the cellar, she “saw something
covered in linen lying on the ground.” She immediately walked over to
the spot, unwrapped the cloth, and to her surprise saw the dead body.
A Jew she had never seen before yelled at her to mind her own business,
while someone else handed her another glass of red wine and told her to
get out of the cellar. Everything happened so quickly, as if in a dream,
that she did not even have time to notice if the body was punctured.
When she finally made it home, Avdotia told Khanna Tsetlina every-
thing that had taken place that night, but the only thing Khanna did
was give her a five- ruble coin, making her promise not to say a word to
anyone about what she had seen.24
The longer Avdotia talked, the more confusing her story became.
Strakhov quickly realized that Avdotia’s linguistic abilities proved
sounder than her recollection of the events. In the second interview,
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the Velizh affair
which took place the next day, on December 5, Avdotia not only impli-
cated herself in the case, but also contradicted several important asser-
tions made by Terenteeva. It was Avdotia (and not Maria) who helped
Glikman and his son Abram deposit the body into the woods. So certain
of this fact, Avdotia testified that she would have no problem pointing
out the very spot where they buried the body.25
Avdotia went on to describe how on Easter Monday Glikman and
Abram came over to Khanna Tsetlina’s to ask where they should dis-
pose of the body. The Jews posed the same question to Avdotia as well.
“Sooner or later,” Avdotia told them, “they’ll find out who spilled
Christian blood.” She suggested that they take the body to the out-
skirts of town and hide it in
the thick woods. Late that evening, Iosel’
and Abram came by the house in a spring britzka. Khanna woke up
Avdotia and ordered her to wash off all the blood that had dried up
on the body. And as she was performing the task, Avdotia noticed that
the entire body was covered with “tiny little wounds, as though [it] was
pierced with a knife, with the member severed.” Afterward, she finished
off all the wine that Khanna offered her and set off in the britzka in a
drunken state. “After all,” she testified, “a servant is obliged to follow
her mistress’s orders.” Avdotia admitted that much of what she had
disclosed contradicted her initial statement, but she was convinced that
the discrepancies were due to memory lapse, confusion, and the fact that
she was frightened the Jews would harm her.26
The twenty- two- year- old Praskoviia Kozlovskaia (née Pilenkova)
worked as a domestic servant for Mirka Aronson in the spring of 1823.
A Uniate by birth, she received the sacrament of confession every year.
When the boy disappeared, Praskoviia lived in Aronson’s attic with two
other domestic workers, a young Jewish girl from Velizh and an elderly
Jewish woman who hailed originally from Vitebsk. Praskoviia worked
for Mirka Aronson until the autumn of 1824, when she moved out to
a nearby village to live with her uncle Luk Oleinikov (the same man
who had handwritten the complaint Terenteeva presented to the tsar).
At some point before the investigation was reopened in the fall of 1825,
she married a Polish nobleman, and the couple decided to move back
to town.27
At Mirka Aronson’s, Proskoviia’s domestic duties did not include any-
thing out of the ordinary. She lit and maintained the fireplace, brought
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69
fresh water from the well, swept and cleaned the rooms, and prepared
the samovar. Most days she cleaned the front chambers of the house,
where Shmerka and Slava Berlin and their children resided. Rarely did
she visit the rooms in the back of the house. She distinctly remembered,
however, that a townsman and his daughter of either Russian or Polish
origin rented one of the back rooms, while the upstairs was reserved
for guests who would come to town on business. From the attic win-
dow, Praskoviia had an excellent view of the market square, from where
she was able to observe everyone who entered and left the building.
Significantly, although Praskoviia testified that Glikman and his son had
come by the house, she did not detect any unusual activity. From one
of the other domestic servants, she learned that two Jews had come to
town to purchase hay, but she did not know whether they were success-
ful in their endeavors. She recalled that they went somewhere every day,
but she had no idea where exactly they went or if they ever left town.
She also could not recall seeing anything suspicious in Aronson’s cellar.
In fact, Praskoviia maintained that she did not know very much about
the murder— only the fact that she had heard rumors that Jews were
responsible for the boy’s death. In closing, Praskoviia revealed that she
had been acquainted with Maksimova for a long time but crossed paths
for the very first time with Terenteeva at the magistrate’s office the day
she was brought in for questioning.28
The inspector- councilor understood all too well that the criminal
law code called for firm empirical evidence to establish the crime of
ritual murder. He did not need to be reminded that provincial courts
had summarily dismissed all the accusations that had popped up in
recent years or, for that matter, that a careful review of the case by the
highest court in the province did not net anything conclusive. History
may not have been on Strakhov’s side, but the stories he heard proved
too disturbing not to take seriously. The oral interrogations brought an
entirely new perspective on the case. How could he overlook the confes-
sions? After all, Terenteeva and Maksimova did not only claim to have
witnessed the murder firsthand; they also admitted to having actively
participated in the ritual of blood sacrifice.
Thus, no matter how contradictory the testimony may have been, it
seemed to point to one thing: that the Jews sacrificed the little boy to
mix his blood with matzo. An impressive collection of materials— vivid
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eyewitness testimony, forensic- medical evidence, material proof, and
community report of reputation— helped substantiate the charge.
Inquisitorial procedure called on investigators to work on the assump-
tion that, where a crime was committed, a criminal must be punished.29
But who killed the little boy? What motives were behind the diaboli-
cal crime? And how far had the conspiracy run? Strakhov had no easy
answers. “From the very beginning of the investigation,” Strakhov
reported to the governor- general, “not one hour has been wasted.” But
instead of bringing the case to a timely resolution, as he had hoped to
do, the inspector- councilor had become increasingly perplexed by the
stories he heard, as the women “first confessed to one thing and then to
something else entirely.”30
Determined to solve the case, Strakhov took all three suspect-
witnesses into custody: Terenteeva on November 19, 1825, Maksimova
on December 1, and Kozlovskaia on December 15. That December he
took in two additional suspects: Anna Eremeeva, the homeless girl with
psychic powers who played such an important role in the first stage
of the investigation, and an eighteen- year- old servant named Melania
Zhelnova who worked for the Tsetlin family. Strakhov concluded that
Eremeeva had learned the details of the crime from Terenteeva, most
likely when the outcasts were walking around town begging for alms.
Zhelnova, for her part, did not reveal anything of significance in a pre-
liminary interview. Although both women were placed under house
arrest for the duration of the investigation, they wound up playing an
insignificant role.31
Having become convinced that Jews committed premeditated mur-
der with ritual intent, Strakhov focused his energies on obtaining an air-
tight confession. Working late into the evening, the inspector- councilor
pressed for more information and the clarification of crucial details. All
evidence suggests that the interrogation sessions were unusually long
and strenuous. In all probability, so Strakhov reckoned, the Jews first
tortured the little boy and then, shortly before conspiring to commit
the murder, forced all three women to renounce the Christian faith and
convert to Judaism. Like any seasoned criminal investigator whose ulti-
mate goal is to ensure the conviction of the suspects, it seems reasonable
to conclude that Strakhov not only formed a theory of the crime, but
also played a central role in shaping the narrative.32
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Inquisitorial procedure involved the collection, interpretation, and
weighing of
a sequence of legal proofs. The courts gave predetermined
weight to testimony based on the social and religious status, age, and sex
of the witness. As exclusive arbiter over the col ection and interpretation of evidence, Strakhov was keenly aware that prisoners could construct a
false confession or maintain their claims to innocence. According to the
sequence of proofs, voluntary confession stood at the very top, followed
by medical and witnesses’ testimony, written statements, community
report of reputation, and the purifying oath.33 Bearing a special stamp of
authenticity, confession articulates unrealized truths and inner secrets,
without which Strakhov would not have been able to establish guilt or
move forward with the investigation. As the lead investigator in the case,
Strakhov worked hard to create a special bond between the confessant
and confessor. By controlling the conversations, he hoped to activate
elements of dependency, subjugation, and fear.34
Strakhov could have applied any number of coercive methods to get
Terenteeva, Maksimova, and Kazlovskaia to open up. But the inspector-
councilor had no intention in distancing himself from the most impor-
tant witnesses in the case. More than anything else, he wanted to gain
their trust in the hope they would reveal the hidden truths of the crime
and name all the co- conspirators in the affair. Experimenting with
several different techniques, Strakhov eventually settled on the most
merciful approach in his arsenal. Following the first principle of the
inquisitorial mode, he instructed the women to attend church services,
with the expectation that the liturgy would stir emotions and induce
confession. Markelom Tarashkevich, the Uniate priest at the St. Il’insk
Church, played a decisive role in getting the women to talk. At the out-
set, Tarashkevich made it clear to the suspect- witnesses that he wanted
them to tell “only the truth,” while admonishing them of the conse-
quences if they decided to resist.35
In the end, the visits to Tarashkevich proved invaluable. Although
they did not agree on all the details of the crime sequence, Terenteeva
and Maksimova confirmed their role in the murder conspiracy quickly.
At first, Kozlovskaia gave Strakhov an unusually hard time, but the
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