The Velizh Affair
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tigation. This was where the commission carried out the bulk of its
inquisitorial work, and where most Jews, along with their accusers,
were held under lock and key. There was nothing particularly unusual
in Strakhov’s decision to transform a private residence into a jail. Small
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provincial towns did not have the infrastructure to accommodate more
than a handful of prisoners at once. With limited funding, lax security,
and endemic overcrowding, the Russian government rarely used provin-
cial prisons as long- term solutions for punishment and incarceration.
Before the second half of the nineteenth century, Russia maintained
few large- scale prisons; the individuals convicted of serious crimes were
exiled for hard labor to remote parts of the empire.3 As in other times
and places around the world, most Russian prisoners were not con-
victed offenders but suspects under preliminary arrest awaiting trial
and interrogation. Retired military officers, with little training in prison administration or sense of purpose beyond custodial maintenance of the
building, usually took on the tedious task of administering the holding
cells and looking after the prisoners.4
By April 8, 1826, Strakhov felt that he had accumulated enough evi-
dence to begin the arrests. Slava Berlina and Khanna Tsetlina were
the first people taken into custody. A week later, Itsko Nakhimovskii,
Abram Glushkov, and Iosel’ Turnovskii were locked up as well. By
the time the inquisitorial commission wrapped up its work, at least
forty- three Jews were charged with, among other things, ritual mur-
der, providing the necessary tools and supplies to carry out the murder
conspiracy, theft and desecration of church property, and the forcible
conversion of Maria Terenteeva, Avdotia Maksimova, and Praskoviia
Kozlovskaia. Thirty- eight Jews were permanent residents of Velizh; the
other five lived in surrounding towns and villages.5 Of all the individuals taken into custody, nearly 60 percent were men, and 85 percent were in
the prime of their lives, in their thirties, forties, and fifties. Although a staggering twenty- nine families were caught up in the ordeal, around
45 percent of those imprisoned came from five of the most prominent
families in the town: the Tsetlins, the Chernomordiks, the Devirtses, the
Rudnikovs, and the Aronson/ Berlin clan (see Appendix).
Working under the rules of the inquisitorial system, Strakhov and
his team conducted the interrogations in the privacy of a guest room. It
was the investigator’s task to systematically interrogate the suspects, and it was the suspects’ duty to either refute the allegations or recount what
had happened to the best of their ability. Even though Russia had offi-
cially abolished torture, Strakhov relied on a variety of confrontational,
manipulative, and psychological techniques to get the Jews to talk. In his
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quest for a total confession— what was regarded as the queen of proofs in
the law— he brought Jews for face- to- face confrontations with the accus-
ers.6 In Russia, as in other places in early modern Europe, this interroga-
tion technique was used primarily to resolve conflicting testimonies by
confronting the accused with their witnesses.7 The confrontations were
designed to be highly emotional, drawn- out ordeals, testing the patience
and fortitude of everyone caught up in the case. Standing directly in front of the accusers, the suspects were given a chance to refute the charges
made against them and to pose their own questions to the accusers.
The criminal investigation had taken quite a toll on Shmerka Berlin.
Four years had passed since little Fedor’s body was found in the woods.
The most prosperous merchant in town had now become a shadow of
his former self. Over the years, Shmerka had suffered a series of financial setbacks. By the summer of 1827, after he had been locked up for nearly
twelve months, the trauma of detention had exhausted him. As he
stood in front of the inquisitorial commission, rationalizing that Jewish
religious law firmly forbids Jews from using blood for religious rituals,
the recording secretary noticed that Shmerka’s face suddenly turned
pale and his hands began to tremble. Doing his best to stay faithful to
the original testimony, Shmerka explained that he did not know the
exact cause of the boy’s death or who was responsible for the murder.
“Neither Jews nor Christians had any reason to commit the dreadful
act,” Shmerka continued, “and this is why I first testified [in 1823] that
someone must have run him over with a carriage and dumped the body
in the woods.” As far as he could tell, there was no other reason to kill an innocent child. Afterward, perhaps out of spite for the Jews, “someone
must have stabbed the boy to death and blamed them for the murder.”8
When Maria Terenteeva opened the door and walked into the room,
Shmerka immediately cried out in a sharp tone, “This plague of a person
would say something like this!” Maria responded by describing in vivid
detail how Jews tortured the boy. To this, Shmerka only waved his hand,
telling her that he had gotten tired of hearing the same story over and
over. As the session progressed, Shmerka remarked that he had run into
Avdotia Maksimova on numerous occasions, but that he had not seen
Terenteeva before the spring of 1823. In fact, he could not understand
why anyone would believe that Jews were capable of ritually murdering
the boy or, for that matter, that so much blood could flow from such
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tiny wounds. Shmerka went on to explain that neither he nor his family
had set foot inside the Jewish school when the boy was said to have been
murdered. This was why he had no idea if the alleged blood was poured
into the bottles or if the pieces of linen had been saturated in the blood.9
Sitting at the edge of the table, holding herself up with her elbows,
Shmerka’s wife, Slava, barely had the strength to make it through an inter-
rogation session. Disoriented and frightened, Slava finally appeared before the inquisitorial commission, but no sooner than she answered a question,
she changed her mind. Slava nonetheless managed to confirm many of the
same details that her husband had described: that she had known Avdotia
Maksimova quite well, but could not remember of ever encountering the
beggar woman Terenteeva before, that no one tortured a Christian boy
in their house, that she had not set foot inside the school, and that she
knew absolutely nothing about the murder conspiracy other than what
she heard by way of the rumors that were circulating around town.10
Slava somehow gathered enough strength to challenge the accusations.
Looking directly into Maksimova’s eyes, she lashed out, “Tell me, who actu-
ally carried the boy to the school? Did anyone see this take place? Whose
dress did you put on that day? And where exactly did Khanna keep the boy
in her home? Were there any witnesses who can confirm this [allegation]?”
Slava went on, “Lies, lies! It’s all lies! Sh
e made everything up from beginning to end, nothing but lies!” When confronted with Terenteeva, Slava
screamed that the beggar woman told only lies and that she had never met
her before. To this, Terenteeva responded in a calm voice, “How dare you,
aren’t you afraid of God’s wrath?” The inquisitors reminded Slava that her
skin color, especially of her face and neck, had changed dramatically dur-
ing the interrogation session, turning exceptionally pale one moment and
visibly red the next. So that she would notice the remarkable change in her complexion, the commission forced her to stand in front of a mirror, but
Slava stood by her testimony and affirmed her innocence.11
On June 9, 1827, long after the sun had set and the candles had
burned out, Slava was asked to sign a written statement. But as the
ink was drying, she noticed that the recording secretary was not faith-
ful to her words. She requested to make several “corrections,” but the
commission denied her request, declaring that the statement was “com-
plete.” In hopes of clearing her good name, Slava sent a complaint to
the governor- general’s office, describing how Strakhov had forced her to
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“sign the written statement” and that he intimidated her by screaming
obscenities and threatening to strike her with his bare hands. Strakhov
did not waste any time calling Slava’s credibility into question, making it clear that she “changed first one answer and then another one, and then
demanded, with the utmost impudence, for the statement to read just
the way she wanted it.” From this pattern, Strakhov intimated, it was
self- evident that Slava made things up and had sent the complaint in the
most hysterical state just to get back at him for taking her into custody.12
Shmerka’s son, Hirsh, could not think of any reason why anyone would
want to kill the little boy. Jews certainly would not stand to profit, Hirsh reasoned. “The boy may have died of natural causes, or perhaps someone
could have killed him, if for no other reason than to cast blame on the
Jews.” He remembered that the shoemaker Filipp Azadkevich frequently
walked around the marketplace with old books in his hands, telling any-
one who cared to listen that Jews needed Christian blood for religious rit-
uals. Furthermore, he explained that he hired Abram Glushkov to guard
the house only after he was summoned for questioning. In a confronta-
tion with Terenteeva, Hirsh remarked, “Why are you lying? I’ve never
known you. You’ve never stepped inside our house.”13 Hirsh’s wife, Shifra,
was panic- stricken when she was brought in for questioning. The record-
ing secretary observed that she was “crying, smiling, and sighing heavily
all at the same time,” while trying her best to refute the accusations.14
The entire Berlin family, including Shmerka’s brothers, Meir and
Noson, were under immense psychological pressure to confess. But no
matter how difficult the circumstances may have been, the brothers did
not budge. As his face “twitched nervously,” Meir stared down Terenteeva,
telling her that “he had never met her before and that he had no idea
what she was talking about.” Terenteeva quickly objected, “Don’t lie. You
knew me when I was called Sara.” At that moment, the recording secre-
tary noted that Meir’s face “turned pale.” Pulling his beard as hard as he
could, he leaned against the wall and began to hit it furiously with his
bare hands. He started to cry. “How dare you say this?” Meir responded.
“This never happened. You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve
been brainwashed!” During his confrontation with Terenteeva, Noson
also appeared to be visibly distraught. He complained that his head hurt
badly and that he was barely able to stand up and answer the questions.
According to the recording secretary’s observations, Noson’s body “shook
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as though he was having a seizure.” After an hour or so had passed, Noson
was finally able to speak, but could not remember certain words and had
a generally hard time answering the commission’s questions. When the
exceedingly lengthy interrogation session came to an end, Noson refused
to sign the written statement, because, he later explained to the governor-
general, Strakhov dealt him two strong blows to the chest.15
Evzik Tsetlin had been acquainted with Shmerka Berlin all his life. They
lived only a few doors from one another. From time to time, the men col-
laborated on business ventures, including, most recently, the construction
of a glass factory in the provincial district. As two of the most prosperous families in town, the Tsetlins and Berlins frequently socialized together as well; the wives were especially on good terms. But when the ritual murder rumors started circulating around town, Evzik and his wife Khanna
were not in any mood to socialize. The Tsetlins lost a sizable amount of
the capital they had invested in the factory. Evzik spent much of his time
at home in distress, thinking of ways to get back his money, while his wife Khanna was busy tending to their ill son. Evzik remembered that one of his
neighbors had informed him that a dead boy was found in the woods, but
he never bothered to inspect the body and he had no idea who had com-
mitted the crime. Although the word on the street was that Jews did this
for demonic reasons, Evzik reassured the commission that Jews would do
no such thing. “Jewish religious law,” Evzik explained to Strakhov, “forbids us from eating or drinking Christian blood or any blood for that matter.”16
Like Hirsh Berlin, Evzik theorized that the shoemaker Azadkevich had
orchestrated the entire affair, turning Terenteeva, Maksimova, and so many
other Christian neighbors squarely against the Jewish community. Evzik
remembered that since the day he was elected town councilor, Azadkevich
had held a grudge against him. One day the townsman asked Evzik to
mediate a disagreement with two other Jews. It turned out that a financial
transaction had gone terribly wrong. Azadkevich wanted nothing more
than for Evzik to discipline the Jews. But in his capacity as town counci-
lor, he did no such thing. Instead, he promptly threw Azadkevich in jail
and put him on a bread and water diet. While behind bars, Azadkevich
threatened Evzik that he would get his revenge one day. In the spring of
1823, it appears the moment had finally arrived: shortly after the boy was
found ritually murdered, Azadkevich boasted to everyone around town
that Khanna and Slava would “languish in prison for at least five years.”17
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85
As the interrogation session intensified, Strakhov went over his copi-
ous notes and noticed an apparent contradiction. Why did Evzik claim
that he had not encountered Terenteeva before, when Khanna originally
testified that the beggar woman was run out of the Tsetlin home on sev-
eral occasions? Strakhov reminded Evzik that his wife had recounted in
detail why Terenteeva should be blamed for the murder. Evzik reassured
Strakhov that there was a simple explanation. Lots of different folks, from all walks
of life, frequented the tavern; there was no way he could keep
track of all of them. Perhaps his wife insisted that Terenteeva leave the
property, but he could not remember when this happened or why. Evzik
explained that he knew absolutely nothing about the murder. Of the
three accusers, he was acquainted only with Maksimova, and he knew for
a fact that she had not converted to Judaism. Not only did Maksimova go
to confession regularly, but on Jewish holidays and on Saturdays she sold
wine and beer at the tavern, handled money, fetched water from the well,
and lit the stove— all things Jews were strictly forbidden from doing.18
By November 1826, Evzik had been locked up in his room for nearly
five months. One evening, around thirty minutes after dinner was
delivered to his room, he threw off his robe, tore his shirt into tiny
pieces, and began to scream at the top of his lungs for Strakhov to
come see him. The guard on duty saw Evzik without any clothes on,
running hysterically around his room in circles. The guard rushed over
to Strakhov, telling him to come quickly; “Evzik Tsetlin has just lost his
mind.” When Strakhov finally showed up, he witnessed quite the scene.
Evzik was visibly agitated and did not want to answer any questions or
even acknowledge Strakhov’s presence. After some time had passed, the
guards restrained him by tying his feet together. But subduing Evzik was
not easy. For several minutes, he continued to kick and scream, until he
fell off the bed flat on the floor. By this time, Evzik had lost what little strength he had left and finally managed to calm down. Several days
later, he explained to an officer that the “interrogations had taken a real toll, making me feel increasingly hopeless.” Strakhov had lied to him on
numerous occasions. In the middle of the night when no one would see
him, Strakhov changed the signed written statement, making it appear
that he had confessed to one thing when in fact he said something dif-
ferent entirely. Evzik hoped that one day everyone in town would find
out how unjustly he had been treated.19
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Khanna Tsetlina was also in a state of deep despair. Strakhov’s ques-