tions frightened her. As her face turned “deathly pale” and her “body
trembled from exhaustion,” Khanna did her best to reassure the commis-
sion that she did not make up anything. She denied of stepping inside
Mirka Aronson’s home or the Jewish school. She had no idea if the bottles
of blood were distributed to Jews or if the cloth was saturated in the blood and then cut in tiny little pieces. The only thing that she knew for sure
was that Avdotia did not bring the bottles to the house. Although Khanna
remembered making honey at the time of the Passover holiday, she denied
ever mixing Christian blood in rolls and pretzels and arranging for the
deliveries to Vitebsk. In her confrontation with Avdotia, Khanna yelled,
“Lies! Lies! You have forgotten everything, you madwoman.”20
On another occasion, Khanna told Strakhov that Avdotia Maksimova
should have known better than to accuse her of ritual murder. Avdotia
lived with them for ten years. At one point, the Tsetlins had even
vouched for her innocence when she was charged with theft and faced
exile to Siberia. Khanna remembered that Avdotia looked “happy and
content” when she worked for them, reminding Strakhov that, in the
spring of 1823, Avdotia testified that she knew nothing about the mur-
der. And therein lay the absurdity of the case. “What hope do I have
when three women accuse me of such awful things? Even if ten women
would say the same thing, I would still maintain my innocence: that
I know absolutely nothing [about the murder].”21 Khanna’s daughter,
Itka— who was only twelve years old when the scandal broke out— also
had a hard time rationalizing why Avdotia would make up such dreadful
accusations. Itka spent most of her time outdoors, playing games with
her friends, and did not pay much attention to the investigation. Itka
told Avdotia when they confronted each other, “Remember what you
used to tell me: the truth will always come to light. It was you who raised me. How many times I played at your feet as you watched over me!”22
There are other stories like Khanna’s and Itka’s. For the duration of
the interrogations, Zusia Rudniakov refused to make eye contact with
Strakhov. Zusia looked “disoriented and frightened,” and the more
questions he was asked the harder he breathed. When Strakhov showed
him what appeared to be bloodied rags of some sort, Zusia turned pale
and wept. Terenteeva turned in the rags as proof of ritual murder, but
Zusia had no intention of inspecting them. Instead, he continued to
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87
rub his forehead in disbelief. The moment Terenteeva walked into the
room, the recording secretary noted that Zusia paced nervously around
the room, taking deep breaths every few minutes and scolding her in
a very loud voice.23 Itsko Beliaev called Terenteeva a “swine and mad-
woman.” When Terenteeva recounted how she was forced to stand on
top of a sweltering hot iron pan during the conversion ceremony and
how her feet still hurt to this day, the only thing Itsko could do was cry.
He asked Terenteeva, “Are you saying that in three whole years your
feet haven’t been able to heal?24 Another prisoner, a man by the name
of Abram Kisin, screamed loudly as he hit his arms and legs against the
bed. He threw himself in all directions and called for his father, wife,
and children to save him, because he felt “all was lost.”25
At the time of the investigation, Basia Aronson got into an argu-
ment with her sister- in- law Slava Berlina over an unpaid debt of 1,000
rubles. The women were on such bad terms that they had turned the
matter over to the bet din (rabbinic court). While the case was being adjudicated, Basia avoided Slava. For this reason, she had no idea who
allegedly tortured the boy because, she explained to Strakhov, “the last
thing I wanted to do was see or talk with Slava.”26 Iosel’ Glikman, the
man who was accused of transporting the boy’s body to the woods,
threw out yet another theory: “Somebody must have stabbed the boy
as a cruel joke and then blamed the ritual murder on us. If Jews had
killed the boy, [we] certainly would not have dumped the body two
miles from town, but found another place, closer to town, to hide the
body.” As he stood on his knees in front of the inquisitorial commis-
sion, he repeated several times, “My lord, forgive me, forgive me!”
Glikman would not explain what he meant. Instead, he paced ner-
vously around the room, breathing deeply on occasion, rubbing his
face and head with his hands, all the while complaining that he was
not feeling well.27
Several other prisoners also had a hard time comprehending why
anyone would believe that Jews forced Terenteeva, Maksimova, and
Kazlovskaia to convert to Judaism. “Jews don’t convert Christians,”
Iankel’ Chernomordik explained to Strakhov, “and even if [we] did,
shouldn’t all three [women] be wearing Jewish clothes?” During the con-
frontation with Terenteeva, Iankel’ wasn’t able to articulate his thoughts
clearly. The only thing he could do was cry and mutter under his breath,
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the Velizh affair
“God has struck me down. My lord, please forgive me! I have no idea
what she’s talking about.”28
Iankel’s thirty- year- old daughter Khaika also had no idea what the
three accusers were talking about. Shortly after Khaika got married, she
and her husband moved out to a neighboring village. Her husband found
work managing an estate for a nobleman, and she hardly spent any time
in Velizh, coming only on occasion to see her parents. The entire village
of Safanovoi, where they resided, could attest to this fact. For this rea-
son, Khaika had no idea who killed the boy or whether the women were
forcibly converted. She too had never set foot in the provincial capital
of Vitebsk before, as Terenteeva had alleged. When they confronted one
another, Khaika gave Terenteeva a disparaging look and then lowered her
gaze and proceeded to pace around the room just as Iosel’ Glikman and
her father had done before her. When Strakhov pulled out the bloodied
rags and placed them on the table, the recording secretary noted that
“Khaika’s entire body trembled in agitation.” But even in this worked- up
state, she had no intention of inspecting the rags. Khaika “stared directly in her accuser’s eyes for a long time,” as though, the recording secretary
noted, she was trying to frighten Terenteeva.29
Unlike the prisoners who were born and raised in Velizh, Khaim
Khrupin had come to town when he was twenty- six years old. After
finding work as a tutor, he decided to stay. Together with his wife and
children, he resided in a modest wooden home located across the river
at the very edge of town. The house had two separate entrances and
a common courtyard. Khaim and his family occupied one half of the
home, while Maria Terenteeva and her Christian landlady lived in the
other half. Although Khaim had run into Terenteeva on numerous occa-
sions, he remembered one day with particular clarity, when he caught<
br />
Terenteeva rummaging through his belongings. He was certain that she
wanted to steal something— such was her reputation around town—
and so he told her to leave immediately. Why did Khaim not reveal this
crucial detail before? Khaim had a simple explanation, “I was frightened
by the stories circulating around that Jews were getting punished in the
interrogation chamber.”30
As a language teacher with limited knowledge of Russian, Khaim
“doubted that he revealed everything that was necessary for his acquittal.”
This is why he did not hold back when he was brought in for a second
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89
round of questions. He firmly denied of having set foot inside the Jewish
school during the conversion ceremony or lying on the same bed with
Terenteeva. Khaim told Terenteeva when they confronted each other,
“You’ve never been a Jewess, just as I have never been a Gypsy.” He felt
that Terenteeva had accused him of all this “nonsense” because she held a
grudge against him when he threw her out of his home. “Terenteeva can
say whatever she wants but no Jew will affirm her testimony,” he went on.
Regarding the allegation that he had intimate relations with her, Khrupin
pointed out that Jewish law strictly forbids this. “A Jew is not permitted
to lie on the same bed with anyone other than his wife. I was never mar-
ried to Maria, and the kahal scribe never signed the ketubah [marriage contract]. Since Terenteeva lies unceasingly, I ask God that she continues
to live.” “There will come a time when Terenteeva will reveal the truth,”
Khrupin predicted, “perhaps not to the commission but to someone else.
If Terenteeva would die for some unexpected reason, then the truth would
be lost eternally. . . . If I were brought in [the interrogation chamber] on a daily basis, I would say the exact same thing: that Terenteeva is lying.”31
Almost always, the Jews stood their ground in face of tough and
exceedingly hostile questions. Not only did they refuse to tell the
inquisitors what they wanted to hear, countering any possibilities they
were involved in the crime, but they repeatedly refused to sign the
confession statements. With tears running down both of his cheeks,
Ruman Nakhimovskii, for example, clutched his stomach and “shook
feverishly” when Strakhov displayed the bloodied rags. Ruman was the
custodian of the Jewish school, repaired things when they were dam-
aged or broken, and walked around town collecting candles on Fridays.
As the interrogation session progressed, Ruman took his time answer-
ing the questions and appeared “visibly frightened.” At one point, he
leaned against the fireplace in the corner of the room and stared at the
door, as though he was waiting for someone to enter. Later in the day,
Maksimova told him, “Don’t hold back, Ruman, there will come a time
when you will reveal the truth. I didn’t say one word in vain.” Ruman
replied, “No, I would never confess to having committed the crime. It
never happened.” Terenteeva also pressed Ruman to confess, “You don’t
know me? We stabbed the boy together, and you were the one who
converted me— don’t deny this. The boy’s blood will not be wasted. God
will not permit this.” “You’re lying,” Ruman responded, “You’ve been
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the Velizh affair
brainwashed. Jews don’t need Christian blood.” Ruman then turned to
the inquisitors, “I have no strength left. I’m not capable of confessing
[something I didn’t commit]. I’d rather die.”32
More like a late- medieval holding facility than an institution of incar-
ceration, the Bogdanovicheva house was not impermeable to the stream
of small- town life.33 The house was located in the very center of town,
only a short walk from the marketplace. Like any other institution of
confinement, it was governed by its own distinct rules and systems of
exchanges. On any given day, a host of administrators, family members,
translators, and medical practitioners frequented the house. The stream
of visitors delivered warm meals, water, tea and coffee, clothing, candles, medical supplies, and reading materials. Prisoners also could purchase
certain items such as flour, beef, fish, eggs, and milk.34
The inhabitants of the house— the inquisitors, guards, and inmates—
had no choice but to adapt to the vagaries of prison life. This was a world where everyone lived in cramped quarters, where it was not extraordinarily
difficult to overhear conversations or communicate with family and friends
on the outside. The rooms on the first floor had better heat and lighting.
One prisoner, for instance, was grateful that he was not locked up in the
attic, where the light was particularly poor. “Thank God,” he observed, “that they decided to be nice to me and not put me . . . in the darkest place in the house, where two other Jews are locked up, and where it’s impossible to see a thing.”35 Nevertheless, the “darkest place in the house” had its rewards.
Whereas guards patrolled the rooms on the first floor, the attic was generally left alone for long stretches of time. Prisoners could open the tiny windows with ease and communicate in special coded language— a practice used in
many European prisons— with people standing in the marketplace.36
In the summer of 1827, Strakhov ordered a new round of arrests.
With both the Bogdanovicheva house and the town jail filled to capac-
ity, the inspector- councilor was forced to improvise. The inquisitorial
commission did not have the resources to build a new holding cell; it
quickly needed to come up with a place of temporary custody. On July
15, Strakhov found another house, only a short walk from the market-
place, which had enough space to accommodate the growing number of
inmates and guards. It remains unclear if the home was unoccupied or
if the commission forced the residents to vacate the property. Whatever
the case, this turned out to be the most cost- effective solution to the
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91
problem of overcrowding. The commission felt that it need not worry
about food, linens, and supplies; all these items could be delivered from
home by family and friends at the inmates’ request.37
A cache of writings— some of which were mere fragments— smuggled
in and out of the two homes and town jail provides an intimate glimpse
of daily life. With ink and paper hard to come by, the prisoners jot-
ted down notes in minuscule Yiddish on whatever objects they could
find: on wooden chips, scraps of cloth, and even on the edges of spoons
and forks.38 The inquisitorial commission was not capable of controlling
all aspects of the daily routine. No matter how hard the inquisitors tried
to limit communication, the prisoners managed to see and talk with one
another and to exchange notes.39
Relying on hand gestures and signs, prisoners acquired tidbits of
information about what was going on around them. They learned of
recent arrests, the health and safety of loved ones, and if their messages
were successfully delivered. Before her arrest, for example, Evzik Tsetlin’s daughter, Itka, “would come by the house and make s
trange signs with
her hands and post occasional notes on her [father’s] window.”40 Some
prisoners communicated with friends, family, and neighbors at prear-
ranged times. Others waited until the guards on duty were not around
to open windows so they could talk with people who happened to pass
by. Frequently, prisoners sharing a wall talked with one another “by
praying or singing in a loud voice inside their rooms.”41
The fact that the prisoners enjoyed a modicum of social ties with the
outside world did not mean that they did not suffer from loneliness,
boredom, and melancholia. Khaim Khrupin wrote to his wife in desper-
ation of news of his young children, “I beg you to tell me if my son has
started to read. I would also like for you to bring my son along when
you deliver the meals. Tell him to stand by my window. Tell my daughter
to stand by the window, as well.”42 With his mental and physical state
deteriorating, he tried to allay his wife’s fears, “I beg you, dear wife, not to worry about me. I’m perfectly healthy, without an attack of the nerves,
thank God.”43 Khrupin followed up with a note to his mother: “Please
don’t miss me too much. What good would that do? Perhaps God will
allow me to stand one more time before the inquisitorial tribunal. I’m
hopeful that the last round of interrogations would give them enough
evidence to set me free and that, most importantly, all the foolish things
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the Velizh affair
that they’ve tried to accuse me of would come to light. I pray that the
uncircumcised one [Strakhov] would finally come clean and admit that
he personally signed the interrogation documents.”44
Khrupin’s wife tried to reassure her husband that everyone at home was
doing just fine. “For God’s sake, don’t worry about us. We have nothing to
fear. Not because the most dangerous time has passed, but because I assure
you that we have nothing to fear. Also, don’t worry about our expenses.”
The Jewish community provided charity for the destitute and needy, and
from that little bit of money, Khrupin’s wife noted that she was able to pay the tutor to the last kopek. In fact, she was certain that the money would
last her a few more weeks, and she should have enough to buy a fur coat at
The Velizh Affair Page 14