The Velizh Affair

  ent any counterevidence for official review by the most powerful judicial

  institution in the empire.35

  For years, scholars argued that Jewish life during Nicholas’s reign was

  marked by persecution and the arbitrary dispensation of justice. The

  ukase— or the special edict of the Russian government— served as the

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  key tool by which the tsar disciplined its subjects.36 Nineteenth- century critics of Russia’s legal system noted how provincial governors meddled

  freely in court decisions, changed verdicts at will, and initiated investi-

  gations in cases where there was not a hint of a crime.37 To be sure, the

  imperial law code was full of contradictory statutes regulating all facets

  of daily life. Based on privilege and difference rather than uniformity

  and transparency, Russia’s legal system was designed to take away the

  population’s rights at a moment’s notice. Recent research has shown

  that, although imperial Russian law was not founded on equitable prin-

  ciples, it nevertheless enabled all imperial subjects to articulate claims on the state by invoking the protection of established legal norms. When

  an individual filed an official grievance, Russia’s judicial machinery was

  obligated to respond to the claims of its public.38

  By April 1827, Berka Nakhimovskii and Sheftel Tsetlin became

  increasingly anxious about the latest developments in the case. With

  their complaints officially dismissed, and with communication to the

  outside world firmly sealed, they had every reason to believe that the

  Velizh Jews’ collective fate rested in the hands of the criminal justice

  system. And so Berka and Sheftel decided to follow the Ministry of

  Justice’s guidance by appealing directly to the Senate. The best course of

  action, they reasoned, was to continue writing formal grievances. What

  else could they do to escape imminent danger, to whom could they

  turn to express their frustration? Perhaps some of the most esteemed

  bureaucrats and military officers in the empire would see the light of

  day. Perhaps someone in the imperial capital would comprehend the

  absurdity of the allegations. This time, they decided to enlist the help of Shmerka Berlin’s brother, Biniamin, one of the most capable and articulate men in the provincial district, in writing the complaint.

  In a long, flowery letter, Biniamin, Berka, and Sheftel enumerated a

  list of administrative abuses they witnessed. Among other things, they

  pointed out, Strakhov had placed Iankel’ Hirsh Aronson “in leg- irons

  when he was severely ill.” Some prisoners “were kept in dark filthy

  rooms without fresh air and, as a result of the unsanitary conditions in

  which they lived, one Jew [Aronson] died and several others managed

  to contract deadly diseases, all the while the Christian women were

  held without the slightest harassment and personal injury.” All this was

  happening at the same time the governor- general was violating the laws

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  the Velizh affair

  of the land. In the past two years, they noted, Jews had sent several

  complaints to Vitebsk detailing Strakhov’s “unlawful activities,” and

  to their disappointment, the governor- general “deliberately ignored

  all their pleas.” There was no doubt in their minds that Strakhov had

  no intention of altering his tactics or behavior and that he would con-

  tinue to “humiliate Jews” for the duration of the criminal investigation.

  Echoing past grievances, the men came to the conclusion that the best

  course of action was to “remove the chief investigator from the case.”39

  As soon as it received the complaint on April 27, 1827, the Senate

  called on the governor- general to respond to the allegations. Although

  powerful provincial officials such as Khovanskii could ignore laws or

  fail to maintain standards of honesty, the language of due process and

  equal justice gave all imperial subjects the legal right to petition the

  state.40 No matter how slow or clumsy the judicial system might have

  been, every subject in the empire had the right to have her or his voice

  heard. The imperial ministries— including the Chancellery for Receipt

  of Petitions— usually took the communications seriously. In the first

  half of the nineteenth century, the state responded to nearly every

  request— no matter how mundane or outlandish— sent its way. Like so

  many other imperial subjects, Jews turned to the judicial system because

  it worked at a significant level and because it proved to be the most

  effective way of negotiating the hazards of daily life.41

  In a direct rebuttal of the criticisms, Khovanskii insisted that he had

  no intention of taking away this right away from the Jews, although he

  was certain that they did not have good reason to file the grievance. How

  in the world did Berka Nakhimovskii, Sheftel Tsetlin, Biniamin Berlin,

  not to mention the advocate Hirsh Brouda, know what was taking place

  behind closed doors? Khovanskii went to great lengths to point out the

  fact that just because the commission worked in strict secrecy did not

  mean that it had deliberately mistreated the prisoners. The town doctor

  was always on call when an imprisoned Jew required medical care. On

  several occasions, they even summoned the most esteemed physician

  from Vitebsk to tend to the prisoners’ needs. When Jews felt tired or

  restless, they were given “ample opportunity to take walks in the court-

  yard.” When they “felt hungry and thirsty, they were brought all the

  food and water they requested, usually directly from home.” Khovanskii

  clarified that the commission decided to seal the bottom half of Evzik

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  Tsetlin’s window with dark green paper not to make the room dark or

  inhabitable, as the petitioners had asserted, but to stop him from com-

  municating with friends and family on the outside. The precautionary

  measure was necessary from the very first days. Tsetlin “was able to

  communicate with Jews who passed by [the house] what was being

  discussed during the interrogation sessions. Because he was able to open

  the window it was easy for him to talk with Jews who were standing

  outside his room. And [even when the window was closed shut], it was

  possible to know what was going on inside the room, especially when

  Tsetlin decided to raise his voice.” On many occasions, “Tsetlin’s servant

  stood outside his window with tea, coffee, and food, and they talked so

  loud, as if they were engaged in a shouting match.”42

  Furthermore, Khovanskii was convinced that the Christian inmates

  were kept “in much worse circumstances than the Jews.” All the Jews,

  save for Iankel’ Hirsh Aronson and Shifra Berlina, were in perfectly fine

  health. On several different occasions, the governor- general made the

  journey to Velizh, and each time, he observed, he did not encounter

  any evidence that justified the complaints in any way. “I’ve been to the

  house where the interrogations are taking place,” the governor- general

  reported to St. Petersburg, “and not only did I not witness suffering

  or d
istress, but I also found the [Jewish] prisoners to be in fine health.

  They all reside in comfortable rooms and are given enough of every-

  thing to subsist just fine.” Khovanskii observed only one important dif-

  ference: unlike their coreligionists in town, the Jews locked up behind

  closed doors “are deprived of the freedom to go wherever they wish.”

  The preventive measure was necessary, he warned, because of the sever-

  ity of the criminal charge. “If the prisoners were allowed to roam freely,

  they would [no doubt] conceal the truth and undermine the sanctity of

  the investigation.”43

  Regarding the claim that Strakhov mistreated Aronson, Khovanskii

  came up with a sound explanation. The moment that Aronson— who,

  along with several other Jews, sat in solitary confinement in the town

  jail— started to feel sick, the warden did everything in his power to look

  after his needs. Khovanskii could not understand why Jews got so angry.

  “He [Aronson] was given two nice cells, all the food that he wanted to

  eat, as well as other basic necessities delivered straight to his cell from home. The town doctor called on Aronson daily. Even a physician from

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  the Velizh affair

  the provincial capital of Vitebsk came by [for a visit on occasion].” The

  problem was that Aronson was weak from tuberculosis; there was little,

  if anything, the doctors could do for him. As a rule, the inquisitorial

  commission forbade the prisoners from having direct contact with any-

  one in the town, but it made an exception for Aronson, allowing “his

  mother to see her sick son on a daily basis.” In the final weeks of his

  life, Aronson was even given a choice: “Did he want to be transferred

  to the house with all the other prisoners or to a special house where he

  would live on his own with a watch guard?” Aronson refused both offers.

  Instead, he petitioned to die in his own home among his family (he suc-

  cumbed to tuberculosis on April 21, 1827, only five days after he filed the request). As far as Shifra Berlina, Khovanskii noted that no matter how

  hard the commission tried to make her feel comfortable, the merchant’s

  daughter continued to suffer from “hysterical spasmodic attacks.”44

  In the spring of 1827, the governor- general warned St. Petersburg

  that the investigation would not be complete for “some time.” He asked

  for more time because, he felt, the case was troubling on several differ-

  ent levels. Although the inquisitorial commission had every reason to

  believe that Jews bore full responsibility for the ritual crime, it still had not put together a complete list of names. That was reason enough to

  proceed slowly and with meticulous care. “Some Jews have yet to be

  arrested,” Khovanskii explained, “but there were plenty of names the

  accusers had not recalled, and several others they’ve conspired to hide

  [from us].”45 To get to the bottom of things, the inquisitorial commis-

  sion needed to resolve the troubling inconsistencies in the testimonies,

  examine the empirical evidence for additional clues, and go over the

  murder sequence by sequence, fact by fact, until it established the true

  depth of the criminal conspiracy.

  6

  The Inv•

  estigation Widens

  in the summer Of 1827, the investigation took on a bureaucratic life of

  its own. The work was long and exhausting. Most days started promptly

  at seven o’clock in the morning and continued until nine o’clock in the

  evening, with a three- hour break in the afternoon.1 Shortly after the

  inquisitorial commission was given approval to forge ahead, Strakhov

  ordered a new round of arrests and pleaded for additional reinforce-

  ments. On July 6, 1827, three high- ranking military officers, eleven non-

  commissioned officers, three musicians, and seventy- five soldiers arrived

  to help.2 By the fall of 1827, Strakhov sealed shut five synagogues, and

  ordered a mass of privates and noncommissioned officers to guard the

  perimeter of the only synagogue that remained open.3

  Strakhov and his team of inquisitors worked diligently to come up

  with a complete list of names involved in the murder case. Time and

  time again they brought Jews for confrontations with their accusers,

  rendering pain at will and exploiting the psychological weaknesses of the

  prisoners as they saw fit. But the longer the investigation dragged on, the harder it was to establish a seamless narrative of what really happened. As with mass witch- hunts, there were always pieces of the story left unfinished, contradictions and unanswered questions in the testimonies, and

  the specter of additional details or names of accomplices.4 At some point

  in the summer of 1827, Strakhov became increasingly convinced that

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  the Velizh affair

  Fedor’s murder was part of a wider conspiracy not yet uncovered. The

  operation of secret, mysterious, and unseen powers has played a fun-

  damental role in ordering human experience. Conspiratorial ideas— on

  the articulation of political power, the spread of contagion, and the

  control of the world’s money supply and banking— have had broad

  appeal all around the world. With great interest and apprehension,

  authorities in different times and places consumed reports of new

  threats lurking in the social fabric. For the judicial powers at hand, the

  evil intrigues operate on a grand scale, even though the fantasies reveal

  themselves in particular sites, such as, in our case, the sleepy border

  town of Velizh, where a Jewish cabal threatened to condemn the entire

  Jewish nation.5

  On September 9, 1827, Governor- General Nikolai Nikolaevich

  Khovanskii departed to St. Petersburg to appear before a committee of

  senators. Although appointed by the emperor, the governor- general was

  a delegate of the central government, required by law to be in constant

  contact with the imperial capital.6 As any highly ambitious official who

  wanted nothing more than to climb the administrative ladder, Strakhov

  was well aware of the governor- general’s responsibilities. If the Senate

  were to fine or castigate Khovanskii for a dereliction of duty, Strakhov’s

  own future would surely be on the line. Given these high stakes, the

  inspector- councilor spent several long nights preparing an exhaustive

  report, explaining in minute detail what the commission had accom-

  plished and listing the complex reasons why it required more time to

  complete the investigation.

  To limit corruption, the Russian law code outlined the rules of the

  inquisitorial process: how exactly the interrogation process was required

  to proceed and how officials were expected to write, sign, assemble, and

  store legal records. To ensure that administrative procedures were fol-

  lowed correctly, the commission needed to inform the governor- general

  of its progress. Provincial governors were required to send updates to

  St. Petersburg at key stages of the case. The tsar and his ministers tried

  to control the investigation of high crime to the last intimate detail.

  Commissions were dispatched routinely to provincial towns and villages
>
  to take over the judicial process. Not only did the imperial center want

  to prevent abuse at the local level, but it also wanted to do everything

  the inVestigatiOn wiDens

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  in its power to quash heretical or politically dangerous behavior before

  it could spiral out of control.7

  The slowness of the Velizh case began to sound alarms in

  St. Petersburg. Why was it taking so long to complete the investigation?

  When did the commission plan on wrapping up the case?8 Khovanskii

  had no easy answers. In painstaking detail, he went over the commis-

  sion’s findings with the Senate. The interrogation sessions were clearly

  paying off, he pointed out: Terenteeva and Maksimova were naming

  more names and revealing, however gradually, the hidden dimensions

  of the murder conspiracy. Khovanskii emphasized that several hurdles

  impeded the swift resolution of the case. First, not all the suspects lived in the surrounding region. This was why the investigators were spending considerable energy and financial resources tracking everyone down.

  It also did not help matters that the Jews used a variety of different

  strategies— including “trickery and cunning”— to slow down the investi-

  gative process. Furthermore, there was the problem of time and memory.

  Several years had passed since the little boy was found in the woods. In

  the meantime, both the suspects and their accusers had forgotten crucial

  details. Given all the contradictions and lapses in testimony, it was nearly impossible to speed up the investigation. What it needed was more time.9

  The Senate not only granted the governor- general an extension, but

  it also gave him absolute oversight over what it characterized to be an

  “extraordinary criminal case.”10 In the fall of 1827, with the investiga-

  tion expanding in scope and intensity, Khovanskii urged the inquisito-

  rial commission to come up with a complete list of names as quickly

  as possible. Less than a week after Khovanskii left for St. Petersburg,

  Strakhov summoned the accusers for more interviews. On several dif-

  ferent occasions, Maria Terenteeva hinted of wider conspiracies, but she

  was unusually vague on the details. Then, on September 15, 1827, Maria

  broke down after a particularly painful session. Not only did she name