When the candle goes out, for his caretakers are sleeping, he starts to writhe and scream—or rather, he feels like he is screaming, but in reality he can’t get any sound out—so frightened is he of the dark.
The next day his brother comes. Oh yes, he recognizes him: although he does not look upon his face, he hears his voice. He knows that it is he and this brings him relief, so he falls asleep, but there, in his dreams, it is the same as when he is awake. In his dreams he is lying in the same place and has the same terror of darkness. His brother goes away. In the evening his mind begins to generate images. He is in Kamieniec, near his house, near the cathedral, but instead of standing on the ground, he’s hanging in midair, at the height of the edge of the roof. He sees that pigeons have nested in the eaves, but their nest is empty save for some broken old eggshells. Then he sees a bright, luminous statue of the Virgin Mary set atop a tall column, the statue he recently blessed, and for a moment the fear subsides, but the instant he looks at the river and beholds the great bulk of the fortress, it returns. He feels on him the indifferent gaze of countless eyes peering from the void, as if millions of people were awaiting him there.
He sees books burning, swelling from the heat and then cracking like potatoes in the flames. But before the flames can lick the white off those pages, the letters, like ants or other speedy little creatures, escape in droves, in strings, and vanish into the darkness. Bishop Dembowski sees them very clearly and is not at all surprised that the letters are alive, some of them scampering on tiny pin-like legs, while others, legless—the simplest letters—either hop or slither. The bishop has no idea what they are called, but this flight of theirs is moving to him, and he leans into them almost tenderly until he sees that none remain, that all that is burning are blank pages.
Then Bishop Dembowski loses consciousness. It does not help to let his blood.
That evening, he dies.
The doctors and those watching over the bishop—his secretary and his closest colleague, Father Pikulski—are utterly dumbfounded by his passing. How can it be? He was in good health. No, he wasn’t in good health, he had problems with his blood, which circulated too slowly, was too thick, which is why he died. But he never complained of any ailment. Maybe he just didn’t mention it when something was wrong. All he ever said was that he was cold. But that’s not a reason for a person to die. And so a decision is made to delay the announcement of his death. For now they just sit there in that big house, not knowing what to do. That same day, the rest of the underwear he ordered arrives, and the trunks for his manuscripts are brought. This happens on November 17, 1757.
Of the life of dead Yente in the winter of 1757, also known as the year the Talmud was burned, followed by the books of those who burned the Talmud
An event like the archbishop’s death is singular and will never be repeated. Every situation and everything that creates it can happen only once. All the individual elements converge for one performance only, just as actors invited to appear will play their roles, although whatever gesture, crossing of the stage, or brief, rushed dialogue will, if taken out of context, instantly slip into the absurd.
And yet it does create a certain chain of events in which we must trust because we have nothing else. If you look at it from very close up, as Yente sees things now, you can see all those bridges, hinges, gears, and bolts, and all the minor instruments that link distinct, singular, and unique events. It is these that form the underpinnings of the world, these that transport this or that word over into events in the vicinity, these that reproduce some gesture or facial expression many times in other contexts, rhythmically, these that bring into contact time after time the same objects or the same people, these that launch the phantom trains of thought between things that are naturally strangers.
All this is clearly visible from where Yente is now; everything can be seen flickering and ceaselessly transforming—how beautifully it pulsates. Nothing can be grasped in its entirety because it has already passed away, disintegrated into particles, and immediately created a completely new and equally fleeting pattern, though the previous one seemed to make sense a second ago, or looked lovely, or was amazing. When you try to follow any human figure, she or he changes, so that it would be hard to be certain, even for a moment, that it is still the same person. This one, for instance, was a grimy child, fragile as a wafer, just a moment ago, but is now a tall, sturdy woman who steps out of a house and in one fell swoop has tossed out the dirty liquid from a bucket. The wash water wrecks the white of the snow and leaves yellow stains across its surface.
Only Yente is unchanging, only Yente can repeat and can keep going back to the same place. She can be trusted.
The news of Bishop Dembowski’s death spreads before Hanukkah and Christmas; this news, woeful for some, is a source of joy for others. It is surprising, like someone taking a knife to a patiently woven kilim. So many maneuvers in vain! Another bit of news journeys fast on the heels of that one, reaching Korolówka alongside the snowstorm: as soon as the protector of the true believers died, the rabbis reared their heads again and reinitiated their persecution, so that those whose Talmuds were just being burned are now burning the books of their erstwhile persecutors. As for Jacob Frank, it appears he is under arrest behind the thickest possible walls. Those in Korolówka gaze at one another grimly. By the evening of the day after the news reaches them, they sit together in Israel’s shed, and it’s hard for them to keep themselves from swapping whispers. Soon their voices grow resounding.
“This is the struggle of greater forces . . .”
“It was the same with Sabbatai. They put him in prison, too . . .”
“That’s how it has to be. Imprisonment is part of the plan . . .”
“This had to happen, and now everything will start . . .”
“These are the last days . . .”
“This is the end.”
The snow falls on the roads and covers everything around, and even the cemetery and the matzevot disappear beneath an impenetrable whiteness. Wherever you look, there is just snow and more snow. By some miracle, a merchant from Kamieniec manages to make it over these massive tracts of snow all the way to their village. He doesn’t even have the strength to unharness his horses. He just squints, his eyes blinded by the frost on his lashes. He says:
“Jacob isn’t in prison. He got away from Rohatyn and went straight to Czernowitz—that’s in Turkey. He is with his wife and children in Giurgiu, and he’s even—or so people say—setting up some business there.”
In a startlingly sad voice, someone says:
“He has abandoned us.”