“If there is a more beautiful cemetery anywhere than the one in Satanów, then I will walk barefoot to Lwów,” says Hayim’s wife, Hava.
And although they are not to speak of death for any reason, and they are not to judge land by its cemetery, nonetheless this cemetery is indeed quite lovely, the others agree. Sloping beautifully down toward the river.
“Like the cemetery in Korolówka,” adds Pesel, who has been here with her family since May. “It’s the second-best cemetery there is, with respect to physical appearance, I’ll give you that.”
“But this one we have in Satanów, outside the city—it’s bigger,” continues Hava, “and you can see half the world from it. Down on the river there’s a mill, and the water flows around it, ducks and geese paddling along . . .”
That mill is leased by her father, and someday it will belong to them according to hazakah law—legal acquisition by right of possession. The little town itself lies on an elevation and two things immediately stick out about it—the little castle of the most venerated lord, now lying almost in ruins, brought all the way up along the highway so that the lord could supervise who went there and with what, as well as the synagogue up farther, like some fortification, in the Turkish style. And although they haven’t had anything to do with that synagogue in years, Hava is hardly about to lie about it—it is exceptional. When you walk from the highway down the steep path into the little town, climbing down along those curves, you have to go by the synagogue—there is no other way. In the little town, there is a small market square that holds fairs weekly, always on a Monday. Around the market, as everywhere, Christian and Jewish stalls alternate, and sometimes, in the summer, there are Armenian and Turkish stalls, too.
They would only be able to obtain this land from the church’s holdings—the church is the only option. Who else would give Jews land for free? “Maybe the king!” someone suggests. “It’s nicest right where the Zbrucz flows into the Dniester.”
“Who’s going to give Jews a plot where rivers meet?” says some doubtful person.
“Just a small one . . . and maybe a bit of woodland, and some lesser stream, such as the Strypa—just enough to put in some fish-ponds and raise our own carp in them,” Hava fantasizes.
“But who is going to give such riches to Jews?” the doubter starts again.
“But we’re not Jews anymore. Or are we—are we still Jews?”
“We will always be Jews, just our own kind.”
It would be lovely just to live as they wished, explaining nothing to anyone, not having any noblemen above them, not fearing the Cossack, keeping in good stead with the Church, working the land, doing some trade, having children, having their own orchard and their own shop, even if it’s very small. Growing gardens out behind the houses, harvesting vegetables.
“Have you seen the synagogue in Husiatyn?” old, deaf Lewiński pipes up belatedly to Hava. “You haven’t seen it? Hahaha. You don’t know anything, then. That one is the biggest and the most beautiful.”
Outside, the children are raising a ruckus. They are pretending to do battle with singlesticks and shooting cannons made out of stiff old stalks of angelica. Jewish children are playing with Christian children from the next village over, who come out of curiosity. Now they have just assigned everyone’s roles, regardless of origins. Some are Tatars, some are Muscovites. In a battle of singlesticks and stalks, all differences disappear.
Of stablehands and the study of the Polish language
The word stablehand cracks Jacob up.
They study Polish in the afternoons in groups, women and men together. The Warsaw Hayim and the Shorrs’ younger Hayim teach. They begin with basic things. Hand. Foot. They say: A steady hand. A stable hand.
Yet stablehand is equestrian, is a caretaker of horses, Jacob knows this word and is also greatly amused by the coincidence. During dinner he offers Nahman a plate he pretends to almost drop and says:
“A stable hand.”
All those who get the joke now burst out laughing. Except for Nahman.
Jacob got that Polish book from the Shorrs and is currently using it to learn to read. Wittel has helped him, but she cannot read well in Polish either, so they finally hired a teacher, a young man from a nearby estate. He comes every other day. They read about animals. The first piece Jacob is able to read and understand on his own is about which animals found themselves in Noah’s ark:
These animals were not ex putri materia, or multiplying out of rot, like Muckworms, Fleas, for those can always genus suum reparare (renew their tribe), even though they will die out; wherever something breaks down, dies, vermin will be born there at once. Nierembergius, the Author of the Natural History, considers that these Animals the Lord God did not create, for their Mother is corruption or rot.
It’s hard to grasp what’s going on when you are reading Polish. As a language, it’s quite strange.
Of new names
Just as first Jacob selected seven of the women, so, too, sometime later he chooses twelve trusted men. He has them all take the names of the apostles from the Gospel, which here, in Ivanie, everyone reads every evening.
First Jacob chooses Nahman and puts him on his right side, and from then on, Nahman is Peter. On the other side, he puts old Moshe—now he is the second Peter. Then there is Osman of Czernowitz and his son, or Jacob Major and Jacob Minor. Then, in a special place, sort of in the middle, he puts Shlomo Shorr, who has already been using the Polish name Franciszek Wo?owski, Franciszek meaning Francis. Behind him stands Krysa, who has already taken the name Bartholomew?. And farther, on the other side, there is Elisha Shorr, now known as ?ukasz (or Luke) Wo?owski, and on either side of him, Yehuda Shorr, now Jan (or John) Wo?owski, as well as Hayim of Warsaw, now called Matthew. And there is Hershel, the second John, and also Moshe of Podhajce, called Thomas, and Hayim of Busk, Nahman’s brother, called Paul.