The debaters, on the left, are milk caps—that is, their caps resemble those mushrooms. From up here, the milk caps look like they would love to make a run for it. They are here under penalty of imprisonment or fine, yet this cause has been lost in advance, their arguments will not be understood or even heard out. Those on the right side, meanwhile, are the honey fungus, huddling together, their clothing brownish gray and worn, in constant undulation as one of their number and then another leaves their litter cluster and then squeezes back in with papers in his hand; flowing from them are obstinacy and anger, although they expect to triumph. Yente doesn’t like them, although she recognizes among them some of her relatives—but that doesn’t have much meaning now. For if Yente were to look at the matter of her relations from a certain angle, she would see that here and there, outside the cathedral and beyond, in the little enclaves that have popped up around the town, her relatives are everywhere.
After the opening formalities and the reading out of a long list of titles, Father Mikulski, who will be presiding over this disputation, begins to speak. He sounds rather nervous at first, but a quote from the Gospels anchors him in these rough waters of words, and with the Scriptures behind him, he begins to speak assuredly and without stammering, even with gusto. He presents the Contra-Talmudists as lost little lambs who, after a long time wandering, have at last found the shepherd who wishes to tend them.
Then Antoni MoliwdaKossakowski, a nobleman, as the secretary introduces him, comes forward—he is the Contra-Talmudists’ spokesperson. A balding man with a somewhat protruding belly and watery eyes, he might not make—it is true—the best impression, but when he starts talking, he draws everyone’s attention, and it is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. He has a warm, booming, resonant voice, and he modulates it in such a lovely way that he touches people’s hearts. He speaks beautifully, though in quite a convoluted way, and yet with great conviction, and in any case, people heed a melody more than they do words. Right away he addresses all the Jews, calling upon them to convert. After each sentence he leaves a pause, that it might linger a little longer under the cathedral’s vault. And indeed, each sentence floats along through that vast space like poplar fluff.
“We stand here before you, not out of revenge or spite or to repay an eye with an eye, nor was it for such purposes that we pleaded with God, Creator of compassionate hearts, to summon you today. We stand here not in order to call down divine judgment, the judgment of the righteous and the just, but rather to soften your hard hearts and bring about some recognition of divine law . . .”
And so goes the whole speech—lofty and filled with pathos. The crowd is moved, Yente notes the repeated bringing of handkerchiefs to eyes, and she knows exactly what kind of emotions these are. For indeed, the Contra-Talmudists sitting by the wall look like miserable wretches in the presence of these rabbis who wear long furs and fur-lined caps even though it is summer. They look like children banished from their homes, lost lambs, foreign vagabonds, indigent and tired, who have come knocking at the door. They are supposed to be Jews, but to the Jews they’re not Jews, for they are persecuted by their own, cursed, belonging nowhere. And in their distress, their dark souls, like potato shoots growing in a cellar, instinctively seek out the light and lean toward it, poor things. How could they not be welcomed into the bosom of the Christian church—that capacious, comfortable, Catholic bosom?
They seem honest: Yeruhim of Jezierzany; Yehuda of Nadwórna, known as Krysa; Moshe Dawidowicz of Podhajce. All of them will speak. Then there is Hirsh of Lanckoroń, Elisha Shorr’s son-in-law, husband of Hayah, who is standing by the wall, and finally Elisha Shorr of Rohatyn himself, with his sons, amongst whom the most striking is Shlomo, with his curly mop of hair and his bright coat. Farther down are Lwów’s own Nussen Aronowicz, dressed in the Turkish fashion, and Shyle of Lanckoroń, who are acting as secretaries of sorts. Papers are piled up in front of them, there is an inkwell, and every type of writing instrument as well. At the very end of the row, at a little table set slightly apart, sit Nahman of Busk and Moliwda, the translators. Nahman is dressed like a Turk, modestly and in dark colors. A wiry man, he rubs his hands together nervously. Moliwda, meanwhile, sweats into his elegant dark clothing.
Behind them the crowd swirls, perspiring, colorful—wives, sisters, mothers, and brothers, all squeezed in, all intimidated.
On the right, on the benches for the Talmudists, things are not quite so crowded. There are a dozen or so well-dressed, dignified older rabbis, almost indistinguishable from one another but for the length and extravagance of their beards. But Yente’s eye discerns Rabbi Rapaport of Lwów, Rabbi Mendl of Satanów, Rabbi Leyba of Mi?dzybórz, and Rabbi Berk of Jaz?owiec. Yos Krzemieniecki, the rabbi of Mohylew, sits at the edge of the bench and rocks back and forth with his eyes closed, absent in spirit.
They begin with a point-by-point reading of the manifesto they have had printed for this occasion. As the first point begins to be discussed, the rabble realizes at once that it will not be getting what it wanted. Some complex matters have been brought up, and it is hard to listen to the rabbis’ babbling, since they are talking through a translator, which takes a long while, especially since the translator is terrible. Only Rapaport dares speak in Polish, but the Yiddish lilt to his speech makes him sound silly, humorous, as if he were selling eggs at the market—it gives him no authority. The crowd starts to murmur and fidget, not only those standing toward the back of the cathedral, but also the nobles in the benches, who whisper amongst themselves or get up to wander absentmindedly beneath the vault, whence Yente watches them.
After a few hours, Father Mikulski decides to adjourn the hearing until the next day, when they will finish the discussion about whether the Messiah has already come, as the Christians believe, or if he is still to come, as the Jews would have it.
Of Asher’s familial bliss
By the time Asher goes home, it’s already getting dark.