I was greatly alarmed by it all, and if I had not seen those written sources myself with mine own eyes, my mind would have defended itself against the acceptance of that truth. Yet everything is written down in their books, though since among themselves they write—as Father Pikulski says—with dots, or accents, of which there are nine in the Hebrew language, and they print their Talmuds without those dots, there is an abundance in the Talmud of ambiguous words, which the rabbis understand differently, and can translate to the people in various ways, as suits the preservation of their secret.
It frightens me more than Your Ladyship can possibly imagine. I shall return to my Firlejów in a state of terror, for if such things can go on in the world, then how are we to even begin to conceive of them and deal with them just in our minds alone? But after all, such learned books cannot lie!
Who would believe the Talmudists under such circumstances? I can’t stop wondering. For if they are in the habit of lying and deceiving the Catholics on everyday things, then of course they would lie about a matter so essential. And the fact that this need for Christian blood is kept in great secret amongst the rabbis themselves! Among the simple and uneducated Jews it is unknown; however, it must be true, given how many times it has been proven by testimony, and punished severely by decree . . .
Of Pinkas, who cannot understand what sin he has committed
He fulfilled all the commandments, performed good deeds, prayed more than others. And what could holy Rabbi Rapaport have done, that man who is a walking kindness? And what did all these Podolian Jews do, that such a great misfortune in the form of these heretics befell them?
Gone gray, although still not old, he sits at the table in his ragged shirt, hunched over, unable to read, although he would like to escape into the rows of letters that evoke familiar associations, but this time it doesn’t work: Pinkas bounces right back off the holy letters like a ball.
His wife walks in with a candle, ready to go to bed already, wearing a nightgown that goes down to the ground and a white kerchief on her head; she beholds him in concern, then sits down next to him and presses her cheek into his shoulder. Pinkas feels her delicate, fragile body and starts to cry.
The rabbis have ordered them to stay at home, close the shutters, and draw the curtains in preparation for the arrival of the heathens to Lwów. If they cannot help it, if they really have to go out, they must avoid all eye contact. It cannot be allowed to happen that the eyes of Jacob Frank, that mongrel, come into contact with the eyes of a proper Jew. The gaze must be kept on the ground, at the base of the walls, or in the gutter—it should not accidentally flit upward, toward the demonic faces of those sinners.
Tomorrow Pinkas is going on a mission to Warsaw, to the nuncio. He is in the process of assembling the final documents. This disputation is inflaming passions, provoking people to hatred, fomenting anxieties. The seventh point accuses the Jews of consumption of Christian blood, and yet they already have a ruling from the pope himself that says to file all such allegations away with folk and fairy tales. At the same time, this sect of Jacob Frank’s practices some mysterious rituals it would be very easy to blame on all Jews. Rabbi Rapaport was right to say: “They are no longer Jews, and we are not bound to act toward them as we would toward our fellow Jews. They are like that mixed multitude, that mongrel horde that joined in with the children of Moses as they fled from Egypt: half-breeds and harlots, fops and thieves, suspect types and madmen. That’s what they are.”
Rapaport will demonstrate in Konstantynów, where all the rabbis of the Polish land are to meet, that there is no other way for them to free themselves of the Frankists, those heathens, than to force them to convert to Christianity. In other words, they must themselves see to it that those dogs are christened. A lot of money has already been collected for this effort, and every pressure is being applied in order to ensure that the baptism of the heretics is accomplished as soon as possible. Pinkas, fighting with a smoking candle, tabulates the sums in the same manner as an exchange office would. On the left side, the last name, first name, and title, and on the right side, the amount of their donation.
Suddenly there is a pounding on the door, and Pinkas pales. He thinks: it has begun. With his eyes he tells his wife to lock herself in the bedroom. Their youngest child begins to cry. Pinkas goes to the door and listens, his heart beating wildly, his mouth gone dry. On the other side he can hear nails scratching, and after a moment, a voice:
“Open up, Uncle.”
“Who is it?” Pinkas whispers.
The voice answers:
“It’s me, Yankiel.”
“What Yankiel?”
“Yankiel, Natan’s son, from Glinno. Your nephew.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
Pinkas slowly opens the door, and the young man squeezes through the narrow opening. Pinkas looks at him in disbelief and then, in relief, holds him close. Yankiel is tall, broad-shouldered, well-built, and his uncle barely reaches his shoulders. Pinkas puts his arms around his waist and stands that way for such a long while that Yankiel eventually clears his throat, embarrassed.
“I saw Gitla,” he says.
Pinkas lets him go and takes a step back.
“I saw Gitla today, this morning. She was helping that medic with his patients in the Halickie Przedmie?cie.”
Pinkas grabs at his heart.
“Here? In Lwów?”
“That’s right!”
Pinkas leads his nephew into the kitchen and sits him down at the table. He pours him some vodka and drinks a glass himself; unaccustomed to alcohol, he shudders in disgust. From somewhere he takes out some cheese. Yankiel talks—they all came to Lwów, set up camp on the streets; they have little children with them; they’ve been getting sick. And this Asher fellow, the Jewish medic of Rohatyn, has been treating them, apparently hired by the city’s authorities.
Yankiel has big, beautiful eyes of an unusual color—they look aquamarine. He smiles at his weary uncle. Pinkas’s wife, in her nightgown, cracks the door of the bedroom and peeks out.
“And just so you know, Uncle,” Yankiel says with his mouth full, “Gitla has a child.”
Of the human deluge that overwhelms the streets of Lwów