“I’ve been with you since the beginning, the most faithful one, and now you cast me aside?”
“That’s how it’s supposed to be,” says Jacob, and a broad, warm smile fills his face. This is his usual mode. “I’m not casting you aside, my brother, I’m delegating to you the oversight of what we have already accomplished. You’re right behind me, second in command, and you have to keep an eye on all these people who have been stuffed like so many chickens into barns and coops. You need to be the master here.”
“But you are going to see the king . . . You are leaving us behind, me and my brothers. I want to know why.”
“This journey isn’t safe, and I’m taking the risk upon myself.”
“But it was my brothers and my father and I who, while you were off in Turkey—”
“I was off in Turkey so they wouldn’t kill me here.”
“You’re putting on a lot of airs now, but you were not there in the cathedral with us—” Shlomo explodes. This isn’t like him—he normally shows a great deal of self-control. Jacob takes a step toward him, but in his rage, Shlomo-Franciszek Shorr-Wo?owski evades Jacob’s grasp and leaves the room, slamming the door, which bounces off its frame and swings back and forth on its rusted hinges for quite a while, creaking.
An hour later, Jacob calls in Hershel, or Jan. He has wine and roast meat brought. Nahman Jakubowski, coming to speak with Jacob, finds Hana at the door. Hana whispers to him that the Lord has put on his tefillin and is now performing a secret act with Hershel, something called “bringing the Torah into the latrine.”
“With Jan,” Nahman corrects her gently.
Scraps: At Radziwi??’s
Is it not the case that every living being has his own distinct calling that is absolutely particular and can only be realized by him? He is therefore responsible for his task throughout his life, and he must not lose sight of it at any point. This is what I always believed, but the days that followed our activities in Lwów seemed to me so violent that for a long while not only could I not write about them, but also I could not even bear to think of them. Even now, as I begin to pray, only lamentations come to mind, and tears flood into my eyes, for although time does pass, my pain does not diminish in the slightest. Reb Mordke has died. Hershel, too. And my newborn daughter is dead as well.
If my little Agnieszka had become a full and happy person, I would undoubtedly not despair to this extent. If Reb Mordke had lived to see the years of salvation, I would not be so sad. If Hershel had grown weary of life, having experienced it all, I would not cry for him. Instead, I was the first person who had to confront this plague, as it affected me personally, as it affected my long-awaited child. And yet I had been chosen! How could this happen to me?
Before we set out on the road, there was a small ceremony, though it was not as joyful as it could have been, since on account of the plague, Jacob was observing a fast. But Old Reb Moshe of Podhajce, our great miracle-worker and sage, was marrying a young girl orphaned by the plague, named Teresa, formerly Esther Mayorkowicz. It was the gesture of a good man, as her sister who also survived had already been taken in by Mr. ?ab?cki, godfather of Reb Mordke, and thus the sisters would share the last name of ?ab?cki. On that evening the fast was suspended, but the repast was modest: a little wine, a little bread and broth. The bride could not stop crying.
At the wedding, Jacob announced that he was heading to Warsaw to see the king, and then he blessed the newlyweds, and so it was that we all saw he was the highest one and that he was taking upon himself all of our confusion, pain, and anger. I noticed very quickly, however, that not everything was to others’ liking. The two Wo?owski brothers in particular, who were sitting next to Walenty Krysin′ski, Nussen’s son, displayed great consternation over having to remain in Lwów, and I could feel, right here at the wedding feast, a kind of intense struggle taking place, an invisible battle, as if over the heads of the diners, over the emaciated bride, who had only narrowly escaped death, and the aged groom, a war was being waged over the order of our souls. What was thickest in all of this was fear, and in fear—of course—people attack one another, in order to be able to have someone to blame for all the ill that is occurring.
Several days later, we were on the road, and as it is written in the Shocher Tov, four things weaken a person: hunger, travel, fasting, and authorities. Yes, we had allowed ourselves to be weakened. Although this time hunger did not threaten us on our travels, for we were received along the way at various manors or church presbyteries as converted Jews, as gentle, good people, almost as remorseful former criminals, and for our part we were happy to perform that role.
We set off on November 2 from Lwów to Warsaw in three carriages, a few riding on horseback, including Moliwda, our guide and watchman. His fine speeches introduced us wherever we stopped, never quite as we would have liked. But by the second day we felt exactly as Moliwda had described us; I could never—I think now—quite crack him, and I could never fully tell whether that Antoni Kossakowski was speaking in earnest or joking.
When we came into Krasnystaw, where we rented out a whole inn for the night, Moliwda said that he wanted Jacob to meet with a Polish lord, Jacob’s fame as a great sage having made its way clear to here. This lord was also a wise man and would come to see us here. And so Jacob, despite his exhaustion, did not take off his traveling attire, instead throwing over his shoulders a fur-lined cloak and warming his hands over the fire, since during the day it had started to rain and a piercing cold had come up from the east, from over the Polesian marshes. We spread ourselves out in the largest room, side by side on little mattresses in which we could feel this year’s hay. It was dark and smoky in the room. The Christian innkeeper had stuffed his whole family into a single cubbyhole of a room and would not allow his children to come out, for he thought us distinguished guests, not seeing us as Jews. Those grimy children of his peeked out through the gaps in the shoddy door of the room, but when the early winter evening fell, they vanished, no doubt overcome by sleep.
It wasn’t until around midnight that Itzak Minkowicer, who had been keeping watch, came in to tell us that a carriage had arrived. Jacob sat upon a bench, as if on a throne, the edges of his cloak falling loosely about his arms and revealing the fur underneath.
Lo and behold, in came a Jew in a yarmulke, chubby and short but sure of himself, verging on insolent. Behind him, huge peasants stood guard in the doorway, armed to the teeth. He said nothing, this Jew, merely casting his eyes about the room for a long while, taking in Jacob, who sat with his head bowed.
“And who are you?” I finally asked, unable to tolerate the silence.