Two days later, as we were entering the outskirts of Lublin, known as Kalinowszczyzna, out of nowhere, a hail of stones fell upon us. The force of this attack was so great that the stones broke through the sides and doors of the carriage and bored holes into its roof. As I was sitting next to Jacob, I flung myself spontaneously atop him. I was pummeled not by the stones, but by Jacob—he hurled me away in fury. It was a good thing that our vehicle was surrounded by eight horsemen, armed with weapons, for they, too, roused from their dozing, drew their sabers, and attempted to chase down the rowdy rabble. But from behind the houses, from all the streets, more of them came running, with pitchforks and sticks, and a burly woman hurled mud from a basket with perfect aim at our carriage, and a real, albeit chaotic, battle began. But these Jews from the outskirts made more noise than they did damage. It was just a gaggle of oafs, and in the end they scattered at the sight of the sentries who came to our aid at the behest of Moliwda and Krysa, who had galloped ahead into town to get help.
My deep sadness, my exhaustion from the previous night, and that attack, in which many of us were injured (I had a wound on my forehead and a big bump on my head, and since that time I’ve had a headache), wore us down greatly, and it was in that state that we arrived in Lublin. The worst was yet to come, however. In the evening, thanks to the efforts of Moliwda and Mrs. Kossakowska, we were lying down in the voivode’s palace when it became apparent that Reb Mordke was ailing, and that he was suffering from the same symptoms as had afflicted those with the plague in Lwów. We set him up in a separate room, but he did not wish to remain there, and he dismissed our concerns, insisting there was no way he could be sick. Whenever anyone attempted to leave his side, Jacob bade them sit back down beside the sick man, and he himself attended to him and gave him water to drink, although old Reb Mordke’s eyes had started to weaken.
Hershel, having the knack and sensitivity of a woman when it came to taking care of people, nursed the sick man with great dedication. I ran around Lublin for broth and a chicken breast. Reb Mordke, though weak, greatly desired to see Lublin, for he had studied there when he was young and had many memories of it. And so Hershel and I took him into town and led him slowly up the little streets all the way to the Jewish cemetery, where his teacher had been buried. As we walked among the graves, Reb Mordke pointed out a lovely tombstone, newly erected. “That’s the type I like,” he said. “That’s the type I’d like to have.”
We chided him and scoffed at his concerns, saying it was hardly the time for any of us to be dreaming of our tombstones. Had we not all been whisked from under the dominion of death? So did Hershel admonish him, fervently, with tears in his eyes. Truth be told, I could never quite believe that myself. But Hershel did, like so many. Or perhaps I did, just like those others. My memory is hazy. When it came time to return to the palace, however, we had to practically carry a greatly debilitated Reb Mordke in our arms.
That night, we sat up with him in the voivode’s palace in Lublin, which had been neglected and was damp and dirty. The plaster had cracked from moisture, and the wind crept in through the unsealed windows. We rushed to the kitchen for hot water, but Reb Mordke had bloody diarrhea that would not let up, and his eyes continued to weaken. He told us to light a pipe, but he could no longer smoke it, simply holding it in his hands while the dying fire warmed his ever-colder fingers. We all stole glances at Jacob, wondering what he would say. Reb Mordke himself looked at him expectantly: How was Jacob planning on saving him from death? After all, Reb Mordke had been Jacob’s most faithful disciple for these many years, since sunny Smyrna, since sea-scented Salonika, and someone like him, who had already been baptized, could not die.
The next night Jacob went out alone into the wet courtyard and was gone for two hours; when he returned, he was freezing and pale, and he collapsed on the bed. I went to his side.
“Where have you been? Reb Mordke is dying,” I reproached him.
“I could not conquer him,” he said, seemingly to himself, although I heard him perfectly well. So did Itzak Minkowski, who had been sure Jacob had been kidnapped.
“Who are you talking about?” I shouted. “Who were you fighting? Who was here? There are castle guards posted everywhere, keeping watch . . .”
“You know who . . . ,” he said, and a chill ran down my spine.
The next morning, Reb Mordke was dead. We sat around him into the afternoon, dumbfounded. Hershel burst into a bizarre kind of laughter, telling us that this was just what happened—that first you died, and then you came back to life. That it would simply take a little while for death to fully materialize, since otherwise no one would believe in resurrection. That was possible, for otherwise there would be no way to know if someone was immortal. Yet I was angry and said to him: “You’re a fool.” Which I now greatly regret. For Hershel was no fool. And I, too, was convinced that this could not be real, that something exceptional would happen soon, as exceptional as the times in which we were living, as exceptional as we were. And then there was Jacob, who could barely stand on his feet, sweat running down his face, his eyes half closed, and in them a dark light. He scarcely said a word, and I realized that powerful forces were waging a war over us, dark forces battling the very lightest ones, like in a stormy sky, when the black clouds chase out the blue and cover up the sun. And I could almost hear that vast clashing, a kind of low rumble, a dismal clanging. And suddenly my vision took off after that sound, and I saw the lot of us sitting in a circle with Reb Mordke’s ghost, devastated and weeping. We were like the little figures made of bread for Hayah’s board game, monstrous and ridiculous.
We were not victorious against death, not that time.
On the following day, we held a proper funeral. We carried out an open coffin, according to the Catholic custom, and laid it in a richly outfitted cart. The news had made its way around town, that this had been a great Jewish sage who had gone the way of the Cross, and an enormous procession turned out, including members of guilds and trumpeters and monks and common people in great multitudes, curious to see a converted Jew be buried on consecrated land. People cried a great deal, for reasons that struck me as unclear, as they did not know the deceased, nor did they particularly understand who he had been. In the parish church, when the local bishop gave his sermon, the whole church was in tears, perhaps because the words “in vain” came up so many times in it, and together, those two words are likely even worse than “death.” I, too, cried, being in the grip of despair, in an eternal kind of woe, and it was only then that I was able to fully lament my little daughter, and all my dead.
I recall that Hershel was standing next to me and asked me what those Polish words meant, “in vain.” I told him, and he said, “They have a good sound.”
It’s when all your effort goes to waste, when you build on sand, when you try to collect water in a sieve, when you discover that your hard-earned money is counterfeit. All of that is in vain. That’s how I translated and explained it to him.