Shlomo, or Franciszek Wo?owski, a merchant and a bit of an adventurer, who can handle both people and money, is suddenly like a little boy before the court, his lower lip trembling like he’s about to cry. Yeruhim, on the other hand, acts sure of himself, acts like an open, simple man, although of course he isn’t, Moliwda knows that well. He tells how they usually pray, and then the court wishes them to sing this mysterious song, the meaning of which they cannot or do not want to clarify. They look at each other uncertainly, whispering—it is obvious that they are hatching some scheme, hiding something. Matuszewski butts in, as pale as if already sentenced to death. He becomes the conductor of this choir, raising his hand, and after a moment of whispering they sing the Yigdal before the consistory court of Warsaw like schoolboys. And they get so into their singing that they forget where they are, forget the solemnity of the church. Moliwda lowers his eyes.
He has heard this song so many times and sometimes joined in, that is true, but now, in the heated interior of the episcopal court, where the smell of damp battles the smell of the lye used to clean the hearths of the stoves, where the frost on the windowpanes has sketched out overnight delicate garlands of icy leaves and branches, the words of the Yigdal sound absurd, don’t make any sense. Moliwda has a position in ?owiczu in the highest Church office, with the primate of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth; he has succeeded, he has come back to his country, to his people, all his faults have been forgiven, and he has been accepted back into the fold of decent people, so why would he be interested in the words of this song, and did he ever even really understand them?
As the defendants leave, they pass Jacob being led in. They squeeze up against the wall, turn pale. Jacob is ceremonially dressed, in his high hat and a coat with a collar. As if they were bringing in the king. His face is strangely focused. He looks at Wo?owski, who begins to cry, and then Jacob says in Hebrew:
“Spit on this fire.”
An ocean of questions that will sink even the strongest battleship
Moliwda is to interpret. He has managed to weasel his way into the main position under the auspices of Bishop Za?uski. Now he looks at the band in which the sides of his new kontusz are finished. He has worn the new one, but now he sees it is too showy, too elegant. He regrets his choice.
The commission is waiting. It is made up of three members of the clergy and two secular secretaries. Armed guards are still posted at the door to the hallway. Such pomp, thinks Moliwda. You would think they were interrogating a great usurper. Aside from the episcopal official, who will be playing the leading role here, there is Father Szembek, canon of Gniezno, and one Pruchnicki, the consistory registrar, and Father ?liwicki, a Jesuit and general inspector of the missionaries. They whisper to one another now, but Moliwda can’t hear what they’re saying.
At last the door opens, and the guards bring Jacob in. One glance at him is enough to make Moliwda concerned; Jacob seems changed, swollen somehow, and his face is tired, sagging. Have they beaten him? Suddenly Moliwda’s heart begins to thump faster, as though he were running, and his throat gets dry, and his hands start shaking. Jacob looks at him. All the ideas he had prepared, and all the turns of phrase he planned to use to cover for Jacob’s mistakes, now seem useless. He wipes his sweaty hands discreetly on the sides of his kontusz. There’s more sweat in his armpits. They have definitely beaten him. Jacob, his eyes cast down, peeks furtively at all of them. Their gaze finally meets, and Moliwda has to summon all his strength to force himself to slowly close his eyes, signaling to Jacob that everything is going to be okay, that he just has to keep calm.
After the official introduction and the objectives of the interrogation are read out comes the first question, which Moliwda translates into Turkish. He does it literally, not adding or removing anything. They ask Jacob where he was born, where he grew up, and where he has lived during his life. They are interested in his wife and in how many children he has, as well as material goods and possessions.
Jacob doesn’t want to sit down. He stays standing as he responds. His voice, deep but quiet, along with the lilt of the Turkish, make an impression on his interrogators. What does this man have to do with them? thinks Moliwda. He translates Jacob’s answer sentence by sentence. Jacob says he was born in Korolówka in Podolia and then lived in Czernowitz and that his father was a rabbi. They moved many times: to Bucharest and other cities in Wallachia. He has a wife and children.
“What indication do you have regarding those who wished to join the Christian faith?”
Jacob looks up at the ceiling and sighs. He is silent. He asks Moliwda to repeat the question, but he still doesn’t answer. Finally he looks up at Moliwda and speaks as if just to him. Moliwda tries to control each twitch of his own face.
“The sign by which I can recognize the true believers is that I see a light over their heads. Not all of them have it.”
Moliwda translates:
“The sign that enables me to discern, according to the promise of Our Lord Jesus, those who sincerely adhere to His faith, is a light in the shape of a candle that I see over their heads.”
The court requests clarification as to who is in possession of this light and who is not.
Jacob speaks reluctantly, faltering once at the mention of a name, but Moliwda translates fluidly that when it came to certain Jews, even if they tried very hard to get Jacob to accept them into the faith, even if they wanted to give him large amounts of money for it, he would reject them when he did not see the light over their heads. And he knew, in any case, who was sincere, and who had murkier intentions.
Now they ask him for details of his first stay in Poland. When he speaks in terms that are too general, they further inquire into the names of localities and the persons who hosted him. This takes a long time, and they have to wait for the secretaries to write it all down. Jacob starts to falter under this bureaucratic regimen; he has a chair brought to him, and he sits.
Moliwda translates Jacob’s account of events in which he himself played a part, but he would rather not acknowledge that, and there isn’t any need for him to do so, no one is asking him. He just prays that Jacob himself won’t somehow spill this information; but as Frank is telling them of Nikopol and Giurgiu, he doesn’t say a word about Moliwda, doesn’t even look at him. The court will think that they don’t know each other at all, that they met recently in Lwów, through translation, as Moliwda wrote in his statement.
They hold a small recess, during which time they bring in water and cups. The interrogator changes—now it’s the Jesuit.
“Does the accused believe in God in the Trinity? That there is one in three persons? And does he believe in Jesus Christ, the True God and Man, the Messiah present in the Holy Scriptures, according to the confession of faith made by Saint Athanasius? Is he ready to swear to it?”
They give Jacob the text of the credo in Latin, which Jacob isn’t able to read, so he repeats after Moliwda, sentence by sentence: “I believe in one God . . .” Moliwda adds: “with all my heart.” Now they tell him to sign his name to a page with the credo on it.
Then comes the next question: