Jacob denies this, saying not at all, they simply chose the names they wanted. And besides, Franciszek is among them.
“God forbid,” translates a sweaty Moliwda. “They simply do not know any other Christian names. Besides, there are two named Franciszek.”
“Is he aware that some of his students saw some sort of light over him? What is known to him on this topic?”
Jacob says that this is the first time he is hearing of it, and that he does not know what it means, either.
Now Father Szembek asks another question:
“Did he foretell his imprisonment in Lanckoroń and in Kopyczyńce, his wife’s arrival in Podolia, the death of Piotr Jakubowski’s child, as well as the deaths of two persons from the family of Elijah Wo?owski, and even his detention here, as witnesses from previous interrogations have testified?”
It strikes Moliwda that Jacob is trying to minimize himself, as if suddenly understanding that his person is too big, too attention-grabbing. Just as before he played the big man, just as he lorded everything over everyone, now he takes on this new role, imperceptibly and somehow naturally playing the role of insignificant defendant, polite, acquiescent, happy to cooperate, stripped of both teeth and claws—a little lamb. Moliwda knows him well enough to see that Jacob is cleverer than all the rest of the assembly put together, though they take him for an idiot, just as the Jews once did, and he himself seemed to have a particular fondness for hiding in smallness, for taking on the guise of a simpleton. When was it he used to say that he could barely read?
Moliwda translates his response almost word for word:
“I did predict the arrest in Lanckoroń, but not in Kopyczyńce. Regarding my wife, I just figured out how much time my messenger needed to get to her, and how much time she’d need for packing, and to get there, and that’s how I happened to figure it would be on a Wednesday. Jakubowski’s child was born weak and sick. But that I could have predicted the death of someone from the Rohatyn Wo?owski family—that I don’t remember. It’s a big family, someone’s always dying in it. And it is true that I was praying over the book and suddenly said out loud, ‘In two weeks.’ I don’t know why I said that, but those who heard those words explained them immediately as imprisonment by the Bernardines. I also admit that when someone adhering sincerely to the faith was to come, my nose would itch on the right side, and when it was someone who was insincere in their belief, then it was on the left side that my nose itched—that was how I’d sense it.”
And now the honorable judicial commission is laughing discreetly. Father Szembek and Father Pruchnicki, the secretary and the episcopal official. The only person not laughing is the Jesuit, but everyone knows, thinks Moliwda, that Jesuits have no sense of humor.
The Jesuit asks somberly:
“Why when someone comes to the accused in illness, does he perform some sort of charm over him, touching his forehead with his fingers and whispering spells? And what does he mean by such charms?”
The hilarity among the commission has emboldened Jacob a little. Moliwda sees that from now on the defendant will play both angles, be strong and weak, so that nothing will be clear, so that each person will have the impression that his notions are contradictory and vague.
“What I mean by a charm is when someone puts the evil eye on somebody. I would undo that charm on everyone who needed it.” Now Jacob says the names of those who died, to once more diminish his strength. He says, “I did it for Werszek, who had already been baptized, who died here in Warsaw, and for Reb Mordke, called Mordechai, who died back in Lublin. It didn’t seem to help them.”
Now the interrogators turn to Ivanie—this period interests them a great deal. Is it true, they ask, that in Ivanie he commanded them to have nothing of their own, to give everything over for communal use? And furthermore, that whenever several of them would argue and finally come to some agreement, then that idea was God’s? Where did he get those ideas?
Jacob is tired, they’ve been there all afternoon, and in this stuffy, unventilated room, all he wants is water. He says he doesn’t know, that he has no idea. He rubs his forehead.
“Is it true that you forbade them from giving their children to their godparents and good Catholics to raise, telling them they had to stick together? Is that true?” Father Szembek reads from a page. The testimonies they have are evidently quite extensive.
And further:
“Is it true,” asks the priest, “that his students replace the name of Jesus in their copies of the New Testament with the name Jacob?”
Jacob counters this briefly. He stands with his head bowed. He’s lost his confidence.
When the interrogation is over, Moliwda says goodbye to an unexpectedly chilly Father ?liwicki and a silent Father Szembek, and he walks right by Jacob, without even looking at him.
He knows they will not invite him back to the next hearing, that they don’t trust him.
He steps out into the frosty Warsaw air, and the cold, predatory wind blows open his kontusz, so he wraps it tightly around him and goes down toward D?uga Street, but then he realizes he is afraid to go to the Wo?owskis, so he turns around and slowly drags himself toward the barriers by the church at Three Crosses Square. When he gets there, guilt—dark, sticky—overwhelms him, and there is nothing really left for him to do but go inside the little Jewish tavern and drink, showing off to the alewife his knowledge of Hebrew.