The prior is surprised by Jacob’s state. He keeps his hands inside the sleeves of his light-colored wool habit, which is stained with ink at the cuffs. He takes an exceptionally long time to read the letter from Warsaw, probably finding room between the lines in which to consider how to handle this situation. He was expecting some headstrong heretic, impossible to get rid of in any more efficient way—which is why they’ve readied a cell for him in a monastery dungeon that has never been used before, at least not in the prior’s memory. But the letter clearly speaks of “internment,” rather than “imprisonment.” And in any case, this person with his hands shackled in no way gives the impression of being a villain or a heretic. His perfectly decent dress brings to mind instead a foreigner, an Armenian on the road, a Wallachian hospodar who lost his way in the night and wound up in this sacred place. The prior looks inquiringly at the captain of the convoy. Then he looks over at the frightened Kazimierz.
“That is his cook,” says the captain, and those are the first words that have been uttered in the room.
The prior’s name is Ksawery Rotter. He’s been in this role for just four months, and he doesn’t know what to do. That gray-blue cheek—did they beat him? he would like to ask. It was no doubt justified, sometimes confessions must be brought about through corporal means, he doesn’t question that general principle, but the fact laid bare like that is unpleasant. Violence disgusts him. He tries to see into the man’s face, but Jacob keeps his head lowered. The prior sighs and decides for now to have his humble belongings taken into the officer’s chamber by the tower, which no one uses. Brother Grzegorz will bring a mattress and hot water shortly, and maybe something to eat—if there’s something left in the kitchen.
The prior comes to see the prisoner the following day, but they are unable to communicate. The cook tries to translate, but since his Polish is garbled, the prior isn’t sure whether this strange prisoner is able to understand his good intentions. Dejected, he responds with no more than a yes or a no, so the prior does not importune him further and is relieved to leave him. Back in his own chamber, he glances at the letter lying on the table:
The person whom we have entrusted to the fatherly protection of the Church and given over to the wardship of the Jasna Góra monastery is not dangerous in the sense in which a common villain would be, quite the opposite. He will seem calm and good to you, Father, though no doubt foreign and very different from the people with whom you would ordinarily come into contact . . . For he, though born as a Jew in Podolia, was raised in foreign Turkish lands, fully converting to their foreign language and customs . . .
There follows an abbreviated biography of the prisoner, arriving at an alarming formulation that causes the prior an unpleasant cramp in his stomach: “considered himself the Messiah.” Then the missive concludes:
For this reason we do not recommend any close association with him. And during his internment, it would be best to seclude him as much as possible and treat him as a singular resident, the duration of his arrest being infinite, after all, and there being no circumstances under which this will change.
This final sentence, too, fills the prior with unexpected alarm.
What Jacob’s prison is like
It is a chamber right next to the tower, right there in the defensive wall, with two narrow little windows. The fathers put in two pallets—apparently this is what they sleep on, too—and a straw mattress just stuffed with hay, a little table, and a chair. There is also a porcelain chamber pot, mercilessly chipped all over to the point of being perilous. In the afternoon a second mattress appears, for Kazimierz. Kazimierz, who alternates between grumbling and crying, unpacks his baggage and his minimal supplies, but there is no way he will be allowed into the monastery kitchen. They show him to a second kitchen, the one for the help, and right next to it is a firepit where he can cook.
Jacob has a fever for several days and stops getting up from his pallet. This is why Kazimierz requests from the Pauline Fathers some fresh goose meat, and from the kitchen he borrows a pot, since he didn’t bring his own cooking utensils. He prepares the meat over the primitive firepit and, throughout the day, mouthful by little mouthful, he gives Jacob the broth. The prior supplies them with bread and crumbly old cheese; he has a stake in the prisoner’s health, and he chips in a bottle of powerful spirits, as well. He says to drink it with hot water—it will heat them up. In the end, Kazimierz drinks the spirits, justifying this by the thought that he has to be strong to take care of Jacob; in any case, Jacob does not wish to touch the spirits, but he does consume the broth, which seems to do him good. One day, Kazimierz awakens in the early morning, as the brothers shuffle in for their prayers. The pale dawn enters their chamber through the little window, and Kazimierz sees that Jacob isn’t sleeping—his eyes are open, and he is looking at the cook as though he cannot see him. A chill runs down Kazimierz’s spine.
All day the guards’ eyes follow Kazimierz’s movements with great curiosity. These guards are strange, old and crippled. One of them is missing a leg and uses a wooden crutch to get around, but he wears a uniform and keeps a musket slung over his shoulder. He behaves like a real soldier, puffing out his chest although the buttonholes of his uniform are frayed and the seams of his sleeves are half unstitched. Around his neck he wears a tobacco pouch.
What kind of army is this? wonders Kazimierz, his lips curling in disgust. But he is scared of them. He has noticed that anything may be arranged with them in exchange for tobacco, so he swipes the occasional pinch from the Lord—in this way he is able to get both a pot and some fuel to heat it. One day one of those veterans, almost toothless, with his threadbare uniform buttoned all the way to the top, sits down next to Kazimierz and starts a conversation:
“Who is that master of yours, son?”
Kazimierz doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, but since this particular soldier brought him a gridiron before, he feels obligated to respond somehow.
“He is a great gentleman.”
“We can see that, that he’s great and all. But what’s he in for?”
The cook just shrugs. He doesn’t know. They are all staring at him—he can feel them looking.
The toothless one, the one hungriest for money, is Roch. He keeps Kazimierz company for hours on end, as Kazimierz is cooking outside. The smoke from the damp wood reeks.
“What’s that you’re cooking up, son? The smell of it really turns my guts,” Roch starts, filling his little pipe.
Kazimierz tells him that his master likes Turkish food and Turkish spices. Everything is spicy—in his open palm he shows the man little dry peppers.