Our position is undoubtedly better than when we were ordinary Jews. The Wo?owskis and the other ennobled converts have the best situation, but many cannot afford the baksheesh for a title. Franciszek and his brother have a distillery in Leszno. Now it will bring them more income, as they have acquired new clients. Nussen’s son, Krysa, now called Krysiński, has just opened a shop with leather goods, he brings them in from Turkey, and I have seen the elegant ladies who buy gloves from him. Such men are managing fine. And their closest relatives, like the Rudnickis or the Lanckorońskis, or whatever their names ended up being. Hayah’s husband, Hirsh, has grown old and ill. Hayah is a great lady, and we try to look after her here, but she is not suited for this homelessness. It is a good thing she has such wise and capable daughters.
The Wo?owskis immediately gave their children up to religious schools, wanting to educate them not as merchants, but rather as officers and lawyers. They have been trying to talk everyone into doing this, but not everyone can afford it. As you commanded us, we have been marrying our children to each other, and so Franciszek Wo?owski has now married his son J?drzej to the daughter of his brother Jan, I don’t remember what the girl is called now. The nuptials are only temporary, only recognized by us for now, since according to Polish law they are still minors, and therefore cannot wed.
Hana is trying ceaselessly to be allowed to see You—You know that, for You get her letters. That Kossakowska woman has been a great help to her, promising to arrange a visit with the king himself, but when the king will come to Warsaw, no one knows.
I have tried to comfort Hana since the death of Immanuel, but she does not care for me. She keeps more with the Zwierzchowskis, and it is they who tend to little Avachunia. Kossakowska fusses over Hana as she would over a daughter. She plans to house her on one of her estates, give her room and board, and Avacha a good education. Avacha gets whatever she wants out of her. You must not worry about her, she is a very wise little girl, and since God has taken Your only son, she must console You. She has a teacher who is teaching her to play the piano.
Now that there is the possibility of conveying letters, I will send a messenger from Warsaw every ten days. And I believe that every splinter will be removed from Your heart, and the wound will heal, for we are miserable and stupid, thrown into something we cannot possibly understand, which only You can fathom.
Finally, I will tell you that I understand what happened as follows: You had to go to jail so that all the prophecies could be fulfilled—the Messiah must fall as absolutely low as possible. And when I saw You, led out with a bruised face, when you said to us: “Spit on this fire,” I realized that this was how it was supposed to be, and that the workings of salvation had gotten back on track, in gear, like a clock that measures time in eons—You had to fall, and I had to push You.
Jacob lies on his back on his cot in the tower of the Cz?stochowa fortress, and the letter he has been holding falls to the floor. Through the tiny window, better for shooting than for looking out of, he sees the stars. He feels as though he has found himself inside a deep well, whence the stars are better visible than they are from the earth’s surface, for the well acts as a telescope that brings celestial bodies nearer and causes them to appear within arm’s reach.
From there, Yente looks at Jacob.
The tower stands in a fortress surrounded by high walls, and that fortress is on a hill, at the foot of which lies, barely visible in the darkness, a poorly lit little town. And all of this is located in an undulating countryside covered in dense forests. And farther on extends the great plain of the center of Europe, circumfused with the waters of the seas and the oceans. Finally, Europe itself, seen from Yente’s position on high, becomes the size of a coin, and out of the darkness emerges the planet’s majestic curvature, so that it looks like a freshly shelled green pea.
Gifts from the Besht
Nahman, Piotr Jakubowski, who rarely leaves his little office these days, bites into the fresh pods of green peas brought to him by his son, Aron. He pulled them out of his pocket crumpled and snapped, but they are still tasty and crunchy. Aron has come to say goodbye to his father: he is going back to Busk, and once there, he will, as his father once did, join a caravan setting out to Turkey for tobacco and precious stones. Jakubowski rarely sees him; the boy stayed in Busk with his mother and grandparents when the divorce was finalized. But he is proud of him. Aron, like his mother, is short and swarthy, resembling a Turk. He has already mastered Turkish. He also knows German, since he has gone to Breslau and Dresden with Osman Czerniawski.
Nahman has just finished writing a letter and is now folding it very carefully. Aron glances at the Turkish script, no doubt guessing who his father is writing to.
They hug and kiss each other on the lips, as father and son. At the door, Aron looks over his shoulder at his father, who is small and thin, with matted hair and a torn little caftan. Then he goes.
The Baal Shem Tov passed away in this year, 1760, but Jakubowski didn’t write to Jacob of it. Jacob never respected the Hasidim, saying they were fools, although he seemed to be afraid of the Besht. He never concealed the satisfaction it gave him to win people away from the Besht. And there were quite a few of them.
They are saying that the Besht died because his heart broke at the news of hundreds of Jews converting. That his heart broke, in other words, because of Jacob Frank. Jakubowski isn’t sure—will this news please Jacob? Maybe he should write of it to him?
Jakubowski was hired by Shlomo, Franciszek Wo?owski, to sit in a small office counting barrels of beer. There isn’t too much to do, since the brewery is just starting. Jakubowski tallies the deliveries, full and empty barrels, sending products all over the city and to taverns on the outskirts. At first, Wo?owski sent him to scout for new clients around Warsaw, but he gave that up. As Piotr Jakubowski, Nahman still looks sluggish somehow, unconvincing, even dressed up in a kontusz. The Jews have not wanted to buy beer since their baptism, and the non-Jews look with suspicion upon this little redheaded man with the mien of a chicken. That’s what Franciszek says about him—that Nahman looks like a chicken. The first time Jakubowski heard this, it hurt his feelings. He would have thought that with his auburn hair and his cleverness he was more like a fox.