And none of them can handle this troublesome prisoner who has by now taken over the entire officers’ tower, and who treats the old officers as servants of some sort, and it is difficult to refuse him those semiliberties in exchange for the generous tithes he pays. The prior watches him and his frequent guests—they sit for hours in the church, gazing at the holy picture, and the sight of their fervent prayer and their lying in the form of a cross for whole days would make an impression on any man of faith. Toward the monastery they are solicitous, and they appear to be reconciled to the punishment of their Master. Sometimes there are quarrels or raised voices in the tower. A few times their songs have been heard—this has been strictly forbidden by the prior, unless they can sing Catholic songs.
Prior Mateusz ??kawski was less favorable to Frank than his successor, Mniński. ??kawski received reports of iniquities perpetrated in the officer’s chamber, and the very fact of a family living on the holy terrain of the monastery irritated him, not to mention the quantity of women roaming around. His successor, on the other hand, is not bothered by that at all. Mniński, more concerned with the paintings in the chapel and pained by the poor state of the roof, is pleased by every grosz he gets, and these neophytes supply them in great abundance. He likes to look at women, too, and these ones are particularly pleasing.
He sees three women come up to the gate with Jacob Frank. One of them is carrying an infant, the other leading a little girl. Jacob walks in front, cheerfully greeting the pilgrims, and they, surprised by his tall Turkish hat and his Turkish coat, stop and stare at him. At the gate, Jacob greets two men dressed in the Turkish fashion. They embrace as if they have not seen one another for a long time. The woman with the infant kneels before the older man and kisses his hand. The prior guesses it is her father. He has given the prisoner permission to leave the monastery. He is to return before nightfall.
Indeed, this is Hana Frank’s father, Yehuda Tovah ha-Levi. He is dark, fat, and his lush beard, still black with no sign of gray, covers his breast; he has gentle features and sensual lips. Hana has inherited from him her lovely big eyes, and her olive-hued skin that never flushes. Once they’re inside, Tovah settles into a chair, where he will not be especially comfortable—he prefers sitting according to the Turkish custom, on pillows. He sets his hands atop his ample belly; they are soft and delicate, like the hands of a sage.
His son, Hana’s twin brother, Hayim, has grown up to be a handsome man, though not as solidly built as his father. His face is round with regular features, like his father’s. His dark, very thick eyebrows are almost joined, and together divide his face horizontally. Hayim, dressed like a Turk, is friendly and sincere. His smile never leaves his face, as if he were trying to conquer them all with it. He has obviously been raised with much love, for he is self-confident but not haughty. Old Tovah holds Avacha on his lap; she has gotten as thin as a roe fawn, and so her grandpa gives her dried figs and Turkish sweets. Hana sits near her father with little Jacob at her breast, the child’s tiny hands playing with the fringe of the kerchief her father brought her as a gift. Since the arrival of her father and brother, Hana seems invigorated; she is certain now that something significant will change, even if she doesn’t know what. As they talk, she shifts her inquiring gaze from her husband to her father and brother, since she remains dependent on these men and on whatever they decide. And so it goes all evening, until sleep overcomes her.
Jacob returns to his cell late at night. The next day, Roch receives a supply of good Turkish tobacco and several pipes in thanks. The jangling coin he also receives is another welcome boon, and he quickly hides it in his tattered pants pockets. To the monastery goes a basket of delicacies. Someone has said that since the brothers cannot experience many of life’s pleasures, they are inordinately fond of sweets.
When Jacob talks, it almost seems like Tovah isn’t listening; he is constantly looking around the room, looking at his fingers, from time to time changing his uncomfortable position with a sigh of impatience. Maybe he really is upset by what Jacob is telling him; after all, Jacob has had five years of solitude and come up with all kinds of ideas. Some of them Tovah considers unrealistic, while others he finds harmful. Some of them are interesting. One is terrible.
Tovah can’t listen to any more talk of the Shekhinah imprisoned in the picture in the monastery, and he starts to drum his fingers. Jacob, for the umpteenth time, as if returning again to the same topic makes it somehow more real, repeats the words of the Zohar:
“Salvation is located in the worst place.”
He falls silent, waiting for these words to take their full effect, then suddenly he raises up his index finger, as is his wont, and asks dramatically:
“And where have we found ourselves?”
He has changed a lot. His shaved face has darkened, his eyes have dimmed. His movements are jerky, as if he were suppressing rage. This new violence makes others fear him, which is why no one dares answer him now. Jacob stands and begins to walk around the room, leaning forward, with his finger still raised, pointing to the wooden ceiling.
“This is nikve detom rabe, the road to the abyss, this Cz?stochowa, this Jasna Góra—these are the Gates of Rome at which, according to other words from the Zohar, the Messiah sits and binds and unbinds . . . This is a dark place, the entryway into the abyss into which we must descend in order to free the Shekhinah imprisoned there. And further on is all that has been—in order to go in higher, we have to fall as low as possible; the darker it gets the lighter it gets, and the worse the better.
“I didn’t know at first why I was put in here,” says Jacob. He is tense, excited; his father-in-law discreetly looks at Hana, who is staring at the floor, absently. “I just sensed that I should not oppose the sentence. But now I know—I was put here because this is where the Shekhinah is imprisoned, on this new Mount Zion. Hidden beneath that painted board, beneath the picture, is the Maiden. These people don’t see it, they think they’re paying tribute to the surface, but that is only a reflection of the Shekhinah, the version of it that is available to human sight.”