Her clear voice carries so distinctly that some of the men, standing close to the door, listen in, discreetly move away, tiptoe over to the women.
Thomas has come from Vienna for this great gathering. On arrival he goes automatically to the women—before he is absorbed by serious conversations, he wants to converse frivolously. He has brought from Vienna a new party game—you have to convey in sign language some sentence that the rest must guess. Gestures and faces are the most democratic language; the outlandish accent they speak with here will not bother anyone now. He promises them they’ll play in the evening, when there will be time for pleasures. He leaves them The Works of Ossian, translated by his friend. The women spend the afternoon reading it aloud. Eva does not understand the elation that accompanies this reading, nor the emotion that produces the younger women’s tears.
Among the men, Thomas speaks about Masonic ideas. This topic has long aroused the curiosity of the elder brothers from the provinces, and as Sheyndel’s son belongs to the lodge, he gives them an impromptu lecture, which in turn engenders a great discussion. One fragment in particular sticks in the brothers’ minds. Thomas tells of how in this divided world, made up of factions that set themselves in opposition to each other, and that are called religions, freemasonry is the one place where people of pure hearts may meet and act, stripped of preconceived notions, open.
“Show me another place where a Jew can talk, debate, and act together with a Christian out from under the watchful gaze of the church and the synagogue, the structures of power, the hierarchies that separate people into better or worse!” he shouts over their heads; his white silk jabot has loosened, and his long, wavy hair, neatly coifed at first, has now rebelled. Thomas speaks as if in a fit of inspiration: “The two opposing systems are locked in an eternal struggle, eternally mistrustful of each other, accusing each other of evil deeds and wrong ideas. We actively participate from birth, locking in our own antlers, some of us born this way, others born that way, and it could not matter less how we would like to live—”
Protests rise from the back. There is a heated discussion now, and they won’t let Thomas finish. Were it not for the fact that he is one of their hosts, and the fact that this talk is taking place in the evening and is therefore less official, they would have shouted him down earlier. But it is clear to all that Zalman’s son has far too hot a head.
That day Jacob speaks at the very end, bravely and with panache. There is nothing in him of those boring old speakers (with the exception of Thomas) who uttered every possible variation of Eibeschütz, Eibeschütz’s, Eibeschützian. There is nothing in Jacob’s speech about himself or about the Virgin—his young cousin specifically warned him about this, and he has heeded it. The speech is instead about how converting to “the religion of Edom” has now become an absolute necessity. There is no alternative. And about how you have to figure out a place for yourself, as independent as possible, where you can live according to your own laws, but peacefully.
When in the corner there is a whispered outburst, Jacob turns to face in that direction and says:
“You know who I am and how I became who I am. My grandfather, Moses Meir Kamenker, was caught one year before my birth smuggling books of the true faith from Poland to Hamburg. For that, they sent him to prison. I know what I am talking about, and I am not mistaken. I cannot be mistaken.”
“Why is it you can’t be mistaken, Jacob?” asks someone from the room.
“For within me is God,” answers Jacob Frank, with a beautiful smile that reveals his still-white, healthy teeth.
There is some commotion, someone whistles, and they all have to be hushed.
The women and the young play Dobrushka’s new game until late. Laughter tumbles forth into the night through all the open windows. The uncontested champion is the young wife of the man who protested the most strenuously against Thomas, the rabbi of Altona, a woman named Fanny.
A hernia, and the Lord’s words
The house in Brünn is no longer as crowded as it once was, but true believers still come in from Rus’, Podolia, and Warsaw. These are the poorer guests, who must also be received, of course. Dirty from their long journeys, some of them look like savages, for instance that woman with the Polish plait she refused to have cut, fearing that with it she would lose her life. The Lord commanded that the Polish plait be sheared while she was asleep, and then, saying a prayer over it, he had it ceremoniously burned. The new arrivals are spread out around the whole house and over the kitchen in the yard, where the pilgrims’ rooms have been prepared for them, but even this is not enough. So they rent out quarters throughout the surrounding area. During the day, they come to the Lord regardless. He has only to cast a glance at them to evaluate what sort of people they are, and depending on how he judges them, to some he tells fables and anecdotes, to others he explicates difficult and complicated sentences from learned books.
For Hanukkah the Lord himself lights the candles, but he forbids them from praying in Yiddish. For Yom Kippur, meanwhile, he has them sing and organize dances, like they used to do in Ivanie, and even before.
Now the Lord requests Wittel Matuszewska spend the night with him—she has just arrived from Warsaw, where she was spending time with the children. He is happy she is here; he gets a shave, a haircut, has his toenails clipped. Wittel runs toward him from the door and kneels before him in obeisance, but he lifts her up and hugs her, and Wittel turns as bright pink as a peony. He greets her husband, Mateusz, with equal enthusiasm.
When Eva Zwierzchowska falls ill, Wittel takes over her responsibilities, too, and now she rules with an iron fist. She exhorts the young men, drilled-out and idle, to do outdoor chores, like plucking the weeds that grow between the cobblestones in the courtyard, and cleaning up the horse droppings that draw clouds of flies. She has the water carrier bring more water, organizes pickling, taking up great barrels. Only Wittel is permitted by the Lord to speak to him in an ever so slightly reproachful tone. She is even allowed to get angry with him, as for instance when she accuses him—the sisters have already complained to her about it—of always arranging intercourse so that it is good for the men, but not necessarily for the women.
“Well, how would you do it?” asks Jacob. “I do as God instructs me.”
“You have to pay careful attention to who is drawn to whom, who likes each other, and who doesn’t. If you appoint a couple made up of two people who hate each other, it will only bring suffering and shame.”
“The point is not for them to do it to get pleasure from it,” the Lord explains to her. “The point is that they must be broken down and come around to one another. The point is for them to form a whole.”