“It’s very understandable that it would have happened then,” says the rabbi. “Around dying souls gather many free dark spirits. They seek a vulnerable place they might break into. Despair weakens people.”
Pinkas listens, his heart tightening. He knows the rabbi’s right, for the rabbi is wise, and he, Pinkas, understands this logic and would say the same to someone else—when one piece of fruit has started to rot, it must be thrown out before it spreads to the rest of the basket. But when he looks at Rapaport, so self-assured, albeit sympathetic, closing his eyes as he speaks, Pinkas thinks of blindness—that maybe there is something that even this great, wise man might not see. Maybe there are some truths that elude the capacity of reason, maybe not everything can be contained within the Scriptures, maybe a new entry needs to be created for his Gitla, something about people like her. Maybe she actually is a Polish princess, in her soul . . .
Rapaport opens his eyes. Seeing Pinkas bent over like a broken stick, he says to him:
“Cry, brother, cry. Your tears will cleanse the wound, and it will heal quickly.”
But Pinkas knows that wounds like these will not heal, ever.
14.
Of the Bishop of Kamieniec Miko?aj Dembowski, who doesn’t realize he is merely passing through this whole affair
Bishop Dembowski is convinced he’s an important man. He also thinks he’ll live for eternity, for he considers himself righteous and just, perfectly in tune with the teachings of Christ.
Looking at him through Yente’s eyes, it would seem that in some sense, he is right. He hasn’t killed, betrayed, or raped anyone, and, every Sunday, he gives alms to the poor. Sometimes he gives in to corporeal desire, but it must be acknowledged that he puts up a valiant struggle, and, whenever it gets the better of him, he quickly leaves the incident behind and never returns to it in his mind. Sins get stronger when you think about them, when you fret about them and revisit their unfolding—when you give in to despair. And the instructions are clear: Do your penance and move on.
The bishop has a bit of a penchant for luxury, but he justifies this to himself by remembering his fragile health. He would like to be of great service to the world; he is therefore grateful to God that he was able to become a bishop—that was a lucky break.
He sits at the table and writes. He has a round, fleshy face and big lips that might be called sensual were it not for the fact that they belong to a bishop. He has fair skin and fair hair. Sometimes, when he gets overheated, he turns beet red, looks cooked. He has put on a warm woolen mozzetta over his rochet, and his feet are warming in fur slippers the women have sewn for him, since his feet get so cold. His Kamieniec home is never quite heated enough; all warmth escapes from it, and there are drafts though the windows are small; it is always dark inside. The windows of his office overlook the little street outside the church. Now, as he looks out, he sees some elderly beggars arguing, and after a moment one of them attacks the other with a stick. The injured man shrieks and whimpers, and the other beggars rush into the fight, and soon the din has grown into a full-blown assault upon the bishop’s ears.
The bishop tries to write:
Sabbaticians
Saspatians
Sabbsciples
Sabbitists
Sabbadabbas
In the end, he turns to Father Pikulski, that slight man in his forties with gray hair that looks as if it’s been glued to his head, sent here especially by Bishop So?tyk as an expert in this very matter, currently working just outside the cracked door, the light of his candle making his big head cast a long shadow on the wall.
“How was it written, once more?”
Father Pikulski comes over to his colleague’s desk. His features have sharpened over the last couple of years, since we last saw him having lunch in Rohatyn; he’s just been shaved, and there are cuts on his prominent chin. What barbarian did that to him? the bishop thinks.
“It would be better, Your Excellency, to write ‘Contra-Talmudists,’ since they speak out against their Talmud—that’s the one thing we really know. It’s safer that way for us, not to get into all their theologies. But people call them Shabbitarians.”
“What do you think of all this, Father?” asks the bishop, pointing to the letter lying before him on the table. It’s a request from the elders of the kahal of Lanckoroń and Satanów for some intervention in the matter of a certain dissent from Mosaic law, the besmirching of the most venerated traditions.
“I think they are out of their depth.”
“Is it about the iniquities those people were performing in some tavern? Is that the reason?”
Pikulski waits for a moment, looking like he’s making calculations in his head—and perhaps that is what he’s doing. Then he puts his hands together and says, without looking at the bishop:
“I think they want to show us that they do not want anything to do with those heretics.”
The bishop clears his throat, impatiently wiggling a slippered foot, and Father Pikulski understands that he is supposed to keep speaking.
“Just as we have the catechism, so, too, do they have the Talmud. It is, to put it succinctly, a commentary on the Bible, but a specific one that has to do with how to observe the Mosaic laws and commands.” Father Pikulski becomes more animated, pleased to be able to show off the information he’s been collecting so scrupulously all these years; he looks down at a nearby chair and raises an eyebrow. The bishop gives a barely visible nod, and Father Pikulski pulls the chair up close to the bishop and sits down. He has a musty smell—the poor man has his rooms on the ground floor—as well as the lingering scent of lye from the barber who made such a horrendous mess of his morning shave.
“It was written by their rabbis many hundreds of years ago, and in it they explained all things—what to eat and when, what is allowed and what is not. Without it, their entire complicated structure would collapse.”
“But you told me all the laws were in the Torah,” the bishop interrupts him gruffly.
“But after the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, once they were in exile, it was hard for them to obey the Torah—in a foreign country, in a different climate. Besides, those laws are very specific, relating to their old, pastoral lifestyle, and the world had changed, and thus there was the Talmud. Just remember, Your Excellency, the fourth book of the Torah, what it says about trumpets and armies, tribal heads, tents . . .”
“I suppose . . . ,” sighs the bishop.
“And this Frank has been saying it is all a lie.”
“That’s quite a serious accusation. Does he say this of the whole Torah?”
“The Torah does not bother him, but his holy book is the Zohar.”
“I am aware of that. So what is it exactly that these others want?”
“They want Frank to be punished. The Talmudists of the village of Lanckoroń drove out these heretics, brought a suit against them that centers on the so-called sin of the Adamites, and put a curse on them. What else can they do? That’s why they’ve turned to us.”
The bishop looks up.