To my Mind, this elder Krysa would be a better Leader to those Shabbitarians if he weren’t so ugly & impetuous. Leadership needs the right Attitude, the right Height, the right Type of Charm, even if it’s of the most ordinary Variety, which, when properly deployed, inspires both warm Feelings & Attention.
I must say I am well-disposed toward them. Though I feel no great Sympathy with them, for they are foreign to us, quite different from us, & seemingly somewhat perverse, I would still like to see all of them end up as Children of God here with me in the Church. I suspect that You agree with me completely & fully support the matter of their Baptism. Meanwhile I am writing them a safeguard so that the Talmudists do not bother them any further, for all sorts of terrible things have been occurring here. As if it were not enough to have placed this Jewish Curse on Jacob Frank, they’ve also been burning the Heretics’ Books, the Nature of which I have only the foggiest Idea.
I must point Your Attention to these few People who have been accused & targeted by the Talmudist Rabbis. If ever they were to require Help of any sort from You, I would ask You to take their Request into Consideration. They are as follows:
Leyzor & Yeruhim of Jezierzany
Leyb Krysa of Nadwórna
Leybka Shaynowicz Rabinowicz & Moshko Dawidowicz of Brze?any
Hershko Shmulewicz & Itzek Motylowicz of Busk
Nutka Falek Meyerowicz, known as Old Falek
Moshek Leybka Abramowicz & his Son Yankiel of Lanckoroń
Elisha Shorr of Rohatyn with his large Family
Leybka Hershko of Satanów
Moshko Izraelowicz with his Son Yosek of Nadwórna
Moses Aronowicz of Lwów
Zelik with his Son Leybko & Leybko Shmulewicz
The bishop is so tired that his head droops down toward the piece of paper, eventually falling just under the name “Shmulewicz.” The ink from “Zelik” smears his pale and pious temple.
Meanwhile . . .
All those mentioned by the bishop, every last one, are now sitting in the home of a man named Berek, in Kamieniec. It’s the end of February, and a piercing chill steals into the room through every crack in the walls—and there are many.
“He did the right thing by going to Turkey, with all the mayhem he created here,” says Leybko Shmulewicz to Krysa, referring, of course, to Jacob.
Says Krysa:
“It seems to me that he ought to be here with us. Seems to me he may have fled for good—that’s what some people say.”
“Who cares about that, let them talk. The important thing is that the letters reach him; he’s right over the river, in Chocim. Poland, Turkey—what kind of border is that? The important thing is for him not to waste away over there with the Turks, but to let us know what to say and do here, and how.”
“As if we didn’t know ourselves,” mutters Krysa.
Now, as the voices die down, Shlomo Shorr, who has just arrived, stands up again; his towering figure inspires respect.
“Look, the bishop is favorably inclined toward us. He examined the three of us, my brother, Nahman, and me. All of us were released from jail and allowed to go home. That’s an end to our misery. There will be a disputation between us and them. That’s what we were able to obtain.”
There is a clamor, which Shorr hushes, gesturing toward Moshe from Podhajce in his fur-lined coat. Now Moshe rises with some effort and says:
“For everything to go according to our plan, we must definitively hold to two true things: that we believe in the Trinity, which is the one God in three persons—but not get into any discussions on topics like who is in the Trinity and so on—and that we reject the Talmud once and for all as a source of errors and blasphemies. And that’s it. Just that.”
They disperse in silence, shuffling through the sawdust on the floor.
How Gitla’s stepmother’s pessimistic predictions come true
When the turmoil erupted in Lanckoroń, and they arrested all the men, Gitla didn’t suffer overmuch. Hayah’s husband came to get her right away, and she took in both “guardians” for that night. Making their beds for them, serving them soured milk, Hayah, whose breasts were so recently being ceremonially kissed, looked more like an ordinary housewife.
“There’s nothing here for you, dear child,” she said to Gitla, sitting on her bed and caressing her cheek. “You must leave, go back to Lwów, and apologize to your father. He’ll take you in.”
The next day she gave them each a couple of groszy and sent them on their way. They immediately set off in opposite directions without a word, Gitla leaving behind her a trail of blood in the snow. She paused to turn her fur-lined coat inside out and headed for the road. She was hoping to get a lift from a passing sleigh and make it to Lwów, although not on account of her father, but rather because she had reason to believe that Jacob, the Lord, would likely end up there.
Come February, Gitla has reached Lwów, but she does not dare let her father see her. She spots him once as he walks to the kahal, keeping close to the city wall, old and hunched over; he takes little steps and is talking to himself. Gitla feels sorry for him, but she doesn’t move from where she’s standing. She goes to her dead mother’s sister, who lives near the synagogue, but her aunt has already heard about everything that’s happened and shuts the door in her face. Gitla listens through the closed door as they lament the fate of her father. Then she stands on the corner of the street where the Jewish homes begin. The wind flutters her skirt, and bits of snow melt into her flimsy stockings. Soon she will put her hand out for alms or start selling herself for bread, and everything will be as her stepmother predicted—she will hit rock bottom. Which is why for now she stands in the freezing cold with dignity, or so she hopes. And yet some young Jew in a shtreimel presses a grosz into her hand without even looking at her, and Gitla uses it to buy herself a warm obwarzanek. Slowly she reconciles herself to the thought that she looks like a harlot—dirty, with matted hair, and hungry. And suddenly she feels absolutely free. She goes into the first decent courtyard she comes across and up to the first decent building, and then she climbs the stairs to the first floor and knocks on the first decent-looking door she encounters.
The person who opens the door is a tall, stooping man in a nightcap and a dressing gown thinly lined with dark fur. He has spectacles over his nose. He is holding a candle before him that lights up his face and sharp features.
“What do you want?” he asks in a hoarse, low voice, and reflexively starts searching for groszy to give her alms.
“I am the great-granddaughter of the Polish king,” says Gitla. “I am looking for a decent place where I can spend the night.”
15.
How the old minaret in Kamieniec turns into a column with the Holy Mother on top