He’d burned his hands touching the container. As he let go, I could see his palms were scarlet.
My grandmother and I watched as the bottle began to vibrate even more violently, dancing in Cousin Jacob’s hands. He pulled it closer to his chest, trying to protect it, but the effort appeared too great for him. He broke out in a sweat, beads of moisture forming on his forehead and dripping down his face. His skin turned ashen. He bit through his lip, and a trail of blood marked his chin.
“Release the bottle, the pain will stop,” I shouted, not even wondering how I knew, but certain I was right.
Cousin Jacob shook his head. His eyes bored into mine. “I cannot. For your soul’s sake, I cannot.”
He was in terrible pain now. Tears streamed from his eyes.
The glass glowed brighter, generating a red-tinged aura around the rabbi. Suddenly Cousin Jacob shrieked and let go as he grabbed his chest. From the expression on his face and the sound issuing from his lips, the pain must have been excruciating.
The bottle fell to the tile floor and smashed inside its overlay. Fragments sent rays of the ruby light all around the room, bathing us in its bloody glow while we all watched, helpless, as Cousin Jacob clutched his chest, his heart.
I should have felt remorse. But powers were surging through me again, reuniting with my senses. I saw not the body on the ground but the droplets of water shimmering like diamonds, the otherworldly light shimmering. I smelled not death but the resinous perfume of burning incense. I felt not fear but great strength.
Chapter 19
The night that Cousin Jacob died lasted longer than any I could remember.
My grandmother and I had returned by carriage to the apartment on rue des Saints-Pères. We did not talk in the ride. Grand-mère wept quietly, steadily.
I kept rubbing my wrists, which were red and raw from where the rabbis had tried to hold me. The pain kept me centered there in the carriage; I could focus on it because I could not process what had happened.
A man, a holy man, my blood relation, had just had a heart attack and died. He had died in front of me while he was trying to help me. Could anything be more terrible to witness? To be part of? And yet somewhere inside of me, it was also a relief. How could that be?
I felt terrible for my grandmother’s loss and at the same time was furious with her. I didn’t understand the conflicting feelings within myself and didn’t know how to reconcile them.
As soon as we entered the apartment, she went to the salon, poured herself a large glass of cognac, and took a long sip. I’d followed her, and she turned to me then.
“Do you know what you did?” she asked in a shaking voice.
“I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t have.” I didn’t feel as sure as I sounded. Had I somehow been responsible in some way?
“You fought him. What is inside of you fought him.”
“You sound crazy,” I said. “There is nothing inside of me.” Even to me, my voice did not sound certain.
She shook her head, as if refusing to believe what she was hearing, and in a quivering voice told me to be ready by ten in the morning, that I would be attending services with her. And then she told me to go to my room.
In the Jewish religion, we don’t wait to bury our dead. The funeral is the day after the death unless that day is the Sabbath. The tragedy at the mikvah had occurred on a Thursday, so the funeral of Rabbi Jacob Richter would take place the next morning.
I didn’t want to go back to the cemetery. I was scared of what I would see. I was apprehensive of how my grandmother would treat me. I didn’t want to miss a day of painting, but my grandmother was distraught, and I didn’t want to upset her even more. I cared about her and was worried for her. She was paler and more fragile than I had ever seen her. There was no way I could get out of attending services without causing a scene, and for Grand-mère’s sake I decided to just do what she’d asked.
On Friday morning, dressed and ready in a black dress and small black hat, I waited for my grandmother in the front parlor.
When she came in, she looked me over appraisingly. Like me she wore black, a lace-and-taffeta effort that revealed less of her ample bosom than usual, as was appropriate for the occasion. It was, in fact, the same dress she’d worn to the funeral we’d attended only two weeks before.
“I think you should wear your other black hat. The larger one with the veil. And keep the veil down,” Grand-mère said.
“I prefer this.”
She shook her head. “Sandrine, it’s too provocative. You look like a flirt.”
“You would know.”
She retreated a bit, as if stung by a blow. “Please change the hat, and also please take off that necklace you insist on wearing all the time. It’s not appropriate.”
My hand went to my throat to touch the ruby flower garland. I liked how it felt enclosing my neck, and I didn’t want to take it off. And yet part of me wanted to please her. I knew she was highly distressed, and I loved her.
“I think this hat is fine.”
She reached out, grabbed the hat, and pulled it off my head. The comb holding it down scratched my scalp. While I rubbed the scraped spot, my grandmother ripped my hat apart, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it till it was a misshapen mess.
“Now,” she said, “please put on the larger hat with the veil.”
Upstairs in my bedroom, I opened the armoire and pulled out the more sedate hat that my grandmother had requested I wear. Then, looking in the mirror, I attended to the damage she’d done to my hair. I could still feel the tenderness of my scalp when my brush touched it.
I had just lifted the netted and plumed confection to my head when, in the mirror, I saw my grandmother at the door.
“What is it?” I turned just in time to watch her slam the door shut. And before I could take a step, I heard the key turn in the lock.
“Grand-mère?” Running to the door, I tried the knob even though I guessed that it wouldn’t turn. “What are you doing? Let me out,” I shouted through the wooden door that separated us.
“I don’t think it’s wise for you to come with me after all. I am going to the funeral and then am going to meet with Zeller and the other rabbis about what to do next. The exorcism failed, but we can’t give up. You aren’t capable of protecting yourself, so I need to protect you. Sandrine, you are all I have left of your father. Even though he thought he was performing the ceremony according to strict Hebrew law, perhaps Cousin Jacob failed to follow some aspect of the procedure. We have to repeat it. I have to find the right men to try again.”
“There is nothing to exorcise. You are wrong about me.” I pounded on the door, my rage growing with every strike. “You can’t keep me locked up like some child!”
“Not like a child, Sandrine. Children are not inherently evil. But the spirit that is possessing you is and always has been.”
I heard her skirts rustling as she walked away from the door, leaving me locked in my bedroom.
Rushing to the window, I unlatched it, grasped the frame, and yanked the window open. I would jump. Then I looked down. I couldn’t. We were too high. Shouting for help was pointless, too. My room faced the inner courtyard, and the only people who could hear me were the maid and the cook inside our apartment. But -perhaps . . . Was it possible? Would my voice carry?
“I need help,” I shouted. “I am being held against my will!” My voice echoed off of our own four walls. Even if someone on the street heard my cries, they wouldn’t have any clue where they emanated from.