Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel (34 page)

He took the stricken woman by the arm and waved his hand in front of her face like a fan—that was so that the Lithuanian would see there was no flirting going on here, just someone feeling unwell because of the heat.

It was shady and cool in the narrow alley. Shmulik sat the Russian woman on a stone step, ran to the well, and brought some water in his yarmulke.

The shiksa took a sip and immediately felt better. She said, “I’m looking for a certain man.”

At this point Shmulik ought to have gone on his way. He had shown charity, and that was enough. But he suddenly felt curious about who she was looking for. The narrow little lane was not the street. There was nobody much strolling about here, no one to stare at
a yeshiva
pupil talking to a shiksa.

“What man?”

“He’s called Manuila. The prophet of the ‘foundlings’ sect. Do you know him?”

Shmulik shuddered. How strange! The shiksa was talking about the barefooted
focusmacher!

Some glimmer in his eyes must have given him away, because the redhead asked quickly: “He was here, wasn’t he? You saw him, didn’t you?”

Shmulik took his time before he answered.

IT HAD HAPPENED on the first Sabbath after Passover, an entire two weeks ago now, but it seemed like just today. Rabbi Shefarevich had taken the boys from the
yeshiva
to the Wailing Wall. They had stood in a row and started to pray Shmulik had closed his eyes in order to picture the Temple in all its imperishable magnificence—the way it had been before, and the way it would be when the hour struck. Suddenly the next boy along had nudged him with his elbow and pointed off to one side.

There was a tramp standing there, dressed in a dirty robe belted with a blue rag. He was holding a knotty stick in his hand, and on his feet he had peasant sandals of birch bark stained with dried clay. His shaggy head was uncovered, and a sack hung behind his back on a string—in the land of Poland those were called
sidor
.

The ragamuffin was watching the Jews with curiosity as they swayed and lamented. He absentmindedly pulled up the hem of his robe and scratched his sinewy calf, overgrown with hair—he wore no trousers under his ragged robe.

What are you doing, people, and why are you crying? he had asked in Hebrew, pronouncing the words outlandishly So despite the birch-bark sandals, he was a Jew after all, only a very strange one. How could a Jew not know what they were crying about at the Wailing Wall? He must be a madman.

The Law orders us to treat the mad with pity, and Shmulik had replied to the tramp politely, but, of course, not in Hebrew (the sacred language was not intended for idle talk), but in Yiddish, “We are weeping for the destruction of the Temple.”

Rabbi Shefarevich gave the ignorant man a fleeting glance but said nothing to him, because it was beneath his dignity as
a gaon
, or perhaps even a
lamed-vovnik
, to make conversation with just any riffraff.

“I don’t understand your language very well,” the barefooted man had said in his laughable Hebrew, which was like the clucking of a bird. “You say you are weeping for the temple? For the temple that stood here before?” And he pointed at the Temple Mount.

Shmulik nodded, already regretting that he had got involved in the conversation.

The tramp had been amazed. What point was there in crying about it? he had asked. Stones were just stones. It would be better if they wept for the Messiha to come.

Shmulik didn’t understand immediately what he meant by “Messiha,” but when he realized it was a mispronunciation of the word “Messiah,” he felt frightened. Especially since the rabbi had stopped whispering his prayer and turned around. Berl, who knew everything, had trotted over to him and whispered, “Rabbi, that’s the Russian prophet Manuila, the same one who … I told you, he has already been seen in the city.”

The Teacher’s forehead had gathered into menacing folds and he had spoken loudly in Russian: “I am Aron Shefarevich, a member of the Rabbinical Council of the City of Erushalaim. And who are you, to go making idle conversation in the language of prayer, which you do not even know properly? Where have you come from, and what is your name?”

The tramp had said that his name was Emmanuel, and he had come from the Mount of Olives, where he had spent the night in one of the caves.

He was not very good at speaking Russian either—they say people like that have porridge in their mouths. And what caves were these on the Mount of Olives? Surely not the burial chambers? Well, now the rabbi would let him have it for sacrilege.

But the Teacher did not ask any questions about the cave; instead, he asked contemptuously, “Is that why you are so dirty on the Sabbath?”

“I was digging in the earth, and I got as filthy as a pig,” Emmanuel had laughed lightheartedly. “That’s a funny expression, isn’t it?”

“Digging in the earth? On the Sabbath? And after that you call yourself a Jew?”

Quite a crowd had gathered. They all wanted to hear the great Talmudist and master of verbal duels make short work of this miserable excuse for a prophet.

The man who called himself Emmanuel had waved his hand casually. “Eh,” he had said, “the Sabbath is for man, not man for the Sabbath.”

“Jews do not say that—that is what the Christians’ god, Jesus, says,” Rabbi Shefarevich had noted in an aside, especially for his pupils. “No, Emmanuel; you are no Jew.”

The tramp had squatted down on his haunches, set his staff across his knees, and looked up merrily at the Teacher. And the gist of his answer had been this: I know no god called Jesus, and I am a Jew, you can take my word on that. But you, angry man, are not a Jew. A Jew is not someone who is born of a Jewish woman, wears sidelocks, and does not eat pork, but someone who wishes to cleanse his soul. Anyone can become a Jew if he concludes a covenant with the Lord, and there is absolutely no need to go inventing stupid prohibitions and cutting small pieces of flesh off little boys. God will trust a person without that. And at that point Emmanuel had burst into laughter and concluded his sacrilegious speech in an absolutely shameful fashion. Judge for yourself, he had said, O member of the Rabbinical Council, what would God, to whom all the treasures of the heavens and the earth belong, want with a treasure like that—a little piece of your
pipiske
?

The comical word had come so unexpectedly that some of the
yeshiva
pupils had started giggling, and Shmulik had squeezed his eyes shut to drive away the picture his overactive imagination had instantly drawn of the Lord God inspecting Rabbi Shefarevich’s gift and wondering what to do with the little trifle—keep it somewhere safe or throw it away.

The giggling broke off and an ominous silence fell. Nobody had ever paid the venerable rabbi such a terrible insult anywhere, let alone in a public square full of Jews. And this was not just anywhere, but right beside the Wailing Wall!

Was it any wonder that the Teacher had lost his temper? “Jews!” he had shouted, brandishing his fists. “Stone the son of Belial!”

The only one to throw a stone had been Mikhl-Byk, the most hopeless of all the pupils, whom the rabbi kept in the
yeshiva
for all sorts of heavy work. Mikhl was twice as broad as the other
yeshiva
boys and four times as strong. Everyone was afraid of his malicious cruelty. Shmulik had once seen Byk grab a street dog by the tail and smash its head against a wall. And the dog had not bitten him or even barked at him—it was simply lying in the middle of the road, the way dogs like to do.

The stone struck the squatting man in the chest. He staggered and rose rapidly from his squatting position, clutching with one hand at the spot where he had been hit.

Mikhl had picked up another stone, and then Emmanuel had looked his attacker in the eye and spoken strange words very quickly. Boy, he had exclaimed plaintively, that hurts me.
As much as it hurt your father when they killed him
.

And Byk had dropped the stone and turned pale. Shmulik would never have believed that Byk’s flat, copper-colored face could ever be so white. But it was only natural! How could a perfect stranger have known that the Oprichniks of Christ had beaten Mikhl’s father to death during a pogrom in Poltava?

And then Rabbi Shefarevich had come to his senses and waved his hand for all the others to drop their stones too.

“So you claim that you are a Jew?” he had asked.

“Of course I am,” the amazing tramp had muttered, pulling down the collar of his robe. On his bony chest there was a visible dent, rapidly flooding with blue and crimson.

The Teacher had declared ominously, “That’s excellent. Genekh, come with me!” And he had walked off at a rapid pace toward the Mahkamah Palace, which stood beside the Wailing Wall. Genekh, a pupil from the local population who knew Arabic and Turkish, had dashed after him.

Shmulik had immediately realized where the rabbi was going in such a hurry, and why. The municipal court and the
zaptiya
(Turkish police) were both located in the Mahkamah. By law all Jews were subject to the Rabbinical Council, and if a member of the council gave the order for one of the Jews to be put in prison, it had to be carried out. But apparently Emmanuel was not aware of this, and so he had not been even slightly alarmed. And none of the Jews had warned him.

Byk had asked hoarsely, “How do you know about my father?”

The tramp had replied: I read it.

“Where did you read it? In a newspaper? But it was seven years ago!”

Not in a newspaper, Emmanuel had said—in a book.

“In what book?”

In this one, the tattered tramp had replied with a serious expression, pointing at Mikhl’s forehead. I can read faces, he had said, the same way that other people read books. It’s very simple, you just have to know the letters. The face alphabet doesn’t have thirty-seven letters, like the Russian alphabet, or even twenty-two, like the Jewish alphabet, it has only sixteen. A face is even more interesting to read than a book—it will tell you more and it will never deceive you.

And then Byk suddenly started reciting the prayer that was meant to be said if you saw some wondrous marvel, or if you were lucky enough to meet a truly distinguished individual:
“Baruch ata Adonai Elocheinu melech cha-olam, she-kacha lo be-olamo”—
Blessed be Thou, Lord our God, the Lord of the Universe, in whose world such things exist.

Mikhl reciting a prayer, of his own free will, with no compulsion? Incredible!

After his prayer, Mikhl had said, “You have to leave, rabbi. The police will come running now, they will beat you and put you in prison.”

Emmanuel had looked around in alarm at the large building into which Rabbi Shefarevich had disappeared. Ah, he had said, I’m going now. Going away from this city. And he had informed the people nearby in a confidential voice that there was nothing for him to do in Erushalaim just yet. He had taken a look at the Pharisees, now he was going to take a look at the Sadducees. He said he had been told the Sadducees had settled in the Isreel Valley, where the city of Megiddo once stood. Then he had lifted up the skirts of his robe and hurried away.

Mikhl had overtaken him and caught hold of his shoulder. “Rabbi, I’ll go with you! The road to Megiddo is long, there are bandits everywhere, you will be killed if you go alone! I am strong, I will protect you. And you will teach me the sixteen letters!”

And he had looked at Emmanuel as if his entire life depended on the reply. But Emmanuel had shaken his head.

“Why?” Byk had shouted.

Because you,
the focusmacher had
said, will not master these letters. It is not what you need. And to go with me is not what you need, either. Nothing will happen to me, God will protect me against misfortune. He will protect me, but not those who are with me. That is why I go everywhere alone now. And if you wish to become a Jew, you will do it without me.

And he had gone skipping off in the direction of the Dung Gate.

Barely half a minute after he had disappeared around the corner, Rabbi Shefarevich appeared, with two Turkish gendarmes.

“Where is he, Jews?” the great man had shouted.

“He went that way!” the Jews had cried, pointing.

Genekh had translated into Turkish for the gendarmes: “He went that way,” and the Turks had gone running after the disturber of public order.

But a few minutes later they had come back, gasping and limping. One’s head was split open, the other was spitting out blood and teeth. The Jews had been unable to believe their eyes. Could the skinny tramp really have given two hulking brutes like this a thrashing?

The policemen had talked gibberish. Apparently they had almost overtaken the tramp when he just managed to slip away from them into an alley. The men in uniform had dashed after him—and suddenly something terrible had happened in the dark passage. Some diabolical force had seized one of them by the collar and swung him hard against the wall, knocking him out. Before the second man could even look around, the same thing had happened to him. The badly frightened policeman had kept repeating: “Shaitan, shaitan!” and Rabbi Shefarevich had hissed through clenched teeth: “Ga-Satan!” and spat.