The Oath (11 page)

At the end of the last litany a voice was heard: “Is nobody saying
Kaddish?
”

“Nobody.”

That particular day none of the faithful worshipers had a dead parent to commemorate.

“Wait,” said Moshe. And he began reciting the prayer for the dead. His voice was harsher, more deliberate than usual.

Now I know that I should have recognized it as an omen.

Back home, I found Rivka the maid busy in the kitchen, a rueful look on her face. Father was in his room, already at work; I caught a glimpse of him bent over the table, his Book before him.

“I have a premonition,” Rivka said while pouring me hot coffee.

Rivka was forever having premonitions. When things went well, she expected the worst; when there was trouble, she radiated optimism.

“A premonition?” I said, smiling. “Another?”

“Yes.”

“A bad one, I expect?”

“Very bad.”

“Then why worry about it?”

In vain. I did not succeed in cheering her up. Never mind, in another hour her mood will change, I thought. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last. Our maid was flighty, extremely unstable in matters of premonitions.

“You’re making fun of me,” she complained as she wiped the table. “You’re wrong. I know I’m only an ignorant woman. I know my head is empty. But my heart is full …”

I smiled. She was telling the truth. She was kindhearted, compassionate, warm. She had taken care of me and the house since my mother’s death. I loved her. Very much.

“I know men of whom one could say the opposite, Rivka—full heads and empty hearts. I prefer you to them.”

“You only say that.”

“Because it is true.”

“Then why do you make fun of what my heart predicts?”

She seemed vexed. I apologized and rose to go. “Will you be in a better mood when I get home?”

She shook her head, refusing to answer. Fate took it upon itself to answer in her stead.

God needs man to manifest Himself, that we know. Whether to affirm His power or His mercy, He does so through man. He
uses an intermediary to express Himself and an emissary to punish. We are all messengers.

The one He designated as the instrument to chastise my little town was called Yancsi—a troublesome youth who loved wine and the outdoors, animals and girls. And whatever he loved he felt compelled to hurt. When he was five he plunged a knife into his mother’s arm; she was late preparing his food. When he was ten he roamed the streets at night assaulting solitary strollers. He loved to frighten, he loved to hurt.

He was not an enemy of our people, no more than of any other. He was a far greater foe of the birds, who, I remain convinced, were aware of it. They avoided him. No sooner did he appear than the sky became empty. But Yancsi pursued them, caught them, tortured them and threw their mutilated bodies into the brackish, poisoned pond.

And so when he disappeared and there was talk of murder, my first thought was: It’s an act of reprisal, vengeance. The birds had surely condemned him to death. Now they had carried out the sentence. Which would explain the disappearance of his corpse—the executioners had carried it away.

Unfortunately, the authorities leaned toward a less judicious explanation. For the first time in her life Rivka the maid had accurately foreseen the terrors to come. For the first time in her life her premonitions were about to take shape.

It’s an old, old fable. And a foolish one at that, though it has proved its worth. So black and blinding was its baseness, that wherever it was invoked, bloodshed followed. In its aftermath, love of God turned into hate of man. A hate that fell into the same pattern everywhere, nurtured by a variety of instincts, superstitions and interests, constantly adapting itself to the requirements
of the times and the environment. Nothing has changed since the first “ritual murder.” Again and again the same corpse served as pretext; over and over the same child has been assassinated to provoke the same abominations.

This time there was a difference. Usually these slanderous rumors began to circulate around Easter time. And this was October. We had just finished celebrating the last of the High Holy Days, that of the Law, Simhat Torah. And then, too—there was no corpse here.

There was only the disappearance of a hoodlum, the fourteen-year-old son of a stableman. After going for an outing with the horses two weeks earlier, Yancsi had not returned home. When it was reported that the horses had been seen in a neighboring village, a cursing Dogor went to bring them back.

At first people thought of it as an escapade. What schoolboy, particularly a dunce, does not dream of running away? Surely he would show up, meekly anticipating the thrashing that Dogor, his colossus of a father, a gruff and bloodthirsty man, would not fail to give him. But Yancsi had not reappeared.

When another three or four days had elapsed without his being able to punish his son, the stableman took issue with his wife, who obviously was responsible, for without her this cursed bastard would not have come into this world, therefore would not have run away, therefore would not have caused this trouble. As the blows rained on her, bloodying her face and back, the woman began to scream so loud that for once her neighbors decided to go and have a look.

“That son of a whore,” the enraged man was shouting as he trampled on his legitimate victim, who was shrieking like a madwoman. “That son of a whore has taken off! And I have to stay with his whore of a mother!”

“Leave her alone, Dogor,” the neighbors tried to reason with
him. “It’s not the woman’s fault … She had nothing to do with it …”

“Oh yes, she did, oh yes. It’s all her fault. Like mother, like son. Vicious dogs, both of them! She, too, thinks of nothing but running away. I’ll kill her first. The slut, the tart. I’ll kill her!”

“Leave her alone, Dogor.”

But Dogor, obstinately bent on his task, continued to strike his victim, aiming for her head, her belly, her hips, as though determined to kill her.

“Dogor, Dogor, good Dogor, that’s enough,” the neighbors pleaded. “Think of this—dead or crippled, she’ll be of no use to you!”

“Let her croak! Good riddance!”

Foaming with rage, the stableman relentlessly battered her inert body. It took four peasants to subdue him.

Dogor was still struggling and swearing. “Slut, whore, tart! She and her bad seed, I should have killed them long ago!”

“May God forgive you, Dogor,” said one of the neighbors. “You speak without knowing. To kill is a sin, a crime the law does not look upon lightly. You want to go to jail? To the gallows?”

“You are unjust,” his spouse echoed. “You have married a woman worthy of you. No, you are the one not worthy of her. Poor woman. She is devoted to you, she works harder than you. While you are busy running from tavern to tavern, she slaves away. Poor woman. While you are rolling under the table, she takes care of your home. You should thank God for having chosen her for you.”

“To hell with her!” Dogor was not to be distracted. “Her son too, to hell with him! Whores, the lot of them!”

“Your mouth and your thoughts go different ways, neighbor.
Fortunately for you, God hears and forgives you. Otherwise
you
would go straight to hell.”

“She first! And her son with her!”

“After all … why are you making such a fuss? He’ll be back, your son. In the end they all come home.”

“Who cares! Let him appear under my roof and he’ll be sure to leave feet first! I’ll kill him, with my own hands I’ll kill him!”

A search party went out to comb the surrounding countryside. One of three things: he had lost his way (no, he knew every footpath, every cavern); he had fallen asleep (no, nobody sleeps that long); he had been wounded by a wolf (no again; he would have wakened the dead with his cries for help). Only Yancsi could have explained the circumstances of his disappearance; and he was not to be found.

Finally the men grew weary. With not one lead to follow, they decided to give up. It was senseless to continue. At nightfall they took the road home, frustrated and bitter. They would not admit it to one another, but they were angry with Dogor for having made them waste so many hours. His offspring hadn’t come home, so what? And what if he had felt the urge to run away? To build a new life for himself elsewhere, with a beautiful gypsy perhaps? You would think that Dogor was an exemplary father. Nothing could be further from the truth. Lazy, drunken, idle, evil, violent; he cared as little about his family as about theirs. The only thing that mattered to him was his belly. To make all this noise for that clod of a son he didn’t even have the excuse of loving, really, he was going too far. They had no inkling, these men of Kolvillàg, that Yancsi was not just any adolescent. God had specifically chosen him to light the fire and unleash the flood. Heaven’s messengers are revealed only after the fact.

Night had fallen by the time the stableman’s devoted friends reached the square in front of the church. They were about to part company, impatient to get back to the warmth of their homes. Suddenly they froze. In the silence around them, they perceived weird sounds. Not far from here, there was singing.

“The Jews,” a peasant grumbled.

“Who else?” an itinerant peddler added. “Our problems are no concern of theirs. We have nothing in common with them. Enemies of the Christ, the lot.”

“Always the same,” the first peasant went on. “You beat them and they sing. You spit on them and they beam with joy.”

“It’s against us,” a stableboy said. “Everything they do is directed against us. Those Jews, I know them. I’ve worked hard enough for them. They love to make us angry.”

Meanwhile the song was wafting toward them, above them, as though coming from the mountains, bearing their mystery.

“The Christians are suffering and the Jews couldn’t care less,” complained one farmer. “They’re having themselves a celebration. If it were one of their own, lost without a trace, they wouldn’t be singing.”

The priest, who had come out to get the news, thought it proper to remain moderate. “True, it’s their religious holiday, but they exaggerate; they could show more discretion, more respect for our grief.”

Windows were being opened. Bystanders joined the circle.

“So? Yancsi?”

“Nothing.”

“And they are singing with joy!”

“What lack of respect!”

“Are you surprised? They respect nothing!”

“And nobody! They didn’t even respect their own Saviour, the Christ!”

The priest, his hands clasped over his belly, seemed to be meditating out loud: “Still, it’s odd … Very odd … I get the impression they are singing louder than last year. I wonder … if they are doing it on purpose.”

“On purpose! Yes, on purpose! Certainly on purpose,” several voices cried out.

“Odd,” the priest continued as though talking to himself, “all this seems very odd …”

By now a rather considerable group had gathered around him, preparing to listen in awe, as they did on Sunday in church. Forgotten their animosity toward Dogor, forgotten their eagerness to go home. Everything is forgotten when it comes to being entertained at the expense of the Jew. One word from the priest and the synagogue would be without a single windowpane. But the priest remained silent.

It was Cuza the Woodcutter, with arms like a strangler’s, who led the way by clapping his hands: “I’d give a lot to know whether by some chance their religious holiday has some connection with—with our grief.” He had been on the verge of using another word, but the word “grief,” used earlier by the priest, seemed to fit neatly.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about them,” someone volunteered. “They are capable of anything, everybody knows that.”

The priest, whose experience had taught him caution—every pogrom began with this kind of talk—tried to retreat. “Brethren, brethren, you are losing your tempers … We have no proof. To accuse the innocent is a sin, even if they are Jews!”

“You’re defending them? You, our priest!”

“Brethren, listen, I defend only the Christ and those who
believe in him. But what if, by chance, the Jews were innocent in this affair?”

“Innocent? Did you say innocent? The Jews? Didn’t they kill our Lord? Oh yes, they crucified him! You repeat it to us often enough. Well, having killed once, why wouldn’t they kill again?”

“Don’t tell me that Yancsi is Christ.” The priest was smiling.

“Did I say that? Did someone suggest that? I only said that the Christ’s assassins are all alike.”

A weighty argument, and one the priest was unable to refute. He limited himself to a few innocuous but pious remarks about the Christian virtue of forgiving those who trespass. His appeal for moderation had an effect on these peasants, who though used to shedding Jewish blood in the name of Christ, preferred to do it with official approval. Without it, nothing would be undertaken immediately.

Finally the mob dispersed; it was late and some of the villagers had an hour’s walk ahead of them. Dogor and his neighbors took the road back home, accompanied by the priest. They halted in front of the synagogue, and through the half-open windows, watched the Jews dancing and kissing the Torah, carried away by the ecstasy of their song.

“Well now,” Cuza the Woodcutter grumbled. “I have one of these urges to go in, and that, I swear, would be the end of their celebration!”

“Quiet,” said the priest. “No scandal, please. Nothing proves that they are guilty … or accomplices.”

“You can see it on their faces. Just take a good look.”

“I, the servant of Christ, see nothing but lost sheep.”

“Ah, just let me catch one and I’ll cut its throat,” threatened Cuza.

“Bite your tongue,” scolded the priest, getting worried. “And
stop talking like that. Go home. All of you, go home. Night will bring counsel. Who knows, by morning Yancsi may very well show up. If God so desires, he will come back.”

“I bet he won’t,” said the stableman, suddenly a grief-stricken, concerned father. “Yancsi is dead and they are alive. That’s why they’re so happy. And you, priest, don’t tell me there is no connection. They’re in the midst of celebrating the death of my son, my only son, that’s what they are doing.”