The Oath (12 page)

Dogor was drunk, as always. Usually nobody took his ravings seriously. Now, of course, one couldn’t help thinking that while he was not entirely right, it could be that he was not entirely wrong. After all, he was the father of the missing boy. How was one to know whether, after all, he did not sense the truth? Unfathomable, the heart of an unhappy father.

“That’s enough,” the priest said with authority. “Go home, and be quick about it! Otherwise …”

The priest knew that he had to act decisively if he was to prevent an imminent disaster. Fortunately, he commanded respect and obedience. Dogor and his confederates, unhappy though they were, dreaded his temper too much to go against him. Grumbling unintelligibly, they left. The priest returned to his quarters, pleased with himself. He had intervened in time.

Nevertheless the very next day a campaign of rumors got under way: gossip pregnant with double meanings and insinuations. The Jews considered the story so absurd, they did not bother to deny it. How does one go about challenging antiquated lies that are insults to both intelligence and reason? Jews may sometimes know how to disarm evil, but in the face of stupidity they are helpless. And so they decided to do nothing, leaving the problem for the authorities to handle.

An inquiry was conducted. Yancsi’s classmates, teachers and neighbors were interrogated. No, they knew nothing of the
circumstances surrounding his disappearance. The last time the schoolboys had seen him, he had been in the midst of a fight in the playground. He had hurt three boys; there had been no provocation.

Three essential questions faced the investigators: Who was Yancsi’s best friend? His worst enemy? Who might have wished to do away with him? They gathered the following answers: Yancsi had no friends; the entire school, teachers and pupils alike, hated him. He lied, he cheated, he stole. But no one person could have taken him on by himself. Did that mean there had been a conspiracy?

Dogor’s confederates made no bones about stating their opinion of the inquiry. A waste of time. The assassins were to be found not in the school but in the synagogue; that was where the investigators should look …

The Jews only laughed. “Our enemies lack imagination. Really, to accuse us of ritual murder, us! In the twentieth century! Ah, if ridicule could kill, they would be their own victims …”

And yet, the social and emotional climate of the town was rapidly deteriorating. Jews and Christians were on their guard; they no longer talked to one another. Jewish children no longer played in the streets. One could feel the approaching storm—seething, dark and bearing evil.

The town crier, girded with the drum reserved for solemn occasions, his legs planted far apart, his mien severe and forbidding, recited the phrases he had memorized. The poor wretch could not read.

“Hear, hear, notice is given to the entire population of the town named Kolvillàg! Listen to me, all of you, listen to me
with all your ears! Not to listen is to break the law! And to break the law is to oppose the will of His Majesty the King! And that is a grave offense!”

The hunchbacked dwarf was full of himself, he adored dramatic gestures, lengthy preambles. He spouted them at every street corner. The children, delighted, followed him, howling his announcements with him, before him. These youngsters made his life miserable. Hopping about on his short legs, flushed with rage, he choked at the very thought of them. Half puppet, half clown, he preferred to perform his official duties during school hours, in front of an audience of adults.

“In the name of the Prefect, who, in turn, speaks in the name of the government, which, in turn, expresses the wishes and intentions of His Majesty, our beloved King, I have the honor of reading to you an extremely urgent appeal addressed to you and to yours. A serious event has just taken place …”

Yancsi, murdered. Insinuations, clues. The inquiry was following its course. No suspects, not yet. Suspicions, yes, only suspicions. The people’s cooperation was solicited.

“… We ask the honorable citizens of the town Kolvillàg,” concluded the dwarf, “reading” the lower part of the scroll in a martial tone, “to do their duty, obey justice and help those in charge of public order to unmask and arrest the criminal. All this in order not to be unworthy in the eyes of His Gracious Majesty …”

The Christians listened and sulked. The Jews listened and shrugged their shoulders.

Father was rubbing his forehead with both hands, as though to wipe away a headache—a sure sign of anxiety.

“If people would only listen to me,” he said in a mock-playful
tone of voice. “I would mobilize every Jew of the region to find Yancsi.”

“Do you mean that?” I asked, surprised. “Does this affair really concern us?”

“Your father always means what he says,” Rivka interjected, “and so do I. I haven’t closed an eye since the other day. I have premonitions …”

“A Christian child that runs away,” said my father, “is of more concern to us than to his parents. We have the history of our people to prove it and make us remember. If people would only listen to me, we would establish a Jewish Society for the Protection of Christian Children.”

But nobody was asking for his opinion. He was only the scribe—the chronicler—of the community. His role was to listen, not to speak; to record decisions, not to make them.

On that particular evening, sitting in front of his Book, he seemed to be suffering from an unusually violent migraine. He rubbed his forehead for hours, even while he spoke of other things.

Three days later there was news. Davidov, the president of the community, had been summoned by the Prefect and informed that serious suspicions had fallen on one or more of his fellow Jews.

“Suspicions?” he growled, looking blank. “What suspicions? What and whom are you talking about?”

Davidov was in his fifties, heavy-set, squat, with an aquiline nose. His surprise was not feigned. Unquestionably, the official statement took him unawares. During the many years they had known one another, the Prefect and the rich lumber merchant,
owner of sawmills scattered throughout three provinces, had maintained business relations, meaning, that when the Prefect found himself short of funds, he could count on Davidov. In return, he saw to it that the Jewish community felt more or less secure. What was troubling him now? Could he be needing money? So soon? Two months after the last payment?

“Far be it from me to implicate you personally in this distressing affair,” the Prefect continued, lighting an aromatic cigarette. “I merely wanted to keep you up-to-date. It’s best to be forewarned, isn’t it? I am acting as a friend, and as a friend it is my duty to give you the following advice. Do all you can to help us uncover the culprit. The sooner he is caught, the better it will be. Believe me, he must be apprehended soon, before the situation gets out of hand. Tell that to your co-religionists. To shield a criminal, an assassin, is a serious crime. We are in agreement on that point, are we not?”

“You are jesting,” said Davidov, incredulous. “You must be.”

The Prefect usually enjoyed references to his sense of humor. “Jesting?” he replied, settling deeper into his dark red leather armchair. “No, my dear friend. I am in no mood for that. Not today. What we speak of here is murder, not comedy.”

“Then … you have decided to frighten me.”

“Perhaps. Fear can be a useful tool. Fear loosens tongues. At least, that is what I am hoping. For your sake. An assassin is on the loose—yes or no? Until he has been placed under lock and key, none of you—excuse me, none of us—will be safe.”

There was a scar on the Prefect’s forehead, a pale, ugly scar. His eyes were like those of a fish. And Davidov thought, irrelevantly: Funny, in all the years I’ve known him I never noticed he had eyes like a fish.

“How much?” he whispered, leaning across the table.

The Prefect wrinkled his brow, and the scar became larger, uglier. “A great deal, my friend, a great deal. More than before. More than ever. And even at that, I am not sure that it will do much good …”

In a calm, detached voice, he explained the situation: fourteen denunciations had been recorded at police headquarters, nine maintaining that Yancsi’s assassin was Jewish, four insinuating that the crime had a ritual motivation.

“It’s stupid,” the Prefect said, looking chagrined, “but I can’t help it. I cannot ignore it. Especially since it represents a general state of mind.”

“I don’t believe my ears,” said Davidov.

“That’s life, my friend. It never ceases to surprise us.”

“How well you put it,” Davidov said, annoyed. “Life is full of surprises. Especially for the Jews.”

“What you mean is that I disappoint you.”

“All right,” said Davidov, stiffening. “You disappoint me. I did not expect such an attitude on the part of a friend whom I considered loyal. After so many years …”

The Prefect abruptly rose to his feet. He arranged his tie and dryly commented: “Let us set aside our personal feelings, if you don’t mind. They are not pertinent here. I am doing my duty and I strongly urge you to do the same!”

Davidov also stood up. All these years that I have known him, he thought. What an actor! He felt himself growing pale with shame, rage, and also apprehension. He understood that it was more serious than he had suspected. Never before had the Prefect spoken to him in such a hostile tone. Of course, he did lose his temper at times, especially when under the influence of alcohol, or when his spouse badgered him with her constant demands for money. But those outbursts were always quickly forgotten. He would laugh about them later and everything
would be all right again. This official, impersonal tone was not a good omen. And then, those expressionless fish eyes. No, he was not jesting.

“What do you expect of me, of us?” Davidov asked glumly.

“The same that I expect from every citizen. The loyalty to the crown must be greater than the individual allegiance to a clan, to a tribe. If one of your people is withholding useful information, he would do well to hurry up and communicate it to us. Otherwise he runs the risk of seeing himself indicted. As an accessory to the crime.”

“You seriously believe this fable of …”

“I? I only consider facts. But the people believe it. That is a fact.”

“Insane! They are all insane!”

“You had best watch your language, Davidov! To call the Christians of our town insane denotes tactlessness on your part. You are living in a Christian country, must I remind you of that?”

This is really bad, thought Davidov. This is when I should be saying something true, definitive, convincing. But his head was empty. He dared not open his mouth again. He bowed imperceptibly and waited for what was yet to come.

“That’s all for now,” said the Prefect. “I thank you for coming.” He showed his visitor to the door, and without moving his lips, whispered: “See you tonight, at your house. Lower the shades.” And aloud: “Justice before everything, Mr. Davidov. It is in the Jews’ interest to help justice and those who implement it.”

Out on the street, Davidov inhaled the fresh air and wondered how high a ransom it would be this time.

In the next hour Davidov visited the most prominent members of the Jewish community. All were of the opinion that there was no reason to panic. The Prefect would have his money and all would be forgotten. What was the use of sounding an alert? After all, “ritual murders” were a thing of the Middle Ages. In Kolvillàg, Jews and Christians were living in harmony. People helped one another, even sent one another presents on holidays. One would have to go back four generations to find traces of any major incident dividing the two communities. Why should the situation change now?

Also, the Jews relied on another powerful ally: the Count who ruled over the town and the surrounding villages. He was an enlightened and charitable squire. His Jewish overseer, Leizerovitch, had obtained various favors from him, including the one to build, on the estate, his very own synagogue. The Count’s father, of blessed memory, would have let himself be carved up for his Jews, and here is why.

One day, the story goes, he had himself announced at the Rebbe of Vozhidan’s house. “Saintly man,” he told him, “I have come to confide in you. It is not the devout Christian who is imploring you to intercede, it is the father, the unfortunate father of an even more unfortunate son. He is five years old, my son, my oldest, my heir. He is wasting away. Death is lying in wait, asserting its claim on him. The physicians say it is hopeless. Pray for him, I shall reward you. Pray for him, you shall not regret it.”

“Why do you come to me?” the Rebbe asked gently. “You should address yourself to the priest of your own faith.”

“I have, saintly man, I have. I have seen monks, ascetics, inspired healers; I have obtained blessings from the most illustrious names. I have supported many charitable works, I have
lit twelve times twelve candles for our saints, I have promised to build a chapel. All in vain. You are my last resort. People admire you, they say you can work miracles,” concluded the Count, embarrassed.

“They are wrong,” the Rebbe said, smiling. “Only God brings about miracles. Our task is to announce them and, above all, to deserve them.”