The Fifth Servant (21 page)

           
“And how do you know which rules to break?”

           
“It takes practice. Don’t forget, you people have only been Christian for—what? Eight hundred years or so? And we’ve been Jews for more than four thousand. So we’ve got a big jump on you.”

           
It took her a moment to realize that he was joking.

           
“What do you expect me to do for you?” she asked.

           
His eyes showed hope. “I need to find out what’s been going on in the Janeks’ house, and I can’t do it myself. So I’m praying for a miracle and looking for a good Christian who’s willing to help us out by talking to Marie Janek about her husband’s business and also find out if any of the locks in their house have been damaged. Doors
and
windows, if possible. She won’t talk to me, of course. Would you consider doing it?”

           
“I’m supposed to ask a grieving mother a bunch of nosy questions about her husband’s business affairs?”

           
“No, of course not. You have to pay your respects first. Talk about other things. Ask how her husband is doing. Is the shock too strong? Will he be able to keep the shop in order? Is the business solid? That kind of thing. I can help you figure out what to say.”

           
“You’re going to tell me how to speak to a Christian woman.”

           
“No, no, I’ll have to trust your judgment, just like I’m asking you to trust mine. Look, I realize I’m just an outsider, even among the Jews of Prague. But I need you to—to—”

           
“To what?”

           
He let out a long sigh. “To do something that very few people have done for me in the last couple of weeks. To look past my crude mannerisms to the well-meaning soul within,” he said, tapping himself twice over the heart in exactly the same way that a Christian would do it.

           
She felt herself wavering, and he must have seen it.

           
He looked around the narrow confines of the pantry, his eye falling on a bunch of fresh dill hanging on a hook. He cupped the lush green herbs with his hands, and inhaled their fragrance a couple of times before letting them drop.

           
“My grandmother—
olev ha-sholem
—used to put lots of fresh dill in the matzoh ball soup,” he said. “It’s pretty hard to get this time of year.”

           
She said, “I don’t even know your name.”

           
“Sorry. I’m in such a rush I must be forgetting my manners. It’s Benyamin.”

           
“Ah. Jacob’s youngest son.”

           
“Yes,” he said. “Listen, Anya, you seem like a righteous daughter of Noah. I need you to help me save what could be hundreds—maybe thousands—of lives and keep the Jews from getting exiled again.”

           
“You’re telling me that if we catch Gerta Janek’s real killers, the Jews won’t have to flee the city?”

           
“That’s what I’m hoping.”

           
“Then my answer is yes. I will help you. We have three days, right?”

           
“More like two-and-a-half.”

CHAPTER 12

           
THE NIGHT WATCHMAN CAME TRAMPING downstairs, scratching his chest and ranting in his Spanish-Jewish dialect about needing more sleep. He stopped on the landing, and brushed the dark ringlets of hair out of his eyes.

           
“Oh, it’s you, Rabbi,” he said. “How can I be of service?”

           
“The earth has shaken the blind beast of hatred out of its slumber, Acosta,” said Rabbi Loew. “And my shammes needs your assistance.”

           
“What kind of assistance?”

           
Anya had gone. Yankev had insisted on taking her to the East Gate, where the gatekeepers had recognized her as a Christian and opened the small door for her at once, then resealed it with iron bolts. And now she was gone—my one useful connection to the Christian world outside the gates—and we were back at Rabbi Loew’s house trying to figure out our next move. Yankev looked pale and tense, as if he were weighing a fateful decision.

           
The whisper of a breeze blew under my cloak and sent a chill right through the damp leggings clinging to my skin.

           
Avrom Khayim, the head shammes, came shuffling down the corridor from the kitchen, bringing a wave of tantalizing scents with him. I detected simmering chicken soup and brisket with a trace of something sweet. Apples?

           
“None of the locks were broken at Federn’s shop, nor, I suspect, at the Janeks’,” I said. “So whoever planted this false bloodcrime at our feet seems to know their way around locks.”

           
“And?” said Yankev.

           
“And so I need to find a couple of experienced picklocks.”

           
“And you expect
us
to put you in touch with such rabble?”

           
“No, but maybe one of you knows someone who can,” I said. What on earth had gotten into the scrawny yeshiva boy?

           
The night watchman was the only one who dared to give me an answer: “That’s easy. You want Izzy the Ratcatcher.”

           
“Where can I find him?”

           
“He gets a bedroll and a roof over at the
shandhoyz
.”

           
“Where’s the shame house?” I said, using the night watchman’s polite word for whore house.

           
None of the men would make eye contact with me.

           
Avrom Khayim said, “You can look into that later. We have to attend to the
minkhe
services first, then the Seder.”

           
I turned to my new master. “Rabbi, I have to pursue this line of investigation, even if it leads me up the steps of a
shandhoyz
—”

           
Rabbi Loew said, “My shammes, attend to God first. He will provide the rest.”

           
“But—”

           
Acosta said, “Slow down, newcomer. Do you really think the
oysgelasene froyen
won’t be around later just because it’s Shabbes?”

           
I didn’t answer. What else could I do? When Isserles the Pious was quarantined because of the plague, did he bang his head against the walls and curse his fate? No, he sat down and wrote the
Seyfer ha-Khayim
, the Book of Life, and turned a disaster into a blessing.

           
Rabbi Loew said, “Come, Ben-Akiva, let’s discuss this with the others,” and drew aside the curtain leading to the study room.

           
“There’s no time for that now. Let me go—”

           
“No. Wisdom must be shared in order to have any meaning.”

           
Vey iz mir
, I thought.
How long is this going to take
?

           
“Of course, Rabbi, but if you want me to resolve this crisis, you’ve got to let me follow my instincts.”

           
“Your instincts won’t do you much good unless you wait for that official contract you wanted me to draw up.”

           
“Oh, right.” How could that have slipped my mind?

           
“It appears that your assistant shammes needs an assistant of his own to keep track of everything,” said Avrom Khayim.

           
“You see?” said Rabbi Loew. “It takes time to learn new things, there’s no shame in that. Even the great Resh Lakish was once a circus entertainer for the Romans. Now, come.”

           
I didn’t want to face another bunch of scholars who seemed to spend their time not just splitting hairs but actually
quartering
them, but I dutifully followed the rabbi into the study room.

           
The rabbi’s son-in-law and young Lipmann were still bending and swaying in prayer and chanting like a single creature with two heads. The boy’s high-pitched voice and the man’s deep, dark tones resonated from the floor to the ceiling. Rabbi Gans sat across from them, composing his chronicle in flowing Yiddish script.

           
Rabbi Loew didn’t interrupt the mystics. He took his place at the head of the table, and invited me to sit next to him. He borrowed a quill from Rabbi Gans, slid a piece of fresh parchment across the table, and dictated the conditions of my responsibilities as the High Rabbi Loew’s personal investigator. I wrote it down word for word, then Rabbi Loew took the document, signed it “Yehudah ben Betzalel” with a firm hand, and handed it back.

           
I handled this newly koshered document as if too much contact with my fingertips might profane it.

           
“Now, let’s begin with the most basic question,” Rabbi Loew said. “Did the accused have any enemies?”

           
“Sure, fifty thousand of them,” I said.

           
“And they wonder why the Jews keep an eye on every penny,” said Rabbi Gans, looking up from his work. “We need it all to buy the
goyim
off every time their pockets get a little short on silver.”

           
Rabbi Loew said, “There is certainly no clear precedent in the Gemore for this type of situation. And without a clear methodology for us to follow, we’ll have to gather a thousand bits of information, even though we’ll probably end up needing only a tenth of that.”

           
“But which tenth?” said Rabbi Gans.

           
I said, “We won’t know that until we’ve gathered them all.”

           
Rabbi Loew sat up straight in his high-backed chair and summoned all the dignity appropriate to a man passing a judgment of great weight. “Well said, Ben-Akiva. That was an excellent response.”

           
I studied the tabletop.

           
“What’s the matter? Does it bother you when I praise you?”

           
“No, I just want you to save your praise for when I
really
do something impressive.”

           
Rabbi Loew’s face was unreadable. Then somewhere beneath his gray mustache, a knowing smile appeared, and he said, “If I let you follow your instinct, what’s the first thing you’d do?”

           
“I’d go to the Federns’ place—”

           
“But we already went there.”

           
“Sure, and we spoke to the wrong person. I’d like to ask Julie Federn if she knows anything about how her father’s locks were opened. Children often see things that their parents don’t notice.”

           
Rabbi Loew stroked his beard, considering the wisdom of this suggestion.

           
I said, “She isn’t exactly a child, but it’s a place to start. She might know something crucial about this case without even being aware of it herself.”

           
Rabbi Loew said, “Then go and see her right away.”

           
I pushed the curtain aside and walked right past Avrom Khayim, who called after me:

           
“Where do you think you’re going? You’ll be late for
minkhe
—and you already missed
shakhres
.”

           
“Don’t worry, I’ll be on time. I’ve just got to talk to a couple of women first.”

           
“What do you mean, a
couple
of women? You better tread lightly, Mr. Benyamin from Slonim, because you’re stepping on toes, you hear me? You’re not a full-fledged member of the brotherhood yet. You have to earn that honor, my friend.”

           
“Thanks, I’ll spread the word.”

           
“Be back in half an hour.”

           
“I shall be at your service,” I said, though I had no intention of returning so quickly.

           
What brotherhood?
I wondered, stepping outside.

           
Rainwater flowed between the freshly laid paving stones. The street was less crowded now, but no one looked me in the eye as they pushed along the Breitgasse with that frenzy peculiar to city dwellers, or noticed when I took a quick turn down Meisel Street. The servants for the well-to-do families were too busy packing up food and clothing for the poor to notice me sloshing by, taking a little detour before going to see Julie Federn.

           
I passed by the Rozanskys’ house in the narrow lane near the three wells that supplied the rich folks with their drinking water, but they told me that Reyzl was still at the shop. She shouldn’t have been working so late on
Erev Pesach
, since she didn’t belong to one of the professions permitted to work past noon today, but then, that woman never missed a chance to make a few extra dalers. It ran in the family.