Authors: Kenneth Wishnia
I didn’t budge. “Join you doing what?”
“Is there something wrong with your eyes? Can’t you see that we’re celebrating Purim?”
“Purim was over a month ago.”
“Can I help it if I celebrate Purim a little more often than other Jews?”
I turned to go, but the Jew spread his cape wide and blocked my path.
“We, sir, are entertainers to the lords and burghers, and only a gawking newcomer from the provinces would fail to recognize the great Shlomo Zinger and his associates. Professional merrymakers,
a su servicio
.”
“We also do weddings,” said one of the Christians.
“And when we see a man looking troubled"—Zinger patted my cheek with sloppy familiarity—“it is our sworn duty to cheer him up.”
“Taanis, folio twenty-two A,” I said, reflexively citing the Talmudic passage in which Elijah the Prophet announces that two humble jesters will have a share in the World-to-Come because they are helping people to forget their troubles.
“Ah yes, I heard you were a scholar,” said Zinger.
“You did?”
“The
Yidnshtot
is big, my friend, but word gets around just like in a small town. A promising disciple of the great Isserles and some other Polish rabbi, who tossed it all to come after a woman. That’s the stuff of romantic ballads, mate.”
“No, it isn’t. She hasn’t spoken to me yet.”
“Don’t worry, she will.” He leaned in closer. “We also heard that one time you fought off six men at once. Six big, drunken Cossacks.”
The other Christian said, “Is that true?”
“Well, no,” I said. Actually, I had
talked
my way out of that one, but as a newcomer to this town, I figured I could use the reputation.
“It was only
five
Cossacks. And two of them were kind of scrawny.”
The two Christians looked genuinely disappointed.
“Listen,” I said. “Do you know anything about—”
Zinger nudged me as a young woman with long black tresses and broad Slavonic features walked up to the East Gate carry ing a basket.
“That’s the little mouse’s
Shabbes goye
.”
“The who—?”
“Mordecai Meisel’s sabbath maid. The big
makher
who built the hospital, the orphanage, the
mikveh
. He paved the streets. Pretty much owns your ass, too, Mr. Benyamin from Slonim.”
“Oh. Listen—”
“You want to come in and see our costumes for Sunday’s feast at the Rožmberks?”
“No, I need to get back in time for the
Amidah
prayer—”
And just at the moment when I should have been somewhere else, a woman’s scream pierced the morning air.
CHAPTER 2
ANYA HATED KILLING PIGS, especially when it took a couple of tries to hit the main artery. Cows and sheep were finished in a moment, if you did it right. But pigs
knew
. They knew you were trying to slit their throats and they didn’t understand what they’d done wrong, or why they deserved it. She felt their animal incomprehension when they struggled to get away from the glistening knife, and heard it in their plaintive squeals. Sometimes she swore she could even see it in their faces.
She hated it even more when her father asked her to help do it when it was still dark outside.
“Let me finish doing my braids first,” she said.
“No time now. Do it after.”
So she tied her hair back with a kerchief and ran downstairs. The pig was tied up in the courtyard, and her father Benesh was sharpening the long knife. She pushed up her sleeves, and tied a butcher’s apron around her waist.
When he was ready, she gently wrapped her arms around the animal’s shoulders, took hold of its front legs and hugged it tightly, bracing herself.
“Why so early?” she asked.
“The cart came through early.”
He closed his fist around the pig’s ears and prepared to cut its throat. The animal bucked and squealed, but Anya held tight.
She couldn’t help thinking of the
shoykhet
’s blessing before the
sh’khiteh
—the swift cut to the neck meant to minimize the animal’s suffering.
Borukh atoh Adinoy, eloyheynu melekh ha-oylem…
When it was over, Benesh wiped the bloody knife with a rag. Not like the crude men who wiped the blood on their sleeves and spent the day surrounded by swarms of buzzing flies. He took some pride in his appearance.
Anya wiped her hands with the rag, and helped her father lift the carcass onto a slotted table so he could gut it. But first they had to carry a fresh side of beef into the shop. Benesh grunted from the effort.
He said, “We need you to marry someone quick. I’m getting too old to haul a side of beef onto the slab by myself.”
He was half-joking, but the joke had been going on for a few months now. Still, she tolerated it.
She said, “Yes, father,” tossed the bloody apron into the washtub, and went into the kitchen to wash her hands before they got too sticky.
Her mother Jirzhina was rolling out the dough for
knedlíky
, special Easter dumplings.
“Anya, I need you to hang this up for me,” she said, nodding toward a bun with a cross baked into it.
Anya washed and dried her hands. She took a knife, got up on a stool, and cut down last year’s Good Friday bun. Then she hung the new one from the ceiling to protect their home from fire for another year.
Her mother told her to open the shop and sweep it out.
Anya said, “I’m supposed to be at the Meisels’ place as early as possible.”
“Why do they need you? It’s Friday.”
“It’s Pesach. It’s their Easter.”
“Their Easter starts on Friday?”
“At sundown. They asked me to help out today.”
Her mother considered this. “They pay you the same?”
“Yes.”
Jirzhina shrugged. The Jews paid well. But still.
Anya said, “What?”
“Nothing. Janoshik said he might be coming by.”
Anya said nothing.
“You don’t like him?”
“He’s all right, Mama. But sometimes he can be such a
balvan
, like he’s got rocks in his head.”
“Better a boring man who stays with you than a thrilling horse man who leaves you with a baby.”
“Don’t worry, Mama.”
“I’m not worried about you. It’s them.”
Jirzhina aimed her rolling pin at the street, where drunken mercenaries were passing by, singing dirty songs.
Legions of foot soldiers,
Reiters
, and musketeers from the Turkish front had swarmed into
Prague
on Holy Thursday, and hadn’t wasted any time tearing the town up. Fortunately, the town was big enough to absorb the shock, Anya thought. She told her mother that she would be careful.
She went upstairs to finish braiding her hair, but there wasn’t time for that now. So she gathered her long black hair and tied it back with a lace ribbon. She had to look good for the rich folks. Back downstairs, she put on a clean apron and opened the shutters and the heavy wooden door to the shop.
The neighbors were already yelling at each other, Ivana Kromy’s shrill voice cutting through what ever protests her husband Josef barked at her.
Anya wondered how people could be so angry with each other before they even had their morning porridge. It took most people a good part of the day to build up to a fury like that.
She swept out the rear of the shop, keeping an eye out for the beggars who relied on true believers like Benesh Cervenka for a bit of Good Friday generosity. She also watched out for thieves and other lowlifes who thought that the best cure for warts was to steal a slice of beef, rub it on the afflicted area, then toss the beef down a privy hole, so that when it rotted, all their scabby warts would fall off.
Why couldn’t the recipe start out with
buying
a piece of beef? No, it had to be stolen for the magic to work properly.
She felt the floor shift under a man’s weight, and she turned around. Janoshik was leaning on the counter, a toothy smile on his round peasant face.
“Hey, cutie. Want to go see the pageant in the
Old Town Square
?”
Anya said, “Sorry, the Meisels need me today.”
He was disappointed. “You’re always working for those
Zhids
.”
“They’re not so bad. And it’s only one day a week.”
“Right. And that’s supposed to be Saturday. Today is Friday.”
She explained for the second time this morning that today was a special day for the Jews.
“Seems like everything’s special if it’s about them,” he said. “So what kind of spells do they use to clean their meat?”
He meant the koshering process.
“No spells. They just soak the meat in water, drain it, sprinkle it with coarse salt to remove the blood, then wash it a couple of times. That’s it.”
“There’s no way that that’s it. They’ve got secret magical words for everything.”
“They just praise God before they do anything.”
“So now you know Jewish prayers? Who’s teaching you?”
“Janoshik, please—”
“No, really. I want to know where you’re learning all this Jewish magic.”
“They say the same ten words about fifty times a day, that’s all. I’m used to hearing it.”
He glared at her.
She said, “They kill a cow, they praise God. They cover its blood with dirt, they praise God. They wash their hands, they praise God. They cut a slice of bread, they praise God. They take a wizz—they praise God. Get it?”
“I get it. You’re turning into a secret Jew.”
Her reply got sucked right down her throat. He might as well have accused her of killing cattle with sorcery. The Church moved swiftly against anyone accused of “Judaizing” beliefs, and the punishment was death by public burning. How could he say such a thing so carelessly?
She swept the floor with renewed furor, thinking about the way the Catholics had been sweeping through
Bohemia
, reclaiming the land for the one true faith. One powerful sweep sent the pile of dust swirling into the gutter.
She was putting the broom away when a fragment of a faraway plea floated past her ears:
“…ertaaaaah…!”
Anya stopped what she was doing.
“Anya, let me—”
She shushed him, but the cry was not repeated.