The Fifth Servant (57 page)

           
“A chance at redemption.”

           
“Who are
you
to offer me redemption? Besides, I thought I was beyond redemption.”

           
“No one is cast off forever.”

           
Meanwhile, Yosele kept busy by lining up a set of wooden blocks with faded Hebrew letters that must have been painted on quite some time ago. But when I tilted my head, the pattern became clear:
. He wasn’t just lining them up arbitrarily, he was spelling out the words
katz, hunt
,
epl
. Cat, dog, apple.

           
“How did he learn to do that?” I asked.

           
“By imitating me. He can learn to imitate anything you teach him.”

           
I wondered what else he was learning to imitate from such a teacher.

           
“Good,” said Zinger. “Because we need him to scare the
goyim
into crap-ping themselves.”

           
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Trine, stroking Yosele’s head with her thin white fingers. “It sounds dangerous. And he’s really very gentle, you know. He’s not like other men his size—”

           
Suddenly Zinger clapped his hand to his forehead. “And you could be the White Lady!”

           
“You want me to play dress-up, it’ll cost you.”

           
“You’re joking, right?” said Zinger. “Nobody wants to screw the White Lady.”

           
“You’d be surprised.”

           
“Who’s the White Lady?” I said.

           
Zinger told me that once upon a time, the White Lady was one of the Rožmberks, but after she died under circumstances that have been lost in the misty corridors of time, she took to haunting the family estate, and that ever since then, whenever she is seen wandering along the battlements or the banks of the river, wrapped in a flowing white veil, it is a sure sign that death will follow in her footsteps.

           
“And men pay for this…experience?”

           
Trine nodded.

           
“Well, I guess that’s one way to deny the fear of death,” said Zinger.

           
Lord, what a world.

           
I reached inside my cloak and tossed a few gold pieces on the bed.

           
“Will that cover it?”

           
Trine glanced at the shiny gold ducats. A knowing smile blossomed on her lips. “I heard you were working for Meisel.”

           
“I’m working for all of us,” I said. “And I need to use the secret passage to get out of the ghetto. To night. And I’m going to need a diversion that only he can provide.”

           
I waited.

           
I couldn’t force her to do this. And she’d made it clear that we wouldn’t get Yosele’s compliance without her help. So I lowered my eyes, and begged her to show some mercy.

           
“Please…” I said, clasping my hands before I could think about what I was doing.

           
Yosele was bouncing on the bed, flapping his hands, and letting out happy howls of contentment. Trine put her finger to her lips and shushed him. He imitated her, putting his finger to his lips and saying
Shh
, and he quieted down.

           
He really
did
do what ever she asked him to do.

           
She said, “You want to use the passage now?”

           
I started breathing again.
It’s just nerves
, I told myself. Just nerves.

           
“No, I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I need to take care of a few things first.”

           
Rabbi Loew says that deep inside our brains, we remember everything, all the way back to
Moyshe Rabbeynu
and before, all the way back to Adam and before, all the way back to the first moment of creation, because every atom of our being comes from God, and complete knowledge of God’s creation flows through us, if only we would pay attention to it.

           
I tried to concentrate on this profound cosmical reality, but as I walked past the cemetery, a dog howled in the distance, a clear sign that the Angel of Death was approaching the gates of the city, and that the hour of redemption was close at hand.

           
Would God forgive my actions? Or would He disapprove of all the compromises that I had to make?

           
Please God,
I prayed,
just grant me the wisdom and the time and space I need to finish what they started. Just give me a few more hours, Lord, before I start down the path of no return.

           
Even the sounds of hammering and sawing had faded as the spirits came out to play with Lilith and all her demons, who are at their most powerful on Saturday night. And I had to remind myself not to try to win them over with a joke, because
demons don’t have a sense of humor
. Only men who can feel and bleed know what real laughter is. It’s one of the things that make us human.

           
As I went sloshing through the puddles, my mind was flooded with visions of the days to come when study-houses will be turned into whore houses, youths will insult their elders, and God will cause it to rain on one city and not upon another, bringing famine to the land, and then pain, and then the Torah will be forgotten, and man will destroy his brothers in endless wars, until the Messiah comes. And I recited the Psalm that begins,
He who dwells in the shelter of the Supreme One,
because it contains the verse,
loy siro mipakhad loyloh, meykheyts yo’uf yomom—You shall not fear the terror by night, nor the arrow that flies by day
. And I tried to take comfort in the knowledge that my body was just a mortal shell for my eternal soul. But it really didn’t help much.

           
I POUNDED ON THE DOOR beneath the stone Lion of Judah until a sleepy-eyed servant girl let me in. I was creeping down the long hallway to meet Anya when Avrom Khayim reached out from behind the curtain and grabbed me by the sleeve. I tried to shake him loose, but he took hold with both hands and pulled me into the other room.

           
“All right, but this better be—”

           
I stopped. The inner room had been transformed into a sacred space, all decked out with red cloth like a church when they’re ordaining a new priest. Three men stood side by side in long hooded robes, each one holding a tall candle. There was a small square carpet on the floor in front of them. Avrom Khayim raised his candle, and took his place among the other men, whom I now recognized as the other three shammeses—Markas Kral, Abraham Ben-Zakhariah, and the last one, who must have been Saul Ungar.

           
Avrom Khayim spoke for them all: “Reb Benyamin Ben-Akiva of Slonim, assistant shammes at the Klaus Shul under the High Rabbi Loew, in recognition of your recent activities on behalf of the community, and the ongoing sacrifices and dedication to the profession that we have witnessed, we have gathered on this solemn occasion to induct you into the Ancient and Fraternal Order of
Shammashim
.”

           
That’s wonderful, but can’t this wait?
I thought, my patience and energy rapidly dwindling.

           
Thankfully, the ceremony only lasted a few minutes, and when it was finished, Avrom Khayim said, “You are no longer a lowly assistant. Rise up and join us, Brother Benyamin, for you are now a full-fledged member of the Brotherhood of Shammeses.”

           
They hugged me and shook my hand, slapped my back and kissed me on both cheeks, and at that moment, I couldn’t have cared less about the honor they were bestowing upon me.

           
When I finally got away from them, I made my way to the pantry where Anya had set up a barber’s chair, just for me. She was sharpening a pair of scissors when I came in, and she looked up and offered me a smile. Then she held the scissors up and gave me the universal sign that we were ready to begin:

           
Snip snip
.

CHAPTER 30

           
“RELAX,” SAID A NYA. “B ECOMING A Christian is easier than you think.”

           
“For some.”

           
She was trying to give me one of those farmer-style bowl-cuts, but that only works with straight hair, and she was quickly learning that you can’t cut tight Jewish curls in half.

           
“Christ, it’s like shearing a sheep,” she said, rubbing her palms. Then she ran her fingers through my hair, gathering up the sheaves of half-curls so she could cut them short.

           
“If only your hair was straighter,” she said.

           
“You mean, like Yankev’s?”

           
She gripped the roots of my hair, and I thought I’d better say something to ease her mind before she cut my ears off.

           
“Stop worrying,” I said. “He’s a scholar in good standing, with Meisel’s backing. Rabbi Loew will address the Community Council first thing in the morning, and they’ll make sure that your Yankev will return safely.”

           
Good Lord, listen to me
. “Your Yankev.” Their relationship was supposed to shock the world, but it had already become part of my routine. Either that, or it just didn’t matter anymore, like trying to fix a squeaky door during an earthquake. You don’t bother oiling the hinges when the walls are caving in.

           
Meanwhile the curly locks were falling off my shoulder and drifting to the floor.

           
I told Anya that any Jew who is forced to convert is forgiven. “Rambam advises us to confess and not choose death.”

           
“And how many of the ghetto’s leaders are followers of Rambam?”

           
She was right, of course.

           
Rationality no longer walked these streets. Rationality had gone into hiding to avoid being persecuted during the long reign of terror that would darken our windowpanes for the next hundred years, until some future Prince Charming as yet unborn breaks the spell with a kiss.

           
“Wait—the hair’s getting in my eyes.”

           
I tried to brush all the loose hairs away, but there were too many of them and they kept sticking to my palm.

           
“At least I can see them now. I thought they were light brown, but they’re really kind of hazel,” she said. “I’ve noticed that you talk about eyes, a lot. Why is that, do you think?”

           
“Just keep cutting,” I said, blinking.

           
“I wonder,” she said, her gaze boring into me like a carpenter’s bit. “Maybe it’s because so much depends on how we see each other. Is that it?”

           
Like the Rabbi said:
It’s not what is, it’s what people believe
.

           
“Yes,” I agreed. “I couldn’t have put it better.”

           
When did this butcher’s daughter learn to be so curious? From whom did she inherit such a lively intellect? God’s ways were often unfathomable, but they were not always
completely
hidden from our eyes. We must remember that Rambam’s mother was also a butcher’s daughter, so who was I to say that one day this woman might not be blessed with a son who turned out to be a second Rambam?

           
I caught a glimpse of another world, like a painting covered with the sheerest gauze. It was a world just like this one, a world where Anya was dressed in fine clothes, a fleeting vision in shimmering brocade. She had matured handsomely, and was smiling as she held her arms out to the bright young scholar who was her son.