The Oath

  “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.”

  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 to
o 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 disappoin
t 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?”