Burning Twilight (4 page)

“It started last Sunday,” he said. “Father Szymon was saying Mass, and when the time came to bless the Sacred Host, he saw that it had turned bloodred.”

The villagers crossed themselves and mumbled various blessings for protection against the Evil Eye.

Kassy was about to speak, but she held her tongue.

“He knew right away that it was the Devil’s work,” said the priest. “So he turned to the Book of Revelation and read aloud the most terrible passages a Christian soul could ever hear, the pages of the Good Book trembling in his hands as he warned the faithful that Christ’s robe is dipped in blood, and that He will crush the sinners in the wine press of the wrath of God, and that He will slay the children of the adulterers with a sharp sword that comes out of His mouth.”

Good Lord, was that really in there? Slaying the innocent children of sinners didn’t sound very Christlike to me.

“And a few hours later we found Father Szymon’s body in the woods.”

“Was he killed in a similar manner?” asked Rabbi Loew.

“You dare to question one of our holy men, Jew?” said a hard-looking man with thick black eyebrows.

“He looked like he’d been attacked by something that wasn’t human,” said a big man with thick blond hair and the wooden-bowl haircut of a Slavic peasant. The others called him Kazimir.

“Could you be more precise?” asked Rabbi Loew.

Kazimir didn’t know the meaning of the word “precise.” A real
poyerisher kop
, that one.

“Can you describe the wounds a little more clearly?” I said.

“Well—” Kazimir glanced accusingly at Kassy. “His throat was torn out as if a hungry wolf had gone after him.”

“Or a vampire!”

“Or some other nameless evil,” said the crooked little man, his eyes bugging out of his head. I could actually feel the fear spreading among his companions like a contagious disease.

“What kind of vampire steals his victim’s shoes?” said Kassy.

The priest took one look at the nobleman’s bloodstained stockings and gasped. “Father Szymon’s shoes were also missing.”

“And the next day there was another killing,” said Kazimir.

The victim was Jan Barwicz, who worked in the town’s dyeing mill.

“Was he also missing his shoes?” said Kassy.

“Why, yes. I believe he was,” said the priest. “But why would anyone kill a man for his shoes?”

“Did his wounds look anything like these?” I asked, pointing at the corpse. “Because these were made with a foot-long knife. Those are knife wounds, not claw marks.”

Kazimir admitted that it was possible.

“It would help if we could examine Father Szymon’s body with our own eyes,” said Rabbi Loew.

“That’s impossible,” said Father Stefan. “We buried the good father on Wednesday morning.”

“Of course,” said Rabbi Loew.

“What about the other victim?” I said.

“I doubt that his widow would allow it.”

“Then may we examine one of the tainted Hosts?” asked Kassy.

The men drew back with a clattering of rusty iron, amazed at her audacity.

Rabbi Loew spoke quickly, appealing to the priest: “It is a reasonable request that the proofs against our companion be brought forward to be examined in the presence of a magistrate or an officer of the law.”

“Fook that,” said the man with the thick eyebrows, and his pals nodded as if he had just delivered the last word on the matter before the highest court in the land.

Father Stefan cleared his throat and said, “The closest we have to an examining magistrate in this region is Lord Strekov himself.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, but Rabbi Loew said, “Then let us bring the matter to his attention.”

The priest mulled it over and granted us an hour’s time to convince Lord Strekov of Kassy’s innocence.

“How about two hours?” I asked, bargaining for more time like a true son of Abraham.

We eventually settled on an hour and a half, as the men threw a coarse cloth over the corpse of Sir Tadeusz and prepared to carry him off to his father’s estate. There was nothing else that could be learned from it at the moment anyway.

“Why are you protecting her?” asked Father Stefan.

The cross dangling around Kassy’s neck caught the last dusky red rays of the dying sun.

I said, “Because the Torah says that you must establish a system of justice, no matter where you are.”

“D
oes Lord Strekov have any other sons?” I asked Father Stefan as we followed the solemn procession down the narrow pass and into the village.

“Why, yes. His younger son, Sir Mateusz.”

“Were they close?”

“Yes, yes, it’s going to be so hard to break the news to him. Such a terrible shame.”

“Yes, such a shame.”

But the fact is that whenever the eldest son of a nobleman is killed, one must always ask who stands to benefit. And the youngest son sounded like a likely prospect.

But why kill the priest? I wondered.

“Had Father Szymon been called upon to rule in any controversial matters recently?”

“This is a quiet parish,” said Father Stefan. “The only controversial rulings around here are the special dispensations for marriages between first and second cousins, the baptizing of children born out of wedlock, and the denial of legitimacy to children whose parents aren’t properly married under Catholic law. Certainly not the stuff of the sensational murders you get in Prague and Poznan, with all the greed and depravity that goes on in those ghettos—”

“Who came to his burial?”

“Why, the whole village. We made a pilgrimage to the place where Father Szymon was found. I burned incense, sprinkled holy water, exorcised the demons, and blessed the spot. But the next day, that dye worker was killed.”

The wounds were similar, but less savage.

“Mind if we stop off at the dye mill on the way to Lord Strekov’s?” I said.

“Why?”

“We need to wash our hands.”

S
team rose from the dyeing vats as the embers beneath them started to cool, the coals still glowing red but fading under a layer of gray dust. The dye workers emerged sweating from the steam, their sleeves soaking wet and covered with splotches of dark blue dye. They glowered at us, particularly at Kassy, as if she were trespassing on their property. Only one of them returned my gaze, another blue-eyed
polyak
who was probably too tired to summon the requisite hatred against us as he pulled off his heavy apron.

“What can I do for you, Jew?” he said as I approached. He was a fairly powerful man, like the other dyers, and his thick fingernails were stained a deep blue.

I tested the weight of his words, and they seemed to balance. Coming from such a mouth,
Jew
was probably more of a description than an insult.

“We need to wash our hands.”

He directed us to a bucket of bluish water.

“I meant in clean water.”

“Try the well,” he said, tossing his blue-stained apron on a cutting table.

“You could always jump in the ocean,” one of the dyers suggested.

“Ease off, Horshky.”

“Hey, Wojciech! Hang that on a peg,” the master dyer said.

“Hang it yourself,” Wojciech muttered. But he picked up the apron and hung it on a peg alongside the others.

The dyers hung their gloves, mallets, and other tools on hooks, the wooden handles all tinted blue.

“You don’t take the tools home with you?” I asked.

“Ha!” said Wojciech, swatting the question aside as if it were a bothersome horsefly. “We don’t own any of this stuff.”

“You don’t?”

“What do you think we are? Carpenters or leather workers? Pan Strekov owns the whole works—the mill, the land, the well water, the dyeing vats, the drying racks, the benches, everything. We work from dawn to dusk, but it’s all his equipment.”

I had never heard of such an arrangement.

“At least you’re not tied to the land like a serf is,” I said. He looked at me skeptically. “You’re free to move about, aren’t you?”

“Only three men in a hundred have such freedom here, Jew.”

I shook my head at this sorry news, because the Talmud says that the rights of the workingman always take precedence over the rights of his employer. But I doubted that Lord Strekov was versed in the wisdom of the Talmud.

I watched them putting away the fabric shears, breasting hooks, and knives of various lengths.

“Any knives missing?” I asked, off-handedly.

“A couple,” said the master, eyeing me suspiciously.

T
he body of Jan Barwicz lay in state in an empty room in his family’s house. Father Stefan spoke to his widow, Jelena, and she agreed to let the “three wise travelers” inside her home to examine her husband’s wounds. The windows were all shuttered and dusty gray cloth covered the mirrors.

Kassy lifted the shroud so we wouldn’t have to come in contact with the corpse, since we didn’t want to travel all the way to Poznan in a state of ritual impurity.

“He was such a good provider,” lamented Jelena. “And a loyal servant to His Lordship. What kind of monster would do such a thing?”

Barwicz’s face was gray and waxy. His body was relatively unscathed, and the slice across his throat had been washed almost completely clean of blood. But the broad gashes around the wound still made it look like he had been set upon by an enraged hog butcher.

“The kind of monster that walks on two legs,” I said, trying to reassure Jelena that no supernatural monsters roamed these hills.

“Don’t be afraid,” Rabbi Loew said. “For we will help to protect your husband’s soul as it begins its arduous journey to the World-to-Come.”

“Keynehore,” I said, spitting twice.

“How can you protect his soul?” asked Jelena. “By summoning guardian spirits?”

“No, it’s never a good idea to summon spirits,” I said. For one thing, it
really
annoys them.

“We don’t need to summon them,” said Rabbi Loew. “They are already here.”

Jelena’s eyes grew wide and she bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

“If we only had the power to see them, we would be amazed,” said Rabbi Loew, citing Rabbi Huna. “For we would realize that we are surrounded by spirits at all times, a thousand on the left and ten thousand on the right.”

Even Father Stefan started to look worried.

“Some of them are good-natured,” I added. “Especially the ones that follow the Torah.”

That’s right. Thanks to the laws that keep the Jews separate from the general population, we even have our own demons.

“And some of them are harmless household elves, like the
shretele
,” said Kassy, but the villagers just stared blankly at her.

“In Polish it’s called the
skrzat
,” I said, and the villagers’ faces filled with relief.

“How do we defend ourselves against all these spirits?” Jelena asked.

“Light is good,” I said. “They hate light.”

“And we all know that water’s a nice cleansing medium that neutralizes their influence,” said Kassy, glaring at the villagers.

“And you can make noise.”

“What kind of noise?”

“You can ring a bell, or rattle nuts in a jar—” said Rabbi Loew.

“Breaking pottery can be very effective,” I said.

“And if none of that works you can always spit in the Devil’s eye,” said Kassy.

Rabbi Loew and I looked at her sharply.

“I’ve seen you both do it,” she said defensively.

Rabbi Loew explained that we don’t really believe in the Devil as such, but the Evil Impulse, which can invade any man’s heart. In fact, the more pious the man, the harder he must fight against such impulses.

I caught the priest’s eye, but he looked away. I turned back to the body that lay before us, and noticed something that I had missed before.

“Why aren’t his nails blue?” I asked. “How did you clean the dye off?”

Jelena held her head up and said, “Jan didn’t work the vats. He oversaw the operations for Lord Strekov.”

“I see . . . ”

“Vos zeyst du, mayn khaver?”
said Rabbi Loew, leaning close and speaking Yiddish in a low voice. “Have you noticed a pattern of some kind?”

“Yes. I thought this man was a dye worker, but—”

“But now you realize that all three of the victims were men of some standing in the community.”

“Yes.” I turned to Jelena. “What was your husband’s job at the dye mill?”

“He did what His Lordship commanded.”

“Does that mean he ran the men hard?”

“If that is what His Lordship commanded.”