Puppet (14 page)

“I don't have a son anymore! My son is forever lost to me!”

Morris turned his back on his father.

“Stop your ravings, old man!” he said.

He looked a picture of calm until I noticed his fists were tightly clenched.

“I beseech you,” cried Mr. Scharf, “tell the truth or they'll hang me! Won't you be sorry if they hang me?”

The boy stared at his father for an instance with eyes as dead as dark pebbles.

“If they hang you, it's not my fault,” he said.

Mr. Scharf grabbed his arm, but he shook off his father's hand.

“Listen to me, Morris!” said Mr. Scharf. “If you don't tell the truth, they'll never let me go home!”

“They'll let you go! I made sure of that. They told me that if I …”

For one moment I thought that the old Morris, my friend, had reappeared. Then in an instant, he was gone again.

“What, Morris? What are you trying to say?” asked Mr. Scharf.

“Nothing! Nothing at all,” the boy mumbled.

Mr. Scharf stepped closer to him, so that their faces almost touched. They had forgotten the people around them. They were alone in their misery.

“Look at me, Morris!” said Mr. Scharf. “Look at me and think carefully before you answer me. Why would the shochets, the ritual butchers, kill the poor girl?”

“It's a part of Jewish law that they needed her Christian virgin blood to make matzo.”

“You know that's not true. It is ridiculous and you know it. For five thousand years we've abided by the Ten Commandments. ‘Thou shall not kill.’ Who taught you such things? Did you learn this in cheder?”

Morris shook his head.

“It's not a lie!” he cried. “Father Paul told me you do it. Father Paul would never lie to me!”

“You?” asked Mr. Scharf. “Why do you say ‘you’? You are one of us!”

“No, I'm not!” said the boy. “Not anymore!”

Mr. Scharf collapsed to the floor, his hands over his ears against the dreadful words. Morris turned his back on him.

TUESDAY, JULY 17, 1883

The carriage passed through the beautiful Tisza valley. The neat farms gave way to marshes and bogs that dotted the bank of the majestic river. A hawk soared high in the sky a mere speck against the angry gray clouds ready to erupt any time. I didn't care. I burrowed into the cushions of Mr. Eotvos's carriage, enjoying every moment of luxury. When Mr. Eotvos had told me that he wanted me to travel with the court to Tisza-Eszlar, I didn't expect that Warden Henter would allow me to go. However, Mr. Eotvos spoke to the warden. I don't know what he said to him, but the warden gave his permission. I was surprised when I found out that I would be traveling with Mr. Eotvos himself. I was wearing a pair of stockings and leather shoes for the first time, both thanks to Teresa.

Our carriage wasn't the only one on the road. The entire court was on its way to examine the scene of the crime. When I stuck my head out of the window, I could see Warden Henter's carriage following us. Morris was traveling with the warden, Chief Recsky Mr. Peczely and Mr. Bary The three judges' carriage came next. The defense attorneys were traveling with them. A horse-drawn cart occupied by the court stenographer and reporters covering the trial brought up the rear.

Mr. Eotvos was puffing on a fat cigar. Its sharp aroma tickled my nose. Mr. Heumann, the Jew lawyer who was the prisoners' first attorney, was sitting beside him.

Mr. Eotvos took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at me thoughtfully. I sat up straighter in my seat.

“I must confess, Julie, that I had ulterior motives when I invited you to travel with me,” he said.

“I'm not that kind of a — !” The words escaped before I could stop them. I looked around the carriage for a place to hide.

Mr. Eotvos and Mr. Heumann burst into laughter.

“Don't be daft, girl,” said Mr. Heumann.

“What do you think I am about, my dear?” asked Mr. Eotvos. “Why, I am old enough to be your father! It seems that I haven't been expressing myself properly. What I meant to say was that I wanted to talk to you and it would be easier to do so if we shared a carriage.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

I could feel by the heat in my cheeks that I was blushing furiously.

“I noticed that you stopped attending the trial a few weeks ago after Morris's testimony. Many other people have testified since then,” said Mr. Eotvos.

“It's hard for me to get away sir, and Warden Henter doesn't like me to go.”

“Julie, I am asking you to testify for our side. My clients have done no wrong. Their only crime is who they are -that they are Jews. Even in our parliament, there are rabble-rousers who speak against them. Several newspapers are accusing them of ritual murder. Ridiculous!”

He paused to puff on his cigar.

“I know, sir.”

“I must prove my clients' innocence without the slightest doubt, and you, Julie, can help.”

“Me, sir? I'm just a servant. Nobody would listen to me.”

“I'll make them listen. I want you to recount in court exactly what you told me about the body the raftsmen fished out of the river. If we can prove that the dead girl is Esther Solymosi, my clients will be exonerated.”

“Mr. Eotvos, I saw that body. I saw those clothes. It was Esther's body and they were Esther's clothes. I recognized her.”

He took my hands between his.

“I believe you, Julie. In order to make the judges believe you, you must testify on the witness stand under oath.”

All kinds of thoughts were running through my mind. Pa hated every Jew he had ever met, even Mr. Rosenberg who gave him the work that had put food on our table since I could remember. And Warden Henter — he warned me to stay away from the trial. I would lose my job when he found out I was testifying for the Jews.

I opened my mouth, on the verge of telling Mr. Eotvos that he would have to do without my testimony, when I recalled the desperation in Mr. Scharf's eyes. I thought of how they had made Morris ashamed of who he was. I no longer wondered about the right thing to do. I was certain. But I was too frightened to do it.

“Can I think about it, sir? It might mean my job. And my pa will have my hide when he finds out.”

Mr. Eotvos took another puff of his cigar before answering. He tapped the ash out the window.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said. “Doing the right thing is never easy. The Jews of Tisza-Eszlar and Morris himself are the victims of hate. Bary Recsky and Peczely are evil men. So is Henter. I know that it'll take tremendous courage on your part to tell the truth with them looking on in court, but I know you can do it.”

“Please, sir. Let me think about it.”

“Don't wait too long to decide,” he said as the carriage slowed down and came to a stop. He looked out of the window.

“We've arrived,” he said.

Word must have reached Tisza-Eszlar before we did because the street in front of the synagogue was packed with angry villagers. They were surrounded by a dozen gendarmes armed with rifles, bantering with them. There was no sign of Pa.

Their cries had become familiar to me. There were many versions of “Down with the Jews!” and “Killers!” and a forest of waving fists.

The gendarmes didn't seem concerned. They allowed them to vent their fury.

The synagogue was in an even worse state than when I had seen it. The yellow plaster walls were defaced with black paint and chunks were peeling away. We hurried inside. The dirty handprints were still all over the walls and the torn-up prayer books still lay on the floor along with all kinds of rotting garbage filling the building with a terrible stink. Every single one of the pews had been broken. I saw a rat scurry away along one of the filthy walls.

The Jewish prisoners were looking about with shocked and forlorn expressions.

“Mein Gott, what happened here?” Mr. Scharf picked up a book, its back broken, and cradled it in his hands. “Our beautiful shule. I always took such good care of it! Your Honor,” he said to Judge Korniss, “let me clean up! Let me put everything back in its place. This is God's house.”

Judge Korniss didn't bother answering him.

Morris was leaning against a wall with his eyes half-closed, twirling a closed umbrella in his hands. It was impossible to read his expression. I inched close to him.

“What's wrong with you? Stop lying!” I whispered urgently. He took a step away from me.

“I'm ready Judge!” he announced in a loud voice.

All of us fell silent.

“Where did the murder of Esther Solymosi take place?” asked Judge Korniss.

Without hesitation, Morris led us into the covered, narrow passageway leading from the front door of the synagogue to the sanctuary. He stopped at the end of the hallway in front of the entrance to the sanctuary.

“Here,” he said, pointing his umbrella at a spot by the wall. “It's here that I saw Esther murdered.”

“Are you certain?” asked Korniss.

“Yes, I am.”

“Can you show us in which direction Esther was lying on the floor?”

Morris drew a large, rectangular shape on the dusty floor along the wall with the tip of his umbrella. Judge Korniss had two of the gendarmes place a straw-filled burlap sack inside the rectangle.

“This sack will represent the corpse,” the judge announced.

“Esther's head was here,” Morris said, tapping his umbrella at one end of the sack, “and her feet were here.” He
tapped at the opposite end. “Buxbaum was crouched down on the floor beside Esther over here.” He used the umbrella like a pointer. “And Braun was beside him. Schwarcz was holding the pot here,” he again pointed, “while he was cutting the girl's throat.”

“Are you sure?” asked Judge Korniss.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Let the court stenographer record the witness's testimony,” ordered the judge.

The only sound was the scraping of pen against paper.

“I believe we're done here,” announced Korniss. “Let's go outside. I would like the witness to re-enact what he did while the murder was taking place.”

When the crowd of onlookers saw us, the gendarmes had difficulty restraining them.

“Silence!” cried the judge. The sure authority in his voice tamed the crowd.

“Morris,” said Judge Korniss, “show us exactly what you did out here while Esther Solymosi was being murdered inside.”

“I was peeking through the keyhole, Your Honor.”

“You already told us that. Now, I want you to do exactly what you did on the day of the murder,” repeated the judge.

Everyone was looking at the door, and everyone saw the same thing. The lock on the door was unusually low, at a height of no more than a half-meter off the ground. Morris's cocksure attitude wilted. He bent down to peek
through the keyhole, but the keyhole was too low for him to look through. He had to drop to his knees onto the stone stoop to be able to look through it. And even when he was on his knees, he had to bend his neck into an awkward position to do so.

“This keyhole is lower down than I remember,” he muttered. “The synagogue must have sunk lower down into the ground since I was here last. I was standing up before, while I was looking through the keyhole.”

“It's impossible for the building to have sunk so far into the ground in fourteen or fifteen months that you have to get down on your knees to see through the keyhole if you didn't have to do that before,” said Mr. Eotvos.

Morris flushed red but did not reply.

“How long did you look through the keyhole while you were observing the murder you described?” asked Mr. Eotvos.

“I already told you — three-quarters of an hour to an hour,” said Morris.

He shifted from one knee to the other on the hard stoop, trying unsuccessfully to get more comfortable.

“I didn't hear you mention how tiring it must have been to remain on your knees with your neck twisted at an angle for the best part of an hour while you observed the crime through the keyhole.”

The back of Morris's neck was splotched an angry red.

“You claim that the street on which the synagogue is located remained empty while you were on your knees
looking through the keyhole, so that there was nobody you could ask for help,” said Mr. Eotvos. “The street seems busy today.”

“That well may be, but there was nobody here that day. And I told you I wasn't on my knees. The synagogue must have sunk!”

“My son, you're making a fool of yourself! Tell the truth!” Mr. Scharf shook his head.

“Mr. Scharf, be quiet!” Judge Korniss ordered.

“Morris, look through the keyhole! Can you see the burlap sack that represents the body?” asked Mr. Eotvos.

Morris put his eye to the keyhole and looked. Next he glared at Mr. Eotvos and then peered through the keyhole again.

“Can you see the burlap sack that represents the body of Esther Solymosi through the keyhole?” repeated Mr. Eotvos.

Morris mumbled something.

“I can't hear you, boy. What did you say?”

“I can't see the burlap sack,” Morris said sheepishly, more loudly this time. “I might not see the sack now, but I did see Esther's body when I looked before!” He made me think of a cornered rat as he cast a frightened glance in Chief Recsky's direction.

The onlookers began to laugh.

“What do you mean you can't see the burlap sack?” asked the judge. “Get up! I want to look for myself.”

Morris stood up and stretched his arms and neck.

Judge Korniss lowered himself to his knees with the aid of one of the deputies. He had to contort his neck in order to see through the keyhole.

“I can't see anything from here except an empty dark corner,” he said. “What nonsense have you been telling the court, Morris?

“Let the court stenographer record that the location where the witness claims to have seen the murder is not visible through the keyhole!” said Judge Korniss.

All the learned gentlemen from the court were lowered to their knees to look through the keyhole. All of them came to the same conclusion. Morris's forehead gleamed with sweat as he tried to avoid looking at anyone.

Judge Korniss ordered the members of the court to return to Nyiregyhaza. At first I couldn't recognize the expression on Morris's face as he followed Chief Recsky and his colleagues to their carriage. Then I knew. It was fear.

I lagged behind for a moment. I dropped to my knees and looked through the keyhole. Judge Korniss was right. Nothing was visible except an empty dark corner of the covered passageway that led to the sanctuary. I could not see the burlap sack that represented my friend Esther's body.

It was late in the afternoon by the time I arrived back at the prison. Teresa was sitting at the scrubbed wooden table in the center of the kitchen. She had taken her boots off and
had put her feet up on one of the chairs. A cup of tea was steaming in her hands despite the hot weather.

“I thought I would catch a few minutes of rest before starting on supper,” she said. “Pour yourself a cup of tea. It's still hot.”

I sat down beside her and we sipped the tea in companionable silence.

“Now tell me, what happened today?” she asked.

I told her how Morris's testimony had been discredited.

“Everybody could see that he was lying. Judge Korniss was angry.”