Zizka reached for his sword and unsheathed it. I bowed my head and prayed that somehow my death would redeem all Israel and wash away the sins of the people, then I prepared to fight the sheriff with nothing more than the bloody knife I had pulled from the ashes.
The opposing clans of Jews and Christians held their positions and stood watch, as if we were a pair of champions chosen to do battle with bronze-tipped weapons in front of our respective armies. But Zizka stopped about ten paces in front of me as a wounded man emerged from the smoking door frame of what had been Rabbi Gans’s house. The mercenary was covered with soot, and his face was streaked with blood and sweat. He could barely stand, and he soon fell back against the charred wood, an oblong weight slipping from his hands.
The jar hit the ground and tipped over, and a couple of pints of thick red liquid slurped out into the hungry sands.
For a moment all was still, except for the faint gurgling. Zizka called for a doctor, but nobody moved. He repeated his call.
Finally, Rabbi Gans said, “All right, I’ll take a look at him.”
Big Klaus was still stunned from the fall. He had a few bruises and a broken collarbone, but he was in a lot better shape than he had a right to be. The other one was blackened and burnt, with a single chest wound where one of his ribs had stopped the blade from going through his heart. Rabbi Gans tended to them while Zizka shackled their hands behind their backs.
Only then did Zizka call for the victim’s father to be brought forward. While the sheriff’s men were combing the streets calling Janek’s name, Rabbi Gans looked up and said, “There’s something I need you to help me with.”
He asked me to apply pressure while he cleaned and dressed the mercenary’s wound, but I think he was just trying to keep me occupied and somehow bring me back into the land of the living.
The crowd made room for the city guards returning with Viktor Janek. The Praguers even showed some respect for Rabbi Loew, and let him through as well, along with another Jew. My eyes were still watery from all the smoke, but it looked like Jacob Federn. His clothes were filthy, and he shuffled along like an old beggar who’s afraid they’ll set the dogs on him. But he was alive and in one piece despite all that had befallen him.
One of the city guards handed Janek a loaded pistol. Then Janek stood facing the men who had murdered his daughter.
The first mercenary, who told us his name was Gottschalk, said in his defense that the gun had gone off by accident, and that Big Klaus was the one who had slit the girl’s throat. He started to say something else, but Janek raised the pistol and convinced him to keep his mouth shut. It was too late for words, anyway.
The three of them faced each other for a long moment, then Janek uncocked the pistol and handed it back to Zizka. “I do not forgive you,” he told the men. “But I will let you live. And may the Good Lord judge you in His own time.”
Janek turned and walked away.
The mob started to break up. And like the inhabitants of an enchanted castle casting off a century of slumber, the Jews sprang into action, manning the hand pumps and breaking out the buckets. It’s a good thing there was plenty of water in the wells. A rabbi with a Volhynian accent ordered a group of dedicated young men to pull down the weakened buildings with axes and hooks to keep the fire from spreading. Then somebody rolled out a barrel of wine, and soon we were all freely passing the water buckets from hand to hand. I got a few stares, but after Rabbi Gans wrapped a rag around my blistered hand, they let me take a few turns at the water pump.
We fell into a steady rhythm, and it wasn’t long before a sound that seemed to come out of nowhere penetrated my senses. A lone voice was rising, and soon the others were joining in, taking up the lilting melody of the first of the Hallel Psalms, songs of praise that we feel in our bones, which we sing when a prisoner is set free, a sick man recovers