“How many?”
He fought to breathe, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Ten sledges. Maybe more. I didn’t wait to see. I saw the first one though. A pile of potato sacks.”
Instantly, some of the men turned and ran down the hill. Others held back and looked to Hershel with panic in their eyes. “All right,” he said quietly, making his voice even and calm. “We’ll get ready. We’ll be all right. But we have to hurry, there’s much to do.”
When they got back to the square, he took the best shots aside and gave them the guns and what cartridges he had left. He called them the naturals, to build their confidence. In reality he knew they couldn’t hit anything, but at least they wouldn’t shoot each other. He told them to go to the firehouse and put on the uniforms, including the brass helmets. He told them to then go up to the rooftops. He pointed out spots along the roofline that took in the entire square. “There and there, one there, and two over there. When I give you the signal you start shooting. You won’t hit anything from that distance, but it doesn’t matter. Just empty your barrels, but don’t do it all at once.”
“What is the signal?” asked the tailor.
Hershel thought for a moment. “I don’t know yet. But you’ll know when you see it.”
The little tinsmith looked up at the snowy rooftops and paled. “How are we supposed to get up there?”
“Get the roofer. The rest of you get the axes from the firehouse and barricade yourselves in your homes.”
“There aren’t enough to go around,” someone called out from the back.
“I have some in my store,” offered the grocer.
“Good. Now go.”
The men ran off in all directions, some to the firehouse, some to the grocer’s, the rest to their homes. Hershel found a spot between two buildings that had a good view of the square and took in most of the roofline. He stood there among soggy newspapers, a rusted-out skillet, and rotting garbage and listened for the bells on the harnesses.
He soon heard them in the distance, ringing out in a variety of pitches, sounding all the more unnerving for their childish gaiety. Soon the square was filled with sledges, packed in so tightly that it was easy for a man to hand a bottle of vodka to his neighbor. Hershel looked up at the rooftops and willed the naturals to hurry.
A peasant stood up in a sledge and addressed the crowd in Surzhyk. He wore a filthy tulup, a long sheepskin coat, and valenki, long winter felt boots. His head was bare and his hair was straight and thick. He was drunk, but that didn’t stop him from standing up and addressing the crowd.
“Friends,” he said, swaying slightly on his feet. “Every day the zhyd cheats us, and what do we do about it? Every day he charges us more for sugar and tobacco. He takes our beetroots and pays us practically nothing. He says he doesn’t set the prices. Well, I would like to know who does. Do you? Does your neighbor? Maybe Baba Yaga sets the prices?” The crowded hooted at this and several men clapped.
Hershel kept scanning the rooftops. It was taking them too long.
“And now the zhyd wants our daughters,” continued the peasant. “He wants to use them as whores. To dishonor them and humiliate us.” His gestures were grander, his voice louder as he grew bolder on the approbation of the crowd. “He has taken an innocent and fouled her with his filth. Does anyone here doubt that she is as good as dead?”
Finally there was a figure on one of the rooftops. He had climbed up from the other side and was crawling over the icy shingles to the peak. There he rose cautiously to his feet, balancing in the bank of snow.
“It is time we got our own back. It is time for justice. They need a lesson. They need to know what happens to a zhyd who ruins our daughter.” The crowd was on its feet. There were shouts of agreement from all around. One man fell out of his sledge and the others laughed at him, calling him a castrated ass and other obscenities. He was too drunk to be offended.
Another figure appeared on a roof across the square from the first. He was more comfortable with heights and walked easily into place, straddling the snowy peak, keeping an eye on the square, looking for the signal.
Someone shouted from the back of the crowd: “Kill the zhydy and save Russia and the czar!”The crowd roared. Someone else picked up the cry. Kill the zhydy and save Russia and the czar!
Hershel saw two more figures get into position, their brass helmets blazing in the noonday sun. Then he saw the last figure, the tinsmith no doubt, crawling through the snow on his belly across the roof to the chimney piece, where he wrapped his arms around the bricks and clung on for dear life.
By now the crowd was stirred up from the chanting. Hershel knew that in a few moments the men would take up their axes and smash the doors down. They would hack to pieces anyone who got in their way. They would take what they wanted, including the women, kill the children, and set fire to the town.
When he stepped into the square he didn’t know exactly what he was going to do. He only knew that it all depended upon his performance and so he concentrated on that, on pacing, on slowing everything down. He slowed the way he walked into the square, the way he stepped up on the bench.
He studied the crowd while they studied him. He was a stranger and they were curious. When they had quieted down, he began to speak. He said in Surzhyk: “I am a Jew.” He looked into their faces, into their eyes. He wasn’t in a hurry and they saw that. “And you have come to kill me. But I can tell you right now that you won’t.”
A man muttered to his neighbor. Another straightened and stood up in his sledge. Someone reached for his axe and stepped out into the snow. Others stood their ground and waited to hear what the mad Jew would say next.
He saw all of this and continued. “And why won’t you kill me?” he asked the crowd. “Why wouldn’t you just cut my head off or my arm and watch me bleed to death?”
There were shouts of Υes, why don’t we? Why not?
“You won’t,” he shouted back. “And the reason is not because I’m such a good fighter. Or that you are such good men that you wouldn’t kill an unarmed man. The reason is…” and here he paused as his eyes swept the crowd. “The reason is very simple, my friends. You value your families. You value your farms and your homes. What you don’t know is that at this very minute there is a man at every barn and at every house with a bottle of coal gas, a long rag, and a match waiting for my signal to burn your farms to the ground.”
For a moment the crowd stood there in silence. Then someone shouted, “He is lying!” And another bellowed, “He is bluffing!” There were cries of fear and disbelief that soon turned to fury. The crowd began to surge forward.
“You don’t believe me?” shouted Hershel. “You want proof ?” He looked up at the rooftops and nodded. Instantly shots rang out from every side of the square.
There were screams. The crowd dropped to the ground in the snow and covered their heads. Some looked up to see where the gunshots were coming from and found avenging angels straddling the rooftops wearing golden helmets all aglow, like a crown of fire.
More shots and the crowd scattered. Some leaped into their sledges and flew off down the road. Others tried to quiet panicked horses but were trampled to death as the terrified animals galloped off, dragging their overturned sledges behind them.
It took less than five minutes, but when it was over the square was empty except for the dead. The sledges were gone. Some pogromists could still be seen on the road chasing after their horses through the snow. The only sound was the tinsmith, still clinging to the chimney, calling for help because he was afraid to let go.