“That’s all true enough, but now he has promised us protection, and an organisation of that kind is against the law and may lead to trouble,” Vigdoroff said with perfunctory irritation.
“And an organisation of rioters is not against the law? And robbing and killing innocent people is not against the law? Long life to you, sir; you’re so wise, so educated and yet you are speaking like a baby. Look here, sir! If the governor—a plague take him—is as good as his word, and he does not allow the riot to get started, well and good. Then we’ll call the bargain off. But suppose he proves to be neither better nor worse than all governors?”
Zelig knew of a number of other Jewish artisans who were anxious to join the “committee,” and he urged Vigdoroff to visit their gathering and to give them a talk like the one Zelig had heard from him at the Synagogue on that Friday night. “Oh, that was sweet as sugar,” he said, kissing two of his dirty fingers. “You see, when it comes to striking a scoundrel’s snout such a blow as will set his eyes raining sparks, we want no help. That we can manage ourselves, but we are only common people, and when a smart man like you says a couple of words, they simply go melting in a fellow’s bones.”
“But I don’t know anything about the ‘committee.’”
Zelig laughed familiarly. “Sender-the-Arbitrator’s son doesn’t know! If you only had the desire, you could belong to it yourself and introduce us fellows, too.”
“Very well. I’ll consider it. And I should advise you men to do the same.”
“Consider it! We are only plain uneducated people, but we aren’t going to do any considering. I have a sister, sir, and if a Gentile lays a finger on her he’ll be a dead man, I can tell you that. Jewish blood is being spilled by the bucket and here you are talking of ‘considering.’” He insisted that Vladimir should attend the meeting of his informal society, and Vladimir, completely in his power, promised to do so.
That evening, in a spacious barn, half of which was crowded with barrels of herring, Vladimir found Zelig and some fifteen chums of his. Zelig was playing with a huge iron key. He was employed here and the meeting was held by his employer’s permission. For more than nine persons to assemble without a police permit is a crime; so it gave Vigdoroff satisfaction to reflect that he was now incurring risks similar to those incurred by Clara and her friends. The gathering seemed to be made up of mechanics and labourers exclusively. One of the men present was the sneering fellow whom Vigdoroff had seen at the synagogue. Of the others Vladimir’s attention was attracted by two big burly young butchers with dried-up blood about their finger-nails, a chimney-sweep, who looked like a jet-black negro, with white teeth and red lips, and three men with medals from the late war which they apparently expected to act as an amulet against Gentile rowdies. The chimney-sweep sat apart, cracking sunflower seeds. Now and again he made as though to throw his sooty arms round somebody’s neck and then burst into laughter over his own joke. All the others looked grave. They showed Vigdoroff much respect and attention. Even the sneering man made a favourable impression on him to-night. Only he himself was so ill at ease he could scarcely take part in the conversation. Other men came. When one of these proved to be Motl, the trunk-maker in his aunt’s employ, Vigdoroff felt somewhat more at home.