Judith Trachtenberg: A Novel

by Karl Emil Franzos

Wroblewski became sober instantly. "I thought--well, what did I think? I believe it will end well, after all. As regards the girl, I trust to your skill. It would be sad if the pretty creature perished so miserably."

"Yes," was the answer, "it would be sad, and also very disagreeable for you."

"For me? But, my dearest doctor, you surely do not think I am afraid of the complaint made by the girl's father to the government. Little can be done to the count, and nothing to me. Mon Dieu! we are living in a country where the law is respected. The government will surely act according to law and order, and hand over the document to be examined by--"

"Yourself?"

"Not by myself, but by the magistracy here. That is a great difference. Just see," he continued, pathetically, "what a revengeful people these Jews are. Instead of making his peace with God, the old man used his last span of life in elaborating and carrying out a plan of revenge on those he supposed were his enemies."

"Although they treated him like Christians!" said the doctor, and his white moustache worked again. "But I believe the case to be otherwise. Nathaniel Trachtenberg would have died sooner if he had not felt compelled to fulfil this last mandate of conscience. That is also the conviction of my colleague, the town doctor. We watched with surprise and emotion the power of mind over matter; the feeble body sustained by the iron will. I was the first physician with him the morning of his daughter's flight, as my colleague was absent. He got up, it seemed, after the old servant told him her knocking at Judith's door had been useless, and, going to her room, he broke the oaken planks with the weight of his body as if they had been straw. He read the note he found on her table, and fell to the floor. It was a stroke which affected the brain partially, and the whole of the left side. When, an hour after the seizure, I went to the bedside to open a vein, I said to myself, 'You are tormenting a dying man. He won't survive the evening,' he looked inquiringly at me, and babbled something with his paralyzed tongue. As I could not understand, he wrote, 'How long have I?' I was on the point of lying; but when I looked at him I could not, but answered that it rested in God's hands. He wrote again: 'Have mercy, and give me three weeks;' and the look he gave me I shall never forget. By that time the elders of the congregation had assembled, and he began to write his wishes, which were immediately obeyed. One messenger was sent to his relatives, another to his lawyer, and another to Dr. Romberg, a solicitor in Lemberg. I objected at first; but when I saw how his eye grew brighter and brighter and his writing more and more distinct, I felt, so to say, queer, and allowed it to go on. Then came the most serious difficulty. He longed for his son in Heidelberg, and they calculated it would take five weeks to reach him, if summoned by letter. But in less than ten minutes a young fellow was found who was willing to travel night and day. So, you see, my dear sir, though much can be said against the Jews, they have at least a great regard for the dying and the dead."

"Too great, alas!" ejaculated Herr von Wroblewski. "I don't wish to throw a stone at the dead man, for he was blinded by hate. But how is it these people, usually so prudent, allow themselves to be incited against me? It will be their own destruction. I know for certain that this Jewish scribbler from Lemberg, the most clever quibbler in Galicia, has drawn up quite an accusation against me; and these people, who generally hardly dare to breathe in my presence, crowded up to sign it. Of course, it was lies, nothing but lies, 'pon my honor! You must acknowledge, doctor, a Christian would never have spent his last breath in hatching plans of revenge."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Possibly it was not merely a desire for revenge that urged him on. My colleague and myself witnessed these exciting daily scenes, of course, at the bedside of the deceased, most unwillingly, and protested against them. But he always replied--" The old gentleman paused.

"Well?" said Wroblewski, "one whose conscience is as clear as mine can listen to anything."

"His answer was: 'It is this duty which keeps me alive. It cries to heaven that such a man should be a judge. I will not go before God's throne until I have done my utmost to purify the earth from him.' Pardon me, Herr von Wroblewski!"