Morris lowered the binoculars. "Well, that's it. For the moment, anyway."
He heard Mordechai Spira clear his throat. "We will not take sides in this, Don Morris. None of us have any love for the Habsburgs, but… Wallenstein… It was he, you know, who had poor Jacob Stein guarded by dogs under the gallows while he extorted eleven thousand florins from us."
"Yes, I know. But the fact was that Stein had broken the law-even if unwittingly-and there are plenty of goyishe princes who would have executed him after squeezing the silver from us. And it is also a fact that Wallenstein eventually exonerated Hanok ben Mordechai Altschul, who had also been accused, when many a goyishe prince-most of them-would never have bothered distinguishing a guilty Jew from an innocent."
He turned his head and looked at Spira. The rabbi's eyes were a little wide. "You know the history of it?" he asked, obviously surprised.
"I know a great deal of history," Morris said harshly. He was on the verge of uttering some bitter phrases-more than phrases, entire paragraphs-on the ineffectual role generally played by Orthodox rabbis when the Nazi Holocaust swept over eastern Europe's Jewry.
But, thankfully, he managed to swallow them. Mordechai Spira seemed a well-meaning man, and young Jason liked and admired him-and, most of all, it was simply unfair to blame a man or even a group of men for the faults and failures of other men in a completely different time and place.
"I know a great deal of history," Morris repeated, but this time softly, almost sighing the words. "I only wish I knew what to do with that knowledge."
Inadvertently, his eyes drifted eastward. Spira's eyes followed his gaze.
"You are worried about the Ukraine, I know. Jason has told me."
"Will you help me, then?"
The rabbi hesitated, but not for more than a second or two. "I will do everything I can, Don Morris, which I feel I can do in good conscience."
Morris thought about it. "I guess I can live with that."
He went back to studying the city with his binoculars. "I do not know what is going to happen now, Rabbi. But you are not pacifists."
"No, we are not."
"You will defend the ghetto, whether or not you take sides in this business." It was a command, not a question. "I do not know if there will be trouble, but there may be. Not from Wallenstein or Pappenheim, but the Habsburgs. Or, for that matter, who knows what Holk and his butchers will do, when they get the news."
"Yes," replied Spira. "We will do our best, at least. Though we have no weapons beyond tools and kitchen knives."
Morris chuckled, and lowered the binoculars. "That's what you think. Show him, Jason."
Ten minutes later, Mordechai Spira's eyes were wider yet. Jason and Dunash's people-who'd arrived at the Morris mansion just moments earlier-were hauling the muskets out of the crates in the basement and stacking them against the walls.
"I was able to bring two hundred, which was all Mike Stearns told me he could spare," Morris explained. "These are the new flintlocks. You'll need to have Jason explain how they work. They're not really much different from matchlocks, just better. I assume that in a ghetto of some fifteen thousand people, there have to be at least a few hundred who've handled firearms before."
Spira nodded. "Oh, yes. Many are here from the small villages, where things are less regulated. And there are at least a few dozen former seamen."
"We can help too!" Dunash said eagerly.
Morris glared at him. "You are taking sides in this business, young man-and you have commitments already. Red and Billek are counting on you to man the katyusha. So get your ass out of here."
Dunash hesitated. But Jason spoke up, very firmly. "Do as he says, Dunash. All of you."
The young Abrabanel firebrands and their new recruits-there were almost twenty of them, now-immediately left. The rabbi turned his head to watch them go, before bringing his gaze to Jason. It was almost as he were examining him.
Then, he smiled. "I have great hopes for you, young man. I think you will make a splendid rabbi."
Now he looked at Jason's chevrusah. "Spread the word, Schmuel. We want only men who know how to use guns. No point in trying to teach complete novices."
After Schmuel raced out, Spira chuckled. "Such as myself. Tell me, Don Morris, are you familiar with guns?"
Before answering him-by way of answer, rather-Morris went to another crate and drew out a different weapon. This one, unlike the others, was encased in a fancy covering rather than simple cloth.
He unzipped the guncase and drew out the rifle. "This is a much better gun than those flintlocks, Rabbi. I've owned it for many years. It is called-well, never mind. Yes, I know how to use it. I was a soldier in the American army, some years ago. In fact, I'm quite a good shot."
Spira seemed to be examining him, now. Morris shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. "Look, Rabbi, it's not just my military training. In the world I came from my wife and children and I were the only Jews in our town. And it's a mountain country town, where everybody hunts."
He looked down at the rifle, caressing the sleek stock. "The strange thing about it-perhaps-is that I never actually hunted myself. Hunting is not part of our traditions and customs."
Spira nodded. "No, it is not. We may only eat meat which has been properly slaughtered by a schohet."
Morris smiled wryly; almost bitterly. "Ah, yes, all those rules. Most of which I do not agree with but still often find it hard to ignore completely. Like hunting." He raised the rifle a bit, as if starting to bring it to his shoulder, and then lowered it again.
"But, you see, Rabbi… it would have been standoffish for me not to join my friends in their favorite sport. So, I did, even though I never shot any deer. I just went along. I always enjoyed the outdoors anyway. And-I don't know-I suppose just in order to prove that the reason I didn't wasn't because-well-"
He shifted his shoulders again. "I was one of the best shots on the rifle range and everybody knew it. So my friends-yes, gentile friends, I had lots of them-still do-would tease me about it. But not much, and not hard, and only in fun."
He gave Spira something of a challenging stare. Spira looked away, but Morris didn't think it was because the rabbi was afraid of the challenge, or trying to avoid it.
"There are many wise and wonderful sayings in the midrash, Don Morris. 'When in a city, follow its customs' is one of them."
Morris swallowed. He'd heard that one before, from his rabbi Steve Stern, in a universe now impossible to reach.
Spira brought his gaze back. "But I think there is perhaps an even more apt saying-though not from the midrash. It is one of your American folk sayings, Jason tells me."
The rabbi gestured toward the west, where, faintly, the sounds of fighting could still be heard across the river. "We will not takes sides in this affair. But, however it is settled, we will be guided by the wisdom of the ancient Babylonian sage Schmuel. 'The law of the kingdom is the law.' That will suffice for you, I think, in the immediate period."
"Yeah," Morris gruffed. "I can live with that. For a while, at least. So can Wallenstein."
Spira nodded. "And, in the meantime, Don Morris-"
"I prefer to be called just 'Morris,' " he stated abruptly.
Spira nodded again. "As you wish. And, in the meantime, Morris… don't be a stranger."
With that, smiling, the rabbi turned away and headed for the stairs. "Now," he said over his shoulder, "I'd best see after young Schmuel-who is no sage. Indeed, he can be excessively enthusiastic. Please come with me, Jason, I could use your help."
Morris stayed alone in the basement after they left, silent, for perhaps five minutes. Then he began loading the rifle.
"Did you think it was going to be simple?" he muttered to himself. "You dummy."
Chapter V: Castling
July, 1633