Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel by Boris Akunin Read Free Book Online

see for myself from his cross and cap that he’s a bishop. Let him complain. Tell them—tell them that in your person Aron Shefarevich has insulted the Christian Church!”
    These words had a surprising effect on His Reverence. Instead of growing even more heated, he fell silent. No doubt he had recalled that as a provincial bishop he had the power of the state and the dominant church behind him. What real dispute could there be?
    He had noticed Pelagia, too, and he felt ashamed.
    “You are too wrathful, Rabbi, like your own Judaic God,” the bishop said after a pause. “That is why so few hear His voice. But our apostle Paul said: ‘Let all irritation and fury be far removed from you.’”
    And having fired this final salvo at the enemy, he withdrew with dignity, although Pelagia could see from the excessive straightness of his stance and the tight way he was clenching his fingers behind his back that Mitrofanii was seriously annoyed—not with the insolent rabbi, of course, but with himself, for entering into a pointless and unseemly squabble.
    Knowing perfectly well that when His Reverence was in this kind of mood it was best to keep away from him, the nun did not go hurrying after her spiritual father, but chose instead to linger where she was. And in any case, she had to reassure the poor Jews.
    “What’s your name?” she asked a skinny, hook-nosed youth, who was staring after the bishop in fright.
    “Shmulik,” he replied with a shudder, and began staring at the nun with the same fright in his eyes. “Why?”
    How pale he is , thought Pelagia, feeling sorry for the boy. He needs to eat better and spend more time playing outside, but he probably spends all day from morning till night poring over the Talmud .
    “You tell your teacher there’s no need to be afraid,” she said. “Bishop Mitrofanii won’t complain to anyone.”
    Shmulik tugged on the sidelock coiled around his ear and declared triumphantly.
    “Rabbi Shefarevich isn’t afraid of anything. He’s a great man. He’s been summoned to Erushalaim by the khakham-bashi himself, to help fortify the holy city against vacillation.” Pelagia had no idea who the khakham-bashi was, but she nodded respectfully. “To fortify Erushalaim!” Shmulik’s eyes glinted in ecstasy. “Eh? See how highly they think of our rabbi! He is firm in the faith, like a rock. Do you know who he is? He is the new Shamai, that’s who!”
    The nun had read about the intransigent Shamai, the founder of ancient Phariseeism. But of all the Pharisees she preferred a different religious teacher, the uncensorious Gillel. The same Gillel who, when asked about the essential core of God’s law, replied with the single sentence: “Do not do unto others what you yourself find hurtful—that is all the law, the rest is mere commentary on it.”
    Once again the deck was wreathed in tattered cotton wool, and the despondent figures of the Jews quivered and paled and became like ghosts. This made the sound of singing even more surprising: it came from the center of the deck, from somewhere below the captain’s bridge. The young voices launched into a very harmonious choral rendition of the student song “Dubinushka.”
    Not students, surely? Pelagia wanted to listen, but as she was walking through the milky white soup, the singing came to an end. The voices had just got into their stride, just passionately declared: “Of all songs, one is engraved in my memory, it is the song of the workers’ artel,” but they didn’t give the whoop that should have followed. The choir disintegrated, the song choked off, and the unison shattered into discordant hubbub. The nun, however, continued on her way, determined to see what kind of young people these were.
    They weren’t students, although at first glance they were similar: from their faces and clothes and the words that reached her ears, Pelagia could tell that they were settlers moving to Jewish Palestine.
    “You’re wrong,