The Origin of Sorrow (5 page)

Guttle wished that Joan of Arc had been Jewish. Her name then would have been Jennie Aron, as in Aron Kodesh. She would have been revered in the lane, just as the women of the Pentateuch were. Guttle was happy for Izzy in part because history intrigued her. The Holy Roman Empire was so scattered that little of interest had happened there, as far as she knew, but neighboring France had been alive with heroes, with vast adventures. Sitting on her bed by the third-floor window, trying to put the dead Schul-Klopper out of her mind, she pulled from her shelf her favorite book,
The History of France from Hugh Cept to Louis IV;
her father, approving of her interest, had bought her a German translation for her fourteenth birthday. She had been enthralled by all of it, but nothing could equal the story of Jennie Aron. Jennie had been only seventeen when God told her to lead the armies of France into battle, to drive out the English, who had taken over her country. Covered head to toe in armor, sword in hand, Jennie had gone to war. Guttle herself still had a year and a half before she reached seventeen — plenty of time for Yahweh to speak to her, to tell her to tear down the gates. She would do it fiercely, if only He would show her how. She kicked off her shoes and stretched out on her bed, wiggling her toes, and opened the book to Jennie’s story. When her chores were done she liked more than anything to read; her books allowed her to escape from the lane. But here was the terrible illustration — Jennie being burned at the stake. The French girl was looking toward the heavens while flames around her knees crept higher. Some of the spectators were laughing.

Guttle shivered, as not the voice of Yahweh but a chill wind blew through the open window. She thought again of what she had been trying to keep out of her mind. The questions the Doctor had asked her about the spilled milk. Later she had seen him going into the Rabbi’s study. The Doctor was not very pious; she had never seen him go there before. She had a strong feeling that something was very wrong, and that it had to do with the death of the Schul-Klopper. She closed her eyes against the vision that assaulted her, and the terrible word: Disease. Had the Schul-Klopper died of the smallpox? Or the plague? Would pock marks blow through the lane like poisoned leaves, spreading pain and death?

She tried to calm herself. If that were the case, the Chief Rabbi or the Doctor would already have made an announcement about what should be done.

As Hiram and Hersch Liebmann strode the cobbles together, a stranger might have mistaken them for twins. Both were broad-shouldered, their arms and legs well-muscled. Both kept their hair long but their faces beardless. They wore faded clothes Yetta had bought at one of the rag picker shops. Their shirts were open at the neck, a tangle of chest hair poking through. Their sturdy faces were similar, though Hiram’s features were leaner. Hersch at twenty-four was two years older. He wore a dark blue yarmulke pinned to his hair; his job at the synagogue required one. Hiram’s head was bare; he would worship no God that had deprived him from birth of hearing, of speech.

An occasional rag picker or dealer in junk furniture waved at them as they passed. Most people in the street did not. The boys were not outcasts, there just seemed no reason for them to be included in other peoples’ lives. When Solomon Gruen a few years back hired Hersch as janitor at the synagogue, most people accepted it, but nobody cheered.

Their first stop was at the coffin maker. They found the coffin leaning against the wall outside. Hersch pointed to the narrow lower end, grabbed the wider end himself, and together they carried the empty box down the lane and across the trench to the hospital. At the direction of Doctor Berkov, they placed it on a low table in a small room. Through the doorway of an adjoining room Hiram saw on another table a long shape covered by a sheet.

They left the hospital quickly and crossed to the synagogue. Hiram waited outside. He pulled his watch from his pocket. Barely more than a minute passed before Hersch emerged with Rabbi Simcha, the second in command, and together the three walked toward the south gate. Just before reaching it they turned right. The cemetery spread before them, the only piece of visible land remaining in the Judengasse. Gray tombstones, many listing at odd angles, seemed to grow in uneven rows all the way to the ghetto wall, which veered away in a slight arc to accommodate the graves. The burial ground was older than the Judengasse; it had been there when the Jews of Frankfurt were free to come and go. The oldest grave was from the Christian year 1234. More than five thousand graves had been dug since.

The boys grabbed weathered spades that lay inside the cemetery gate. They followed as Rabbi Simcha, walking among the stones, reading an epitaph here, another there, looking for a spot in which to fit Solomon Gruen. Near the center of the cemetery, he stopped. “Let’s do it here,” he said, looking at both, then realizing, speaking only to Hersch. “It’s the Becker plot, but there are no more Beckers here. They moved to France years ago. The graves are tight, but Solomon Gruen had no family, we’ll squeeze him in. He was a good man. I don’t think the Beckers will mind.”

“If they do, they won’t complain,” Hersch said.

The Rabbi put a hand to his lips to hide a small grin. He was not sure if Hersch was indulging in morbid humor or was just being crude.

Thirty-six years old, Rabbi Emil Simcha was a slim man, with a calm demeanor despite intense dark eyes that peered, ever curious, above his full brown beard. A pink scar ran from above his left eye to his left temple. His cheeks were pitted with souvenirs of smallpox. Pacing off where the grave should be, he took Hiram’s spade and drew a narrow rectangle in the dirt. When he handed the spade back, Hiram waved his free hand in front of him, and made knocking motions with his fist. He pointed at the ground. When the Rabbi hesitated, uncertain, Hiram repeated the motions in reverse, pointing to the earth, knocking in the air, tapping his hand on his chest.

“Yes,” the Rabbi said, nodding, mouthing his words slowly to Hiram, not knowing if he could read lips. “The grave is for the Schul-Klopper. You’ll dig his grave here.”

Hiram nodded vigorously. The Rabbi replied with two nods of his own. He was glad to have communicated, though he was not sure he understood all that had been said.

The Lord speaks in many tongues, the Rabbi thought as he left the brothers. We are deaf mutes in front of Him. We cannot hear, neither can we reply. Yet we pity the obviously deaf and dumb among us — but not ourselves.

Restless, Guttle asked her sister Amelia if she would help pump water for the Sabbath. Seven years old, with bright blue eyes that were unusual in the lane, and pale brown hair, Amelia did a skip and jump, indicating she was eager and ready. She loved working the hand pump, watching the water spurt as if by magic from beneath the ground. Guttle lifted a large bucket from beside the stove, handed a kettle to the child and took a larger kettle herself. Together they went down the stairs and through a narrow passage three houses down the lane that led to the space in the rear where the pumps grew like a stunted iron tree between the front and rear rows of tenements. Guttle set the bucket in the mud under the spout. Amelia, using both hands, primed the pump vigorously, until water began to fall from the spout and splash into the bucket.

When it was almost full, Guttle, straining, lifted the heavy bucket away from the spout and set a kettle in its place, and Amelia began to pump again. They needed enough water till Sunday; pumping on the Sabbath would violate the day of rest.

“Will you dance with me tomorrow night?” Amelia asked as she pumped.

“I don’t think there will be dancing this week.”

“But there’s always dancing on Saturday night.”

“The Schul-Klopper died today. I don’t think the men will bring out their fiddles. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

The child stopped pumping as the kettle overflowed. Guttle replaced it with the smaller one.

“Didn’t the Schul-Klopper go to heaven?” Amelia asked.

“I’m sure he did. He was a devout man.”

“Isn’t going to heaven good? Shouldn’t people be happy for him?”

“That’s a good thought. But grown-ups don’t seem to look at it that way.”

The child stopped pumping. The water had filled the second kettle.

“I’ve got an idea,” Guttle said. “Why don’t we dance now?”

“Here? People might see.”

“They always see in the lane.” She took the child’s hands in hers, and led her a few metres from the pump, to where the ground was dry.

“There isn’t any music.”

“Listen to the music in your head.”

Humming, Guttle began to turn her sister in a slow dance. Amelia heard her inner music, danced more rapidly, causing Guttle to spin. Guttle was hearing a waltz; the child seemed to hear a polka.

“Swing me, now!” Amelia said, and as she ran in a rapid circle around Guttle she lifted her legs off the ground and their arms stretched taut. Guttle, whirling in place, spun her about, the child’s legs extended full out under her green dress, her hair flying behind her. Around and around she swung, her feet inches off the ground, till her arms tired and she let her legs sink and dragged the toes of her scuffed and muddy shoes, and stumbled to a stop. The grinning faces of both sisters were flushed. Wiping perspiration from her forehead, slightly dizzy, Guttle stepped backwards, and nearly bumped into Eva Hess, the rag picker’s wife, who put a hand forward to prevent a collision, and placed an empty kettle on the ground.

“Looks as if you were going around in circles, Amelia,” the slim young mother said.

“That’s what Jews do.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If we went in a straight line, we’d bump into a wall.”

Guttle looked at Eva, but spoke to Amelia. “Who told you that, Ami?”

“Nobody told me. It’s obvious.”

Eva looked at the child. “The lane is a cruel teacher.”

Climbing the stairs, Guttle felt confident she would not lay awake that night thinking of the Schul-Klopper’s body. She had seen a body before, when her brother Joseph had taken ill and died; she’d been nine at the time, and Joseph four. But Amelia’s picture of Jews walking in circles, exhausting circles with no end in sight, was an image new to her. A weary carousel, without color or destination — already it turned and turned before her eyes.

4

“
He asked you for your hand? Surely he knows better.”

“He thinks no father would turn him down.”

“He may be right. A Cantor in the family would be sweet. So, if you feel that way, why do you lead him on?”

“I don’t lead him on. I merely walk with him.”

“At night!”

“In the evening. The lane is narrow, when you walk you are always walking with someone. Besides, we always go to the cemetery. That’s hardly a place for courting.”

“Then why do you go there?”

“It’s deserted in the evening. He sings to me there.”

“Guttle! You let him sing to you?”

“Not to me! He sings arias, from the operas he knows. He tells me stories, of Milan and Berlin, where he studied. He describes the operas. I view him as a teacher, and I his student.”

“Your father took you to see opera once, at the Prince’s court.”

“You think I don’t remember? Prevus and Euridyce, by Glock. The costumes were so beautiful — and the music. It soared! No doubt that’s why I admire Viktor’s songs.”

“Perhaps tonight, after the funeral, his father will ask your Papa for your hand. I doubt your Papa would say no.”

“No!”

“Viktor’s father, Jacob Marcus, is a moneylender. He comes from a good family.”

“You mean a wealthy one!”

“The boy himself may have come into wealth today, when his uncle passed away. Solomon Gruen had no children of his own.”

“I didn’t know the Schul-Klopper was Viktor’s uncle. But his mother is a shrew.”

“That may be true. But you will marry whom your Papa wishes. The Cantor, who is wealthy now, could be the perfect match.”

“No.”

“It’s so.”

“No!”

“It’s so!”

“No, no, no, no, no!”

She selected Sabbath clothing and carried it to the washing-up closet. Pouring water from a kettle into the wash basin, she stripped off her clothes and began to scrub herself with a soapy cloth. She would have liked to go to the communal bath, but on Fridays it was reserved for men, so they could bathe before the Sabbath. She soaped under her arms, looked in the mirror above the wooden commode, lathered under her breasts. Nice enough, she thought, though she had never caught up in size with her friend Dvorah Schlicter; that contest she’d lost forever. She washed away the soap and dried herself with a towel and put on the clothes she’d chosen for the funeral: a black skirt to go with her black cloak, and a beige silk blouse, one of three silk blouses she owned. She could have made more but there wasn’t any point; under Frankfurt law, Jewish women could wear silk only on the Sabbath.

She peered into the children’s room. Avra had put the little ones down for a nap, and had fallen asleep herself. Until not long ago the children had been Guttle’s responsibility; she’d read them stories from the Torah till their eye-lids grew heavy. It was a way to learn more of the Torah for herself. And it put them to sleep every time. What courageous chutzpah Izzy had, she thought. A companion book to the Torah! Well, if anyone could do it, Izzy could.

She told her mother she was going out. In the street, men who’d had business in the city were hurrying in through the gate to get ready for the funeral. As a little girl she used to wait for her father impatiently every afternoon and run to the gate when she saw him coming, and hug him around the knees, till he picked her up and she kissed his cheek and he carried her to the house. She hadn’t met him there for a long time. He’d like that.

From the slaughterhouse beyond the gate came the sound of a cow lowing. She approached the gate and looked out. The new young guard from the morning still was there, his back to her. How long ago that seemed! The bell of the cathedral rang out over the city, the hourly mockery. It was not yet the Sabbath, perhaps she should go past the gate and taunt that new guard. See if he would arrest her for donning her silk blouse three hours early. But she was not feeling mischievous, just bored.

Jennie Aron, alias Jeanne d’Arc, alias Joan of Arc, stared at the entry. The high stone walls on either side curved together and formed an arch over the gates. The Maid of Orlean noticed something she’d never focused on before. Between the iron gates and the stone walls was pebble-filled cement to which the gates were attached. Cement was vulnerable. The carpenters would have tools that could chip away at it. In the dark of night the cement could be removed, and with her sword she could lead her people through the opening. A night guard with a musket was always stationed outside, he would hear the assault. She could overpower him — but what then? That was the larger question. Her fellow Jews could get outside the gates — but their homes, their shops, their schul would remain within. They would have no place to go. Only she, the leader, if caught, would have a destination — the Frankfurt prison across the river, with its narrow cells, its stench, its rats, its gallows. Jennie might be executed a second time.

Idling backwards, Guttle found herself on the precise spot where she’d discovered Herr Gruen’s body. Quickly she jumped away, out of fear or respect. One shoe landed on the edge of a muddy cobble, her ankle turned, sprained; she shuddered, as if she had trod upon a soul.

Across the river from the Judengasse, not far from the Sachsenhauser Bridge and the Fahrtor Gate, which was the principal entrance to Frankfurt, a black carriage pulled by a snorting white horse rolled to a stop at a stable. The driver, who was the lone occupant, stepped down amid the smell of horses and manure. He handed the reigns to a stable boy and walked towards the office to settle his bill. He was a short, stout man with an ample belly packed into a tight-fitting blue coat and vest, gray knee-breeches and gray stockings. On his head was a black three-cornered hat, partially covering a stylish but unpowdered wig. His shoes had silver buckles, his white blouse was ruffled at the collar. The man was Wolf Schnapper — husband to Emmie, father to Guttle, Avra, Amelia, Rifka and Benjamin. He was a successful moneychanger, the trusted personal banker to the Prince of Sachsen-Meiningen. He handled the Prince’s investments, changed money for him when he was going to travel, provided loans at low interest when the Prince needed a new stallion, a new carriage, a new mistress. The fact that the principality was a small one did not lessen Wolf Schnapper’s pride in his position.

In the stable office, Wolf signed his name to a ledger. His credit was good here, he settled his account promptly at the end of the month. The stable manager put a mark beside the signature, indicating that horse and carriage had not been ill used.

As he stepped outside, Schnapper heard the pounding of a horse racing along the hard-packed dirt road. With a strong pull on the reins the rider tugged a stunning black stallion to a stop at the gate, and leaped off. He was a younger man, twenty-five, tall and lean, with a short brown beard, wearing a three-cornered hat much like Schnapper’s, but no wig. He was dressed less formally than the Court Factor — brown knee-breeches, loose white blouse, leather vest, well-worn shoes. A small leather pouch hung from his waist.

“Meyer Amschel!” Schnapper called as he approached the younger man, a neighbor who lived a few houses away. “You were riding like a bandit. Look, you’re out of breath.”

“So’s the horse,” the young man said. He handed the reins to the stable boy and took several deep breaths. His smile suggested he was pleased with his ride, and also with his dismount. He wiped the sweat from his face, from the small trimmed beard on his chin.

“Is the public coach not dangerous enough for you?” Schnapper asked.

“Not fast enough. I wanted to be back for the funeral. I imagine that’s why you’re early as well.”

“Exactly so. But there are cutthroats on the highway, it’s not safe to ride alone.”

“So they say.”

Schnapper shook his head, disapproving of the young man’s recklessness. He knew Meyer Amschel was an orphan, had been for many years, had no father to caution him. Then Schnapper realized that he himself had traveled alone today. But that was different, he felt protected by his closeness to the Prince.

“Will you walk across the bridge with me?”

Meyer Amschel replied that of course he would. First he went in to see the manager. He did not have the credit the Court Factor did, he had paid in coins for the rental of the horse; now he received back in coins the deposit he had left for its safe return.

“Will you be wanting Blacker again tomorrow?” the manager asked.

“Not tomorrow.” Tomorrow would be the Sabbath.

Schnapper was waiting when Meyer stepped outside. Together they walked toward the bridge. A light breeze was raising ripples in the river as it flowed east towards its confluence with the Rhine less than thirty kilometres downstream. The bridge had been built as a series of fourteen stone arches under which the water flowed. Small boats could slip under the arches with their sails intact. For larger ships coming up from the Rhine, the journey ended at Frankfurt. They couldn’t fit under the bridge.

Meyer Amschel strode briskly, then slowed his pace to accommodate the older man’s shorter legs. As they began to cross they could see commercial buildings with gabled roofs lining the waterfront that stretched away to the west. Almost directly ahead, just west of the bridge, were the towers of the church of St. Bartholomew, where each new Emperor was crowned. Just east of the bridge were the walls of the Judengasse.

“So,” Schnapper asked as they walked, “how is the antique coin business?”

“I can’t complain,” the younger man said. “I know it’s not as good as the factor business.”

“There’s nothing better, for us Jews,” Schnapper said. “Since I was named Court Factor a year ago, my business has tripled. Just the title of Court Jew — the fact that I’m the court’s official banker, that people know the Prince is borrowing from me — makes me more in demand.”

“Before, merchants wouldn’t take your money?”

“Now they’re willing to pay higher interest. Borrowing where a Prince borrows makes them feel better. They stop complaining. They stop calling it usury. They start admitting that interest is a cost of doing business.”

The men reached the midpoint of the bridge. Here, if one looked over the sides, there was a feeling almost of floating as the river stretched endlessly in both directions before it curved out of sight. Light clouds scudding by overhead, reflected on the surface of the water, could cause a fleeting rush of motion, as if the bridge were a magic carpet. Sometimes, when he was alone, Meyer would stand here for a long time, letting the current take his mind to distant places, carrying with it his distant dreams. But today the men were in a hurry, and did not pause. Schnapper did not care to look in any case, being prone to attacks of dizziness

“So, where did that fine-looking horse carry you today?”

“Mainz,” Meyer replied.

“Did you find any treasures in Mainz, if I may ask?”

“One in particular.” Meyer lifted the leather pouch from his belt, stopped walking and searched through it. He pulled out a small, dirty coin.

“This is a treasure?” Schnapper asked.

“It will be, after I clean it better. It’s ancient. From Mesopotamia.”

“The land of the Torah,” Schnapper said, nodding. “If you don’t mind my prying, how much will you sell this for?”

Meyer took the coin back from him and returned it to the pouch. “That depends,” he said. “Whatever Crown Prince Wilhelm is willing to pay for it.”

“You’re doing business with the Crown Prince?”

They resumed walking along the bridge. The shorter man looked at the other’s face with a doubting smile.

“I intend to begin,” Meyer Amschel said. “With this coin.”

“What if his royal honor doesn’t want it?”

“He’s a collector. Any collector would want it.”

“And if he won’t meet your price?”

“Then I’ll meet his.”

“What if he offers you less than you paid for it? You’ll take a loss?”

“I won’t look at it as a loss. I’ll consider it an investment.” He looked off into the distance, seeing things that only he could see. A gull crossed his line of sight carrying a fish in its mouth. “It will be an investment in future business with the Crown Prince. At which time, I’ll have such treasures that he’ll meet my price.”

Schnapper peered at him, trying to conceal any expression. This was an unorthodox approach to finance. They walked in silence. A small boat with its sail unfurled passed beneath the bridge. They could feel the river’s current in their feet as it lapped against the arches.

“You know something, Meyer Amschel,” Schnapper said. “I’m becoming a rich man. Not rich by Gentile standards, of course, but rich in the lane. My children, Dank Gott, will never go hungry. I can even give a bit to charity. I venture to guess I’m one of the twenty richest men in the Judengasse. But approaching the Crown Prince? Suddenly I have a feeling you may surpass me one day, if you’re not careful.”

“Then I must try not to be careful,” Meyer said.

“You must also continue to have good luck. As you did in finding that coin.”

Meyer paused to tighten his purse, which was hanging too low and banging against his thigh. “With all respect, sir, I don’t believe in luck.”

“In what, then? Fate? Were you fated to find that coin from Mesopotamia? Perhaps Abraham himself blessed it and said, One day Meyer Amschel in the Judengasse of Frankfurt shall have this coin.”

“That would be nice to believe. The more modest explanation is this: I received word yesterday that a certain coin dealer in Mainz had obtained such a coin. Taking passage on the public coach today would have gotten me home too late for the funeral, as we have discussed. Tomorrow is the Sabbath, so I could not travel to Mainz. Sunday the gates of the lane remain locked. Monday would be the earliest I could go to see it. Possibly some Gentile dealer would have bought it by then. That’s why I rented the fastest horse in the stable, and rode him to weariness. So I would have the best chance to buy the coin. Luck was not involved. Those who trust to luck get second best.”

“Ah,” the court factor said. “But you happened to learn about the coin right away. Was that not luck?”

“I have made friends in various towns. They keep me informed by post of what is available. Luck, in my view, is three-fourths information.”

“And these friends of yours in various towns. They are loyal to you, they keep you informed, because … ?”