The Origin of Sorrow (69 page)

Epilogue: A Birthday — 1848

Her hand quivering slightly — how she hated that — Guttle touched her cheek. Mrs. R. Never before that day among the ashes had he called her that. Later he would call her Mrs. R. or Guttle or Gutteleh, depending on his mood, though she could never calculate precisely which mood induced which endearment. On his part it was a rare inconsistency. The closest she could come to discerning a pattern, he used Mrs. R. was when he was optimistic about his future fortunes; to refine it even more, when he was optimistic with little visible reason. As if to say, “That is what the entire civilized world will know you as some day, my Gutteleh. Mrs. R.”

He was wrong about that. Nowadays the civilized world called her Madame Rothschild.

The dregs of her tea were cold. She stood and walked to the kitchen with her glass, and heard a knocking on the door downstairs. She did not put much stock in clocks — at her age, it mattered little what the time was, except when they were going to the opera and didn’t want to miss the beginning. Though often the proprietors would hold the curtain if the first mezzanine box on the right was not yet occupied. This was an embarrassment to her, but they insisted. Which is why, if she did not care to attend a performance, she made sure that someone sat in her seat. Preferably a woman. In that way she could create many “Madame Rothschilds” to be whispered about. One is never too old for games.

Another series of knocks on the door. Surely it was too early for her daughters to bring the cake. She went to the top of the stairs. “Who pounds on my door?”

“It’s Doctor Weitz.”

The Doctor? She had not summoned him. This would be an odd birthday visitor.

“Come up, Doctor, the door is not locked.”

She heard him enter the vestibule and climb the stairs. He was a young man, not forty yet, with ginger hair that reminded her of Yussel Kahn, peace be upon him.

“To what do I owe this visit?” she asked as the Doctor set his black leather bag on a table.

He removed his hat, revealing a white yarmulke underneath. His blue suit was the latest fashion among the young. “Your daughter Julie came to my office the other day. She . . .”

“Julie? What is wrong with her?

“It’s nothing, a minor ailment, don’t trouble yourself. But when I asked about you, she said you had been complaining about aches and pains. With a patient of your years, I thought I should stop by.”

“My years? Yes, I suppose I have years. I can tell mostly when I walk to the river. When you were young, Doctor, you and your sisters attended the River Academy, did you not?”

“I was there for one year, right after heder. Then it closed. I continued school in Frankfurt. What prompts your question?”

“No reason. I was just reliving memories.” She moved to a chair, eased herself into it. “Those aches and pains — also when I stand too long.” She adjusted the skirt of her green silk dress to a more graceful shape over her thick ankles.

“I was upset when the academy shut down,” the Doctor said. “I liked it. I still remember the myths and legends that building held. But too many Jews had moved from the lane. There weren’t enough students left.”

“To what legends are you referring?”

“The myth of the three heroes, mostly. We heard that before the academy was built, a school for girls stood on that spot. Someone who opposed the educating of girls set it afire. A fellow named Georgi ran into the flames, trying to save a Torah. Supposedly, he was burned to death.”

“You don’t believe that happened?”

“The problem was, each time we heard the story there was a different hero. I still remember the names. Sometimes the fellow was Georgi Kremm. Other times it was Georgi ben Avram. Other times it was Georgi Pinsky. But none of them ever existed — the older boys checked in the birth books. It was a good story, though. We used to frighten the girls with tales of his ghost.”

She thought of Georgi’s grave in the cemetery. They had neglected to look there, among the Beckers.

“There was another good story,” the Doctor said. “We used to hear that under the roof there was a special Torah. Some woman’s idea of preventing another fire. Because no Jew would burn down a building knowing there was a Torah inside. It’s what caused the academy to survive, they used to say.”

“Aren’t all Torahs special?”

“This one supposedly had been hand lettered by the great artist Lieb. But because he wasn’t pious enough, he was tutored in every word, every letter, by the famous Rabbi I. Kracauer. In his younger days, of course. Before he became Chief Rabbi.”

“This, too, you boys didn’t believe?”

“Do you know what a Torah by Lieb would be worth today? Anyway, why do you ask about the academy?”

“I walked down there yesterday,” Guttle said. “I need my exercise, as you have told me.”

“You didn’t go in, I hope,” the Doctor said with a grin. “Do you mind if I sit?” He pulled a chair closer to her.

“Of course I went in. Why walk so far and not go in?”

“To the River Tavern? It’s a den of roughnecks. Foreign sailors. The dregs of humanity. People get killed in there.”

“But they serve good beer.”

“You drink beer there?”

“If I’m feeling well. They have good stories. I’ve always enjoyed good stories.”

“You buy a round of beers, and in exchange they tell you of their adventures?”

“Doctor Weitz! Shame on you! That would hardly be seemly — to buy beer for younger men.” She grinned, hoped her new teeth were straight. “The sailors buy for me. ‘Another chilled for Madame R.,’ they shout.”

“They know who you are?”

“Of course. I suppose I remind them of their mothers. Or — I’ll say it first, Doctor — of their grandmothers.” Feeling a breeze through the window, she pulled her sleeve cuffs down from her elbows to her wrists. “No doubt I’m the only woman in the River View who won’t give them disease.”

“The River Tavern. And you — do you tell them stories?”

She waved a shaky hand. “What would seamen want with an old lady’s memories? I have wonderful memories, of course. Mostly of Meyer. Of how together we lived our dream, by seeing the walls come down. Not by our hands, of course, but with gelt. The French army helped, when they invaded Frankfurt. Their cannons destroyed a third of the Judengasse. The Council had no choice but to let those Jews without homes move into the city. The French already had given equality to their Jews, by the way, after their revolution. After they beheaded . . .but never mind that. The Frankfurt Council was not in a hurry to open the lane, until Meyer raised for them 290,000 gulden. A lot of money. A tax that was a bribe. No matter. It also helped ease the laws for the Jews. More than anything, that crowned Meyer’s life. But the seamen at the tavern don’t care about such things, and the journalists already know.”

“The journalists?”

“They shall be here later. Today is my birthday. For some reason they keep track. Ninety-six, if I don’t lie.”

“I didn’t know. Mazel tov!”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“And they will ask you why you still live in the lane, I suppose. When your five sons own palaces and banks not only in Frankfurt but in London, Paris, Vienna, Naples. When the Rothschilds are richer than kings. The richest family in the world. When kings try to borrow money to make war, it’s your sons who decide if there will be a war.”

“It’s true. One by one in his little countinghouse Meyer taught each of them the business of banking. When they came of age he sent them abroad, to blanket Europe with their influence.”

“But once again you will not tell the journalists why you still live here, with all that wealth available? The very last resident of the Judengasse?”

“A soul must have secrets, or it is no longer a soul.”

“Will you tell me? There are healthier places to live, you know. Cleaner air to breathe than here among these warehouses. Surely your sons have invited you.”

“I’m old-fashioned, Doctor. I remain loyal to my husband.”

“I know he’s buried in the cemetery here, but . . .”

“For thirty-six years already. As I said, Meyer taught our sons to make money, and sent them out to the Promised Lands. But he never went himself, not even after he opened up the gates. He stayed here. But it’s more than that. It’s the Judengasse itself. Someone needs to remember. People from all over the world come here to visit Madame Rothschild, as they call me. Not long ago that nice writer from Denmark, Herr Anderson, came. Would they visit me someplace else? By remaining here, I keep the memory of the Judengasse alive. Someone needs to.”

The Doctor could think of no reply. There was a moment of silence.

“So. About your aches and pains. What hurts when you stand too long? Your muscles? Your joints? Your back, perhaps?”

“You name it, I feel it. Also when I sit too long.”

“I see.”

“Also when I lie down too long.” She smiled shyly at him. “That’s three of a kind. Too bad I’m not playing poker.”

“In that case, I won’t be poking you,” the Doctor said. “I could poke here, poke there, ask you where it hurts. But you say it hurts everywhere, so poking wouldn’t tell me a thing. I doubt it’s anything treatable — muscles, bones, joints, they all wear out with age.”

The Doctor pulled a silver watch on a chain from his pocket. “I must move along, I have another patient to see a few streets away.” He stood, gripped his leather bag, took his hat in his hand. Guttle followed him to the top of the stairs. He took one step down and turned to her. “You should have a very happy birthday, Madame. Eat a piece of cake for me. As for the aches and pains, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I can’t make you any younger.”

Guttle shook her head, her wry smile peeking out again from her wrinkled face. “You misunderstand, Doctor,” she said. “It’s older I want to become.”

The Doctor grinned, then said, “If it won’t offend you, Madame, there is one question I’ve been wanting to ask.”

“Well, speak up. At my age I don’t offend.”

“The story goes that your husband made his first fortune by investing funds for nearby Princes — profits they obtained by selling peasants to fight in foreign wars. That was the seed for the magnificent wealth of your family. The story goes that you were against Meyer’s making money that way.”

“It’s true. It was the worst fight we ever had. So, what is it you want to know?”

“After all these years, does that still bother you?”

“Such a question,” Guttle said. “I still live here, do I not?”

Author’s Note

Many sources contributed to the factual foundation upon which this novel is built. Two in particular must be acknowledged: the biographies
Founder,
by Amos Elon, and
The House of Rothschild,
by Niall Ferguson. For anyone seeking further factual information, Elon is stronger on daily life in the Judengasse, Ferguson on the detailed financial history of the Rothschilds.

Though this book is a work of fiction, many of the characters, notably Guttle Schnapper and Meyer Rothschild, were real people. Others, and many of the scenes, are wholly imaginary. Lives and incidents in the Judengasse may have unrolled as portrayed, but, to quote Ira Gershwin on the Bible, it ain’t necessarily so.

Since completing the manuscript, I frequently have heard a complaint from the cherub Leo, usually around four in the morning. “Why did you end where you did?” he asks. “There’s a lot more to the story.” Whereupon the angel Yetta invariably reassures me. “You told the important parts. The rest concerns only money.”

If the mingling of history and fiction needs any defense, I rely on the words of the Nobel Laureate Elie Wiesel, who wrote — attributing the concept to the Baal Shem Tov — “The real and the imagined, one like the other, are part of history; one is its shell, the other its core.”

—Robert Mayer

February 22, 2010