Another Me (12 page)

E
ven with the shutters closed, I could hear the corpse removers on the street calling, “Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!” When I opened the shutters and looked out the window, I could see the street. Drapers' Row was clear of the throngs that usually filled it, for Strasbourg was on its way to becoming a ghost town. There was no hawker offering vegetables, and the urchins promising the tastiest pies in the world had disappeared. The only people in the street had sweet-smelling herbs pressed to their noses and their belongings strapped to their backs. All of them seemed to be heading toward the edge of the city.

Where do you think you're hurrying to? I wanted to shout. Everywhere is the same! The plague has no favorites. Don't you know that it's the end of
the world? There is nowhere to go! In the end, it will come for us all.

But then I wondered if I was wrong. Maybe they would find a place the plague had forgotten. Maybe I could find it too if I went with them. I looked at my father, insensible to the world around him. I smelled the stench of death surrounding him and knew I could do nothing more for him. And yet…

I fell to my knees and begged the Lord to give me the strength to be a good daughter.

The scene on our street was macabre. A red cross had been smeared on the majority of houses, and the bodies of deceased family members covered the front steps, waiting to be picked up by the death cart. In the building across from ours, I saw a body pushed out a second-story window to fall on top of the pile of corpses that filled the two-wheeled cart like so many rag dolls.

Long gone were the funeral processions with members of the mourning family veiled in black, their numbers supplemented by the professional mourners they had hired to follow the bier to the cemetery. The torchbearers, the candles and the guild flags had also disappeared. At the most, one mourner walked behind the death cart to express his grief.

Papa was getting worse and I was growing more desperate. When Natan paid his daily visit to bring us
food, I gave him my last gold coin and asked him to go to the apothecary's shop and purchase a treacle made of roasted viper's flesh. But even that potent medicine didn't help my father.

I was spending most of my days on my knees begging the Lord to save my father's life. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that at first I didn't even hear the banging downstairs. When it finally penetrated my awareness, I ignored it. Who would be foolish enough to come to a house with a red cross smeared on its front door? But the banging wouldn't stop, so I decided to see who it was. I opened the door a crack and there she was, the last person I expected to see—Natan's mother.

“Mistress, why are you here? You must go away. My father is sick with the pestilence!”

“I know. Natan told me. I've come to help.” She lifted the basket hanging from her arm. It was filled with all manner of jars and plants. “Please let me come inside. I've brought potions to help your father.”

“I can't do that, dear lady. You might catch his illness and die!”

She smiled sweetly. “Don't worry about me. The Master of the Universe will take care of me, just as he took care of my Natan.”

She pushed gently on the door and I stepped back. It swung open.

“I'm skilled at mixing healing potions. I learned the art at my mother's knee, as she learned it from her mother. I speak very little of this talent outside of our community, for I don't wish to be burned at the stake as a witch. But I put my fears to rest when I heard about your father's illness. We owe too much to you for your loyalty and friendship to Natan.” She dismissed my objections with a wave of her hand. “Take me to your papa's bedchamber, please.”

She stood by my father's bed for a long time without touching him. She stared at the huge black boils and the purple stains blooming under his skin. “Poor soul,” she whispered. “He might be too far gone for my ministrations, but let me try.” She looked at me pityingly. “I must tell you, I hold out little hope for him.”

She glanced around the chamber and walked over to the bowl I had filled with water. There was a bar of soap next to it. I needed both the water and the soap to wash my father's face.

“I'd like clean water, please.”

“But, mistress, there is nothing wrong with the water here. I just used it on my papa's face and hands.”

“That's why I need clean water.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I guessed she knew what she was doing, and even if not, I had nothing to lose. I ran downstairs and returned with a fresh bowl filled with water. She scrubbed her hands with the soap and
poured water over them several times. I handed her Papa's towel, but she asked me to give her a clean cloth to dry her hands.

Next, she mixed together powders from the jars in her basket and dissolved them in Papa's ale. Her draft smelled of rosemary. I put my arm under Papa's shoulders and lifted his head so that she could pour her potion into his throat. He coughed a little but swallowed it.

Once we were finished, I covered my father with his blanket once again. His eyes remained shut.

“It's in God's hands now,” she said. “We've done all we can. I hope he'll recover, for he is a good man, kind to everybody.” She smiled at me. “As are you.”

Her gaze swept around the room, taking in my father's snowy blanket, his clean hands and face, and the small blue vase with bulrushes on the scrubbed table in the center of the chamber.

“You're a good daughter, Elena,” she said.

“And you're even a better friend. Thank thee, mistress.”

“I can never forget the kindness you've shown my Natan.” She sighed. “He wants us to leave Strasbourg, you know.”

“And he's right to say it. With Kaspar and his friends in power, there is nobody to protect Jews like you any longer.”

“I don't understand why people blame us for the Great Pestilence. Surely they must see that Kaspar is lying!
After all, many of us have died from the sickness as well. And nobody would wish such a scourge upon the world.”

She returned to the table and scrubbed her hands before packing her basket with her potions and preparing to leave.

“Peter Schwarber is our only hope,” she said finally. “He's an honorable man, and he won't desert us.”

“But how can the Ammeister help you when he's in prison?”

“He'll think of a way.” Her face darkened. “I have to hold firmly to this belief because my husband refuses to leave Strasbourg.”

As we descended the staircase and I continued to express my gratitude for her kindness, I couldn't help saying, “Mistress, I noticed that you washed your hands before you touched my father and also after you finished treating him. Natan says that washing hands is a part of your religion. He washes his hands before every meal.”

“Oh yes, Jews must wash their hands upon waking each morn and also before eating their bread. We greet our Sabbath not only with clean souls but also with clean bodies. After all, the body is the vessel given to us by our Lord.” She smiled. “Once you're clean, there is no going back.”

After she left, I returned to my papa's chamber. It smelled of rosemary. His poor, tortured belly wasn't able to tolerate the medicine Natan's mother had given him.

P
apa's breathing was becoming more and more tortured with every passing moment. Four days after he became ill, he stopped breathing for such a long time that I thought he had been gathered to Jesus. But after a few horrific moments, he began again. I knew it was time to ask our priest to administer last rites and absolve my papa of his sins, and I also knew I couldn't wait to ask Natan to fetch Father Albrecht when he brought me food. I disliked Father Albrecht's pursed lips and his gnarled and grimy hands, which were always clasped in showy piety, but he was a man of God and Papa needed him. So I kissed my father's burning cheek and set out on my mission.

I was afraid to leave by the front door with its red cross, a declaration to all that our house was under
quarantine. But I was puzzled for a moment, for the front door was the only one leading directly to the street. Then I thought of the garden behind the house and the gate where Natan and I used to meet in happier times. That would let me out into the laneway, unseen by my neighbors' prying eyes. Before I had a chance to lose my nerve, I ran across the yard and was gone.

The streets were eerily silent and almost empty except for the corpse carriers. More bodies were lying in front of houses and in the street. I looked away when I saw a rat gnawing on the arm of a dead woman with pale hair. At the corner, ragged urchins were cutting chunks of flesh from the body of a dead mule.

As soon as I entered the cathedral, my gaze was drawn up to the high roof straining to meet the heavens and my heart was filled with joy. But as the stench of death permeated my senses, reality intruded.

The church was empty except for a black-robed figure slumped over in the front pew.

“Father Albrecht?” I called out as I approached. “Please, Father, I need your help.”

No answer. I hesitated but then went closer. The priest was barely recognizable with his grotesquely swollen face, humongous black boils on his neck and purple stains under his skin. There was nothing I could do except rush out of the church as if a thousand devils were chasing me. In a way, they were.

I ran for home, blinded by tears until I caught the strains of a faraway song:

I ran toward the music. As I rounded a corner, my path was blocked by a long line of monks marching down the icy road. Their black-and-white robes identified them as Dominicans whose monastery was on a hill outside Strasbourg. The prior was at the head of the procession carrying a wooden box. I knew that it must hold the remains of a saint. Several of the monks were bent under the weight of large wooden crosses. They were all chanting the prayer for the dead. The few stragglers in the street fell to their knees and crossed themselves as the monks passed. I followed their example and knelt there on the cold ground, oblivious to the tears streaming down my cheeks.

An aged monk at the very end of the procession stopped in front of me. The rest of his group kept on moving, leaving him behind.

“Can I help you, my child?” He reached out and helped me off the ground.

“My father is dying. I must find a priest for him. I want my papa to go to heaven.”

“If your father is a good man, the Lord Jesus will gather him under his wings,” he said in a kindly voice.

I wept even harder. “My papa is a churchgoing man. He would want a priest to attend to him as the end approaches.”

“I'm just a humble monk, but I'll come with you and see what I can do.”

I fell to my knees again and kissed the hem of his robe. “May the Lord bless you for your kindness!”

“Don't be foolish, child. I'm only doing my duty.” He smiled a little. “I'm Brother Jurian.”

He followed me home. Papa was still alive—but barely. Brother Jurian made the sign of the cross on his forehead and sprinkled his body with holy water. He anointed him with oil and blessed him, then he absolved him of his sins. When he finished, he took his leave.

Once again, I was alone with my papa. I sat down beside him and said good-bye. How I wished that Natan was with me to share my pain! His face
appeared in front of my eyes—at first as he used to be, and then as he became. I would have welcomed his presence either way, but it was not to be. So I took my father's hand into my own and began to talk to him. I reminded him of the jolly time we'd shared when he took me for my first mule ride when I was a babe. I told him of my joy when he bought me my favorite straw doll on my name day. I spoke of his patience when he taught me how to help him in our shop. I said he'd never raised his voice in anger, not even once. By the time I finished speaking, Papa's face was waxen and still. I closed his eyes and blessed him and kissed him good-bye.

I climbed to the window and opened it a crack, then settled down to wait. The cold air caused chilblains on my hands. Finally, I heard the death cart coming.

“Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!” the corpse bearers shouted.

I leaned out the window. “My father has passed on to a better place,” I called.

The cart stopped below the window.

“Bring him out,” said one of the corpse bearers.

“I'm all alone. I don't have the strength.”

He shrugged. “Push him through the window.”

I looked at my papa, so peaceful in his eternal sleep. “I'm too weak to do that. You'll have to come upstairs to help me.”

He cursed in a most foul way, but he headed toward our door nonetheless. His partner followed him. I ran downstairs to let them in.

The men reeked of spirits and of death, but I was grateful to them all the same. I led them to my papa's bed. They grabbed him by the neck and feet, and set off to carry him downstairs.

“Wait!” I cried. “He must have a burial shroud.”

The first man looked at me as if I had lost my senses, but then he shrugged his shoulders.

“Let's roll him in his blanket,” he said.

While we were talking, the younger man dumped the bulrushes from the blue vase onto the table and dropped the vase into a large pouch at his waist. He looked at me with challenge in his eyes, but I held my peace.

It seemed a sin to allow them to touch my father, but what could I do? They carried him down the stairs to the street. I followed them outside and tried not to look as they threw him on the mountain of corpses, but I still saw what they were doing.

I trailed the cart down the street, the only mourner in sight. When we came to the cemetery behind the cathedral, the men kept going.

“Hey, stop!” I cried. “The cemetery is over there.”

“The cemetery is full. We're taking him to the pit outside the city walls,” the older man said over his shoulder.

I had no choice but to follow meekly behind them.

At the gate to the city, the man turned around again. “You can't come any farther. You must stay here.”

“Why?”

“It's the law. Nobody is allowed to go near the pit.”

“Nobody except us,” his friend added.

They both began to guffaw loudly, as if enjoying the most amusing of jests.

I stood and watched them take my papa away. Then I turned around and made my way home.