Another Me (2 page)

I
t all began three days ago, on the eve of our Sabbath. Shmuli and I were in the shed at the back of our house, folding the used clothing Papa had purchased. The neater the garments were folded, the more could be put into the wooden cart he used to take them to Drapers' Row.

“I'm tired,” my little brother whined. He plopped down on a large pile of tunics, breeches and cloaks. “I don't want to work anymore.”

“Shabbos is almost here. We'll rest then.”

He stuck out his tongue but continued working, muttering complaints under his breath. I pretended not to hear. I was tired too, but our parents needed our help. Mama laundered the secondhand clothing Papa purchased. It was my job to sort the garments and fold them, and Shmuli usually helped me. Once he and
I had piled them into the cart, Papa harnessed himself to it and pulled it down to Drapers' Row. We lacked the money necessary to buy a mule for the job. Papa trundled the cart from shop to shop, selling his fabric to the drapers to turn them into luxurious garments for their wealthy customers.

Our parents worked from early in the morning till late at night—except on Friday evenings, when Mama made us stop work early to bathe in the wooden tub in the kitchen before the sunset. Once we'd passed her rigorous inspection of the skin behind our ears and of our hands, we changed into clean clothes to welcome our Sabbath. Papa was never able to give her more than a few coins to spend, but Mama always made sure that our table was crowded with steaming pottage and succulent pies and our Shabbos bread. Shmuli and I would crowd around as she prayed over our Shabbos candles and Papa said blessings over the bread and the wine. Life seemed good and full of promise.

Just then, Shmuli brought me back to myself with another complaint, and I glanced through the open door at the sky. In a few minutes, we would have to stop working. Mama appeared in the doorway. She was wearing her best homespun gown, and a scarf of many colors covered her hair. But a frown marred her sweet expression.

Shmuli rushed up to her. “Mama, I don't want to—”

“Hush, Shmuli!” she snapped.

He fell silent, amazement written on his face. Mama was never impatient with him.

“I'm worried,” she said, kneading her hands. “Your father isn't home yet and the sun has already begun to set. Your papa never comes home late on Shabbos.”

“I'll go look for him,” I offered.

“I'll come with you,” Shmuli said.

“Don't wander too far,” Mama warned us. “Two Jewish boys alone in the streets on the eve of Shabbos…it's asking for trouble.”

I set off down Judenstrasse, the Street of the Jews, with Shmuli close on my heels. This close to the sunset, Judenstrasse was almost deserted, and I could see at a glance that Papa wasn't there. Shmuli and I crisscrossed the side streets but still could find no sign of him. We went all the way across the town square to Drapers' Row, but he was not to be found there either.

“Where could he be?” cried Shmuli, on the verge of tears.

“Let's look for him down the lane behind our house.”

“Papa would never go that way,” Shmuli said. “He told me it isn't safe there for Jews like us.”

“We'll be quick. But we must check—it's the only place we haven't looked.” I turned the corner, Shmuli following close behind.

“Look!” he cried.

A pair of legs splayed out at an odd angle from behind a mound of rubbish. A cart was upended beside them. I peered slowly around the trash, already knowing what I would see.

Papa's eyes were closed and blood covered his brow. Blood was also dripping from a deep cut on his temple. His face was ashen and his clothes were torn. Shmuli began to cry. This can't be happening, I kept telling myself. Please, Lord, let him be alive. I put my ear to his lips and felt his faint breath fan my face.

“Baruch Hashem, he's breathing!”

I tore a strip from the bottom of my cloak and wrapped it around his brow. With my brother's help, I lifted my father into the wooden cart and we hurried for home.

For three days Papa tossed and turned on his bed, full of feverish dreams. Not even the surgeon's bloodletting was of any help. I was glad that he remained senseless while the surgeon strapped one of his legs to a long wooden stick.

“His leg will heal in a few weeks if he rests it,” the surgeon muttered in a gruff voice as Mama slipped a coin into his palm. “He is lucky only one of his legs is broken after the beating he received.”

“Lucky?!” I blurted. “You call being beaten to within an inch of his life and left in the alleyway with the trash lucky?”

“Natan!” my mother hissed. Her face red with embarrassment, she turned to the surgeon and said, “Please forgive my son. He's young and he doesn't mean to be rude. Isn't that so, Natan?”

“Yes, Mama,” I said grudgingly. “Forgive me. I'm only worried about my father.”

The next morn, Papa regained his senses and awoke. He was weak but his brow was cool to Mama's touch. He insisted that I help him sit up on his pallet before he told us his tale. Mama helped him with a long draught of ale. Shmuli sat down beside him and snuggled close.

“What happened, Papa? Who did this terrible thing to you?” I asked.

He put down his tankard and began to speak. “I didn't want to be late for Shabbos, so I went down the lane to save time,” he explained. “I didn't even see them coming at me until it was too late. There were three or four of them, I think. I can't be too sure, for everything happened so quickly.”

He gestured to me to hand him the ale. He drank deeply before continuing with his story.

“‘Filthy Jew!' they kept yelling. ‘Give us the money you stole from your God-fearing neighbors!' I gave
them the few coins in my purse, but that didn't stop them from beating me. I tried to fight back, but they had knives and I had no weapon. I didn't have a chance against them.”

“Forget about them,” Mama soothed. “You must rest and give your leg a chance to heal. That's all that matters.”

“We need food on the table,” Papa said. “I must go to Drapers' Row on Sunday to sell the garments I bought or we'll starve.”

“That's out of the question!” Mama snapped. “You're not going anywhere in the state you're in.”

He tried to stand up, but sweat broke out on his brow and he fell back onto his bed.

“My cursed leg,” he moaned, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve.

“I'll go to Drapers' Row in your stead, Papa.”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “It's not safe for Jewish boys on the streets of Strasbourg, no matter how much we pay for the protection of the city council. There's always somebody out there ready to insult us, to call us foul names. The members of the guilds hate us so much. I know how to handle them, but you're too young.”

Papa had told me before about the guild members. These were men of the same profession who had joined together in a group to help each other and to
establish rules for doing business. In Strasbourg there were guilds for butchers and cobblers and of course the drapers who were Papa's customers. But the guilds also existed to protect their own members—and especially to keep outsiders from setting up in trade—and Jews like us were among those excluded from those professions.

“There is no other way,” Mama said reluctantly. “I don't like it any better than you do, but it'll take weeks for your leg to heal. We can't wait that long. We need money if we want to eat.” I could see by her worried expression that she was trying to convince not only Papa but also herself. “The Lord will look after him.”

I sat down on the bench beside my father and grasped his arm. “Let me help, Papa.”

He smiled gently. “You're a good son, Natan—always ready to learn with your papa, always wanting to help me—but you have a temper. And that you cannot afford—not if you want to survive on the streets of Strasbourg. That's why I always refuse to take you with me while I try to sell my wares.”

“I won't answer back, not even if people try to bait me. I'll ignore them, I promise.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. “We do need the money the clothing will fetch.” He sighed heavily. “All right. You may go to
Drapers' Row, but only if I have your word that you'll be careful.”

I put my hand over my heart. “You have it!”

“Take my cart, but go only to the shop of Wilhelm the draper. He is more honest with us than his colleagues in his guild. He sells bolts of material and some used clothing too. He's one of my best customers.” Papa's voice was full of pride. “Wilhelm's shop is in the center of Drapers' Row. After you pass the cathedral, you will find him on the left side of the street. Tell him that you are Natan, son of Simon the Jew. Once he knows that, he'll treat you fairly.”

“Can I go with Natan?” Shmuli asked.

“I don't know, Shmuli. A boy your age…”

Shmuli climbed to his feet. “I'm not a boy, Papa,” he spluttered. “I'm eight years old.”

Our father laughed. “All right, all right. You may go too, but only if you promise to listen to your brother.”

Shmuli jumped up and down in delight. “We'll sell more clothes than you even dreamed of, Papa!” he cried.

T
he stench of garbage filled the air as I pulled our laden cart down the gutter in the center of Drapers' Row. I was harnessed to the cart like an animal while Shmuli pushed on the back of it with all his might. We were wading through the filthy sludge in the gutter so we didn't have to shoulder through the masses of people surrounding us.

The dwellings on both sides of the street leaned toward each other like flowers leaning toward the sun; they almost met at the top, casting deep shadows into the lane. Only a sliver of sky peeking through indicated that the sun was up. As I passed the open windows of the shops, the drapers called out to me: “Come see my wares!” “Buy my merchandise!” and “We're the cheapest in Drapers' Row!”

My mission was to sell, though, not to buy. I kept my gaze fixed forward. Suddenly, there was a swishing sound above my head. As I peered up, somebody cried, “Look out below!” The contents of a slop bucket came pouring through the air toward my head. I jumped out of my harness and let the rudder of the cart fall to the ground. Luckily, only the pointed tips of my shoes were splashed. I bent down to dry them with my sleeve.

A shout from Shmuli made me straighten up.

“Stop him! Thief!” my brother cried.

“What's the matter?”

“A boy stole some clothing off the cart. He ran up behind me and grabbed some of the clothes before I could stop him.”

“He couldn't have got far in this crowd. Which way did he go?”

Shmuli pointed down the left side of the street. “That way!”

I caught up with the thief in front of one of the drapers' windows. It was easy to identify him, for he had stuffed so many clothes under his smock that he looked like a woman with a babe in her belly. I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, but he aimed a kick at my shin, loosening my hold. Before I knew it, he'd slipped out of my grasp and was gone. I was about to give chase again when a woman's voice stopped me.

“Oh, let him go! He's just a child.”

I spun around to tell her to mind her business, but the words froze on my lips. Framed by the shop's open window like a painting was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. A pale curl peeked out of her wimple and eyes as blue as the summer sky twinkled in amusement. I was suddenly aware of the coarseness of my robe and the hated yellow badge on my chest. I swept off my cap and bowed low with a flourish like I had seen knights on the streets do in front of their ladyloves.

“Your wish is my command, my lady,” I mumbled in a voice that sounded false even to my own ears.

“I'm no lady,” she laughed. “I'm Elena, the daughter of Wilhelm the draper.”

“And I'm Natan, the son of Simon the Jew. I've business with your father.”

“I'll call him for you.” She stood up, the silk of her golden gown whispering as she rose.

“Don't leave me, mistress,” I cried. “I want to talk to you!”

My audacity horrified me, but a demon seemed to have overtaken my lips. She sank back onto her stool and considered me earnestly.

“What do you want to tell me, Natan, son of Simon the Jew?”

A smile danced across her lips and my courage abandoned me. I became tongue-tied.

“Is this lout bothering you, Elena?” said a voice.

I turned around. A portly fellow in bright clothes, not much older than me, was standing in the street behind me. Strands of lank brown hair peeked from beneath his cap. His glare traveled to the yellow badge over my heart and stayed there.

“Nobody is bothering me, Hans,” Elena said. “Natan here has some business with my father.”

The boy gave me a hard look before going through the door leading from the street into the house. Elena gazed after him and shook her head.

“Hans is my father's journeyman,” she said. I must have looked puzzled, for she added, “He works with my father, learning the draper's trade. He means well, but—”

She fell silent when the curtains over the doorway separating the shop from the rest of the house parted and an older man appeared. I knew immediately by the richness of his garments that he must be Wilhelm the master draper.

“What's going on here?” he asked.

I bowed deeply. “I am Natan, the son of Simon the Jew. My father has been ill. He asked me to bring his merchandise to you, sir.”

Wilhelm sighed deeply. “Yes, I've heard of your father's troubles. I hope that his health is improving. He is an honest man. I hold him in deep esteem.”

“Papa will be back to his old self before long. He asked me to tell you that he sent you the usual load
of clothing. Unfortunately, a thief ran off with a few garments just now.”

“Please don't worry,” the master draper said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold coin and pressed it into my palm. “Give this to your father with my wishes for his recovery,” he said. “Elena will show you where to unload your cart.”

It took me several trips to carry our wares from the cart to a storage room located behind the shop. Shmuli remained in the street guarding the empty cart. Had we left it alone for even a moment, it would have disappeared. The streets were full of thieves.

I helped Elena arrange the clothing on rough wooden shelves attached to the walls. Finally, the last breeches and tunics were put away.

Elena gave a sigh of relief. “We're finally done!”

I wiped the sweat from my brow with the edge of my cloak. “It's hot work.”

“Then it's time for ale. Follow me!”

We left the house and made our way through a small garden behind it. She shooed away some chickens that were pecking at the dirt and blocking our way. She led me into a small building that stood in front of the wall that surrounded the yard. Inside, an old woman was stirring pottage in a cauldron over a fire. The smells
coming from the pot made my stomach growl. The woman scowled in my direction.

“What are you doing, mistress, bringing one of his kind to
my
kitchen?” She stared pointedly at the badge on my cloak.

“Hush, Vera!” Elena said. “Natan brought new merchandise for Father and helped me pile it up in the storage room. He's thirsty. We must give him something to drink.” She smiled at me sweetly and gestured at a bench beside a trestle table.

Before long, I was draining a tankard full of ale. She slid onto the bench opposite mine and took a long swallow from her own cup. I didn't know where to look. I peered at my hands, at the sooty ceiling, at the scrubbed table in front of me—everywhere but at her face. I wasn't used to talking to girls, especially one who wasn't of my own people.

Elena too kept her eyes modestly downcast. It was only by the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of her lips that I knew she was secretly laughing at me.

“So, Natan, the son of Simon the Jew, how is it that we've never met before? I know your father well. He does business with my father all the time.”

“My papa is the one who sells our clothes. I sometimes help him purchase used clothing, but I mostly sort what he has bought.” I put my tankard down. “I'd better go. My brother is waiting for me.”

“Would you like to eat something before you leave? Vera's cooking is very tasty.”

“Thank you, mistr—I mean, Elena.” I corrected myself at her frown. “It's our custom to eat only our own food.”

She looked puzzled but then gestured for me to wait. “Just a moment,” she said. She filled a wooden cup with ale and handed it to me. “Give this to your brother.” She lowered her eyes. “You can return the cup to me the next time you come by.”

I couldn't get her out of my mind, even though we had only just met. Something about her had touched my heart. Was it the blue of her eyes, the gold of her hair or the music of her voice? I saw her face while I was sorting and folding garments for Papa's cart. Her smile swam before my eyes as I studied our holy books by the light of a candle. Instead of focusing on the commentaries of our sages, I began to scribble the following words on a piece of parchment:

Shmuli glanced up from his own studies. “What are you writing?” he asked.

I folded the parchment into a small square and slipped it into the purse I wore around my neck. It was growing dark outside. Mama and Papa had retired to their corner of the room and closed the curtains around their bed.

“Nothing of importance,” I said. “Come, I'll help you.”

He settled beside me, our Bible spread over his knees. He ran his fingers along the pages and tried to pronounce the Hebrew words. I corrected him when he needed it.

“Time for sleep!” Mama finally announced, her voice muffled by the curtains.

Shmuli groaned but rolled up his parchment and stripped off his doublet and breeches before crawling onto the pallet he shared with me. A few moments later he was snoring gently. I tossed and turned until Elena's smile finally lulled me to sleep. I saw it, once again, in my dreams.