Paris: The Novel (22 page)

That had been his first great crime. Even now, the memory of that day made him cringe with shame.

But in due course, he had started to work for Baruch, and for ten years he had continued with him, until Baruch dropped dead in the middle of an argument with somebody one day. By that time, Jacob had learned the business of moneylending very thoroughly, and he continued on his own. And thanks both to his skill, and to his father’s many friends in the city, he was able to do very well.

He had married Sarah, and been happy, and started a family.

So what had possessed him to make the terrible error of judgment, to commit the unspeakable crime that had brought tragedy to his own life, misery to his family, and now the loss of his daughter?

If one were to seek deep causes, Jacob considered, one could say that it was the Crusades that were to blame.

Two centuries ago, when the first crusading knights had set out to win back the Holy Land from the Saracens, they’d been successful. They’d taken Antioch. Then Jerusalem itself.

But it had hardly been a year before the crusading cause had degenerated. A huge, motley army of adventurers and looters had swept across Europe in their wake. Finding the Jewish communities in the Rhineland and on the River Danube, they’d robbed and slaughtered them.

Christian kings, and even the Church, had been appalled.

But in the decades that followed, another process had slowly begun, and the mood of Christendom had changed. For the huge, unwieldy Moslem empire had not crumbled. It had fought back. And so the long series of Crusades had begun. Some were successful—in Spain, the Moslem Moors were being pushed back. But other Crusades had been disasters.

Churchmen were puzzled. Why hadn’t God given them victory? Crusaders were frustrated. Everyone looked for scapegoats. And what better scapegoat than the Jewish community, which contained the moneylenders to whom kings, knights and merchants alike owed so much money? Soon, Jews were being accused of all kinds of crimes: even that they sacrificed Christian children.

In Paris, the Jewish community had occupied a quarter near the royal palace in the middle of the Seine, with a fine synagogue across the water on the Right Bank. In 1182, King Philip Augustus had turned their synagogue into the church of La Madeleine, and for several years the Jews had even had to leave his kingdom. With his city wall to build, and a crusading army to finance, he’d soon recalled them. The Jews of Paris had mostly lived near the northern city wall after that, grudgingly tolerated.

It hadn’t been until the reign of Philip’s grandson that the next attack had come. But when it did, it was cunning and insidious.

A Franciscan friar in Brittany named Nicolas Donin claimed that the
Talmud not only denied the divinity of Jesus, but also the virginity of his mother, Mary. Soon the pope himself told every Christian king to burn the Talmud. Most of Europe’s monarchs took no notice.

But pious King Louis IX of France did. The saintly monarch who brought the Crown of Thorns to Paris, built the Sainte-Chapelle and encouraged the dreaded Inquisition was not going to fail in his Christian duty. He burned every copy of the Talmud he could find, and made French Jews wear a red badge of shame.

Jacob’s grandfather had worn the badge of shame. Yet even so, like most of the Jewish community in Paris, he hadn’t wanted to leave. And Jacob could see why.

Paris was still one of the greatest cities in Europe, far larger than London. It was an intellectual center. It had a huge trade.

By the time Jacob was starting to earn a living, things had seemed to be getting a little better. The grandson of saintly King Louis—tall, blond, Philip the Fair—had come to the throne. He claimed to be pious, but he always needed money.

“Finance my debts,” he told the Jews of France, “and I’ll protect you from the Inquisition.”

Jacob’s house had been in the rue des Rosiers. It was a pleasant street under the northeastern corner of the city wall. His business was prospering. He was about to get married. It had seemed that fate was smiling upon him.

Strangely enough, the first sign of trouble had come from the king of England. For the mighty Plantagenets had not been driven from all of France. They still held the rich lands of Gascony, in old Aquitaine. And in 1287, the English king had decided to kick all the Jews out of Gascony. By any standards, this was a distressing event. But at the time it had happened, Jacob had been busy making the arrangements for his wedding day. And besides, he need not concern himself too much with the follies of France’s enemy, the Plantagenet king of England.

The next year had been one of family loss. Sarah had given birth to a baby boy, but it was clear at once that the baby was sickly, and it was not a shock that it did not last a month. A few months after that, Jacob’s mother had died, very peacefully, and no one was surprised when his father, who was quite lost without her, had followed her before the year was out.

As a result of these changes, Jacob had suddenly found himself both head of the family, and still childless. He’d felt strangely lonely.

But then, a twelvemonth later, his little Naomi had been born. From the day of her birth, she’d been a strong baby. He’d been overjoyed. She’d continued to thrive. He was sorry that his parents had not been there to see it, but he faced the future with happiness, and hope.

Once, just once during those years, there had been a brief reminder that in the medieval world, the dangers of hysteria were never absent.

One Easter in Paris, a Jew he knew slightly, not an especially pleasant fellow, was suddenly arrested. The crime of which he was accused was serious, however, for he was accused of desecrating the Host.

A poor woman from a nearby parish claimed that she had brought a wafer to him from her church and that he had attacked it with a knife. Was it the truth? Who knew? But within days the story had grown. The wafer had run with blood. The blood had filled a bath. Then the wafer had flown about the house. Then the Savior Himself had appeared to the Jew’s terrified family. People often had visions, and they were often believed. In this case, a court had found the fellow guilty and, this being a religious crime, he’d been executed.

Jacob had shaken his head at the folly of it all, but he had not been astonished. One must be careful, very careful, that was all.

More serious might have been another development from across the sea.

It had been a July day. Jacob had been walking across to the Île de la Cité, and had caught sight of Henri Renard. He’d waved to him. And been surprised when Renard had hurried to his side and urgently seized his arm.

“You haven’t heard?” Renard had demanded.

“Heard what?”

“Terrible news,” Renard continued. “The Jews of England are all expelled. They’re to leave at once.”

Jacob had hastened home. By that evening he’d discussed it with the rabbi and a dozen friends.

“The fact that the king of England strikes the Jews does not mean that
Philip of France will want to copy him,” the rabbi pointed out. “We have to wait and see. Besides,” he had added, “what else can we do?”

By the next day, most of the Paris community had come to the same conclusion.

But it was then that Jacob’s friend Renard had stepped in. He’d waited only days before he did so. Seeing Jacob in the market of Les Halles, he’d taken him to one side.

“We have known each other too long for you to take offense,” the merchant began quietly. “So forgive me if I ask you something, Jacob, that I’ve been thinking about ever since the expulsion from Gascony.” He’d paused, embarrassed. “Jacob, my friend, these are such dangerous times that I must ask you: Have you ever thought of converting?”

“Converting?” Jacob had stared at him in astonishment. “You mean, to Christianity?”

“It’s hardly unknown.”

Conversions had certainly happened in Spain. In France they were rarer. A generation ago in Brittany, five hundred Jews had converted all together—though that had been under the threat of death if they didn’t.

“It would bring you safety,” Renard pointed out quickly. “All the restrictions placed upon Jews would be raised. You could own land, and trade however you pleased. I’d gladly sponsor you for the merchants’ guild,” he added.

Jacob knew his childhood friend meant to be kind. But he was shocked all the same. He’d shaken his head, and Renard had not raised the subject again.

And indeed, the Jews of Paris had been left in peace. England remained closed to Jews. As might be expected, the English king soon replaced them with Italian moneylenders, sanctioned by the pope. But Philip the Fair did not follow his example. The Jews of Paris breathed easier.