Paris: The Novel (23 page)

For Jacob however, the next years had brought problems of another kind.

The year after the expulsion from England, Sarah had given birth to another child, a son. But the tiny boy had been sickly and had not lived a week. Eighteen months later she had suffered a miscarriage. And after that, nothing. For some reason his wife had failed to conceive. It seemed that Jacob was not to be blessed with a son.

He accepted this blow, as he knew he must, but he could not help asking himself sometimes: Why had God singled him out for this misfortune? What had he done?

The old rabbi who had failed to impress Jacob’s father had been succeeded by his son, a stocky fellow of about his own age. Naomi and the rabbi’s son were part of a group of children who played together, another reason to keep friendly with him, and so Jacob had gone to consult him. The rabbi hadn’t been much help, though. He found no fault with Jacob’s conduct, and told him: “We must accept what God decides. It may be for a reason you do not know.”

Was it from that time that the change within him had begun? Jacob himself could not say. There had been no sudden turning away. He’d attended the synagogue exactly as he had always done. But he got little pleasure or comfort from it. He was conscious of a sense that the Lord had somehow turned away from him, but whether this was a temporary trial, like the tribulations of Job, or whether it was something more permanent he had no idea. Occasionally he failed to go to the synagogue and his absence was noted. Yet each night without fail he said his prayers and took comfort from them.

His greatest joy was Naomi. He doted on her. With her bright eyes and dark curls, she was an enchanting little girl. He taught her the Shema and said it with her every night, as his father had done with him. He would sit with her on his lap and talk to her on all manner of subjects. He taught her to read so that by the age of eight, she could read and write better than most of the Jewish boys of her age.

He liked to take her about with him, and he showed her the wonders of Paris, including the great churches.

So he was none too pleased, one evening shortly after Naomi’s eighth birthday, to receive a visit from the rabbi, who’d asked to speak to him alone. Nor was his mood improved by the rabbi’s opening remark: “I’ve come, Jacob, not only for myself, but for some of your friends. For I must tell you there have been complaints. About your daughter.”

“What kind of complaints?” Jacob kept his voice quiet and even. “Has she done something wrong?”

“Not at all,” the rabbi answered quickly. “It is not what she has done …” He hesitated a moment. “Jacob, have you ever considered that it may not be seemly for a girl to receive too much instruction?”

“You mean that she can read and write better than a boy?”

“Not everyone likes that. You are treating her as if she were your son. But one day she will grow up and marry, and it is for the husband to lead the family in these things, not the wife.”

“Anything else?”

“You take her everywhere. This is your choice, naturally. But when she is older, she will have to restrict where she goes. To family, to friends. We hope you make her understand that it is not seemly for Jewish women to wander about the town. Especially …”

“Especially what?”

“Jacob, you have been seen taking your daughter into Christian churches. Is that wise?”

“We live in Paris. She should know what the inside of Notre Dame looks like.”

“Perhaps. But not all the community think so.”

“Is this all?”

“No, Jacob. It is not. She has been telling the other children stories. Of Saint Denis. Of Saint Geneviève. Of Roland.”

“But these are the heroes and heroines of France. Every Christian child in Paris knows the story of the killing of Saint Denis on Montmartre. They say now that he picked up his head and walked away with it. Absurd, but a children’s tale. I told her how Geneviève—supposedly—saved Paris from Attila the Hun. I find these stories absurd, but shouldn’t she at least know them?”

“When she is older, I would agree with you. But she tells these stories to your friends’ children, and they don’t like it.”

“They say nothing to me.”

“No. But to me they do.” The rabbi took a deep breath. “Jacob, we are sorry that you have no son, but Naomi is a daughter. You cannot turn her into a boy.”

“Have you any other advice?”

“You do not always come to the synagogue.”

“Perhaps this is the real reason you are here.”

“No. But if you turn your face from God, then God will turn his face from you. This is certain.”

“I am grateful for your concern.”

“I have told you only what is for your own good.”

Jacob stared at him. He was angry. But he was also hurt. And the fact that some of the things the rabbi said might be true did not make it any better.

“I will consider your advice,” he said coldly.

“You should. It is good advice. I shall tell your friends that it has been given.”

This was the last straw. Was this rabbi really trying to impose himself between him and all his neighbors? Was this his object?

“You are a fool,” Jacob suddenly burst out. “My father always told me your father was a fool. Your son will be a fool as well.”

“Do not speak to me like that, Jacob.”

“Get out.”

The next week, Jacob observed the Sabbath in his home. But he did not go to the synagogue. He did return the week after. But although he had many friends, an invisible bond between himself and the rest of the congregation had been broken. What else, he wondered, might his so-called friends say to the rabbi behind his back?

And then, as if to give the lie to the notion that God had turned His face from him, Sarah announced that she was going to have another child.

If Jacob was thrilled, he was also concerned. God might be smiling upon him again, but common sense told him to be careful. Two boys lost and a miscarriage: the record was not good. He resolved to take every precaution. He wished his father were still alive to give him guidance.

As the weeks went by, therefore, he protected Sarah night and day. He made her promise not to exert herself. If he was out in the city, he’d come back several times during the day to make sure that she was keeping her promise. He realized that he was giving less attention to Naomi than he usually did, and felt guilty about it. But though she was only eight years old, Naomi seemed perfectly to understand. Each evening he would read stories to them both in front of the fire.

They never discussed whether the baby would be a girl or a boy. The subject was too sensitive. But one day when Sarah was in her sixth month, a visiting neighbor remarked to him: “I see your wife is going to have a boy.”

“Why do you think so?” he asked.

“By the way she carries the child, the way she walks,” the woman replied. “I can always tell.”

And at this news, Jacob’s heart leaped for joy. But he said nothing even to Sarah. And he was glad that he had not. For a few days later, passing the kitchen, he overheard Naomi say: “I wonder if my father will still love me so much if the baby is a boy.” And he knew that his little daughter was right, and his heart went out to her. And he vowed on the spot that never, never would he love her any less, or show that he cared more to have a son than a daughter.

It was in the eighth month that things began to go wrong. The physician, a man whose judgment he trusted almost as well as he had his own father’s, took him aside and told him: “I believe this will be a difficult birth, Jacob.”

“You mean she may lose the child?”

“It may be difficult for both of them.”

“What can I do?”

“Trust in the Lord. I will do the rest.”

It was now approaching midwinter. Some mornings, the cobbles in the street were slippery with ice. He told Sarah that she must on no account go outside. He kept the fire burning night and day.

Two more weeks passed. Her time was drawing near.

Then one night came a knock on the door.

It was Renard. His friend came in quickly, embraced him, asked after Sarah and Naomi and then said in a low voice that they must speak alone.

They went into Jacob’s little counting house and closed the door.

“No one must know that I came here tonight,” Renard began. “What I have to tell you must remain a secret for your own sake and for mine.”

“You can rely on me.”

“I know.” Renard took a deep breath. “Jacob, I have a friend who is close to the counsels of the king. He has given me news that I share with you alone. I must ask you not to share it with others, however tempted you may be. Otherwise, I can tell you nothing. I beg you for your own sake and your family’s to promise that you’ll keep this secret.”

Jacob was not sure that he liked the sound of this. But he had no doubt that if Renard told him that it was for his family’s sake, then it was so.

“Very well,” he said after a pause. “Please go on.”

“The king has been persuaded to move against the Jews. I do not know when he will strike, but it will not be long.”

“What will he do?”

“I am not certain. But it’s not just a fine. It is something more significant.”

“It must be expulsion, then.”

“That is what I think.”

Both men were silent for a moment. Where would the Jews go? The King of France controlled far larger territories than when Philip Augustus had briefly expelled the Jews a century ago. The nearest possible refuge might be Burgundy, if the Duke of Burgundy would have them.

Jacob thought of Sarah in her condition, and of the unborn child. Must he wander the world with his poor little family? Would they survive?

Then Renard spoke. His voice was quiet, though troubled.

“Years ago, dear friend, I made a suggestion to you. I never raised the subject again. I respected your wishes. But when I see the situation now, as your friend, I must beg you to reconsider. For your own sake. For the sake of your family.”

“You are speaking of conversion.”

“I am. I needn’t remind you of the advantages. All the limitations placed upon Jews would be raised. You would be a free man. Your family would be safe. You could continue to reside here in Paris. I could do so much for you.”

“I must turn my back on my God to find safety?” Jacob said.

“Is it turning your back on God?” Renard responded earnestly. “What is it, Jacob, that we Christians say? Only that Jesus of Nazareth was the very Messiah that the Jews were waiting for. Those Jews who realized it became the first Christians. We are waiting for the rest of the Jews to follow them. That is all that divides us in our religion, my friend. And to me it seems but a small step to take. The ancient Jewish prophecies have been fulfilled. That is all. It’s a cause for rejoicing.”

Jacob smiled at his friend.

“You must talk to my rabbi,” he said wryly.

“One thing I must urge upon you,” Renard continued. “If you are prepared to take this step, you’d better take it soon. The Inquisition desires that all men should be good Christians—of course. On the other hand, the Inquisitors are suspicious of converts, because they suspect their conversions may not be sincere. While the information I have given you
remains secret, your conversion should be acceptable. But once it’s known the king means to expel the Jews, then it might arouse suspicion.”

“This I understand,” said Jacob, but he gave no further answer before Renard departed.

Jacob did not sleep well that night. For a while, he lay in bed thinking. Then he got up and sat by the fire. Twice he took a candle and went softly to look at his wife, and at Naomi, as they slept. And all the time he pondered.

He did not care about the rabbi. He did not even care so much about the Jewish congregation. Not since some of them had shown themselves to be false friends.

But what of the Lord God of Abraham and his forefathers? If I have suffered when I have served the Lord my God, Jacob considered, will He not smite me with afflictions far worse, if I betray Him now? Besides, wasn’t the Lord making His face to shine upon him, by granting him a son at last? To turn away from God after such a blessing would be madness indeed.

Yet was the baby a son? A neighbor’s wife had said so. What of it? The truth was that he did not know. Besides, he’d lost two sons already. And now the physician was concerned about the birth itself. Even the safety of his wife was in doubt.

Hour after hour Jacob turned these things over in his mind. To trust in the Lord, or to betray his heritage. To save his little family, or to see them destroyed. Thus he passed the dark night of the soul. And it was only at dawn, when he heard his wife cry out in pain, and sent hurriedly for the physician, that, unable to bear it anymore, he had made the terrible decision.