Paris: The Novel (27 page)

“None of the debt owed to the Jews is to be forgiven,” the man explained. “Those debts are now the property of the king, and he will insist on their being honored to the full.” This was not popular. But the next piece of news brought groans. “Further, all debts must be repaid in the coinage in use at the time they were contracted. The king will insist upon it.”

This was devious. King Philip had just issued large quantities of clipped coinage. Clearly, he had no desire to be paid in his own debased currency.

The expulsion of the Jews from France was simple and straightforward. It was a confiscation of the entire assets of the financial community in order to pay the king’s debts.

It took a couple of months to complete. The last Jews of Paris didn’t leave until early October. During this time, Naomi was kept indoors, and Aaron was kept on a tight leash by the rabbi. At the start of September, Jacob heard that the rabbi and his family had gone.

For Jacob, the great expulsion brought horror. Horror at what was being done to his people.

True, he also felt vindicated. He could turn to Sarah and say: “This is why I converted. This is what I feared.” The pain he had put his family through had not been in vain. He had indeed saved them.

But at what price in guilt? Every day, as more Jews left Paris, people would watch them go. But not Jacob. He kept away. He didn’t want to see. Above all, he feared that they might look at him. For he couldn’t have met their eyes.

And then, God forgive him, it also brought relief. Relief that the rabbi’s son was leaving.

Where were the Jews of France going? Over the eastern border into Lorraine; or into Burgundy, or farther south. Or they might journey toward Italy, up into the alpine territory of Savoy. But wherever they went, young Aaron and his family were gone. That danger, at least, was past. Life could begin anew.

Or could it? The first few days were difficult. Naomi wanted to follow Aaron. She said so plainly. And though he sympathized, Jacob could not help feeling a little aggrieved.

“She knows the danger for her family,” he protested to Sarah.

“She thinks it could be avoided. Aaron would be out of France. She thinks we could say she’d been sent to live with some merchant in another city.”

“These things get discovered. The risks are too great. She should know this.”

“She thinks it because she wants it to be true.”

“What would they live off anyway? Aaron has no money now,” Jacob pointed out sadly. “The king’s completely ruined them.”

“He’ll be a rabbi. They always manage to live.”

“Well, she can’t follow him, anyway,” said Jacob, “because she doesn’t know where he’s gone.” And this was true.

But by winter, Jacob knew. He’d taken trouble to find out.

Aaron was far away, up in the mountains of Savoy.

If Naomi had been angry at first, after a time her temper subsided into moodiness. She was allowed once again to take little Jacob for walks, which she did listlessly. Often Jacob would come upon her sitting with her brother by the fire, but while the boy chattered, she would be staring off into space.

Jacob and Sarah both suspected that Naomi might be hoping to receive some word from Aaron, and they watched carefully to intercept any such message. But as far as they could tell, no message arrived.

December came and went. There was ice in the streets. Snow fell. And in those dark days of the year, their daughter seemed to be wrapped in a mantle of sadness.

They tried to behave as normal. They did their best to be quietly cheerful in her presence. Jacob told stories in the evening, as they all sat together, and she seemed to enjoy them. If he recounted some foolish joke he’d heard in the market, she would laugh quite easily. But as gray January began, he could see little joy in her face, but only resignation.

One day, returning home from some business, he saw her sitting on a bench by the fire. She was alone. She must have heard him come in, but she did not turn, as though silently letting him know that she wanted to be left alone. And he was about to go into his counting house, but then, thinking better of it, he quietly entered and sat on the bench beside her. He did not say anything, but observed the sad curve of her neck and the
way she stared with stony eyes at the embers of the fire. And after a time he put his arm around her tense shoulders and said: “I am so sorry, my child.”

She said nothing. But she did not draw away.

“I know you are unhappy,” he continued quietly. “I am sorry that you wanted to leave us, but I understand.”

After a pause, she answered.

“The truth is, Father, that I no longer wish to live in a land where they do such things.”

“Ah.” He sighed. “Aaron’s father once told me, ‘You will never be safe.’ He may have been right. Whoever is born a Jew is never safe, no matter where he goes.”

“Why are we Christian, Father?” she asked.

And then, because it seemed to him at that moment to be the right thing to do, he quietly told her everything. He told her about Renard’s warning, and his agony over what to do, and how he had feared for Sarah, the unborn baby, and herself; how he had converted, and the agony it had brought him. He told her everything.

“I may have been wrong, my child, but that is what I did and why. And now I have caused you great pain, which was never my intention, and I am sorry for it.”

When he had finished, she was very still, and he wondered if he had made her angry.

“I did not know,” she said at last.

“There was so much danger, I did not dare to tell you. I wondered sometimes if your mother had.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Nothing.”

He had removed his arm from her shoulder while he spoke. Now he put his two hands together in his lap, and stared into the fire himself.

Then he felt her put her arm around his neck and as he turned toward her, she rested her head against his shoulder.

“I understand, Father, that you did what you thought you must.”

“I hope you do,” he replied.

“You know that I shall always love you, don’t you?” she said.

He turned to look at her, and she smiled.

“Always,” she said. “You are the best father in the world. Didn’t you know?”

He could not answer, but he took her hand and squeezed it, and her words meant more to him, almost, than even the birth of his son.

From that day, she seemed to be less sad. Life began to return to its usual pattern. As spring began, Jacob asked Sarah if she thought they might begin to think about a husband for her again.

“Wait a little,” she advised.

“I leave it in your hands,” he wisely said.

At the end of May, Sarah told him, “I think she is ready.” And a few days later, Naomi herself remarked to him quite casually: “I am in no hurry to marry, Father, but when the time comes, I wonder if we should consider the Renard boy. I trust him and he has always been my friend.”

Jacob needed no further bidding. The very next day, seeing Renard walking along the street, he fell into step beside him. After a few pleasantries he remarked what a fine young fellow Renard’s eldest son had become.

“I’m pleased with the way that Naomi’s turning out as well,” he added.

They walked on a few more paces before Renard turned to look at him.

The two men showed their ages in very different ways. What little hair was left on Jacob’s head was gray. Renard by contrast, like many redheads, had kept all his hair, and showed little sign of aging at all. Only the deep, long lines that ran down his face like gullies betrayed his years.

“She is a beautiful girl,” he remarked. “I should think you’ll be looking for a husband for her soon.”

“Yes,” said Jacob.

“I remember so well,” Renard continued quietly, “those days when you converted.”

“I owe it all to you.”

“Naomi would have been about nine at that time.”

“Indeed.”

“How did she take it, then—and later?”

“Well …” Jacob hadn’t expected this question. “She is an obedient girl, so she did not question her father’s judgment. And it’s been so long now. All her friends are Christian. Her brother, of course, has been a Christian since birth.” It wasn’t quite an honest answer, but it was the best that he could make.

Renard nodded thoughtfully.

“You know my affection for you and your family, Jacob. I am glad of what I did to help you, and I would do it all again. But a marriage goes beyond that. My son loves your daughter as a friend. He will be her friend
all his life. But he is also devout. Not all Christians are devout, God knows. But he is. Whoever marries my son will need to be devout. She cannot harbor any doubts.”

“Of course my daughter has no doubts,” Jacob said quickly. “None at all.”

They both knew it was a lie, but that he had to say it.

“We must speak of this again sometime,” the red-haired merchant suggested as he left him. But they both knew that they never would.

“I never thought he was so devout,” remarked Naomi, when her father told her about the conversation.

“Perhaps he isn’t,” said Jacob quietly.

But he was not discouraged. By the end of the summer he had begun serious negotiations with the merchants who had expressed interest before, and two other new candidates also came forward. By the end of September, he was able to present his daughter with as good a set of choices as any girl could reasonably hope for. For her part, Naomi gradually entered into the spirit of the thing. Indeed, by the time he showed her the final list, she’d become quite cheerful, and appeared to find the process amusing.

“I’d like to have a little time now, Father. Two of the choices I hardly know yet. Could I have a month or two?”

“Of course,” he answered with a smile. “Let us decide by Christmas.”