The Origin of Sorrow (24 page)

“Yes, in the cemetery. Down at the south end.”

“Thank you.” She took a step in that direction.

“I’d better go with you. The Beckers are hard to find.”

“The Beckers?”

“That’s who he’s buried with.”

“Don’t want to interrupt your sweeping. Your mistress will be angry. I know what that’s like.”

“I have no mistress,” Guttle said, and led her down the lane. They crossed the sewage trench near the rag dealer’s. Guttle thought she should introduce the widow to Ephraim Hess, who was outside his shop; Ephraim, everyone knew, had led the retrieval of … No, that would not be a good idea. Instead she merely waved to him as they passed.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind them. They moved out of the way as Doctor Kirsch led the two helpers by, with Dvorah following. Secured on the carrying board was Leo Liebmann, his eyes closed, his face white and glistening with sweat.

“What happened?” Guttle asked Dvorah.

“Some kind of seizure. She’s not sure yet.”

She was interrupted by Doctor Kirsch. “Come on, Dvorah, I’ll need your help.”

“Where’s Doctor Berkov?” Guttle asked.

“In town, buying supplies.”

“This is a busy place,” Brendel Isaacs said as they resumed their walk toward the cemetery.

Guttle did not know what to talk about with the young widow. “Do you have children?”

“Two little ones.”

They were silent till they entered the cemetery.

“I see what you mean,” the widow said. “It’s very big.”

Guttle led her along the narrow gravel paths till they found the grave. Among the carved stones, a wooden marker said: “Rafe Isaacs. Blacksmith, Mainz. 1769. Yahweh Shall Make Him Whole.”

The widow stood looking at the grave. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the pebbled earth. Guttle helped her up, helped her to a seat on one of the soapstone Beckers.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Guttle said.

“Don’t be sorry for me. It was his own fault, the stupid fool.”

“Excuse me?” Guttle knelt beside her to hear better.

“I know, I shouldn’t be harsh with him. He was doing it for the children, they soon would’ve had nothing to eat. I told him I’d rather sell my body than let him risk his life.” She twisted her torso as if to show it off. “I could have done it, my body is still good, despite the babes. I thought he was going to slap me. He almost did. He told me not to talk like that. Business would get better, he said; meanwhile, he was the man of the family, he would provide the food. ‘One little robbery,’ he said. He was certain he wouldn’t be caught.”

“You mean he was guilty?”

“Of course he was guilty. Who’d he pick to rob? A man whose horse he shod once. Stupid fool. They arrested him the next day. Fat lot that did to feed the babes. What did feed them was a purse from a man who lives here. Never did catch his name.”

“What was he like, this man?”

“Now him I would give my body to. To say thanks. Maybe I’ll find him, maybe he’ll take on me and the babes. Tall and slim. He looked a gentle sort.”

The tombstones began to whirl around Guttle. She grabbed the nearest Becker, closed her eyes. “You’re saying the blacksmith from Mainz was guilty?”

“You have a problem with your hearing, dearie? Some man been boxing your ears? I’ve already said that, haven’t I? Just this once, he said. And there he is, under the dirt. Hanged in the public square like a common thief. Maybe worse, I’ve heard, though I don’t want to know.”

Guttle saw again all those men storming the gallows, yelling “Innocent! Innocent!” Because her father had recognized him. “For stealing five gulden they didn’t have to kill him,” she said, “even if he was guilty.” She put a hand to her forehead, opened her eyes, as the earth slowed to a stop.

“But there he lies,” the widow said, nodding toward the grave. “Or so they tell me.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the soot off her face. She took Guttle’s hand. “Forgive me, young lady. I’ve come all the way from Mainz to say a prayer for him. To thank whoever it was that gave him a good Jewish burial. And listen to me, angry as a shrew. Perhaps you could thank the proper persons for me, who bought a coffin and buried my Rafe in his time of need. He was a good man, mostly. He only did it for the babes.”

“Where are they now?”

“I’ve got an aunt watching ’em. I’ll be taking the afternoon coach back. Unless I decide to go to the town square and earn some money. Don’t look shocked, girl. I wouldn’t be the first.”

“But you’re Jewish.”

“Haven’t heard that goyim are averse to Jewish twat.”

Guttle pressed her hand over the widow’s mouth. “Please don’t talk like that.”

“Who am I upsetting? These dead ’uns? These Beckers? Don’t tell me you’re a virgin — a girl with a shape like yours, and a pretty face to boot?”

“Of course not. I mean, yes. I’m betrothed.”

“Make sure he can feed your babes without losing his head.”

“You’re very bitter.”

“You’ve noticed that? In my place you might be bitter too, don’t you think? But now, I might as well say a prayer for his soul. I’ve come this far.”

Rising from the stone, she stood at the foot of her husband’s grave. She pulled a small prayer book from the pocket of her skirt and opened it, and read the prayer for the dead:

Yisgadel v’yisgadosh sh’may rabo . . .

Guttle stood with head bowed, feeling feverish. There was something about this brash young widow, just a few years older than herself, that was making her heart melt.

When the prayer was done, Guttle led the woman out of the cemetery and up the lane. Ahead she could see the cabinet maker in front of his shop. Guttle greeted Yussel, and introduced him to Brendel Isaacs.

“You ladies look a bit peaked,” Yussel said. “I’ve just made tea, would you like some?”

“I can’t,” Guttle replied, “Meyer will think I disappeared.”

“Tea would be very nice,” Brendel Isaacs said.

Guttle hurried on to Meyer’s office. She found him bent over his desk with quill and paper, making lists of coins, with their descriptions. “Meyer, I’m sorry, I should be doing that. But you know what I just found out? You know the blacksmith from Mainz?”

“Of course.”

“He was guilty! He was guilty after all.”

“I know.”

She was disappointed at his languid reaction. She saw again the men charging the gallows, shouting the man’s innocence. Recalled her concern that Meyer was not joining in.

“The widow told you?”

Meyer continued writing as he spoke. “I knew before that. I knew at his trial.”

“How did you know?”

“When we were leaving the courtroom, I saw the victim approaching the witness box. I recognized him, he’s a man I’ve done business with. An honest man, who would not lie under oath. If the blacksmith were innocent, they would have needed to pay a perjurer.”

“You never said anything.”

“What was there to say, in the midst of all that emotion? To condemn him? The court already had done that.”

“Even if he was guilty, for stealing five gulden they didn’t have to hang him,” Guttle said. “He had a wife, and children.”

“You’re right, they didn’t. They were making him an example.” Meyer set down his quill, turned his chair to face her. “It was cruel. But legally, they had the right. Robbery is a serious crime.”

“I suppose.” She drew in her breath, let it out slowly, knew she should not say what she was about to say; that only bad could come of it. “Did you get into bed with her?”

“With who?”

“The pretty widow. We weren’t betrothed then, so it would have been all right. I just want to know.”

Instantly she regretted asking, as she knew she would. For months she had worried that her father might choose someone other than Meyer. Now, betrothed not two days, she was questioning his faithfulness. Hidden in her heart, she feared, was a cruel beast.

“Where did you get an idea like that?”

“She’s here. She’s very … open. She said she had those thoughts about you.”

“You’re blaming me for someone else’s thoughts? Don’t be so strict, Guttle. Even Yahweh isn’t that strict.”

She stared at him in confusion. Ashamed and angry, she pulled the door open and fled down the alley. She cursed herself for being so jealous. She cursed Meyer for not really answering.

At the north gate, a courier on horseback, come from the Frankfurt Council with a message six months in the crafting — or six months forgotten — asked the guard where he might find the Chairman of the Judengasse Council. The position rotated on a yearly basis, and was currently held by Wolf Schnapper, but having no knowledge of such things, and no reason to, the guard suggested that the courier inquire at the synagogue half way down the lane.

The courier never had been in the Judengasse. The stench from the ditch was assaulting his nose, a light drizzle was wetting his shirt. This was a place to get into and out of as quickly as possible. He dug his spurs into the flanks of the large black stallion he was riding, just as Guttle was bursting out of the Hinterpfann alley. The stallion was at half gallop as she ran out into the lane, her mind aflame with jealousy, her eyes clouded by the unexpected drizzle, by blurred flashes of color. She heard a horse’s hooves clattering much too fast, turned, saw a mammoth horse and rider rushing at her, almost upon her. She threw herself to the ground just as the rider saw her and tried to stop his horse. Responding to the yank on the reins the galloping beast swerved to the right and lost its grip on the slick cobbles. Its front hoof caught the sloping edge of the ditch. A rear hoof, flailing out as the horse spun earthward, lashed the falling girl in the temple.

The stallion plummeted heavily onto its side into the trench of mud and slime. The courier, thrown across the ditch, landed hard beside his leather pouch. Guttle lay unconscious on the cobbles, eyes closed, a thin trickle of blood leaking from her temple into her hair.

21

The rag dealer saw it happen. Ephraim and Eva were moving their merchandise inside to keep it dry when he heard the clatter of hooves clopping too fast and looked in that direction just as the girl ran out from the alley and went down under the horse, the horse plummeting into the ditch, the rider flying across it and landing hard on the cobbles. He told Eva to run for a Doctor while he hurried to see who it was. When he recognized the Schnapper girl he knelt beside her. Her eyes were closed, her body limp.

From his third floor window Hiram Liebmann watched. He thought of running down to help but did not know what he could do. He and his brother had not been friendly with Meyer Rothschild since Hersch had quit his job, but it was hard not to like the girl. From many shops, merchants were running out to see. In his notebook he drew the horse, the rider, the girl, the children in the lane.

“Guttle!” Dvorah said, running up from the hospital with Doctor Kirsch, kneeling beside her friend.

“Don’t move her,” the Doctor said, and began gently to squeeze Guttle’s fingers, her wrists, her ankles, to push back her hair and examine the wound that the horse’s hoof had cut. Across the lane Doctor Berkov came rushing up and was kneeling beside the courier, who had raised himself to a sitting position on the cobbles. In the ditch the horse was writhing, trying to stand but unable to, whinnying and slapping his head from side to side in pain. From the north gate a guard came walking down, musket in hand. From the bakery a muffled shriek erupted, followed by Emmie Schnapper scurrying as fast as her stout body and short varicose legs would move. As she approached and her eyes confirmed what mouths had said she screamed, “Guttle!” In his shop in the Hinterpfann, in the back row with the door closed, Meyer Amschel writing on his papers the value of each coin was oblivious to the frenzy till Emmie Schnapper’s scream pierced his consciousness like an arrow in his chest. Guttle! He dropped his quill, splattering ink on his lists, and ran down the alley, pushed his way through a cluster of spectators and knelt beside Doctor Kirsch, over the limp body of his betrothed.

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” the Doctor said. “But she appears concussed.” And to Dvorah, “Get her to a bed and remove her clothes. Gently as you can.”

Dvorah and a Doctor’s helper who’d brought a carrying board lifted Guttle carefully. Doctor Berkov, approaching, asked how she was. “I want to get her inside to look closer,” Doctor Kirsch said. “It was an angled blow, the cut is superficial. I don’t see any damage to the skull. But she might have injured her spine when she hit the cobbles. There could be paralysis.”

Meyer listened, watched, barely able to move. Not since the year his parents died had he felt so helpless.

Yussel Kahn approached the group, the widow from Mainz at his side. They had just finished their tea when they heard the commotion. Doctor Kirsch stood and walked beside Guttle’s supine figure as Dvorah and the male helper carried the board. Meyer, feeling faint, walked on the other side with Frau Schnapper, who was trying to stifle her sobs but not succeeding
.

Half in and half out of the ditch, its right foreleg broken, the stallion flailed on its side. The guard pointed his musket in the air and fired, startling the onlookers; it was a call for help. Teachers and students in the yeshiva and the heders paused at the sound of the shot; the teachers followed their pupils into the lane to see what was happening. Isidor Kracauer, carrying one of his notebooks, hurried up alongside the chief Rabbi, who was wearing his high black hat. Seeing someone clearly of authority, the mud-stained courier, his hip and arm bruised but otherwise unharmed, handed the Rabbi his pouch. “From the Frankfurt Council,” he said. “To the Judengasse Council.” Rabbi Eleazar took the pouch, but said nothing.

The Constable was watching the flailing horse. “I have to shoot it to stop its pain,” he said. From inches away he pointed his musket between the horse’s pleading eyes.

“Wait!” the Chief Rabbi called out, an instant before the musket fired.

The horse’s head erupted with blood and fell to the side of the ditch. The legs shuddered and became still. With the back resting at an angle on the slope, the belly and two legs disappeared under the muck.

“Did you want something, Rabbi?” the Constable asked.

“What I didn’t want was a dead horse in my ditch.”

“I had no choice.”

“You could have tried to lead him out of the ditch, then shoot him.”

“He’d be dead, either way. They’ll come and pull him out with a wagon.”

Flies already were landing on the horse, with no swishing tail to slap them away. The flow of the ditch was backing up behind it. The Chief Rabbi looked around. “Schul-Klopper,” he called.

Izzy hurried to him.

“Knock on every door between here and the gate. Tell them not to dump any slops till after the horse is removed. Or else, to carry it below.”

She was placed in a bed on the second floor, the women’s ward. Dvorah pulled a curtain around her, began to unbutton her dress. Meyer paced anxiously outside the curtain. With Guttle naked and still unconscious, Doctor Kirsch examined her closely before covering her with a sheet and blanket. To the dried blood on her temple she applied a wet compress, another to her forehead.

She dreamed of devils, Rabbis, golden hyenas, mermaids who could dance. Barely awake, she tried to think what the strange dream meant. Her head hurt. Trying to understand the dream was making it hurt worse. She was no Joseph, and should not try to be. Dreams were random nonsense, mostly. Or Yahweh being childish, playing with imaginary toys. Or, if there were strange creatures in them, reviewing unworkable ideas He’d had before He was satisfied. When she slept again the nightmare came. A large black bird landed on the cobbles, beside the body of the Schul-Klopper. The dead man woke, raised his hammer, turned to her. The face was not that of Herr Gruen but of Hersch Liebmann. Sneering, with evil eyes, he came toward her, the hammer raised as if he would smash her face. She backed against the wall of the Owl. There was no place to run. She screamed, but could make no sound. Then, at the last instant a man’s hand came down and stayed Hersch’s arm. He was riding a white horse. She could not see who it was.

Fighting up from her nightmare as if from underwater, Guttle realized that the Schul-Klopper had been dead for six months. Only rarely did the name of Solomon Gruen arise in the lane any more. But not a day passed when Guttle did not, closing her eyes, see his black-clad body sprawled on the cobbles, his heavy hammer clasped in his hand. And wonder why, if someone had been attacking him — forcing him to drink rat poison, if that was truly the case — why had he not struck at them with his hammer? He was 59 years old, but he was strong.

She had never raised this question with anyone, not even Meyer. She was just a girl. The Chief Rabbi had not brought in the Frankfurt police to investigate — his friend was dead, nothing would bring him back, why make trouble for everyone in the lane? And in the lane itself, except for the Doctor’s finding of poison, no one admitted knowing anything.

Breathing hard from the nightmare scare, Guttle murmured something unintelligible, and opened her eyes. Doctor Kirsch smiled. Dvorah clapped her hands, once, before remembering where she was. “Was that her?” Meyer asked, and pushed in through the opening in the curtain. When he saw that Guttle’s eyes were open, her pupils moving about, he said, “Thank you, Adonai,” and he knelt and caressed her arm. Guttle looked at him, trying to comprehend. Frau Schnapper, stepping through the curtains, pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

“The white horse is gone,” Guttle whispered.

Meyer looked anxiously at the Doctor. “The horse is black.”

“I know.” She peered closely into Guttle’s eyes, holding up the lids, first one, then the other. “I think we should let her rest,” she said.

The horse in the ditch mesmerized the lane. Children and adults alike stood around it as if waiting for it to levitate, though the weight of a thousand flies might have prevented that. “A shame, such a good-looking animal,” Sophie Marcus said to Bea Metzenbaum. The courier and the Constable stood off to the side as they waited for help. Yussel Kahn took the arm of the widow from Mainz and led her out through the unattended gate, and walked with her to Jewelers Street, from which the afternoon coach to Mainz would be leaving. As she prepared to climb onto the coach, she thanked him for his hospitality. “If you’re ever in Mainz, come visit. I brew a nice pot of tea.”

“I’ll consider that,” Yussel said.

He could not help noticing the shapely curve of her stockinged calf as she climbed onto the coach. As the stage drew away, pulled by two brown horses, Brendel Isaacs looked out the side and waved.

Walking back alone, Yussel thought of Guttle — felled by the horse, but, he was confident, not badly hurt; Yahweh would not be that cruel, three days after her betrothal. Yussel had conquered his infatuation with her months before, and was pleased she would marry Meyer. He thought of Dvorah. That fantasy had not lasted long; he was mildly amused that Lev Berkov had taken her on; they seemed such opposites, scientific mind meeting voluptuous body; he wondered how long before there would be trouble. And he thought of Rebecca Kirsch. Since the new Doctor arrived, Yussel had been more content than at any time since before Lainie’s death. Quickly they had discovered common interests. He exulted in news of the outside world — in science, in medicine, in philosophy. Rebecca had brought such news from the university; she loaned him journals from her collection; new ones kept arriving by post. Several evenings each week, both being alone, they shared a simple supper and discussed these unforeseen new turns that human knowledge was taking. She clearly had no interest in a physical relationship; seeing this, Yussel discarded, before they could rise, any such inclinations he might have had; what she gave him was equally stimulating. The world was on the brink of startling changes, and Rebecca seemed the only one in the lane who knew it. This was a slight exaggeration, he conceded; Lev Berkov kept up with medical advances, Meyer Amschel with trade and finance; a few others no doubt did the same; but Rebecca, much like himself, wanted to know everything.

Passing through the gate, Yussel found his old uneasiness returning. Brendel Isaacs was pretty, brash and enticing. She had made her interest clear. He could picture himself riding to Mainz once or twice each week for a sportive romp in the straw, while still spending other evenings discoursing with Doctor Kirsch. Some men would have found such twin blessings a kind of perfection. But depression was settling over the cabinet maker. Already, he had cast himself in a moral predicament. Such a tempting arrangement, he felt, would be a betrayal — but he was not sure of whom, or of what. Of Rebecca? Of the widow? Of his long-dead wife? Of the poor dead blacksmith lying in pieces among the Beckers? Or would it be something else — a betrayal of the centuries-old Jewish suspicion of excessive happiness? He ought to go to one of the Rabbis to discuss his dilemma, he told himself. He knew he would not. Instead, he would do what he always did. He would ruminate.

While Guttle slept, Meyer walked down the hospital stairs, stumbling as the ground floor came up to meet his legs unexpectedly, the phrase “she might be paralyzed” blocking all sense of time and space. Doctor Berkov and Frau Liebmann were emerging from a room at the far end. Out of remembered courtesy, he asked how Leo was doing.

“Not good,” Yetta said. “My Leo can’t move his arm, his leg. He talks meshuganah. ‘Rabbits … money … rabbits … money.’ That’s all the words that come out, over and over. Then he’s exhausted again.”

“I’m sorry.”

She might be paralyzed.

“Frau Liebmann has an interesting theory,” the Doctor said.

“When Leo was a boy, he had a bed of straw in back of his house, where he raised rabbits. He’d sell them outside the gate, and give the money to his Mama and Papa. That’s all I can think.”

“Let’s hope Leo recovers quickly,” Meyer said. “Then he can tell you.”

“From your lips to Gott’s ear,” Yetta said.

Unable to go home, needing to be near her, Meyer went back up the stairs to Guttle’s bedside. She still was asleep. He sat in the wooden chair, gazing at her tender face, her down-curved lips at rest, the patch on her temple in his desperate view serving to highlight the perfection of the whole. Lowering his head into his hands, elbows on his knees, he closed his eyes. She will not be paralyzed! His tormented mind drifted from thought to prayer to promise to benediction; even when lucid he could not have said what it was:

Dear Yahweh, You permitted me to cry after the burial of the Schul-Klopper, to cry for the first time at the graves of my mother and my father. I do not know why my tears fell then, but those tears and sobs like eons of saltwater waves seemed to wash away a wall around my heart. No sooner was there a breach unto that wall, a wall made, I suspect, of the heavy stones of a child’s anger, a child’s abandonment, then You did let her, or cause her, or invite her, to rush into the temple, rush into the enclave of men, to hug her friend, and I saw in the tender face of this girl, this not yet molded woman, in that sweet innocent face, both terror and defiance. In that one instant she breached the broken wall and entered my heart. There, I soon learned, she belongs, as a Torah belongs in its embroidered covering, as the last piece of a puzzle completes the whole. Thank You Adonai for this gift, but please now let her be well. I shall always look after her, well or ill. I shall always obey Your commandments, be she well or ill. But let her be well and they shall be as a sacred covenant to me, as sacred as Your covenants with Abraham, with Moses. Have mercy, Elohim, Almighty God of Israel . . .

As the words drifted in his mind like a rudderless boat, he crossed the border into choppy sleep. He was startled awake when she said his name. He lifted his head too quickly, for a moment the floor dropped. He did not know how long he had slept in the chair. She was sitting up in the bed, holding the sheet under her neck, reaching out to him with her other arm. He rose from the chair and sat on the bed and slipped within her offered arm and enfolded her with his. Their cheeks pressed together. “I love you,” he whispered, unable to find his voice. “With all my soul.”

Her other arm went around him. The sheet she had been holding slid to her waist. Their close embrace found heat.

Clarity returned to him then, the rudderless boat finding shore. “You’re sitting up!”

As he pulled away to look at her she lifted the fallen sheet. “Is that bad?”

“Move your legs. Raise your legs.”

“Meyer, this is a hospital.”