The Origin of Sorrow (35 page)

Guttle was correct. The waiting women were not happy. Some pleaded, cajoled, for information. “What was Melka like? What did she say?” The loudest was Sophie Marcus. “Look at them with their noses in the air! They’re too good to talk to us!” Guttle and the others walked by stoically, but not without an ache in their chests.

24 July

Mama and Avra asked me about Melka. I told them I had taken an oath not to speak of her. Surprisingly, they respected that, as if I had grown in stature in their eyes. Dvorah was very different. We have always told each other everything. She could not believe I would not confide. Refusing her was difficult. Now she is being sullen with me.

I still believe in Melka. I’m not sure why. Perhaps, because she has always lived in my brain, she will continue to live there, regardless of what we found in the attic.

The men lay tefillin every morning, dovaning to Yahweh, although they have never seen Him. Perhaps Melka is much the same.

Brendel Isaacs opened her rag shop with the inventory left behind by the Hesses, and their own personal clothing; she had no money to buy more stock. The day was hot and stifling, perspiration on every forehead. For the opening she wore a swishing dark green skirt that reached to her ankles, beige boots, a white blouse whose rectangular neckline ended barely above her breasts; the puffy short sleeves she’d slid off her shoulders. Her blonde ringlets fell from beneath a white mob cap. Hardly a man in the lane did not wander by to take a look at her goods.

“What do you think?” one man asked, trying on a heavy brown coat in the heat.

“It’s perfect, it brings out the deep brown in your eyes,” Brendel told him. “Your wife will fall in love with you — if she hasn’t already.”

“It’s warm,” the man said. He’d apparently just gotten warmer.

“When winter comes you’ll thank me, guaranteed.”

A young man tried on a blue wool sweater that had belonged to skinny Ephraim Hess. “It’s a little snug,” he said, wriggling his arms uncomfortably.

Brendel came nearer, tugged at the hem of the sweater, smoothed it across the front with her slim hands. “Look how it shows off your sturdy chest. It will make the girls swoon.”

Having come to congratulate her, Guttle and Meyer watched from nearby, with Yussel. “She’s a born merchant,” Guttle whispered.

“A racial inheritance,” Meyer agreed. “Blonde hair notwithstanding.”

“Yet nary a lie can pass those lovely lips without becoming truth.” Yussel winked at Brendel as she glanced in his direction.

“Shakespeare?” Meyer asked.

“Yussel Kahn. She’s turning me into a poet.”

Brendel sold six wool sweaters that stifling day, and five wool coats. By late afternoon even the women were coming to see this merchant enchantress, while in many a household painful exchanges were taking place, among them:

—You have six children, and a wife! Don’t you forget it!

As Guttle and Meyer walked back to the Hinterpfann, Meyer said drily, “There’s no doubt she adds sparkle to the lane.” Guttle took his arm. “If she pulled out a flute and started walking, half the men would line up behind her. I think we’ve imported The Piper of Desire.”

“She wouldn’t even need a flute,” Meyer said.

The coin list was working. Every week, new orders arrived in the post for coins to be sent on approval. How many actually would sell was uncertain, but Meyer was optimistic, as always.

Opening the letters one day, Guttle found among the coin orders a short note, in an envelope bearing British stamps, which made her jump from her chair and read aloud to Meyer. It was from Ephraim Hess.

Dear Herr Rothschild and Future Missus. We are safely arrived in London. Such a splendid city! The letter of credit is fine at the bank. A Jewish community here has taken us in and helps with translations. We gave thought of staying here to learn English — but no. We sail on next boat to America! May Adonai bless you, and Tally Ho! E. Hess.

The note elicited smiles from both. Guttle walked to the synagogue to post it in the community room. As she did, people gathered to read it. They cheered and clapped and raised glasses of tea to the courage of the Hesses. Guttle told Meyer when she returned, “It feels as if the whole lane will be sailing with them.”

4 August

I have been thinking about Melka — or Melekh. I suppose the lesson of the legend is simple, something children grope for in stories and myths, and adults are bound to learn: here in the Judengasse, it is our faith that keeps us sane.

But I wonder if that is true for Rebecca, for Brendel, for Dvorah. For Mama, even. I feel certain it was girls and women who created Melka — not an idol to worship, but a mirror of our minds: hidden away, not to be used except in time of trouble. The Torah would have women wielding pails and mops till the Messiah comes, while the men commune with Yahweh. Melka, perhaps, was our defiance. If so, in the dark attics of our souls she will live on.

10 August

My dress fits perfectly! Hannah is such a good seamstress! She and bulging Dvorah, who’s left her hospital job to protect the babies, helped me try it on. I was standing in front of the tall mirror in Hannah’s shop when in without knocking swept that Countess from the city, followed by her son. I had the feeling Paul came along in hopes of seeing Dvorah, because when she stepped in from the other room, with her belly the size of a Bavarian Alp, his mouth dropped open and he experienced a coughing fit. He excused himself and hurried down the stairs. Poor fellow, I think he was smitten with her beauty that first time he gave her his card, despite her being Jewish. He’s a good-looking young man, I need shed no tears for him. I imagine he’d be quite a catch among Gentile girls. Perhaps his interest in Dvorah, though much too late, and against all the rules, shows strength of character.

Dvorah was amused by his arrival and quick exit. She grabbed me in the lane to talk. ‘Isn’t Paul von Brunwald cute?’ she said. I patted her huge belly, and hurried on my way.

28

Guttle had submerged her body in the mikveh, the ritual bath, twelve times a year for three years — every month, right after her bleeding stopped, to purify herself, as the Talmud instructs. But the deep cavern where the mikveh was situated never before had glowed gold and silver. The fifty stone steps leading down to it were gray rock, the walls that supported the staircase were gray rock, the descent usually felt like immersion into a cave. Bathers had to walk carefully so as not to slip on the wet stones. The night before her wedding, Guttle was accompanied by Dvorah, as Guttle had accompanied her the night before she wed. Dvorah descended very slowly, holding on to the walls with each step. She had to be extra careful, with her belly protruding so far in front of her feet. She would be standing up for Guttle the next day — if she could stand at all.

Both doctors, Lev and Rebecca, had placed their ears to her belly. Both said they heard two separate heartbeats. They were sure Dvorah was carrying twins. The babies weren’t due for several weeks, according to the doctors, but to Dvorah it often felt as if they already were fighting to come out.

The two young women washed themselves in a warm bath, then stepped into the mikveh itself, a square room with a square pool in the center. On Fridays it was reserved for men, to purify themselves before the Sabbath. Saturday evenings, like this one, were reserved for women. Several sat or stood on the stone border around the pool, helping one another dress, combing each other’s wet hair. Guttle saw no one she knew well, but some seemed to know her, and told her Mazel tov, we’ll see you at the synagogue tomorrow. Their greetings made her feel more than ever a part of the community. Few things were private in the lane, but three never were: a birth, a death, a wedding.

Dvorah set her clothing aside, and the towels she’d wrapped around herself. They had hardly covered her belly. Setting aside her own clothing and towels, Guttle knelt naked beside her and placed an ear to Dvorah’s belly, stretched smooth as a giant grape. At first she heard only one tiny heart whispering within. Then she thought she heard three.

“Triplets for sure,” she murmured.

Dvorah swatted a hand at her, large breasts jumping. “Bite your tongue,” she said.

This is me in a year or less, Guttle thought. An innocent life growing inside me, as if I were a well-ploughed field. Does Yahweh want still more children in the lane? To skin their little knuckles on the walls? To skin their souls?

Together they moved to the edge of the pool. Steps beneath the water led to the deeper center, where a person could totally immerse. Unlike the cleansing bath, the mikveh was cold, as cold as the underground spring that fed it. Holding hands, they stepped in, shuddering at the water’s rude touch. There was nothing to do but let it assault their every part. They lowered their heads beneath the surface, soaking their hair, before standing up and wading out, shivering but purified, in a ritual that went back thousands of years.

Guttle had not closed her eyes tightly enough before dunking her head, and water had seeped in. With a towel she rubbed it away. Perhaps that was why the room began to glow gold and silver — the amber of the kerosene lamps, the metal sheen of the water, commingling on the walls, turning the mikveh into one vast jewel, inside of which they were standing, naked, as if in an artist’s vision. But after they had dried one another and dressed and climbed carefully up the stone stairs, the narrow sliver of sky, still light in August, also glowed. The Owl glowed. Guttle’s bedroom glowed. The universe itself seemed to be donning unnatural glory, making outrageous preparation.

“Tomorrow I am getting married,” Guttle told her cotton night dress as she pulled it on over her head. “That’s all that is happening.”

The day of the wedding was clear and dry, just as Wolf had promised nearly a year before. The Schnapper household crackled as the little ones ran about like chickens, seeking the help now of Avra, now of their mother, wriggling into the new clothing Emmie had made for the occasion, which invariably needed straightening. They knew enough not to bother Guttle, who had bathed and was trying to relax till her mother was ready to help her dress. To a lesser extent this crackling was extant in almost every house in the lane. Many people had been invited to the wedding, but this being a Sunday, with the gates of the Judengasse locked, almost everyone would be there; a cake or a plate of cookies to help feed the horde of celebrants would do as an invitation. And celebrants there would be. As a council member, Meyer was moderately known throughout the lane, and Guttle perhaps more so as The Girl Who Stopped the Horse.

Too nervous to eat breakfast, Guttle tried not to fidget as her mother pinned her hair in braids high atop her head, the highest they had ever been, affixing among them white lace flowers that matched her dress. Her mother was got up in blue silk, Avra in maroon. Her father and Meyer would be wearing matching gray coats and vests they had ordered from the tailor Max Levine, and white silk cravats.

The children having been warned to be on their best behavior, the family descended the stairs and walked proudly toward the courtyard of the synagogue. Neighbors in the lane, all walking in the same direction, called out Mazel tov and other good wishes. Several men had brought along their violins and were playing outside the temple, entertaining the gathering throng. Hannah Schlicter and Frau Metzenbaum from the bakery were bustling about, accepting cakes and trays of cookies, arranging them aesthetically on the white cloths that covered the large tables in the community room, which already were laden with the ruggelah and other desserts that Emmie and her friends had been baking for days. Guttle and her mother went in to wait. When the bride reached for a piece of ruggelah, her mother snatched it from her hand, afraid she might drop crumbs — or worse, apple filling — on her dress. Guttle relinquished it readily, had not even realized she was holding it. Just now she was more likely to wretch than to eat. Soon Avra hurried in to tell them everything was ready. The timing was perfect. Guttle stepped outside, into the brief bright sunlight of high noon. Her father was waiting. He escorted her slowly into the courtyard. The sun on her white dress was dazzling. “Adonai has blessed this marriage already,” someone was heard to say.

To the soft sound of three violins, Wolf led her to the center of the courtyard, where the Chief Rabbi was waiting. The groom, looking somber, stood facing him. Yussel Kahn, standing up for Meyer, appeared tall and proud. Dvorah clearly was tired, bending an arm behind her to support her back, but was gamely standing up in a green maternity gown; a chair had been placed beside her if she needed to sit. Guttle smiled at Viktor Marcus, waiting behind the Rabbi to sing, as promised, and saw his father in the crowd. She did not see Sophie Marcus. Upset with herself, she realized that crazy Sophie was whom she’d been looking for.

As the invited guests pressed closer and hundreds of others peered in from the lane, Rabbi Simcha draped a single prayer shawl over the heads of the bride and groom. Around the waist of each he buckled large silver wedding belts. The men who had been playing violins in the lane ceased and came to look, with the exception of one who had been paid to provide the backdrop of a single slow melody.

Beneath her gown, Guttle’s knees were trembling.

The Chief Rabbi, draped in his own large talis, lifted his book. In his strong voice he read the prayers and blessings of the marriage ceremony. A baby cried briefly in the arms of its mother, causing some guests to smile, as if that were a nice omen of things to come. Gazing above the Rabbi’s head, Guttle saw on the low roof of the meeting room the figure of Hiram Liebmann, leading forward on his knees, sketching the wedding scene from above.

When he had finished the blessings, the Rabbi lowered his book and made a brief speech to the couple and the guests. “There are two points I want to emphasize to Meyer and Guttle on this sacred day,” he began. “The first is a quotation from the Jerusalem Talmud, where we read: ‘It is impossible for man to live without woman, and it is impossible for woman to live without man, and it is impossible for both to live without the Divine Presence.’

“Some couples have trouble with the third part — that it is impossible for a couple to live without the Divine Presence. The notion that Yahweh is present in their marriage makes some couples apprehensive, unable to be natural, fearful of enjoying life to the fullest. But that is not a valid concern. Because Yahweh is nothing if not natural.

“As proof, I shall quote from the Song of Songs, which says, ‘Love is stronger than death, passion is as unyielding as the grave; its flames are flames of fire. A flame of God.’

“What does this tell the newly married couple? It tells them that despite the Divine Presence — or more accurately, because of the Divine Presence — they should enjoy their passion. Because passion does not fly in the face of Adonai. It is a gift from Him.”

The Rabbi’s words stripped Guttle naked. If until now only some in the crowd had been envisioning what Meyer would be doing to her that night, now, she was certain, everyone was. Her dress fell to her ankles — her chemise, her under things. She was as naked before these neighbors, friends, strangers — men! — as she had been in the bath with Dvorah the night before.

Unable to flee, or to cover herself, she blushed — not, she realized with horror, because they could see her, but because a part of her didn’t mind.

“How else,” the Rabbi was asking, “shall we all come to know the next generation of Schnappers and Rothschilds?”

The guests chuckled, or murmured their agreement. “The Chief Rabbi has gotten bawdier with age,” someone whispered.

“On that joyful note,” the Rabbi concluded, “the groom may place the ring on the finger of the bride.”

Yussel gave the ring to Meyer. Guttle extended her hand, her long, slim fingers. The ring was large, featuring not a gem but a carving in the shape of a cottage. Owned by the synagogue, it was used in the marriage ceremony by every bride and groom. The small gold band Meyer had purchased would be exchanged for it later.

The ring slid easily onto her finger. Meyer said the words he had been memorizing for three nervous nights. “You are hereby sanctified unto me with this ring according to the laws of Moses and Israel.”

Rabbi Simcha handed a scroll to the Chief Rabbi. It was the ketuba, the marriage contract, which Meyer had signed just before the ceremony in the presence of two witnesses, Lev and Yussel. In the age-old contract, he promised to provide Guttle with food, clothing and necessities, “and live with you as a husband according to universal custom.”

The Rabbi offered the scroll to Guttle. Fully clothed again, she accepted it with a smile.

Yussel handed Meyer an empty wine glass. Imbedded in the wall of the courtyard was a small embossed stone that served as a target. Meyer hurled the glass at the stone. It smashed to fragments against the wall. If he missed the target slightly, no one commented. Most grooms missed. As the glass clattered in pieces to the cobbles, the Rabbi said, “Meyer and Guttle, you are now man and wife, till death do you part.”

The guests began to cheer and shout Mazel tov as Meyer turned and kissed his Guttle. They held the kiss longer than the Rabbi appreciated, passion being a gift from Yahweh or not. He put his hand to his mouth and coughed, and the couple broke off their embrace.

The Cantor, Viktor Marcus, stepped beside him. With no accompaniment from the violin, he sang the wedding song, as Guttle held Meyer’s hand. His tenor notes filled the courtyard and the entire lane, climbed the ghetto walls, must surely have reached the ears of heaven, Guttle thought. She favored him again with a smile.

Herr and Frau Schnapper hugged the newlyweds. Dvorah did the same, then lowered herself into the nearby chair. Yussel Kahn and Lev Berkov and Doctor Kirsch and Brendel Isaacs and Yetta Liebmann and Izzy and his parents and Jacob Marcus, the moneylender, and Alexandre Licht, the shoemaker, and Emile Heckscher, a banker who was the richest man in the lane, and scores of others, rich and poor, old and not so old, lined up to shake hands with the smiling groom, to kiss on the cheek the happy bride.

Half a dozen men took up their violins and began to play. After starting with slow tunes they zipped into a hora. Guttle and Meyer joined hands with her parents and their friends and formed a circle and began to prance to their left. Other guests formed a larger circle around them, and danced to the right. The violins increased the tempo, the dancers pranced faster in a dizzying whirl of laughter, till shortness of breath caused some to break off and the two circles to unravel.

More dances followed, country dances well known in the lane, minuets known only by a few. Guests peeled off into the community room to drink wine or tea and eat of the cookies and cakes. Others remained outside, still dancing, as Guttle and Meyer watched and clapped in rhythm. The tireless violinists huddled together, then broke into a tune so fast it seemed impossible to dance to. People stood about, joking. No one took up the challenge, until Brendel Isaacs, in a bright yellow dress, moved to the center of the courtyard, paused to remove her shoes, began dancing then, rapidly, gracefully, alone, holding her skirts above her ankles, her blonde ringlets bouncing in counterpoint, her ankles crossing and recrossing in a blur of rhythmic grace, her stockinged calves flashing, her eyes closing, her mouth opening in a smile, her white teeth shining, her dance seeming to transport her to some other, better place. People had begun to clap with encouragement, men mostly, when to the surprise of everyone Doctor Rebecca Kirsch in a stunning pale blue dress stepped out and joined Brendel, first wearing her shoes, then kicking them off, whirling in her stockinged feet, a grin on her face, her hands high above her head, the two women facing one another not a metre apart, at once together in giddy liberation and mirrored in joyous competition, the skirts of their dresses swirling, Rebecca’s pinned black hair disheveling, some onlookers at first shocked, then joining in the rhythmic clapping, first the young men, then some but not all of the older men, then some of the women as well, Rebecca surprisingly Brendel’s match in speed and grace and endurance, Brendel impossibly increasing her speed to stay ahead, the two of them whirling, heads high, backs straight, chests taut, as if they had practiced this together, which they had not, whirling, whirling, till the music stopped suddenly as the musicians wore out, and the dancers collapsed, laughing and breathing hard, into one another’s arms, and stumbled to a wall and collapsed against that, laughing still.

The fevered dance would be the talk of the lane for many weeks. Those who had missed it, to drink a glass of tea and devour a cookie, would forever have regrets. The exhausted musicians set down their violins. Guttle hugged the two dancers. She was grateful they had shifted attention from herself, at least for a while. No one had better friends.

“You should have joined us,” Brendel said, still trying to catch her breath.

“And fall down dead on my wedding day?”

Guttle and Meyer led the rest of the guests into the community room for wine and cake. Toasts to the health and happiness of the bride and groom were offered. The couple mingled through the throng, laughing and joking and accepting good wishes. If a more well-liked pair had been married in recent years, few could remember. Their children, people predicted, drinking more wine — their children, praise Gott, would be something to see.