The Origin of Sorrow (42 page)

Dvorah took the flask, shoved it under her pillow. “It keeps me from shaking. Sometimes it keeps me from screaming.”

“Not last night.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Why did you have the book with you?”

“It’s always in my purse. It’s like having a bit of Paul with me.” She ran her fingers along the pattern of a white flower on the quilt. “That’s why I lost control. When he attacked the book, it was as if were attacking Paul. When he called it garbage, I felt he was trying to destroy our love. It was a dumb thing to do, I know. But I couldn’t stop myself.”

Guttle closed her eyes. Such consuming, distracting passion must be terrible, like a deadly disease. But was it also wonderful?

“What did people say?” Dvorah asked.

“I was too busy wrestling to listen. Most people already were gone.”

“Then there won’t be a lot of gossip?”

“I wouldn’t count on that. It’s the ones who didn’t see that whisper.”

Lying down again, Dvorah pulled the quilt over her face.

“When will you do all this?”

From beneath the quilt she mumbled a muffled, “I don’t know.” She exposed her face, tucked the quilt beneath her chin. “Not during the High Holy Days. That would make people hate me. After that, Paul is going to Rome for a month with his mother; she has a sister there. I have to wait until they come back.”

Guttle stretched her legs as if they were cramped. The weight on her heart was pulling on her tongue; she did not know what more to say.

“Don’t be angry with me, Guttle. I’m not as strong as you are. You could live in the lane for a hundred years, if you had to. I can’t. I need to get out.”

Strong? Is it really strength that lets me endure, Guttle wondered, or is it the same complacency I see all around?

“The children will be missing me,” she said. “Georgi is watching them. I have to go.” Lifting the baby into her arms, she kissed Dvorah’s cheek, very lightly, and tried to ignore the tears she thought she could see forming in Dvorah’s eyes.

Down in the lane, she was angry with herself. She had gone to Dvorah planning to yell at her, to tell her to stop destroying her family, to shake righteousness into her. That wasn’t what she had done. Why not?

“It’s not my life,” she told the baby in her arms.

But she knew that Dvorah’s absence, if indeed she left, would leave a gap in her life as long and as foul as the ditch. She felt now as she had felt six years earlier, in the instant when she saw the black stallion bearing hard upon her. There was no way to escape the impact — not then, not now. She could only try to minimize the hurt. It was to absorb pain that women had been made. Only Lev could stop Dvorah, by not granting her a divorce. But what Jewish man would not, if his wife flung in his face her naked body entwined in sunny meadows or bleak hotels with the naked body of another man — a Christian, no less? Not that the shape of his uncut manhood would matter. Guttle shuddered; she had heard that Gentile men demanded all manner of obscene behavior; she wasn’t sure if this was true, or a libel, like the blood libel against the Jews.

Back then she’d been told she had saved three children by stopping the galloping horse. Now she saw no way of stopping anything.

Youngsters were playing in the lane. She had passed a dozen or more, but now she took notice of them. The twins — Dvorah had said she would take the twins. That won’t happen. Lev would never agree. And without them, Dvorah would stay. Would put her precious nobleman behind her, would get her senses back. Lev might still divorce her, but she would stay in the lane to be with David and Ruth. She was only twenty-four. The men would be lining up.

But what kind of men? Those who thought she was a whore?

She nuzzled Salomon’s cheek. “I hope you didn’t listen at Dvorah’s,” she told his large and trusting brown eyes. “I would never do that to you.” The baby gurgled happily, as if he understood.

When she reached the Café, Brendel was standing outside; it was midmorning, there were no customers. Brendel raised her eyebrows, a question clear as the spoken word, asking if Guttle had found out anything. Guttle merely shrugged. Then she paused, asked a question herself. “Do you know if Herr Mendelssohn is all right? Did he come to the Café this morning?”

“Ate four ruggelah. Said he was glad he doesn’t eat with his nose. ‘Then you’ll live?’ I asked him. He said he would — so long as there are no more critics lurking.”

Brendel chucked the baby under the chin. “Reminds me of mine when they were babes. How is Dvorah? You want some tea or something?”

Guttle sighed, long and deep. “A glass of tea would be nice.”

“With milk?”

“With milk. But Brendel — please, no questions.”

“Sit, dearie,” Brendel said. “It’s on the way. One hot tea, sans questions.”

“Sans? What is sans?”

“It means without, in French. Herr Mendelssohn told me.”

Guttle sat, cradling the baby in her arm. “Sans,” she echoed, as Brendel went for the tea. The lane
sans
Dvorah. It had a softer sweeter sound then the Hebrew, bli, or the German, ohne. But was that a sentence that should be soft? It sounded better the other ways. The lane
bli
Dvorah. The lane
ohne
Dvorah. Whatever the language, she could not picture it. She saw only emptiness. Blowing her breath across the top of the glass that Brendel had set before her, she sipped at her tea and formulated her first philosophic principle, Guttle’s First Law of Probabilities: If it is impossible to conceive of, it will not happen. She hoped her philosophy was better than her French.

Early that afternoon, holding his small satchel of clothing in one hand and a bag of ruggeleh in the other, a plaster on his injured nose, Moses Mendelssohn left the lane. He was escorted to the north gate by some of his new friends, most of them women — Guttle, Brendel, Rebecca, Avra, and a few of the younger men— Izzy, Hiram, Rabbi Simcha. The women waved handkerchiefs as he passed through the gate. The Constables sneered at his hump. Some of the beggars who were sprawled outside the gate offered to eat it. When the philosopher was perhaps thirty metres away, he turned and nodded, and the women again waved their handkerchiefs, which resembled small windblown flags.

The Judengasse, after three centuries, would never be the same.

35

Guttle dreamed that night about the Schul-Klopper. This had not happened for a long time. In her dream she tripped over Solomon Gruen’s outstretched leg, just as she had in real life when she was younger. But when she peered at him in the dream, he began to raise his head, to sit up on the cobbles. Angry, Guttle swung her pitcher of milk at him, slammed him in the head, hard, again, again, till he fell back to the cobbles. Until he was truly dead

She awoke chilled from perspiration. She did not know if dreams still meant anything, as they did in the books of Moses. Usually she gave herself a headache if she tried to figure them out. But this one she thought was obvious. The Schul-Klopper represented all the traditions of the lane — which in fact he had. But she had been much impressed with Moses Mendelssohn’s remarks, especially about girls going to school. Would that, as Rabbi Eleazar had suggested, be a death blow to the Jewish people?.

Later, preoccupied with this question, she went out and walked the lane. Knots of old men with beards could be overheard ridiculing what Herr Mendelssohn had said. But no women were discussing it. She knew why. If women opposed what he’d said, they might offend their female friends who welcomed it. If they sided with what he had said, they would earn the fierce anger of their husbands, fathers, brothers. So they remained silent, as she had with Meyer during their breakfast — a silence that left tension thick as fog clogging the lane.

19 October

Locked in an attic for five years now, Sophie Marcus has become, for the children, a mirror image of Melka. They flee from her in exaggerated terror when every few days either her husband or her son Viktor or Viktor’s wife, the former Leah Licht, one hand firmly gripping Sophie’s arm, walks her in the lane for fresh air and exercise. Sometimes she is well behaved, and the walk passes without incident. Other days, with no immediate provocation, she begins to hurl epithets and curses at anyone she might encounter. At such times the hand of her escort tightens firmly around her arm and she is led back to the Marcus home, to the attic with its boarded window. While we in our innocence turned to Melka for solace, the children today use Sophie as a threat, warning in their games that “Sophie is right behind you, Sophie’s gonna steal you away.”

Should I happen to be in the lane when Sophie is walking, I quickly duck into the nearest shop, so as not to set her off like fireworks. On those rare occasions when I wander far toward the south gate and pass the Marcus house, I cannot help but glance up at the boarded window behind which she sits — or prowls like a caged beast, or whatever it is she does. For hours afterward, as happened today, I am riven by guilt over my role in her imprisonment all those years ago. Though what I could have done differently, other than marry her son, I do not know.

Georgi Kremm began an apprenticeship to the cabinet maker, starting off by sweeping floors and oiling furniture, then taking instruction in the fine art of carving. As weeks passed, the boy began to show an aptitude for the craft. Wood shavings curled and disappeared like the days, October became November. One mild evening in early December, Yussel came to the Hinterpfann with his apprentice to ask Guttle and Meyer for advice. He had heard from the Chief Rabbi, he said, that the Polizei would be inspecting the lane in a few days. He didn’t know if Georgi should be hidden, after so long a time, or should continue working as if nothing were amiss. They all quickly agreed that if he hid and were found, a lot of questions would be asked; that it would be better for him to work in plain sight, wearing his yarmulke. Most likely the boy would not be noticed.

“The Rabbi warned you of this raid?” Meyer asked. “We haven’t heard of it.”

Yussel’s face colored unaccountably. They had never known him to blush about anything other than Brendel. “He must have told me first because of the boy.”

“That must be it,” Meyer said. He did not mention the cabinet maker’s evident discomfort, though he continued to wonder about it.

The next morning, after Meyer had gone to the city, Guttle left baby Salomon with Amelia and walked to the bakery to buy bread. She saw a commotion going on in front of the cabinet maker’s shop. Several dozen men and a few women were gathered there, remonstrating about something with Yussel. As she got closer she could make out their words, spoken in loud and nasty tones. “The goy has to leave … What do we need him for? … We don’t owe the Gentiles anything.”

“The boy is my apprentice, he’s not harming anyone,” Yussel told them, standing in front of the shop.

Guttle reached the edge of the gathering. It was growing larger as people heard the shouts and came to watch. She didn’t understand why this was happening now, Georgi had been here two months without a problem.

“There’s never been a goy living in the lane,” a man shouted. He wore a long black coat and a yarmulke, and had an untrimmed black beard, and seemed to be the leader of the group. Guttle recognized him as Jacob Marcus.

“He’ll bring bad luck,” a woman called out.

“As opposed to the good luck we have living here?” Yussel asked calmly.

“Never mind luck,” a man said. It was Alexandre Licht, the shoemaker, wearing his red beret. “The police are coming tomorrow, the Rabbi says. What if they find the boy? We could all be in trouble.”

“The council should throw him out,” someone yelled.

“There’s the Chairman, let’s ask him,” another said as Lev Berkov strolled over from the hospital to observe the trouble. Doctor Berkov was the council’s rotating Chairman this year.

“What about that, Doctor?”

“The council has discussed this informally,” Lev told them. “There was no mood to order him out, as long as he behaves himself.”

Guttle had not seen much of Lev in recent weeks. His face was drawn, weary, as if he knew there was trouble in his marriage, but could not be certain why.

“What are we arguing for?” Jacob Marcus said. “When the police come tomorrow, we’ll just denounce him. The police will take him away, good riddance.”

Guttle’s face reddened. She felt as if a window in her brain had blown open, and in a searing instant twenty-two years of training to be a proper woman had taken flight, like doves at the sound of a musket shot. In front of the cabinet maker’s a spruce coffin rested on the cobbles. She registered that Yussel had stopped making these, that he must be teaching the boy, and with both of them working, there would be no room to keep it inside. Sacrilege or not, she lifted her long skirt and climbed onto the coffin, one hand supporting her growing belly.

“Gentlemen, listen to me!”

“Look at her, she stands on a coffin,” a woman said loudly. “For shame! To insult the dead like that.”

“I don’t mean to insult the dead,” Guttle said, as they quieted to listen. “I don’t know who this coffin is for. I apologize to the family if it is already marked. But I must be heard. Right now this coffin is empty. If we send Georgi away, we might be sending him to his grave. He’s only sixteen years old.”

“Who cares? He’s a goy.”

“Yes, Georgi is a Gentile. But he was not around when three quarters of Frankfurt’s Jews were slaughtered before the ghetto was built. He was not alive when these walls were erected. He did not take part in the Fettmilch riots more than a hundred years ago.”

“His ancestors did.”

“His ancestors most likely did not! They are country people. He is from a peasant family. They’re treated as badly as we are. Maybe worse.”

“How could it be worse?” a man yelled.

“Because he is being recruited to fight in a war. At least they don’t take our sons away.”

A slight murmur ran through the crowd.

“There’s another reason.” Guttle had never spoken before a crowd like this, but passion had muted her nerves. “The American colonists are fighting for their freedom. There are Jews among them, who are equal citizens in America. Most of you remember Ephraim Hess. He is now in America, fighting there. Crown Prince Wilhelm is forcing his peasants to go and fight against freedom. Is that the side we want to support?”

“It’s not a question of America’s freedom,” the shoemaker said. “It’s for our own safety. If the police find him here, we all will suffer. Harboring a runaway is against the law.”

Guttle began shaking her head before he finished. “There is no reason for the Frankfurt Constables to seek him out,” she said. “They don’t work for the Crown Prince of Hesse-Hanau. But if they do realize he’s not a Jew, the whole lane will not suffer. Yussel Kahn here will stand forth, I’m sure. He is the one employing the boy.”

Yussel nodded, though he seemed to half wish she had not brought that up.

“And I will step forward,” Guttle said, “because he is living in my house. No one else can be accused of harboring him.”

Over the heads of the crowd she noticed several women in their aprons standing in front of the bakery, watching. One of them was her mother. Beside her was Yetta Liebmann.

“They still could accuse the whole lane,” Marcus said. “They can do whatever they want. Listen, I’m tired of arguing. When the police come, we’ll denounce him. The police will take him. End of problem.” He turned as if to walk away.

Guttle could not accept what she had heard. “Wait! My ears can’t believe what you said. You would denounce this boy to the police? Since when do Jews denounce people to the police because of their faith? They’ve been doing that to us for a thousand years. More. Now you would have us begin? Shame on you! Shame on any of you who would dare to do such a thing.”

Her chest was heaving, as if she had just run the length of the lane. She stopped speaking. Her head was wet with perspiration under her sheitl. Her armpits, her thighs, were moist. She looked at their faces, silent now — ashamed, she hoped — and climbed down from the coffin with shaky knees. She felt a fluttering in her womb. The baby alone was applauding.

Murmuring among themselves, the people began to disperse. Guttle hoped she had won them over. Then Jacob Marcus fired his voice at her like a stone. “The goy has got to go!”

Guttle walked home alone. She needed to wash. She wondered what Meyer would think of his wife, the public speaker, when he heard what she had done.

Between the time he entered through the gate and the time he reached the Hinterpfann, Meyer heard. From Yetta Liebmann: “You sent my son Hersch from the lane, five years I haven’t seen him, just a few letters, and you take in a goy? Your wife makes such a speech, on a dead body? It’s a sin!” From Otto Kracauer he heard. “You’d better control your wife. People are asking who wears the tzitzis in that family.” Before even removing his coat, his three-cornered hat, Meyer asked Guttle, who was preparing dinner in the kitchen, “You actually did that? You stood on a coffin — a coffin! — and harangued people? How could you have done such a thing?”

Guttle continued to stir with a long wooden spoon a stew that was simmering. “The coffin was empty,” she said calmly. “An empty coffin is just a box. Was I to remain silent? It was the right thing to do.”

“It was not proper! You are a woman, and you were haranguing men. Men twice your age, three times. Scholars. Grandfathers. What happened to your manners?”

“They want to denounce Georgi to the police. Do you think that’s right? How would you feel if the Constables took him away, sent him off to war.”

“No matter what they want, your behavior was not proper.”

He sat heavily on a chair, removed his hat, his wig, ran his hands through his hair. He stepped to the wash basin, rinsed his hands, dried them on a towel. In a weary voice, he murmured, “It was, perhaps, the moral thing to do.”

Guttle turned to look at him, spoon in hand. “Therefore?”

“I suppose it raises a question. Which is more important when there is a conflict between them — propriety, or morality?”

“Is that such a hard question?”

“Not for you. Maybe not for me. But lack of propriety makes people more upset.”

“Lack of morality makes Yahweh more upset.”

“Of course. But propriety has rules. Morality is subjective.”

“Therefore propriety is the superior good? That doesn’t follow.”

“I know,” Meyer said. “But propriety is visible in the lane. Morality exists only in the mind. It’s a rare case where the invisible has substance, and the visible does not.”

Guttle turned back to stir her stew. Meyer came up behind her. “Did you really tell them that if the boy were caught, you would take responsibility?”

“Whether I told them or not, I would have to do it. He’s in the lane because of me.”

“What if they arrested you? Took you away to prison? What would happen to the children? Not to say me?”

“This is a conversation we could have had two months ago. While Georgi was hiding in the slaughterhouse. Now there isn’t a point. It’s too late.”

Meyer closed his eyes wearily, and stroked his short brown beard between his thumb and forefinger. “Unfortunately, with that I agree.”

Putting down her spoon, Guttle took his hand in both of hers. “They won’t arrest him. Or me. Adonai won’t let that happen.”

“Let’s hope not.” He put his arms around her, each absorbing the body warmth of the other. After seven years, this contact still shortened their breath. “What I wish,” Meyer said, “since you made your speech, is that I were there to see their faces.”

Easing her rounded belly back slightly, touching his cheek, his beard, Guttle conceded, “If you were there, I might not have dared.”

The police arrived the next morning, as Rabbi Eleazar had warned. Four Constables entered through the north gate and ambled down the lane, two on each side. Some houses they entered and inspected, others they passed by. Leaving baby Salomon with Moish’s wife, Guttle hurried to the bakery. She wanted to see what would happen with Georgi.

The women in the lane were wearing their drabbest clothing, and no jewelry, which, like silk, was forbidden except for the Sabbath. The shoemaker, standing outside his shop, wore on his head not his red beret but a yarmulke; Frankfurt had forbidden Jews to wear berets. Violators of any rules could be fined. More serious infractions — such as a secret printing press — could send the owner to prison for life.