The Origin of Sorrow (44 page)

37

The winter had been harsher than usual, with low temperatures and frequent snows that turned the outlying roads into ice-filled ruts, treacherous for the thin legs and fragile ankles of the horses. Meyer had remained close to home, doing most of his business by post, and even that had been slowed by the storms, the post messengers no more eager than anyone to be trapped in a blizzard. So when the first Friday in March dawned unexpectedly mild, offering a foretaste of spring, Meyer was restless. After morning services, he kissed Guttle’s cheek and belly — she was in her seventh month — rented a mare from Ziggy Zigmund and set off for the palace at Hesse-Hanau. He had no pending business with the Crown Prince, but he did not like many months to pass between visits to Carl Buderus in the treasury office. That young man, Meyer had sensed for some time, could be his gateway to future wealth.

The door to Buderus’s office was open when Meyer knocked on it. Looking up from his desk, at which he’d been writing, Buderus welcomed him without standing, and motioned him to a chair. “Meyer Rothschild, what a coincidence. I was just writing to you. Now you’ve saved me the trouble.”

“I was in the vicinity . . .”

“That’s good luck, then.” Buderus, whose serious demeanor was in constant warfare with his flaming hair, sipped from a cup of steaming coffee. Meyer had skipped breakfast in his restlessness and after his ride would have welcomed a cup of refreshment, but the treasury man did not offer. Doing business with a Jew, even being friendly, was no problem for Buderus, but hospitality, Meyer knew, was too much to expect.

“I’ll explain what has occurred,” Buderus said, setting down his cup and wiping his lips with a napkin. “You may recall that some time ago — in September, I believe it was — you and I encountered regiment recruiters on the road to Frankfurt.”

“I remember well.”

“We have received notification that the first payment for the recruits has left England. It should arrive within the month — a nice, round one hundred thousand gulden. With King George struggling to outfit his troops, the notes are not payable until August. The Crown Prince wishes to discount them, and invest the money at once, to maximize his profits.”

“Of course.”

“How does this involve a coin dealer from the Judengasse, you may well wonder.”

Meyer remained silent, concealing the elation that was budding in his chest like the scent of spring.

“Yesterday, Wilhelm gave me the names of three bankers with whom he planned to divide the business — one here in Hanau, two in Frankfurt. He has summoned them to meet here at eleven in the morning of Tuesday next, to offer the terms. They will be the standard. The six-month notes will be discounted at ten percent. Profits on the ninety percent that is invested shall go to the banker at an additional ten percent. I know you are not a banker as such, but I assume that you understand.”

“It is quite clear,” Meyer said.

“I thought it would be. As Wilhelm spoke, I recalled our encounter with the recruiters. I suggested to His Serenity that he divide the business four ways, assigning one fourth to you, if you are interested.”

“I am gratified,” Meyer said. “Also flattered.”

“Well you might be. When I made the suggestion, Wilhelm replied, ‘The Jew Rothschild? He deals in coins. What does he know of banking?’ I allowed that you were hoping to expand your business in that direction. I assume I was correct.”

“You were quite correct, sir.”

“Never mind the sir. I told the crown Prince that I had confidence in your financial skills, and that this would be a good test of them. He was not enthusiastic, I tell you honestly. ‘Very well, Buderus, test your wings,’ were his exact words. Then he added, ‘If this is a disaster, I shall remember who suggested the Jew.’ I tell you this, Rothschild, only to make clear that if you agree to participate, my future could be at risk as well as yours.”

“May I ask why you are doing this?”

“I have asked myself that question all morning.” He glanced towards the open door, got up and closed it before resuming his seat. “In strict confidence, I will tell you that there are several treasury officers more senior than I — but none with much understanding of the burgeoning world of trade. I have been seeking a way to call attention to my abilities. These British notes are an opportunity for me. The other bankers no doubt were selected by my superiors. You will be my iron in the fire. If you agree.”

“That’s a great deal of confidence you place in me.”

“I’ve watched how you operate your coin business. Your instincts are impeccable. My instinct is to harness your instinct. For the benefit of us both. And of the Crown Prince, of course — for the benefit of Wilhelm most of all.” He sipped at his coffee, the steam no longer visible. “There, that was much better than writing it all down. You see — it must have been instinct that brought you here today.”

“Or the warming of the weather.”

“Don’t belittle yourself. Do you have any questions?”

Meyer twisted a loose button on his coat; he would have to show it to Guttle. “Only one. Several times you hinted that I might not agree to this wonderful opportunity. Why is that?”

“How shall I phrase it?” Buderus scratched idly on the unfinished letter with his quill. “I understand that you Jews are not averse to making money, only to enjoying it.”

Meyer studied the young man, who was at least five years his junior. “Perhaps I am the exception.”

Nodding twice, Buderus stood and came out from behind his desk. “We shall expect you here at eleven on Tuesday next. Should you decide not to participate, don’t bother with a courier. If you don’t appear, I will know your decision.”

“If I may, you have doubted me again. Perhaps you think I fear such a test.”

Buderus escorted him to the door. “Perhaps that’s it,” he said.

On his way home, Meyer stopped at the small farm of the widow Kremm, Georgi’s mother. Yussel had begun paying the boy for his work, and Georgi was sending most of his pay home. The widow had graying hair and a haggard appearance, like a rag doll discarded in the rain.

“He is well?” she asked, as she took the envelope of money.

“He is very well, Frau Kremm.”

“He hasn’t turned into a Jew yet? Hasn’t grown horns, or a tail?”

Anger flashed through him. He fought to control it. This ignorant woman was not worthy of his rage. He did not speak.

“Better my boy should go for a soldier. He’s not a coward, you know. You shouldn’t think that. His father was killed in the Seven Years’ War, and Georgi is just as brave. It’s the beatings by his uncle he’s hiding from.”

“Beatings?”

“Listen to my mouth. I have to go sweep the floor.”

“Shall I give Georgi your greetings?”

“If he wants my greetings he can come home, where he belongs.”

She disappeared inside the small house, whose outer walls were badly in need of paint; Georgi’s uncle clearly had little concern about that. Leaving the unkempt yard and a brown field beside it waiting for seed, Meyer felt new sadness for the boy. Family tyrants could be as evil as princely ones. Georgi might be in no hurry to leave.

The branches of the lindens and the poplars alongside the road were not yet budding, but Meyer, trying to recapture his earlier mood, envisioned their future greenery. Carriage traffic was heavy on the highway to Frankfurt. His progress slowed. He grew impatient to tell Guttle of his good fortune. He had no doubt that he could invest as well — most likely better — than the other bankers. His joy at this unexpected stake was a limitless balm until, where two roads intersected, he was stalled completely by the traffic of coaches and wagons and defecating horses, and he recalled the odd words of Buderus at the palace.
Jews are not averse to making money — only to enjoying it.
What did he mean by that? Only a fool would not enjoy it. Never mind spending, it was the making itself, the accumulation, that gladdened the blood.

As Meyer rode home to the lane, Guttle walked slowly from the bakery carrying a challah for the erev Shabbas meal. Her back ached from supporting the seven-month child in her womb. Her breasts were sore. Her swollen ankles throbbed. She was tired. Not yet twenty-three years old, she felt this day like an elderly woman, grumpy and out of sorts. Worse, she feared that something was wrong with the child inside her.

Rebecca had assured her that the baby was alive. The midwife had told her that all women felt this way. But her pregnancy felt somehow different from the ones before. It was Dvorah she wanted to talk to. Dvorah would understand. They would hug, her fears would dissipate, soon she would be making jokes, making Dvorah giggle.

Yet her mood did not improve when Hannah Schlicter intercepted her in front of the Pfann.

“Guttle, did you see the carriage of the Countess outside the gate this morning?”

Guttle hadn’t. “Was she ordering more dresses?”

“She tried on the dress I made her for Dvorah’s wedding. It will be in three weeks, you know.”

Guttle said nothing.

“The dress fit perfectly, but it was a disaster. I lost my best customer. The Countess said she won’t be coming back. She said I’ll be family now, Paul’s mother-in-law, so she can’t be treating me like some poor dressmaker. I told her that would only make me a poorer dressmaker. She didn’t think it was funny. Why should she, it wasn’t meant to be funny.”

“I’m sorry,” Guttle said, shifting her challah from her right arm to her left.

“Listen, darling, I had a letter from Dvorah today. Would you like to read it?”

“Another time.”

“That’s what you said the last time. But you never did. She wants to come see you, take you for a ride in her coach, talk to you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“She’s your best friend.”

“She was.”

“So she became a Christian. She doesn’t really believe in it. Besides, what’s that to you? You have a Gentile boy living in your house.”

“He didn’t abandon God. He didn’t abandon his children.”

“He abandoned his mother, I understand.”

“He didn’t. He sends his pay to her.”

“Never mind, this is about Dvorah. You love her. She loves you. She didn’t abandon the twins, they go to see her once a month, that’s all Lev would allow. He won’t let her come to the lane. She’s nervous about the wedding, you need to see her, listen to her talk. Like in the old days.”

“She’s out of my life now. It was her choice.”

“You’ll at least write to her, then? That much you owe her.”

“I can’t.”

“You think I was not hurt by what she did? Her mother? Moving away. Becoming a Christian. Leaving the twins like that. I cried my heart out for days. But then it was over. We get on with life. We accept. Who are you to condemn her so?”

Cold sweat broke out on Guttle’s face. She began to feel faint. Hannah did not appear to notice.

“I’m ashamed of you, Guttle Schnapper. That you would ignore a friend in need.”

“My name is Rothschild.”

“You’re a cruel woman, young lady. By any name.”

Guttle put her hand against the wall for support. Faintness melted her muscles. The bread dropped to the cobbles. Hannah looked at her pale face and at the round bread rolling on the stones toward the ditch, and turned abruptly and walked back to her house. Barely able to move, her belly fluttering, Guttle watched the challah come to a stop just short of the ditch. Her body was drenched in sweat. She did not know if she could fetch the bread, if she could bend over without toppling. She dared not let go of the wall.

Who was she to condemn Dvorah so? Was Hannah right? Was she being stupid in cutting off the friend she loved so much? The friend for whom she longed?

No! There were laws of morality. There were lines you could not cross. Without moral restraints, without a conscience, humans would not be worthy. Not of one another, and not of Yahweh. Dvorah had crossed those lines beyond all measuring, simply for her own pleasure — hurting her children, her husband, her mother, her sisters. Aside from killing another human, how much worse could a person act?

And so —No!

Her body was trembling within a skin of sweat as she leaned against the wall and thought these thoughts. She wiped her brow with her sleeve.

She wanted to hug Dvorah.

A young girl ran to the challah and carried it to Guttle. She was Reba Schlicter, Hannah’s youngest, one of Guttle’s favorites. Guttle thanked her. “Do you miss your sister?”

“A lot.”

“Me, too,” Guttle said.

When Meyer entered the lane moments later, he found his wife leaning against the wall, holding the bread. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Guttle. What’s wrong?”

“I’m feeling faint, that’s all. Help me to the house. I need to lie down.”

Meyer took the bread, she leaned on his shoulder as they walked down the alley. In the house he removed her shoes and she lay on the bed, shivering. He covered her with a blanket. Her eyes were closed as he stood watching her, tinged with fear.

The children he would send across to Guttle’s mother for Sabbath dinner. The wonderful news from Buderus he would have to store in his chest till she felt better.

Brendel would come on a Saturday morning, she had told Avra, when the Café was closed, when the men and many of the women were in schul, when few would notice her visit. Would that be all right? That would be fine; the artist worked every day; he did not respect the Sabbath. Bereft of ears, tongue, father, brother, he felt that he owed God nothing.

She could come this Sabbath, Brendel had told Avra, would that be convenient? That would be fine. He was eager to start on figure studies, as the great masters had done.

North light streamed through the open shutters. Paper was piled neatly beside his easel, alongside sharpened charcoal sticks. He did not hear her light, flying footsteps on the stairs — he would not have heard had they been slow and heavy — but he saw Avra open the door. He saw a smile both shy and adventurous beneath her blonde ringlets and blue cap. She said something to his wife. Avra nodded, they chatted in a world to which he was not privy, a world beyond the open studio door through which he was watching. In her animated face, her sparkling green eyes, she exuded what sunlight there was in the lane, even on the darkest days. It was her face, more than her chocolate, that inspired him each morning to wrestle with another day.