Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  Yudl runs to the doorway, kisses his right hand, touches the mouldy mezuzah and rushes inside. A sooty hallway. Aberle’s mother sits in silence and spins wool with distaff and spindle, her cote torn above her breast in sign of mourning. She has recently buried two boys, lost to the Ague.

  She looks pale and exhausted, herself a ghost. “I must talk with Aberle.”—“So I heard. Talk with him, don’t shout. The girls are sleeping. For once.”—“I can go upstairs?”—“Go, Yudl, go, and don’t let him bully you. He’s a terror.”

  Yudl walks up the creaking steps, spotting spiderwebs in the ceiling corners. The house used to be noisy with children, but now is silent. Dustballs float on the stairs, a whole house in mourning, gone to seed and ruin. Wind whispers through a crack in the wooden boards; magic spells, incantations. A finger of ice strokes the flaxen down behind Yudl’s ears. The hairs on his arms rise in dread.

  The attic doorway, Yudl swallows. He knocks imperiously. “It’s Yudl.”—“Go away.”

  Yudl opens the door regardless. Two planks propped on crates, scattered with straw: Aberle’s bed, once shared with his brothers. A lectern of sorts; three boards held loosely together by three nails. A lantern, a sheet of parchment full of scrawls, letters and diagrams, and Aberle. “GET OUT!”—“NO! I WANT MY FATHER’S BOOK! NOW!”

  Aberle’s lanky limbs block the way. He has to crouch; the ceiling is too low for him to stand. “Why do you want it, midget?”—“My father wants it.” Aberle leans forward, his ugly face leers. His finger touches Yudl’s sweaty forehead. “Then tell me which letter is the most exalted.”

  Yudl doesn’t know.

  “You haven’t read it? You moron?”—“I didn’t have time to. I lent it to Barukh, and then he lent it to you. When should I find time to read it if you lot are throwing it around town as if it belonged to you? It’s my father’s, now give it back to me.”

  Aberle’s face, unrelenting.

  Yudl feels in the hem of his cote. It is still there, his gift from Uncle Meir. Hard, round, the size of a fingernail. Tarnished silver, opener of rusty doors. “I will give you a Ha’penny.” His quivering hand proffers the coin.

  Aberle stares at him a while. “The book is wasted on you.” He reaches into his stuffy room, under the bed, and pulls out the Alphabet of Akiba, bound in green vellum. “How did your Father—a great scholar!—ever produce a dunce like you?”

  

  And he bows before his Father, the Great Scholar, and proffers the book in its green jacket. Father takes The Alphabet, studies its condition briefly, turns a few pages, sniffs its inner leaves. “Damp,” he says, and glowers at Yudl. “Aberle is never to take a book from here into that filthy damp hovel again, do you hear?”—“I hear you, Father.” And then Father slides the green-jacketed book into one of the higher shelves, and . . . it happens. A small, fat, red leather bound book falls from its hiding place onto the lectern.

  “What is, that book, Father?”—“Never you mind what this book is Yudl, get going.”—“No, really, what book is that, Father?” Father’s cheeks flood red. The curls of his hair twist and writhe. “Do not ask me about that book again.” His hand flinches, spasms, strikes Yudl across the cheek. He turns and places the book up high, in the crooked corner of the shelf.

  Yudl’s cheek stings, his eyes flutter, resisting tears. His tongue tastes the sour taste of hatred. I will find what is Hidden from me. I will do what is Forbidden. As he leaves the Library, his mind teems with the words of Solomon. If thou seekest knowledge as silver, then thou shalt understand the fear of the Lord.

  

  Once a week it is his job to collect the lampblack from the beth midrash lamps. He has two horsehair brushes, one larger and one tiny one for the difficult crannies in the lamp’s mantles. He brushes the lamps over a white-painted plate . . . and the soot gathers, falling like black snow . . . drifts of dark powder, the precious, wonderful magic of lampblack.

  And then he goes around the houses of the Jews, knocking on the shutters and calling, “Lampblack! Lampblack!” And he cleans the dirty lamps and takes away the soot in his wrap of blackened cloth.

  At rich Uncle Meir’s he can usually collect two good pinches of soot from the office lamps. “I’ve been working late at night,” says Meir, ruffling Yudl’s hair. “What have you been working on, Uncle?”—“Business.”—“Of course. But what business?”—“Business that is good for your business. The more I work, the later I stay up, the more oil I burn, the more lampblack for you.”—“You’re not answering my question.”—“You’re too young for business, that’s why. And your Father wants you to be a Scholar.”—“Then he should have a different son.”—“Why so? You’re good at Torah study. Better than I ever was.”—“That’s not a compliment, Uncle.”—“Insolent boy.” Uncle smiles, and Yudl sits down to work. It’s true. Father can recite Deuteronomy backwards. Uncle Rosheimer, for all his gold, reads the Torah in a high-pitched voice that sounds like a peacock and he needs the Gabbai’s help with the vowels. For shame.

  The door opens, Emmerich enters, pulling down his fur-trimmed hood. Following him, a young Jew, red-haired and blinking. Yudl has seen this stranger before; a commercial traveller from one of the communities downriver. Emmerich holds up a bunch of papers. “Letters from the Grete, just docked.”

  The stranger, Mordechai, bows to Uncle Meir. “Greetings from my Father. I have a promissory note.”

  Rosheimer takes the scrap of parchment, examines it carefully, checks the seal against a sample in one of his ledgers. “Six marks, sixpence?” Mordechai nods.

  Rosheimer counts out the coins, passes them to Emmerich to check the balance. As the Goy counts, flicking the coins expertly from one hand to another, Yudl bends back over his lamp, brushes at the soot. He does it slowly on purpose, not wanting to leave.

  “Welcome once again, Mordechai,” says Uncle Meir. “Go to the beth midrash for your meal tickets, and the Gabbai will allocate you a bed. I’ve forgotten whose turn it is to take in travellers. It might even be ours!”

  “That would be an honour, Reb Meir.”

  “What business do you have here?”

  “We’re awaiting a shipment coming over from the Danube. I have to pay and find a boat for it, take it back to Mayenz.”

  “Tell your Father that his credit balance here is getting precarious. We need to draw coin back from him next time one of our associates is in Mayenz.”

  “I will tell him. He will be glad to reimburse you.”

  Emmerich finishes counting. “The sum is true. Here, Mordechai, please count.”

  Mordechai shakes his head. “There is no need. Here.” And he holds out his wallet to receive the coin. Emmerich slides the silver across the tabletop. It rains into the open pouch, chiming bright. Uncle Meir becomes thoughtful, shuffles his feet.

  “Mordechai, tomorrow is shabbat and of course, as an honoured visitor, you’ll be offered to read the Torah portion. If you wish to, please do. But I know it’s my brother’s turn to read it and . . . well . . . it’s so important to him, and he does it so well and . . . ”

  Mordechai holds up his hands. “Say no more, Reb Meir! I will be glad to refuse the honour. My reading voice is poor, in any case.” Uncle Meir claps his hands together high in the air, a gesture of relief and gratitude.

  After Mordechai has left, Emmerich takes out two letters from the pile. One is a mere scrap of parchment, torn from a book, bearing a brief scribble of ink. Uncle Meir raises his eyebrows. “And what is that?”

  “A note from the serving girl I had placed in Schwanenstein. She says she has asked around amongst the servants and they say that they think some bandits might be holed up on the marshes at the end of the River Albe. But she can’t leave the castle to look for herself . . . ” And then Emmerich holds up the second missive—this time a full scroll, bound with a ribbon and a seal. “From Our Lord Count vo
n Schwanenstein. In response to our letter. About the Bandits.”

  Uncle Meir’s eyes flick over to Yudl, who, despite being as slow as possible, has now nearly finished his work. Emmerich follows Rosheimer’s eyes. “It’s alright, let the boy hear.” He unfolds the letter. “There’s nothing to tell anyway. In short His Lordship says that he takes no orders from a bunch of Merchants and Jews. He’s sorry we lost some merchandise, but the bandits could have come from anywhere. If he finds any on his lands of course he will put them to the sword as he has done in the past. But now he has more important things to worry about than our commercial misfortunes. The matter is closed, goodbye, good riddance to you.”

  A pause. Uncle Meir folds his hands. “Well, it was nice of him to find the time to write.”

  Emmerich chuckles bitterly.

  “And the Albe River? If the maidservant is right? Is that on his land?”

  “The River marks the border of his land. So the jurisdiction is unclear.”

  A contemplative silence fills the room. After a short while, Emmerich breaks it. “In the meantime we can put armed men on the boats.”

  “They will need to be paid. It will drive up the price of all goods. Yudl?”

  Yudl looks up from his work, brushing the soot into his folded oily cloth. “Yes, Uncle?”

  “Are you ever going to finish?”

  

  The day after shabbat, home early from the beth midrash to mix the ink, he stands in the doorway and listens. Footsteps above, a snatch of song. Auntie Esther is home, as usual.

  Not that he can see her. He thinks; is she only there because I think she is there? How do I know she is there?

  The Slippery Things, once again.

  Yudl goes to the kitchen and collects the ink pot and a jug of warm water from the cauldron hanging above the hearth.

  He thinks: probably someone is in the schul latrine now, but if no one is there to see them, are they really there? And what of the desert, the waste places, whose only witnesses are jackals and screech-owls? Are they really there, those lands of sand, blasted thorns and darkness?

  Yudl shivers. They are there. The Eternal One has set them there. And he sees them. And so they are there.

  But does The Eternal One have Eyes? No. That would be to limit Him. To give him organs, fingers, hair, hands. Ridiculous! Like the Goyyim do with their idolatrous sculptures! (Spit twice! To left and right!) Their horrible, twisted, bleeding Hanged One. And the “Mother of God”! As if God was once born! Once a Baby!

  Back to the topic. Job asks God: Hast thou eyes of flesh and dost thou see as a man sees? and Zophar the Naamathite answers Canst thou by searching find out God?

  Rabbi Menahem explains it thus: How can you search for God when God is already Everything? What can it mean to search for something that is even the Searcher himself?

  And so God has no eyes. God IS all eyes. God has no flesh. God IS all flesh. And so it goes on, and so it goes on, and so . . .

  Yudl slaps his forehead.

  Stop thinking the Slippery Things, Yudl.

  Turn to The Chore.

  Yudl mixes the magic mix: lampblack, water and fishbone glue, just like his Father has shown him. He stirs the ink pot with the quill. Still too viscous. He adds a spot of warm water, just a spot. Perfect. Tests the ink on a scrap of parchment, writing his name. Yudah, ben Yitzhak. Son of Yitzhak. Rosheimer, the new surname Uncle has chosen for them from the nearby town of Rosheim. Rosheimer.

  Yudah. Ben Yitzhak. Rosheimer.

  He blows gently. The ink dries to a glossy, deep black, with slight grey ghosting where the nib stroke was too light. A good ink. Maybe his father will be pleased. Maybe he will even smile.

  “Yudl, I’m going next door.” It’s Auntie, standing at the foot of the stairs, pulling her cloak over her shoulders. “How long, Auntie?”—“How long what?”—“How long will you stay next door?”—“How long is a rope?”—“Just tell me how long.”—“Why, what mischief are you planning?”—“Mischief? How easy you think evil, Auntie.”—“Evil thoughts are first to the table.”—“How long?”—“Until I need to come back.”

  Auntie Esther harrumphs and clatters out the yard door, heading across the courtyard to Cousin Barukh’s, sending the chickens scattering.

  Yudl’s heart starts to beat faster. It is a Sin. But he cannot help himself.

  He stops to listen to the house’s guilty silence. His blood judders in his heart, sickening him to his stomach.

  

  . . . she said, “Why not make love to me not as duty, but just for pleasure?”, and I of course said that would be frivolity and she frowned, so next shabbat I came to her in our chamber and desired her and spoke soft words to her and complimented her hair and her lips, but she turned her back and said, “You have not understood at all,” which truly was not untrue, for who, since the beginning of our world and Eve in the garden, has understood women’s whims?

  We must study the Law and not be distracted by shameful thoughts, and for this Adonai has given us marriage so that we should be fulfilled and not succumb to the temptations of demons. But what should a man do if his wife will not have him? What if, when she does so, she does it only as duty, and takes no pleasure in it?

  Yudl’s blood races. He feels he will faint. He can hardly hold the book still, his hands tremble, his arms shake. He knows he should not read more. But he cannot stop.

  I cannot stop thinking of her. Not just me with her. But her in the arms of others.

  Thud. Thud. The door opening, closing.

  Downstairs.

  Yudl nearly retches with fear. His legs shake uncontrollably. He wants to scream.

  Quick. He stands on the chair. Slides the book back in its top shelf. Tries to come down quietly. Bang! His wooden sole sounds like thunder on the boards.

  Quick. Out of the Library, the key is still in the lock. His breath comes fast and deep, like a foundry bellows. Turns the key and slips off his shoes, tiptoes upstairs, kisses the key and slides it beneath the mattress on Father’s side . . . .

  “Who’s that up there?”

  A voice from below.

  “It’s me, Auntie, just going to schul!” His voice quavers. His feet clatter on the stairs, racing for the door.

  The study house is full. As Yudl enters, shaking, the usual bored glances greet the new arrival. Only the bored look up. The truly pious are too engrossed to care who has just walked in, as the Gabbai always says. Caught by his own snare, it is the Gabbai who looks over at Yudl from where he is instructing the boys in the weekly Torah portion. This week is Numbers. Take the Levites from among the children of Israel, and cleanse them.

  The Gabbai points a finger at him: come here now. His crooked, white finger resembles the yad used to point at the Torah scroll. Yudl shakes his head, his eyes scour the room . . .

  When he sees his Father, nausea rises from his stomach. A flush of shame. Yudl takes hold of the nearest lectern, as if he is about to plummet to the ground. His Guilt must be written across his forehead, like the mark set upon Cain. He looks down at his feet, awaiting the thunderbolt. The blow.

  But nothing comes. Yudl looks up. Praise the Almighty, his Father has hardly noticed he is there. Father reads aloud, closes his eyes, memorises, reads again . . . and only sends one brief, dismissive glance in Yudl’s direction.

  Yudl looks at the lectern he is holding for balance. Unfurled on it, the book of Ruth, lazily left there by the last reader. Yudl starts to read aloud, swaying gently backwards and forwards—wash thyself therefore and anoint thee and put thy raiment upon thee . . .

  But he is not really reading.

  Of course he knows something of it. Mitzvat onah. Lying together in bed. On the eve of the Sabbath. Making babies. But what is it like? And why does Mother not like it? They made me, didn’t they? And two more sons who died
as babes, taken by the envious demoness Lilith.

  He thinks of his Mother and Father lying together.

  And then one line he read comes back to him and sickens Yudl like the Ague. He closes his eyes and it crowds in the darkness behind his eyelids like Nightmare.

  . . . her in the arms of others.

  Yudl’s mind writhes and twists, a nest of snakes. And around him as he sways he can hear mutterings and susurrations, dozens of pious mouths whispering and reciting, lisping and singing the eternal Word of the Lord.

  THE RISE OF MAMMON

  (ANNO 1242. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN V)

  Like the brattish child that tugs at the sleeves of its parents, exploding in tantrum until its whims are heard, thusly has the Merchant Estate, in its incessant whining from its wharves and warehouses, sought to inveigle its way into my attention. Previously they had merely wheedled at the foot of the High Table in the hope of a few crumbs of privilege or the lowering of a Noble or Episcopal ring to kiss. But of late their entreaties have taken on a strident and even rebellious tone, and have become truly difficult to ignore.

  Furthermore, they are beginning to set up their own institutions and companies, founding Guilds, Corporations, Travelling Societies to spread their risk and increase their mutual profit. They are building their own churches, making their own investments in both this world and the next. They seem to believe, because they have money in their purse and the freedom to spend it, that they have the God-Given Right to Everything and Exactly How They Wish It, as if Blood and Breeding and Culture had played no role in determining society’s Hierarchies! On the altar of Mammon they sacrifice their humility and saunter knavishly into our Cathedral as if into a market tavern. Such a din and clamour do they make that the Cantor can hardly hear himself singing the Psalms and Antiphons.