The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  Doctor Kirsch nodded and said “no” at the same time. “I’m afraid it’s not that advanced.”

  “Of course not,” the Chief Rabbi said. “Men and women can never be equal. Yahweh created them to be different.”

  His wife, who also had been silent till then, spoke as she took her seat. “This equalness is what they are teaching at the universities? Better our children should stay home. Not get meshuganah ideas.”

  The others began to cut into their boiled beef. The knives made squeaking sounds on the plates. Guttle could see that Doctor Kirsch was frustrated, that she did not want the conversation to end there.

  “Perhaps I did not make clear what I meant by equal,” the Doctor said. “Take rich and poor, as Herr Rothschild pointed out. A poor man will never be equal to a rich man in the things he can own. But they can be equal before the state. In an ideal society there would be no nobles, and no peasants. No one would be considered superior to anyone else as a matter of birth. Instead there would be what is being called a meritocracy. People would rise to prominence, to government service, on their own merits, not on their grandfather’s blood lines. No matter how far they rose in terms of wealth, they still would have no more say than the poorest man in choosing the parliament, or in facing the courts. In matters of justice, for instance.”

  As they all listened intently, Rabbi Simcha closed his eyes, and seemed to be smiling at some inner vision.

  “Look how things are now,” Doctor Kirsch continued. “The nobles have power to influence the Empress. The peasants don’t. The peasants are quite literally owned by the Princes. In Kassel, which is just twelve kilometres from Göttingen, Landgrave Friedrich conscripts the peasants into his army. He hires out his army to whatever country is fighting a war. The Prince gets paid, so much for each soldier supplied, so much for each one killed, so much for each one wounded. There is talk — in the wind, as I said — that the British colonists in America are tired of paying taxes to their king. There is talk they might rebel, and fight to have their own independent country. Should that happen, Friedrich most likely would lease his army to the British king, to fight his own colonists. No matter who wins that war, the Landgrave will become very rich from the blood of his peasants. And he’s rather rich already.”

  Meyer, sitting to Guttle’s right, discreetly squeezed her hand.

  “A lot of farmers will die,” Lev Berkov said.

  “In a war in which they have no stake,” Rabbi Simcha added.

  “It’s the way of the world,” the Chief Rabbi said, mashing a piece of potato in his mouth. “A new idea doesn’t change the way things are.”

  “Sometimes it does,” Guttle blurted. “Look what Jesus did.”

  Silence struck the table like a storm. Guttle bit her lip, trying to bite back the words. The others, all except Doctor Kirsch, looked at their plates. Meyer Amschel rescued her. “That may be an unpleasant thought, but we all know it’s the truth. Some ideas have power. If you go back further, the Jewish concept of one God swept across the world like a conflagration. It burned the pagan Gods to ash. It relegated them to myth.”

  “The problem is, even false ideas can flourish — like the premature Messiah,” Rabbi Simcha said.

  “Are you saying this concept of human equality is false?” Doctor Kirsch asked.

  “Not at all. It’s a wonderful notion. Just a bit … fanciful, perhaps.”

  Guttle, still upset with herself over her comment, was finding the beef hard to chew; some of the others were also. The Rabbi’s wife noticed. “We have baked apples for dessert,” she said, “so leave room. If I gave too much meat, you don’t have to finish.”

  A sense of relaxation moved inaudibly around the table. Exhilarated though she was by these new arguments, Guttle realized she had just learned from the rebbetzin a lesson in grace. Her mother felt insulted if people didn’t finish everything.

  “If I may change the subject slightly,” Meyer said, addressing the new Doctor, “Göttingen is a small town. How did it manage to build a university?”

  “It didn’t. There is only one building. The instructors teach in their homes. Very effectively.”

  “If I may change the subject even more,” the Chief Rabbi said, “there is one other question I am curious about. I understand from Doctor Berkov that your credentials are impeccable. That being the case, there are many cities in which you could have gone to practice. Why did you come to us? To the Judengasse? Where you will be locked in at night, on Sundays, and so forth?”

  “My father’s answer is that I’m meshuganah. He may be right.” She smiled, and put down her fork. “Seriously, I think there is a unique opportunity here to study what affects people’s health. In addition to treating the sick along with Doctor Berkov, of course. The walls and the gates are terrible things, but medically, they provide a laboratory that could be useful.”

  “In what way?” Meyer asked.

  “For instance, Rabbi Simcha was kind enough this morning to let me look through the Memory Book. Two things struck me at once. The first is that you have a terrible rate of infant deaths here. More than half the babies born alive die during the first year. Most in the first few weeks. The rate is high everywhere, but not as high as in the Judengasse. What is the cause of that? It becomes especially intriguing when you note, as I saw in the book, that a great number of the people here live to a very old age. Not only into their seventies, but into their eighties and even their nineties. This is very unusual.”

  “So you see a contradiction,” Doctor Berkov said.

  “Not so much a contradiction as a puzzle. There is something going on here that kills babies. But those infants who survive seem more fit to live a long life. Are these connected? Does it have to do with the sanitary conditions? With the diet? With the mere fact of being Jewish?”

  “And you hope to find out?” the Chief Rabbi asked.

  “Not really. I’m a Doctor, not a natural scientist. But exciting work is being done in science and medicine at the universities. Not only across Ashkenaz, but in England, in Denmark. I hope to keep up with the latest findings, and see if any of them apply here.”

  When nobody jumped in with a comment, Guttle summoned her courage. “Doctor Kirsch, something has been troubling me ever since I read it in Deuteronomy a few months ago.”

  “There’s a lot that’s troublesome in Deuteronomy,” Rabbi Simcha said.

  The Chief Rabbi gave him a harsh look. Guttle continued.

  “It said that if mothers don’t follow all of Yahweh’s laws, their children will die. Do you think that could be what’s happening in the lane, why so many babies die?”

  “That’s a good question, Guttle,” the Chief Rabbi said. “I would like to hear your answer to that, Doctor.”

  “As I said before, I have no idea what’s causing these deaths. Let’s say I’m willing to accept that explanation — until we find a better one.”

  “Please hurry,” Guttle said. But she had a morsel of tough beef in her mouth and was not understood.

  “What was that? Speak up, young lady,” the Chief Rabbi said. “We’re interested in your opinion as well.”

  “I said, I hope they find a different explanation soon. Before I get married.” They all laughed amiably; she wasn’t sure she had been joking. “There are a lot of Yahweh’s laws to follow in Deuteronomy. Also in Leviticus.”

  “You know your Torah,” Rabbi Simcha said.

  “But I don’t trust that I can keep all the rules.”

  “Sounds to me as if you’ll do just fine.”

  She hesitated, then spoke again. “Can I ask one last question?”

  “Of course. You see, Doctor Kirsch, what inquiring minds we have here in the lane.”

  “So I’d heard. That was another attraction.”

  “What was your question?” Doctor Berkov said to Guttle.

  She wiped her hands on her napkin. Gilda Eleazar was setting a huge baked apple in front of each of the diners, and a glass of tea

/>   “At the Fair today,” Guttle said, “an innocent man was hanged. He was a Jew. Because he wore a yarmulke, right to his death, I imagine he put his faith in Yahweh, as we all are taught to do. But if that’s true, then Yahweh failed him. How are we to keep our faith in a Gott who allows such things — who lets us be confined to the Judengasse?”

  The host toyed with his baked apple, then set down his spoon. “That is a question that has been with us since Job. Or before. It comes to most of us at some difficult time in our lives.” He lifted the spoon, set it down again, took a sip of tea. “There is no doubt that terrible things happen. It is also true that all things, good and bad, emanate from Adonai. We can’t deny that. We can’t pick and choose what we ascribe to the Almighty. The only answer I have is a simple one. If we do not trust in Him who created the heavens and the earth, and gave us life, then in whom should we trust?”

  “What about ourselves?” The comment came from the lady Doctor.

  The Chief Rabbi’s face darkened to a deep red. He pointed his spoon in her direction. “You may be fresh from the university, Rachel Kirsch, but that comment is close to blasphemy.”

  “It’s Rebecca,” the Doctor said.

  Rabbi Simcha stood at his place. “Perhaps that is an answer — this lack of faith in Yahweh — that’s also coming in the wind, as the Doctor has intimated. And perhaps in a way it answers part of Guttle’s question. Perhaps Yahweh has placed us Jews within high walls so we’ll be protected from these winds.”

  “Exactly so,” the Chief Rabbi said. “Very good, Simcha. A postulation I had never considered in just that way. A new view of the walls, in fact. Perhaps a subject for my yeshiva class, where this Mendelssohn fellow seems to have a following. But now we have such sweet-smelling baked apples in front of us, I suggest we drop serious subjects. We’ll tell some clever stories, to smooth the digestion.”

  Strolling home slowly, Guttle and Meyer discussed the evening. Somewhere above them was a half moon they could not see, providing just enough glare to outline the tops of the tenements. The lane was deserted, most people had gone to bed with the dark, as usual, so as not to burn much oil.

  “The new Doctor seems very smart,” Guttle said.

  “Very intelligent. Making an enemy of the Chief Rabbi was not very smart.”

  “All she did was speak her mind. You like it when I speak my mind.”

  “You say different things.”

  “Dvorah wants to marry Lev Berkov. Do you think the new Doctor will be in her way?”

  “Doctor Kirsch seems very serious. She came here to work. I doubt that marriage and children are on her mind. Besides, she’s too intelligent for Lev.”

  “You think he’s not intelligent?”

  “He’s very intelligent. But he thinks he’s smart enough for two people. He wants Dvorah only for her body.”

  “What a terrible thing to say.”

  “I’m just speaking my mind.”

  “Is that why you want me? For my body?”

  “I want you for your tantalizing soul.”

  “Oh.”

  “Of course, if your body came along in the bargain, I wouldn’t object.”

  “You are such a romantic, Meyer Amschel Rothschild.”

  “I know. I can’t help it.”

  “Be serious. Why do you like me?”

  “Where did you get that idea?”

  “Meyer!”

  “Why do I like you? Because you make me laugh.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s not all. But don’t minimize it. Laughing is how we survive.”

  “The Jews?”

  “The human race.”

  “Why does it have to be that way? The suffering?”

  “Apparently that’s the way Yahweh likes it.”

  They strolled in silence for a time. From one of the tenements they heard a baby cry.

  “Why did Rabbi Eleazar get so angry at Doctor Kirsch?” Guttle asked. “I’ve never seen him like that. Is it blasphemy to believe in yourself?”

  “I think he misunderstood. He thought she wanted to substitute ourselves for Yahweh. But she surely has faith. Otherwise she wouldn’t have come to the Judengasse.”

  “Which do you believe in?”

  “Me? I think we need to have faith in both. In Yahweh, and in ourselves. I think our lives are like the paintings on the Rabbi’s walls. Yahweh provides the canvas, and the paint, and the brushes. But we have to paint the picture.”

  “What if we have no talent?”

  “Then we do it with hard work.”

  She thought about that. “The picture doesn’t always turn out very good.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But it always gets finished, one way or another. Yahweh sees to that. So we have to keep trying while we can.”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked. “I want to help you paint your picture,” she said.

  He linked his arm through hers. “I want you to. But it will be our picture.”

  “If that’s really true, can I tell you what I want in that picture? My secret dream? I’ve never told anyone. I’m afraid they would laugh at me.”

  “Tell me. You know I believe in secret dreams.”

  “I want to tear down the walls, so our people can be free. I want us to do it together.”

  They stopped walking. He ran a finger lightly across her lips, looked into her eyes. “I have a desire, too, which I’ve never told anyone.”

  “You do?”

  “It’s the same desire. But I don’t think of it as a dream. I think of it as a goal.”

  She stood on her toes and kissed his lips. His breath smelled of wine and apples. Her own mouth still tasted of boiled beef. “When can we do it? How?”

  “We can’t do it by ourselves. Adonai will have to help. Perhaps Rebecca Kirsch’s so-called wind will help.”

  They resumed strolling, hands entwined, feeling closer to one another than they ever had. “That’s something your father doesn’t understand about me. That I, too, have dreams — and not just of wealth. But as you said, we can’t tell people. They’ll think we’re too puffed up.”

  They reached the front of the Owl. She turned to face him. “I have to ask you something. When my father called on you to speak today, you said he had a wicked streak. What did you mean?”

  “He was putting me on the spot. It was a test, to see what I would say.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose you could look at it that way.”

  “After your speech, what did he whisper that got you so angry?”

  “He said I would get very rich.”

  “That made you mad?”

  “That wasn’t what my speech was about. Sometimes, having principles and making money coincide. Not always — but today I was speaking for principle. Either he misjudged me, or he was being cynical. He meant I was manipulating that crowd for my own benefit. I was not.”

  “Maybe you have to sell yourself to him.”

  “Tell him I have ethics? He sees me in schul every day. When he’s there. Tell him I tithe my income, as the Torah instructs? That’s none of his business.”

  She squeezed his hand, hard. “When you two fight, I get afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Papa could make me marry someone else. Lev Berkov — though I don’t have Dvorah’s body. Or Viktor Marcus”.

  “They’re both good men.”

  She dropped his hand and turned away, mumbling . Even if he were teasing, he had gone too far.

  “What was that? I didn’t hear.”

  She turned back. She repeated what she had said, enunciating every word. “I … don’t … know … how… to… make… them… laugh.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “We have to be patient, Guttle. I know that’s difficult at your age, but … ”

  “At my age?” She wanted to shriek, but controlled her voice. “What’s wrong with my age?”

  “Nothing. I lo
ve your age. I love everything about you. But we have to wait. Whatever Yahweh wants to happen will happen.”

  “You do?” Her voice was shy now.

  “I do what?”

  “Love me?”

  “Of course. You know that.”

  “It’s the first time you’ve said it.”

  He kissed her forehead, held his lips there. “I should have said it before.”

  She broke away in delayed reaction. “I hate that!”

  “You hate what? What do you mean, you hate it?”

  “I hate what you said about Yahweh. ‘Whatever He wants to happen will happen.’ It’s what I hear in the lane every day. It’s the opposite of what you said you believe.”

  Meyer took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “You’re right. Sometimes I don’t know what I believe. The point is this. Your father, though he is more open than most, is still of the old school. To him, marriage is not about love. It’s about business. I have to prove to him that he, and you, will be getting a good deal.”

  “Do you believe marriage is about business?”

  He rubbed his hand across his forehead. He knew he was about to wade into trouble. “You want me to be honest? A little.”

  “So if I were the rag picker’s daughter, you wouldn’t want to marry me.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I still would love you.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Guttle, that was a joke. Why are you being so difficult tonight?”

  She pulled away from him. “I’m tired. I have to go to bed. Maybe it’s that boiled beef speaking. Maybe I have trouble watching men hanged. Maybe I’m too young for you and the prevailing winds. Don’t worry, I’ll leave everything in your hands. And Yahweh’s.”

  “Can you think of a better pair of hands?”

  “That’s four hands, not a pair.”

  Angrily, she turned towards the door.

  “Goodnight, Guttle. When you’re going to sleep, count Yahweh’s hands. Maybe He has more than two. Maybe He has a thousand hands.”

  She opened the door to the Owl and disappeared into the dark, the humid dark of the house, the angry dark of herself. The dark she wanted no one — no one but Melka — to see. She wondered, not for the first time, if she even belonged with Meyer and his crowd. She wondered if their love was a game.