The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  “They’re not?”

  “You knew that I was here, growing up for you.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, lifted her till she was sitting on the edge of the desk. “You may be right. If I wasn’t aware of it, Adonai was.”

  Despite his lean body his lips were full. As he pressed them to hers she reveled in the exquisite tenderness, till, leaning back as he leaned forward, she nestled amid the papers on the desk. He kissed and nibbled at her lips and she at his until their backs ached as much as their loins and he stood and slowly pulled her upright, and stepped away lest they lose control utterly.

  “August,” he groaned, gripping a shelf of antique Geek and Roman figurines.

  Though she could hardly speak with her breath pummeling her breasts, she echoed, “August.”

  The idea came to her after he said he’d be putting a sign on the door. Few would see it, because of the Hinterpfann’s location in the rear row, down the alley from the lane. But if she made a banner for him they could hang it from a pole above the alley, and anyone looking for him would know where to go. When she had composed herself and straightened her clothing and fixed her braids she left him there and walked two houses away to Hannah Schlicter’s, to buy the cloth. Red and yellow would be nice, she thought: a yellow flag, with his name and his new title in red.

  She found Dvorah sweeping the cobbles in front of the tenement. They were expecting an important visitor, she said, the Countess Freya von Brunwald. She was the Gentile lady who’d bought three of her mother’s dresses at the Fair. She was coming to order more.

  As they chatted while Dvorah swept, a door clattered in the first house by the gate and Hersch Liebmann burst out and ran down the lane. They watched as just before the lane curved out of sight he disappeared into the hospital. Doctor Kirsch came out and walked swiftly in their direction. Behind her came Hersch and two male helpers holding a carrying board — a rectangle of wood padded with blankets. The Doctor scarcely noticed them as she hurried into the Liebmann house. Dvorah handed her broom to Guttle. “I’d better see if they need help.”

  Guttle stared at the Liebmanns’ door, waiting to see who would come out, till she noticed a woman, a tanned, blonde stranger, standing inside the north gate, looking lost. Still glancing at the Liebmann house she leaned the broom against the tenement and approached the visitor.

  “Are you the countess?” she asked.

  The woman wore a simple gray dress and cap and would have been pretty if her face were not smudged with travel dust. Blonde ringlets peeped out of her cap. Her striking green eyes seemed to sparkle and burn at once. She wiped her sleeve across her forehead. “Do I look like a countess?”

  Guttle was embarrassed, did not know how to respond. Either answer would be wrong.

  “No matter, girl, perhaps you can help me just the same. My name is Brendel Isaacs. My late husband was a blacksmith. I’ve come from Mainz to see his grave. I’ve been told it’s here.”

  “Yes, in the cemetery. Down at the south end.”

  “Thank you.” She took a step in that direction.

  “I’d better go with you. The Beckers are hard to find.”

  “The Beckers?”

  “That’s who he’s buried with.”

  “Don’t want to interrupt your sweeping. Your mistress will be angry. I know what that’s like.”

  “I have no mistress,” Guttle said, and led her down the lane. They crossed the sewage trench near the rag dealer’s. Guttle thought she should introduce the widow to Ephraim Hess, who was outside his shop; Ephraim, everyone knew, had led the retrieval of … No, that would not be a good idea. Instead she merely waved to him as they passed.

  Heavy footsteps sounded behind them. They moved out of the way as Doctor Kirsch led the two helpers by, with Dvorah following. Secured on the carrying board was Leo Liebmann, his eyes closed, his face white and glistening with sweat.

  “What happened?” Guttle asked Dvorah.

  “Some kind of seizure. She’s not sure yet.”

  She was interrupted by Doctor Kirsch. “Come on, Dvorah, I’ll need your help.”

  “Where’s Doctor Berkov?” Guttle asked.

  “In town, buying supplies.”

  “This is a busy place,” Brendel Isaacs said as they resumed their walk toward the cemetery.

  Guttle did not know what to talk about with the young widow. “Do you have children?”

  “Two little ones.”

  They were silent till they entered the cemetery.

  “I see what you mean,” the widow said. “It’s very big.”

  Guttle led her along the narrow gravel paths till they found the grave. Among the carved stones, a wooden marker said: “Rafe Isaacs. Blacksmith, Mainz. 1769. Yahweh Shall Make Him Whole.”

  The widow stood looking at the grave. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the pebbled earth. Guttle helped her up, helped her to a seat on one of the soapstone Beckers.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Guttle said.

  “Don’t be sorry for me. It was his own fault, the stupid fool.”

  “Excuse me?” Guttle knelt beside her to hear better.

  “I know, I shouldn’t be harsh with him. He was doing it for the children, they soon would’ve had nothing to eat. I told him I’d rather sell my body than let him risk his life.” She twisted her torso as if to show it off. “I could have done it, my body is still good, despite the babes. I thought he was going to slap me. He almost did. He told me not to talk like that. Business would get better, he said; meanwhile, he was the man of the family, he would provide the food. ‘One little robbery,’ he said. He was certain he wouldn’t be caught.”

  “You mean he was guilty?”

  “Of course he was guilty. Who’d he pick to rob? A man whose horse he shod once. Stupid fool. They arrested him the next day. Fat lot that did to feed the babes. What did feed them was a purse from a man who lives here. Never did catch his name.”

  “What was he like, this man?”

  “Now him I would give my body to. To say thanks. Maybe I’ll find him, maybe he’ll take on me and the babes. Tall and slim. He looked a gentle sort.”

  The tombstones began to whirl around Guttle. She grabbed the nearest Becker, closed her eyes. “You’re saying the blacksmith from Mainz was guilty?”

  “You have a problem with your hearing, dearie? Some man been boxing your ears? I’ve already said that, haven’t I? Just this once, he said. And there he is, under the dirt. Hanged in the public square like a common thief. Maybe worse, I’ve heard, though I don’t want to know.”

  Guttle saw again all those men storming the gallows, yelling “Innocent! Innocent!” Because her father had recognized him. “For stealing five gulden they didn’t have to kill him,” she said, “even if he was guilty.” She put a hand to her forehead, opened her eyes, as the earth slowed to a stop.

  “But there he lies,” the widow said, nodding toward the grave. “Or so they tell me.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the soot off her face. She took Guttle’s hand. “Forgive me, young lady. I’ve come all the way from Mainz to say a prayer for him. To thank whoever it was that gave him a good Jewish burial. And listen to me, angry as a shrew. Perhaps you could thank the proper persons for me, who bought a coffin and buried my Rafe in his time of need. He was a good man, mostly. He only did it for the babes.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I’ve got an aunt watching ’em. I’ll be taking the afternoon coach back. Unless I decide to go to the town square and earn some money. Don’t look shocked, girl. I wouldn’t be the first.”

  “But you’re Jewish.”

  “Haven’t heard that goyim are averse to Jewish twat.”

  Guttle pressed her hand over the widow’s mouth. “Please don’t talk like that.”

  “Who am I upsetting? These dead ’uns? These Beckers? Don’t tell me you’re a virgin — a girl with a shape like yours, and a pretty face to boot?”

  “Of course
not. I mean, yes. I’m betrothed.”

  “Make sure he can feed your babes without losing his head.”

  “You’re very bitter.”

  “You’ve noticed that? In my place you might be bitter too, don’t you think? But now, I might as well say a prayer for his soul. I’ve come this far.”

  Rising from the stone, she stood at the foot of her husband’s grave. She pulled a small prayer book from the pocket of her skirt and opened it, and read the prayer for the dead:

  Yisgadel v’yisgadosh sh’may rabo . . .

  Guttle stood with head bowed, feeling feverish. There was something about this brash young widow, just a few years older than herself, that was making her heart melt.

  When the prayer was done, Guttle led the woman out of the cemetery and up the lane. Ahead she could see the cabinet maker in front of his shop. Guttle greeted Yussel, and introduced him to Brendel Isaacs.

  “You ladies look a bit peaked,” Yussel said. “I’ve just made tea, would you like some?”

  “I can’t,” Guttle replied, “Meyer will think I disappeared.”

  “Tea would be very nice,” Brendel Isaacs said.

  Guttle hurried on to Meyer’s office. She found him bent over his desk with quill and paper, making lists of coins, with their descriptions. “Meyer, I’m sorry, I should be doing that. But you know what I just found out? You know the blacksmith from Mainz?”

  “Of course.”

  “He was guilty! He was guilty after all.”

  “I know.”

  She was disappointed at his languid reaction. She saw again the men charging the gallows, shouting the man’s innocence. Recalled her concern that Meyer was not joining in.

  “The widow told you?”

  Meyer continued writing as he spoke. “I knew before that. I knew at his trial.”

  “How did you know?”

  “When we were leaving the courtroom, I saw the victim approaching the witness box. I recognized him, he’s a man I’ve done business with. An honest man, who would not lie under oath. If the blacksmith were innocent, they would have needed to pay a perjurer.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “What was there to say, in the midst of all that emotion? To condemn him? The court already had done that.”

  “Even if he was guilty, for stealing five gulden they didn’t have to hang him,” Guttle said. “He had a wife, and children.”

  “You’re right, they didn’t. They were making him an example.” Meyer set down his quill, turned his chair to face her. “It was cruel. But legally, they had the right. Robbery is a serious crime.”

  “I suppose.” She drew in her breath, let it out slowly, knew she should not say what she was about to say; that only bad could come of it. “Did you get into bed with her?”

  “With who?”

  “The pretty widow. We weren’t betrothed then, so it would have been all right. I just want to know.”

  Instantly she regretted asking, as she knew she would. For months she had worried that her father might choose someone other than Meyer. Now, betrothed not two days, she was questioning his faithfulness. Hidden in her heart, she feared, was a cruel beast.

  “Where did you get an idea like that?”

  “She’s here. She’s very … open. She said she had those thoughts about you.”

  “You’re blaming me for someone else’s thoughts? Don’t be so strict, Guttle. Even Yahweh isn’t that strict.”

  She stared at him in confusion. Ashamed and angry, she pulled the door open and fled down the alley. She cursed herself for being so jealous. She cursed Meyer for not really answering.

  At the north gate, a courier on horseback, come from the Frankfurt Council with a message six months in the crafting — or six months forgotten — asked the guard where he might find the Chairman of the Judengasse Council. The position rotated on a yearly basis, and was currently held by Wolf Schnapper, but having no knowledge of such things, and no reason to, the guard suggested that the courier inquire at the synagogue half way down the lane.

  The courier never had been in the Judengasse. The stench from the ditch was assaulting his nose, a light drizzle was wetting his shirt. This was a place to get into and out of as quickly as possible. He dug his spurs into the flanks of the large black stallion he was riding, just as Guttle was bursting out of the Hinterpfann alley. The stallion was at half gallop as she ran out into the lane, her mind aflame with jealousy, her eyes clouded by the unexpected drizzle, by blurred flashes of color. She heard a horse’s hooves clattering much too fast, turned, saw a mammoth horse and rider rushing at her, almost upon her. She threw herself to the ground just as the rider saw her and tried to stop his horse. Responding to the yank on the reins the galloping beast swerved to the right and lost its grip on the slick cobbles. Its front hoof caught the sloping edge of the ditch. A rear hoof, flailing out as the horse spun earthward, lashed the falling girl in the temple.

  The stallion plummeted heavily onto its side into the trench of mud and slime. The courier, thrown across the ditch, landed hard beside his leather pouch. Guttle lay unconscious on the cobbles, eyes closed, a thin trickle of blood leaking from her temple into her hair.

  21

  The rag dealer saw it happen. Ephraim and Eva were moving their merchandise inside to keep it dry when he heard the clatter of hooves clopping too fast and looked in that direction just as the girl ran out from the alley and went down under the horse, the horse plummeting into the ditch, the rider flying across it and landing hard on the cobbles. He told Eva to run for a Doctor while he hurried to see who it was. When he recognized the Schnapper girl he knelt beside her. Her eyes were closed, her body limp.

  From his third floor window Hiram Liebmann watched. He thought of running down to help but did not know what he could do. He and his brother had not been friendly with Meyer Rothschild since Hersch had quit his job, but it was hard not to like the girl. From many shops, merchants were running out to see. In his notebook he drew the horse, the rider, the girl, the children in the lane.

  “Guttle!” Dvorah said, running up from the hospital with Doctor Kirsch, kneeling beside her friend.

  “Don’t move her,” the Doctor said, and began gently to squeeze Guttle’s fingers, her wrists, her ankles, to push back her hair and examine the wound that the horse’s hoof had cut. Across the lane Doctor Berkov came rushing up and was kneeling beside the courier, who had raised himself to a sitting position on the cobbles. In the ditch the horse was writhing, trying to stand but unable to, whinnying and slapping his head from side to side in pain. From the north gate a guard came walking down, musket in hand. From the bakery a muffled shriek erupted, followed by Emmie Schnapper scurrying as fast as her stout body and short varicose legs would move. As she approached and her eyes confirmed what mouths had said she screamed, “Guttle!” In his shop in the Hinterpfann, in the back row with the door closed, Meyer Amschel writing on his papers the value of each coin was oblivious to the frenzy till Emmie Schnapper’s scream pierced his consciousness like an arrow in his chest. Guttle! He dropped his quill, splattering ink on his lists, and ran down the alley, pushed his way through a cluster of spectators and knelt beside Doctor Kirsch, over the limp body of his betrothed.

  “I don’t think anything’s broken,” the Doctor said. “But she appears concussed.” And to Dvorah, “Get her to a bed and remove her clothes. Gently as you can.”

  Dvorah and a Doctor’s helper who’d brought a carrying board lifted Guttle carefully. Doctor Berkov, approaching, asked how she was. “I want to get her inside to look closer,” Doctor Kirsch said. “It was an angled blow, the cut is superficial. I don’t see any damage to the skull. But she might have injured her spine when she hit the cobbles. There could be paralysis.”

  Meyer listened, watched, barely able to move. Not since the year his parents died had he felt so helpless.

  Yussel Kahn approached the group, the widow from Mainz at his side. They had just finished their tea when they heard
the commotion. Doctor Kirsch stood and walked beside Guttle’s supine figure as Dvorah and the male helper carried the board. Meyer, feeling faint, walked on the other side with Frau Schnapper, who was trying to stifle her sobs but not succeeding.

  Half in and half out of the ditch, its right foreleg broken, the stallion flailed on its side. The guard pointed his musket in the air and fired, startling the onlookers; it was a call for help. Teachers and students in the yeshiva and the heders paused at the sound of the shot; the teachers followed their pupils into the lane to see what was happening. Isidor Kracauer, carrying one of his notebooks, hurried up alongside the chief Rabbi, who was wearing his high black hat. Seeing someone clearly of authority, the mud-stained courier, his hip and arm bruised but otherwise unharmed, handed the Rabbi his pouch. “From the Frankfurt Council,” he said. “To the Judengasse Council.” Rabbi Eleazar took the pouch, but said nothing.

  The Constable was watching the flailing horse. “I have to shoot it to stop its pain,” he said. From inches away he pointed his musket between the horse’s pleading eyes.

  “Wait!” the Chief Rabbi called out, an instant before the musket fired.

  The horse’s head erupted with blood and fell to the side of the ditch. The legs shuddered and became still. With the back resting at an angle on the slope, the belly and two legs disappeared under the muck.

  “Did you want something, Rabbi?” the Constable asked.

  “What I didn’t want was a dead horse in my ditch.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “You could have tried to lead him out of the ditch, then shoot him.”

  “He’d be dead, either way. They’ll come and pull him out with a wagon.”

  Flies already were landing on the horse, with no swishing tail to slap them away. The flow of the ditch was backing up behind it. The Chief Rabbi looked around. “Schul-Klopper,” he called.