The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  “No, no, no!” Eva cried out, but as she ran towards him Ephraim did what he had intended all along. He fired the green apple at the horse.

  The apple smacked into the horse’s flank, making a soft thud. It did not bounce off but remained imbedded in the muck with which the horse was covered. The captain lowered his pistol, held it at his side. The men beside Ephraim read the policeman’s message: it was okay to assault the horse. Those who had made balls of mud hurled them at the dead animal. Some hit and stuck, others splattered on impact, a few missed altogether. From a third floor window an onion came hurtling down and made a direct hit on the stallion’s back. Little boys picked up bits of mud and threw them as best they could at the beast. More food hurtled down from kitchen windows on both sides of the lane — a potato, a small green cabbage, another onion. Some hit the horse and stuck, others landed in the muck beside it. Children ran into their houses and came out with grapes to throw. The captain replaced his pistol under his coat. The two officers tried to hide smiles as the dead beast blossomed, under a rain of epithets, into a ripe vegetable garden.

  The men whom a minute earlier had been an incipient mob began to point and laugh at their handiwork, and cheered the women at the windows. Draping arms over one another’s shoulders, they sauntered back down the lane to their places of business, the decision of the Frankfurt Council defused, if not forgotten. “After all,” they told one another, “what’s new? From those swine, who could have expected more?”

  Watching from in front of the Pfann, Meyer Amschel mused on Yahweh’s curious ways. Where would the anger have been directed, and with what result, if the Council’s horse had not been in the ditch?

  Rebecca Kirsch had been busy in the hospital all morning. She was distressed to hear that the dead horse remained in the lane. “Who knows what’s breeding in its sores?” she said to Dvorah. She hurried to where the two city workers were standing with hands on their hips. The policemen had left after the protesters dispersed.

  “Why aren’t you pulling out the horse?” the Doctor asked.

  “The wagon won’t fit in here. We need more men. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

  The Doctor looked around for a face she recognized, and approached Avra. “Please go to the yeshiva. Tell them we need six strong boys to move the horse.”

  Avra ran off. Noting the stallion’s new vegetable appointments, the Doctor rolled her eyes. She kneeled beside the blasted head, could see several kinds of vermin crawling in the dried blood, the broken eyes. With one of Leeuwenhoek’s microscopes, she thought, she would see a lot more. All these animalcules, as the Dutchman had called them, swimming inside the horse, inside ourselves. Each a thousand times smaller than the eye of a louse, he’d written. God alone knew what they were for. And He wasn’t telling.

  As Rebecca shooed away three small children who had edged up close to look, Avra came running back, breathless, alone.

  “Where are the boys?”

  “Rabbi Jonah said no.”

  “He said no? How could he say no?”

  “He said learning the Talmud is more important than dead horses.”

  The Doctor turned away, furious, trying not to spew out the phrases that came to mind. She could not go confront the director of the yeshiva; she was too new here. She glanced at the spectators; they were mostly children now. Pointing to one stout woman, she said, “You, come help me. Please. We can’t wait till tomorrow.”

  “The bakery has lots of women,” Avra reminded her. The girl had taken over Guttle’s weekly job, the winnowing and boiling of the beetles.

  “Go see if they can spare four strong women without ruining the bread.”

  Glad to be useful, Avra hurried off. She returned followed by her mother and Frau Metzenbaum and two other sturdy women. When they saw the beast, Frau Metzenbaum said, “Too bad a horse isn’t kosher. There’s everything we need for a stew.”

  “In your kitchen, not mine,” Emmie Schnapper replied.

  Pointing at the chains already affixed to the horse, Doctor Kirsch turned to the city workers. “You two grab the first links, in the ditch. You’ve got boots. We’ll help you.”

  She lined up the women behind the two men, grabbing part of one chain herself. Avra saw that the lines were unbalanced, and took hold of the other chain.

  “All right, prepare yourselves,” the Doctor said. “Now, everyone, pull!”

  At first they could not budge the horse. When it did inch forward, it slipped back deeper into the sewage as the women relaxed their muscles.

  “We can do better!” Rebecca called out. “It’s to prevent your children from becoming ill. Take a deep breath. Now, pull!”

  The two men and the six women, straining, pulled together. The horse began to inch up out of the ditch. “Keep pulling!” Rebecca yelled, as the chain pressed into the bones of her slim fingers, as she felt her shoulders wanting to tear. “Brace yourselves with your legs!” she shouted, and they did. The horse, its skin oiled by greasy kitchen wastes, began gliding out more easily. ”We’ve got it, keep pulling,” she yelled, and little by little they inched the horse up out of the ditch and onto the cobbles.

  Breathing hard, the women dropped the chains and blew into their hands. They wanted to lick the bruised spots but saw rust from the chains on their palms and fingers and wiped them on their skirts instead. “And thank you, too,” Rebecca said to the city workers, not quite sarcastically.

  “We’re not done yet, missus,” one of them said. “We have to get it to the wagon.”

  Rebecca looked to the north gate, and beyond, to where the wagon stood, the four dray horses growing uneasy as they smelled their dead stable mate. The distance was at least forty metres. It wasn’t fair to ask these women to do that, Rebecca thought; her own hands wouldn’t do her patients much good for a day or two, even now. But the screeching sounds of the chains scraping the cobbles, then the sight of the women hauling the turd-dripping horse, had summoned some of the nearby men. The rag dealer came, the cabinet maker, Meyer Rothschild, several others. Weary, with no breath left with which to speak, Rebecca pointed to the wagon. Eight men grabbed hold of the chains and bent their backs under them, and pulled the resisting horse along the cobbles, where it left a long smear of yellow-brown muck, out of the lane to the rear of the large wagon, onto a flat metal slab. The city workers took over from there.

  Most of the men rarely did physical labor, and as they strolled back on the far side of the ditch, joking, they were proud of their accomplishment. They also felt good for having come to the aid of the women — whose burden now would be to clean the slimy cobbles.

  After she had slept and bathed and changed her clothing, Guttle went to Hannah Schlicter’s sewing room, and chose the red and yellow fabrics for Meyer’s flag; she did not buy the cloth from his brothers because she wanted the banner to be a surprise. Frau Schlicter refused to charge her; she said the cloth was a betrothal gift. Guttle had been ordered by Doctor Kirsch to rest. While she did, she cut and sewed the banner.

  The following morning, Yussel Kahn brought over the sign he had made proclaiming Meyer a court agent. With pride, Meyer nailed it to his door while Yussel and Guttle watched. When he was through inspecting it, Guttle unveiled her surprise: the same words in red on the yellow banner, on both sides:

  Meyer Amschel Rothschild

  Court Agent

  In red in the center was the crown Prince’s coat of arms.

  Meyer held the banner like a treasure. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s to hang in the lane, above the alley. So people will know where to find you.”

  Yussel went to his shop and brought back his thickest wooden dowel. He and Meyer affixed the dowel to the wall above the alley, perpendicular to the tenement. When they hung the yellow banner from it, the flag was visible from the north gate to the point near the hospital where the lane curved. As they worked, first children, then some adults gathered to see what they were doing. When the adults could read the letters on the
flag they began to cheer and applaud. Others heard, and came out from their shops, and looked, and joined in.

  “I didn’t know I was so popular,” Meyer said.

  Someone called out, “It’s the girl who stopped the horse!” The cheering grew louder.

  The hanging of the banner turned out to be a major event in the lane — not so much that day but in the days and weeks that followed. For years there had been only a few faded banners, so familiar as to be hardly noticed. Now Hannah Schlicter, seeing how cheerful Meyer’s flag looked, and filled with confidence, because the Countess von Brunwald had ordered three expensive dresses, made a banner for herself, a simple one: H. Schlicter, Dressmaker. She chose white letters on dark green, so as not to compete with Meyer’s flag, and she hung it from her second-floor window. Yussel thought such a banner might help his business, and paid Hannah to sew one for him, in blue and gold: Yussel Kahn, Fine Wood Work. Not to be outdone, Otto Kracauer told Ida to make one for the boys, in red on beige: O. Kracauer & Sons, Feather Merchants. Day after day, new banners appeared up and down the lane, hanging from the second story or the third or the fourth, over money-lenders, second hand clothing shops, junk shops, jewelers, wig makers, cake shops, tailors, dressmakers. Like a garden in spring, the Judengasse bloomed from a somber gray-brown into a multicolored festival.

  When she was fully recovered from the horse’s kick, and with Meyer taking the coach to Worms to look at coins and antiques, Guttle decided it was time to view her new job as his assistant more seriously. She’d asked for instruction from her father about books and ledgers; now she looked for Meyer’s ledgers to make sure they were in order. She couldn’t find them anywhere in the office. He might keep them up in his bedroom, she thought, but she didn’t feel she should look up there. Instead, she opened the wooden money chest, on the floor against the wall, to do an accounting. The chest was three-quarters filled with small pouches. Some were made of leather, others of canvas or plain cotton. Each was heavy with coins and bills. On the outside of each were small ink notations of the amount of money in the pouch, followed by letters and numbers she did not understand. She guessed they were Meyer’s symbols for who had paid the money, and what for. Also in the chest were a scattering of loose coins. They either had spilled from pouches that had opened, she figured, or were small payments Meyer had not bothered to wrap.

  Adding up the money listed on the pouches, and noting the amounts on a sheet of paper, took much of the morning. When she realized the pouches might not contain what the notations said, she started again, opening each pouch to count the contents herself. All the notations turned out to be correct.

  She was slumping over the desk wearily when Meyer returned in late afternoon, carrying a small Greek figurine — a fine Aphrodite, he said — and a sack of coins and medals. He kissed her hair. “What have you been doing?”

  “Counting the money.” She raised her head and shoulders from the desk. “I couldn’t find your ledger.”

  “Probably because I don’t have one.”

  “How can you do business without a ledger?”

  “I keep it in my head. Looking at columns of numbers makes my brain hurt.”

  Guttle’s eyes came into sharper focus. “Look at you! You bought a wig.”

  He took off his hat so she could see it better. The hair in the gray wig swept back over his ears and was knotted elegantly in the back. “I thought a court agent should look more proper. Do you like it?”

  “It’s wonderful. It’s so distinguished.”

  “Exactly the image I was looking for. To insure confidence. I won’t wear it in the lane, of course.”

  She stood to examine his new hair. Eyes sparkling, she said, “Now I have two men to kiss. I hope neither will be angry.” She pressed her lips to his. Slowly lifting off his wig, and setting it carefully on the desk, she kissed him again.

  “I like this game,” Meyer said. “Which man is the better kisser? I think perhaps you need more samples.”

  Guttle laughed merrily, but turned away. “I think perhaps we should get back to business. You need to have a ledger. I know how to set it up.”

  “Then it will be both of my pleasures to allow you.”

  “Do you know how much money you have in the chest?”

  “I can tell you exactly. Three thousand four hundred gulden and fifty-six kreuzer.”

  “That’s close. Three thousand three hundred gulden and fifty-six kreuzer.” She showed him the list she had compiled.

  “I’m afraid you’ve made a slight mistake.” From his waistcoat pocket he extricated a sheet of paper that had been folded and refolded so many times it was near to falling apart. He unfolded it carefully and handed it to her. On the sheet were several columns of numbers, each number with a line through it. Only the bottom number of the last column was not crossed out. “You see,” Meyer said. “I’m right.”

  Guttle became upset. “I didn’t ask you what number you had written on a piece of paper. I asked you how much money is in the chest. There’s a hundred fewer gulden in the chest.”

  “Not possible. I’ll tell you what. We’ll count it again. Together.”

  “Meyer Amschel, I’ve spent all day counting it. Not once, but twice. You’re welcome to count the money as many times as you like. It’s almost time for supper, I hope you won’t mind if I go and rest my eyes.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to doubt your work. If you counted it twice, you must be correct.” He lifted her from the chair and hugged her, and kissed her cheek. She felt limp, and too weary to kiss him back. “You go rest, have a good supper,” he said. “Give my regards to your family. I’ll see you here in the morning.”

  Guttle walked slowly down the alley. Meyer watched her go. When she had disappeared from view, he knelt beside the wooden chest, and with a slight sense of guilt and a stronger sense of foreboding, he began to count the money.

  As Guttle approached the Owl, Izzy emerged from the adjacent house, curved hammer in hand. It was time for the Schul-Klopper to summon worshippers to evening service. She gave him a quick hug, as she always did these days upon encountering him; she knew he needed repeated assurances that, despite her betrothal, they still were best friends.

  “I need to ask you something,” she said. “When I got kicked by the horse, did you really see children in the lane?”

  “I didn’t, but Hiram did. From his window. He showed me the drawing in his book. The black horse charging, you throwing yourself in front of it, three little ones a few metres down the lane. Hiram’s book is the truth, he draws only what he sees.” A breeze curled up the lane from the river, raising dust, setting the new flags to flapping. “This horse episode is like a story from the Torah, which needs interpretation.”

  “A dead horse in the ditch — is that a heavenly sign? Do we all need to fast or something?”

  “The real question is, if you didn’t know children were in danger, why throw yourself in front of the horse? If the story were in Genesis, what would the Rabbis make of it?”

  “Izzy … ”

  “I know! Perhaps an angel saved the children. Angels are incorporeal, they have no bodies. Perhaps a passing angel saw the children in danger, and invaded your body to stop the horse.”

  “That’s very funny.”

  “Why?”

  “The Chief Rabbi thinks the horse was an angel.”

  “See! We need a conclave of Rabbis. To get a Talmudic interpretation.”

  She reached up and smoothed an errant lock of his always errant hair. “Iz, this Torah project is warping your brain. You need to be a boy again.”

  He ignored her words. “What if both deductions are correct? An angel in a horse, and an angel in a girl, crashing together! What would the ancient Rabbis make of that?”

  She saw movement over his shoulder, a figure in a black coat. “Here comes Hiram with his hammer. You’d better go do your Schul-Klopping. Some other time I’ll tell you why I got kicked by the horse. When we’re very old.”


  Hiram approached and stood beside Izzy. When the boy continued talking, his deaf assistant clenched a fistful of his shirt at the shoulder and pulled him away, toward the first house on their rounds.

  Upstairs, resting on her bed, closing her eyes, Guttle tried to envision the moments before she and the horse collided. She remembers running through the alley, in a fury at Meyer. With her mind’s eye now she sees small flashes of color far to the left. She hears again the onrushing hooves. Could those flashes of color have been children? Could she in fact have divined a terrible accident coming, and rushed out to stop the horse before it ran down and possibly killed the little ones? Could the image of the children have been jarred from her head by the horse’s kick? Is that why she does not remember them? Perhaps in fact she had been trying to save them. Perhaps in fact she is deserving of applause. Could she tell this to people?

  The notion caused her to squirm, induced sweat beneath her arms, between her thighs. To do so would appear as if she were belatedly seeking praise. They had already applauded her.

  The rolling thoughts were making her head hurt. She doubted she had the courage to do such a thing. What if this new vision is a false memory, playing tricks? She did not know the truth of her actions. Perhaps there are often times when we don’t.

  Meyer tossed the last pouch of money into the chest and slumped in his chair. Guttle had been correct; he knew that would be the case, since she’d counted twice. But his figure was also correct, and the implications were grave. A hundred gulden was missing — and therefore stolen.