The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  “Let us suppose for a moment that the theft was discovered by the shammus — that he suspected that Hersch was the thief, and told him to return the money within, let’s say a week — it could have been less — or the shammus would inform the Chief Rabbi. What would be the effect on Herr Liebmann if the shammus were to do this? Hersch Liebmann would be branded a thief. He would lose his caretaker job at the synagogue. He might be brought to trial.

  “Would that have been reason enough for him to kill Herr Gruen?”

  Meyer paced back and forth in front of the jury, looking from one face to another. Then he said quietly, “No. I don’t think so. And you should not, either. It might have been reason enough for murder, but let us give the defendant the benefit of the doubt. Let us say not.

  “So what, then? I’ll tell you what. In the week before Solomon Gruen was murdered, I myself decided I needed an assistant in my coin and antiques business. Someone to run errands to the post, that sort of task. Immediately I thought of Hersch Liebmann. Why? Because he was a neighbor, because I knew his parents, because he might enjoy the job more than sweeping the schul. And I would pay a little more, which I knew his elderly parents could use.

  “What happened then? I stopped Hersch in the lane on the twenty-eighth of March. I asked if he would be interested in coming to work for me. Hersch said he would. He seemed happy to be asked, as well he might. Then I told him that because I did not know him very well, I would be asking his employer, the Schul-Klopper, what kind of worker he was. If the report was good, he could have the job. I told him I would speak with him again as soon as I could talk with Herr Gruen.”

  A few murmurs were heard in the room as people anticipated what was coming. Then silence fell again like the snow, which had grown heavier still and was building on the sills of the windows, blocking from the bottom a line of exterior light.

  “You can guess the rest. The very next morning, Solomon Gruen was found dead, not ten metres from the door to Hersch Liebmann’s house. Before I got a chance to speak with him.”

  Murmuring among the spectators grew louder. The Chairman rapped his gavel for silence.

  “I will ask the question I asked before. What would have been the effect on Hersch Liebmann if Solomon Gruen had not died that morning?

  “When I spoke with the Schul-Klopper, he would have felt constrained to tell me the truth — that he suspected Hersch of stealing one hundred gulden from the schul. In which case I certainly would not have hired Hersch — as, without the opportunity to speak with Herr Gruen, I eventually did. Hersch would have lost his job at the schul. He would have lost the chance for a better job with more pay in my employ. A job, he might have been thinking already, where money was handled every day, a job from which he might be able to steal again. Which he later did, as you have seen. He would have been shamed before his family. Having told me of his suspicions, Herr Gruen no doubt would have told the Chief Rabbi — with all the consequences I have mentioned. Hersch Liebmann would have been disgraced — imagine, stealing from the schul! He might have been put on trial for thievery. Certainly he would never be hired for any job again. How would he live?

  “Hersch Liebmann is not stupid. Hersch Liebmann knew all this.

  “Are those reasons enough for him to murder Herr Gruen? This time I suggest that they are. He had to silence the Schul-Klopper. The easiest weapon at hand was ratbane. He would not even have to leave his house and risk being seen — he need only offer the Schul-Klopper a poisoned drink when he came knocking.”

  Meyer walked back to the table, drank more water, looked through some blank papers. Wanting the jurors to absorb his words, he stalled, glanced at the snow rising on the window sills.

  “When Rabbi Eleazar presents his defense, he will tell you that what I have said is all speculation and supposition — that no one saw Hersch commit murder. I agree. What you must remember is that Solomon Gruen indeed was murdered — that is absolute fact. If not by Hersch Liebmann, who had such strong motives and such easy opportunity, then by whom?

  “In a trial such as this, we must combine the physical evidence with logic. Remember, the Talmud agrees that a person can be tried for murder with no witnesses. That is the circumstance in which most murderers strike. If we insisted on witnesses, most murderers would go free. A terrible killing was committed in the lane on March 29th — and all logic points to Hersch Liebmann as the murderer.”

  He looked from one face to another among the jurors. Slowly he turned his back to them and walked to his seat. “Herr Chairman, that is the case for the prosecution.”

  The hall was silent with anticipation. Chairman Schnapper quietly asked the Chief Rabbi, “Do you want a rest before we proceed?”

  “No, no, let’s get on with it.”

  As Rabbi Eleazar stood, with his ship captain’s demeanor, a disturbance erupted among the spectators — a scuffling of chairs, a loud, almost inhuman bellowing sound. Hiram Liebmann had climbed onto his chair and was waving his arms, signaling wildly, trying to shout with useless vocal chords. The Chairman banged his gavel several times. “What’s going on back there?”

  Hiram stopped his painful sounds, but continued to shout with his hands. All eyes in the hall were turned him.

  “What does that man want?” Chairman Schnapper called out. “This is a trial we are conducting.”

  Izzy stood from his seat beside Hiram. He, too, began to signal rapidly, before he realized he must speak. “It’s Hiram Liebmann. He wants to testify. He claims that he killed the Schul-Klopper.”

  A conflagration of voices erupted among the spectators at this unexpected turn. The Chairman repeatedly banged his gavel for order. The defendant looked across the room at his brother, consternation and sadness in his eyes.

  “Nonsense,” Meyer Amschel exclaimed. “He’s just trying to save his brother!”

  “Will you let him testify?” the Chief Rabbi asked.

  “It’s nonsense! He had no motive.”

  “He’ll be under oath. Will you listen to him? What we want here is the truth.”

  “He’ll just confuse the jury. He’ll muddy the case.”

  “Isn’t that for the jury to decide?”

  “He’s not on the witness list,” the Chairman said. “It’s up to you.”

  Meyer tossed papers in the air with angry resignation. “Let him testify. The jury already heard what he said.”

  Again and again the Chairman had to bang his gavel to restore order. “Let the witness come forward,” he said. Izzy pointed to the witness chair. Hiram nodded and followed his friend to the front. Hiram sat, and Izzy stood beside him to interpret. The Chairman spoke the oath. Izzy nodded his head. Hiram did so as well.

  “Very well,” the Chief Rabbi said. “Hiram Liebmann, did you see who killed Solomon Gruen?”

  Izzy enacted the question by pointing to Hiram, touching his eyes, mimicking someone handing a glass to another. Hiram shook his head, no.

  “Then what is it that you have to contribute to this case?”

  Izzy motioned to Hiram to say what he wanted. Hiram pointed to himself, then handed an imaginary glass. Izzy Interpreted: “I killed him, not my brother.”

  The jurors and spectators were leaning forward in their chairs to hear Izzy speak the deaf mute’s confession.

  “You’re under oath!” Meyer shouted across the table, forgetting for the moment that Hiram could not hear, no matter how loud the shout.

  “The witness knows he is under oath,” the Rabbi said. “Now, Hiram, tell us. How did you kill the Schul-Klopper?”

  Hiram enacted the scene like a mime. Izzy spoke the words. “He knocked on the door. I gave him a glass of milk, with ratbane in it. He drank it, then went outside. I put water to boil, and I poured a cup of tea. I took it to the window from which I watch the lane. He was lying on the cobbles. No one found him for six minutes, till the girl did.”

  The silence was intense. The whole room seemed to be growing darker, the oil lamps flickering, as if shaking
their heads in dismay.

  “Why did you kill him?” the Rabbi asked.

  Izzy told the question. Hiram pointed to his chest, then knocked in the air as if with a hammer. “So I could become Schul-Klopper,” Izzy interpreted.

  “And are you now Schul-Klopper?”

  “Assistant Schul-Klopper,” Izzy said.

  The Rabbi pondered a moment. “I have no more questions.”

  “Herr Rothschild?”

  “I have just one. Why did you think you would become Schul-Klopper if Herr Gruen was dead?”

  Izzy motioned the question, pointing at Hiram’s chest and then at his temple, knocking with an imaginary hammer, shrugging his shoulders. Hiram beat his fist hard on his chest, several times. From their close friendship, Izzy interpreted the passion, the pleading eyes. “Because I deserved it. It’s all I could do.”

  Meyer wanted to give him a withering glare — or perhaps a pitying one, he did not know which. Instead he looked down at the table, and sat. Was it possible?

  “Are we finished, then?” Chairman Schnapper asked.

  “Not at all,” the Chief Rabbi said. “I still have a witness for the accused.”

  Izzy led Hiram back to the spectator section. Every manner of expression was directed at him — incredulity, anger, pity, curiosity, admiration.

  Rabbi Eleazar’s voice boomed out. “The advocate for the defense calls Guttle Schnapper.”

  Wearing a dark gray dress she thought appropriate for the trial, Guttle walked to the witness chair. As she was sworn, as Meyer looked across the table at her, she seemed to him — perhaps to everyone in the room — both vulnerable and mysterious. What could she contribute? She sat, smoothing her dress. Only she and the Chief Rabbi, who had questioned her weeks earlier, knew what she was going to say.

  “Fräulein Schnapper,” the Rabbi said, “please tell the jurors your movements on the morning of 29 March last, from the time you left your house.”

  “We had no milk for my little brother. I took a pitcher and crossed the lane and borrowed milk from Frau Metzenbaum.”

  “Was the sky still dark?”

  “It was just beginning to brighten.”

  “Very well, go ahead.”

  “On my way back, I stumbled over something, and spilled some of the milk. I looked down and saw a man in a black coat lying there. When I looked closer, I saw a carved hammer in his hand. I realized it was the Schul-Klopper. I ran to get my mother, and almost bumped into Isidor Kracauer, who was coming out of the house next door.”

  “Let’s pause there for a moment. Before you saw Izzy, did you see any other people nearby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Three Gentile boys, about my age.”

  Meyer started in his seat. A murmur rippled among the spectators. Where, Meyer wondered, had three Gentile boys come from. He’d never heard of them.

  “I must interrupt,” Doctor Berkov said from his seat at the council table. “I spoke with this witness the day of the murder. She told me she had seen no one. Surely her memory was better that day than it is today.”

  Meyer nodded, astounded at his intended. What was Guttle doing? The Rabbi said, “Fräulein Schnapper, please respond to the good Doctor.”

  Guttle looked at Berkov, blushing slightly. “What Doctor Berkov asked me that day was had I seen anyone in the lane. I said no, which was the truth. I didn’t even think of the Gentile boys. They were outside the gate.”

  The Rabbi looked at Berkov, who slumped back in his seat. She’d been understandably upset that day, the Doctor recalled. Still, she’d been right — those boys surely were irrelevant.

  “What were the boys doing outside the gate?” the Rabbi asked.

  “They were pointing at the Schul-Klopper, and laughing. I ran at them, and told them to show respect. They danced about, and ran away.”

  “Did you see anyone else outside the gate.”

  “Not then, but later. A constable who was new that morning, I had never seen him before. Later I learned his name was Fritz.”

  “When you saw these boys, was the gate open or closed?”

  “It was closed.”

  “Was it locked?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look that closely. I assumed it was locked. When it’s closed, it’s usually locked.”

  “But you don’t know for certain. So isn’t it possible, Fräulein Schnapper, that these three boys — about fifteen or sixteen years old, you say, about your age — that these three boys, or the new guard Fritz — came into the lane, and forced Herr Gruen to drink liquid that had arsenic in it, and then retreated outside the gate and watched him die. Is that possible?”

  Guttle was reluctant to answer. Her eyes flicked across the table towards Meyer.

  “Is that possible?” the Rabbi prodded.

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “If that were the case, Hersch Liebmann would not be guilty of murder, would he?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “You suppose not? Can you be more certain than that?”

  “If those boys or the Constable killed him, then obviously Hersch Liebmann did not. But there is no … ”

  “Thank you, I have no more questions.”

  Meyer leaped up at once, had to grab his yarmulke, which had begun to slide off. “Fräulein Schnapper” — those spectators who knew of their betrothal smiled — “did you at any time see those three boys in the lane, inside the gate?”

  “No.”

  She felt terrible, she was eager to help him.

  “Did you at any time that morning see a guard inside the gate?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see Solomon Gruen outside the gate with them?”

  “No.”

  “Did you at any time see any of those persons offer a drink to Herr Gruen?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see any of them force a drink down his throat?”

  “No.”

  “Solomon Gruen was the Schul-Klopper for more than thirty years. Do you know of any reason why any of those people — the new constable or those young boys — would decide to kill him that morning.”

  “No.”

  “Do you know of anything that any of them would have gained by killing him — such as preserving their own reputations in the lane, or gaining money, or avoiding being charged with theft?”

  “No.”

  Meyer glared at the Chief Rabbi. “No more questions.”

  “Any rebuttal?” the Chairman asked Rabbi Eleazar.

  “Just one question. Fräulein Schnapper, at any time that morning did you see Hersch Liebmann offer a drink to Solomon Gruen, or force one down his throat?”

  “No.”

  The Rabbi nodded. “That concludes the defense, Chairman Schnapper.”

  The room sighed with the expelled breath of hundreds. The Chairman stood behind the table. “Men of the jury,” he said. “The accuser has concluded his case, and the defender’s advocate has concluded his. You have heard the testimony, and seen the evidence. You are now to discuss the case among yourselves, and decide the guilt or innocence of the defendant on each of the three charges against him. Should you find him guilty of any of the charges, you shall determine an appropriate punishment from those required by the Talmud.

  “Of you twenty-three jurors, twelve votes of not guilty are needed to find the defendant innocent. Thirteen votes of guilty are required to find him guilty.

  “Rabbi Simcha will remain with you as you deliberate, to answer any questions of Talmudic law that need explaining. The good ladies of the bakery — among them my wife Emmie, I might add — have prepared bread and meat for you to eat, and tea. You shall remain in this room to deliberate.

  “I now must order all persons not on the jury to leave this hall. When the jury reaches its verdict, Rabbi Simcha will send word out into the lane, to allow you to come back and hear the verdict. The jurors will now convene among themselves.”

  He
rapped his gavel once, sharply, on the table. The people began filing out, some discussing their views, others overwhelmed by what they had heard, trying to make sense of it, grateful they were not jurors.

  As she donned her coat and walked slowly out into the falling snow, Guttle thought: what about Sophie Marcus, why did no one mention her?

  25

  The snow falling in thick flakes had covered the lane to a depth of several inches. Cobbles were visible only in patches, where little boys had been running about, pulling off one another’s yarmulkes and rubbing snow into their hair, or trying to shove it inside their shirts, while little girls wearing wool caps stood in the shelter of doorways, giggling. The slopes of the ditch were white, and the crossing boards; flakes falling onto the sluggish waste clung to life briefly, then drowned. The people leaving the trial churned up the fresh snow with their boots even as new flakes settled on their coats. The lane was brighter to the eye than during those few sunny minutes of the clearest days.

  In a first floor room at the rear of the hospital, Doctor Kirsch pulled a white sheet up over the vacant eyes of Leo Liebmann, while his Yetta cried noiselessly in a chair beside the bed, and Hersch and Hiram watched.

  “He didn’t want to wait for the verdict,” Yetta said through her tears.

  Hiram squeezed his mother’s shoulder as Doctor Kirsch left the room, leaving the family to grieve in private.

  “It was Rothschild who killed him,” Hersch said bitterly.

  “Don’t say that.” Frau Liebmann wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, looking at the form beneath the sheet that for more than thirty years had been her husband, her best friend, her joy, silly old fool that she loved. “Meyer Rothschild did not steal the synagogue’s money. Or his own. Or hide it in Leo’s bed.”

  “Are you saying that I killed Papa? Another accusation of murder?”

  “No, my son. Nobody killed your father. Yahweh took him when Leo wanted to go.”

  “The money was to get away from this place. To start a life somewhere. Later on, after Papa and you … were gone. I wouldn’t have left till then.”