The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  Without looking at him she reached out and squeezed his hand.

  “I didn’t kill the Schul-Klopper. No matter what the jurors decide. I wouldn’t kill anyone. But from now on people will look at me funny, even if the jury agrees I’m innocent. Some people will never be sure.” He signaled his words for Hiram as he spoke. And he asked his brother, with his motions, “Why did you say you killed him? Were you trying to help me?”

  Hiram stared straight ahead, and did not respond.

  “Is it still snowing out?” Yetta asked. “When will we bury him?”

  “In the morning. Under the snow.”

  “The grave?” Yetta said, a question in her voice.

  “Hiram and I will dig it,” Hersch said. “As soon as the verdict is done.”

  “How did the Rabbi learn about the Gentile boys?”

  They were standing in the doorway of the Owl, brushing snow from their coats.

  “He came and questioned me, because I had found the body. I never thought they were important, till he asked if I saw anyone outside the gate. Maybe running away.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? He made a fool of me in there.”

  “He said I couldn’t tell anyone until the trial. Especially you, because you were the accuser. That was the law, he said.”

  “I don’t know such a law.”

  “Don’t be angry with me. I was only telling the truth. If you knew about the boys, would that have made you think Hersch was innocent?”

  “No. He’s still the only one with a reason to murder. Hiram was just trying to help his brother. The Rabbi was using those boys to confuse the issue.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I have no idea,” Meyer said. “Perhaps he’ll tell us one day.”

  The snow was six inches deep late that afternoon when word spread that a verdict had been reached. Volunteers had shoveled the snow from in front of the synagogue and in front of the lecture hall, but the cobbles already were being freshly covered. The men had cleared the wide window sills of snow so it would not block the light from coming inside; the snow was re-establishing itself there as well.

  The seats were filled as in the morning, the jurors in place, the defendant, summoned from the hospital by Rabbi Simcha, sitting without expression in his chair. The large room smelled of wet wool and apprehension. Many of the spectators seemed tired, having argued with one another for hours about whether Hersch Liebmann had killed the Schul-Klopper, debating how they would have voted had they been on the jury.

  “Have the jurors selected a person to tell their verdict?” Chairman Schnapper asked.

  One of the jurors stood, a man from the south end. “I have the verdict, Herr Chairman.”

  “Please convey it to us. The spectators shall remain silent till we have heard the verdicts on all three charges, as well as the sentences, if any. You may proceed.”

  The man opened a folded sheet of paper. Meyer could not remember such tension in his stomach as there was now — not even when he was dealing with the crown Prince. Hersch Liebmann appeared relaxed, as if, regardless of the verdicts, he had achieved some inner calm, but a close observer could see his left eye twitching. Guttle, seated in the witness section, did not know what to think, what to expect.

  “On the first accusation of theft, in the matter of one hundred gulden stolen from the synagogue, we find the defendant guilty.”

  He paused while the briefest of murmurs swept among the spectators. Few seemed surprised, given the evidence.

  “On the second accusation of theft, in the matter of one hundred gulden stolen from the business establishment of Meyer Amschel Rothschild, we find the defendant guilty.”

  The room remained silent. That verdict had been a certainty after the first.

  Meyer held his breath, intent on the outcome of the murder charge. Guttle found her whole body trembling; she did not know which verdict she would prefer. The defendant leaned forward in his chair.

  “On the charge of murder without a witness, in the death of Solomon Gruen, we find the defendant, Hersch Liebmann, not guilty.”

  Hardly a sound was heard. The room seemed to deflate even as Meyer did in his chair, Hersch by contrast squaring his shoulders, sitting tall, trying not to smile. Most of the spectators were too worn to talk, uncertain, as Guttle was, which outcome they had been hoping for. If Hersch Liebmann was not a murderer, that was good. But they had heard at the trial, for the first time, Doctor Berkov’s evidence that Solomon Gruen had been murdered. That terrible fact had not changed.

  “Have you decided on punishments for the two guilty verdicts?” Chairman Schnapper asked.

  “We have, Herr Chairman. On the first charge of theft, we sentence the defendant to exile from the Judengasse for a period of seven years.”

  A collective inhaling of breath seemed almost to cause the room to implode. There had not been a criminal trial for so long that people had forgotten about exile.

  “On the second charge of theft, we sentence the defendant to exile from the Judengasse also for seven years. Together, the defendant is sentenced to exile from the Judengasse for fourteen years. Such period of exile shall begin at sundown tomorrow.

  “With the Chairman’s permission,” he continued, over a babble of chatter among the spectators, “the jurors have asked me to explain the sentence of exile, as follows.” The room quieted at once, as he read from his paper. “Civilized behavior is based on trust. Because as Jews we can trust no one else, it is imperative that we be able to trust one another. Stealing from the synagogue, and stealing from one’s employer, both are violations of sacred trusts. In such cases, as noted in the Talmud, the offender must be removed from society, in order to permit its congenial functioning. As for the accusation of murder, the majority of the jurors found that the charge had not been proven.”

  People in the rear were scrambling to their feet, like boys let out from heder. Doctor Berkov approached the Chairman and whispered in his ear. Meyer said to the Chairman, “Please ask him to tell the vote.” The Chairman rapped his gavel, and did so.

  “On the two charges of theft,” the juror said, “the findings of guilt were unanimous. On the charge of murder without a witness, the votes were eight guilty and fifteen not guilty.”

  “Rabbi Simcha, are those the votes you saw in the jury room?”

  “Those are correct, Herr Chairman.”

  Gaveling sharply three times to silence the departing spectators, Chairman Schnapper announced: “I have just been informed by Doctor Berkov that a few hours ago, having been ill for several months, Leo Liebmann passed away. Leo, as most of you know, was the father of the defendant. He will be buried after morning services tomorrow. In deference to the widow, the Chair will use its prerogative to delay the sentence, so that the defendant may comfort his mother at this difficult time. The sentence of the jury, of exile from the Judengasse for fourteen years, shall begin not tomorrow, but after the seven days of sitting shiva.” He banged his gavel loud as a musket shot. “The court in these matters is now and forever adjourned.”

  Turning to his future son-in-law, as the people filed into the snow, Wolf Schnapper asked, “Are you satisfied with the sentence?”

  “With the sentence, yes,” Meyer said. “With the principal verdict, no. Solomon Gruen is dead — and someone murdered him. If not Hersch, who? If not Hersch, why?”

  The snow had stopped falling, the clouds had blown away. The cemetery glowed from the ground up under a nearly full moon, which threw sharp shadows in front of each stone marker. The brothers worked alone and silent, clearing away the half-foot covering of snow in the family’s ancient plot, purchased a century before by a forgotten ancestor. When the snow was piled like white ashes on the graves of others, they dug in the earth, which was not yet frozen, a grave for their father.

  Pausing to rest when the hole was three feet deep, Hiram signaled to his brother, breaking the eerie silence without breaking it, asking him what he was going to do. Hersch both sp
oke and mimed his answer. “They’ll give me five gulden. I’ll ride some coach as far as it will take me. Then I’ll walk. When I’m as far from this place as I can get, I’ll look for work.”

  Hiram, reading Hersch’s hands and to a lesser degree his lips, made a question with his fingers. What kind of work?

  “I won’t sweep floors. Or carry parcels. Maybe I’ll become a highwayman. I’m good at stealing.”

  Hiram mimicked stealing, by picking the handkerchief from his brother’s pocket. He grabbed that hand tightly with the other. You’re also good at getting caught.

  Hiram saw that his brother was glaring at him. The glare was the same as he had seen two months before when he had prowled around his father’s bed to see what Hersch was stashing there, had found the hole in the mattress cover and pulled out the two pouches of coins from the straw. Had not heard, of course, his father coming in, standing behind him. His aged father had reached down, touched the pouches with stiff fingers, slumped to the floor a moment later, stricken. Hiram remembered shoving the pouches back into the straw, running to get Hersch, who ran for the Doctor. His brother never had blamed him for what happened. Until now.

  Hersch only glared. He signaled nothing. Hiram broke the visual quiet by knocking in the air, then vigorously shaking his head. I won’t be Schul-Klopper anymore.

  “Why?”

  They’re sending you away, he mimed, pointing to Hersch and then over the wall. I don’t want to work for them.

  “You have to take care of Mama now. She’ll need the money you make.”

  Hiram jumped into the hole, grabbed his spade, tore at the earth with a vicious chop, then another, and another.

  “It’s a different world for you now,” Hersch said, “with Papa dead, and me going away.” Whether out of carelessness or anger, he spoke only with his voice, not with his hands. Hiram heard nothing. Hersch knew his words did not need saying.

  Few people came to see Hersch Liebmann take leave of the Judengasse for fourteen years. People did not want to shame him. Goodbyes, in the absence of love, would be inadequate.

  As he stood near the north gate, Hersch had in his pocket five gulden from the synagogue’s welfare fund. Beside him on the muddy, snow-crusted ground was a faded satchel stuffed with clothing. His mother was there, tears in her eyes, and his brother, and Wolf Schnapper, as chief officer of the sentencing court, and the fire captain, Joshua Lamb, in case of trouble. Meyer Amschel had agonized over whether to be present. Guttle had urged him to stay away, arguing that no good purpose would be served. Meyer had decided otherwise. He would not be going to gawk at a man being driven from his ancient home. Rather, he would present himself, and stand mute, and wait — to see if Hersch, who surely hated him, needed to divest himself of words, of anger. It was his obligation as a man, Meyer believed, to face this.

  There was no oratory. Hersch hugged his mother, held her in his arms for a long time, her face pressed into his shoulder. Her legs for an instant collapsed under her, but Hersch held her up, and she regained her strength. Hiram embraced him ferociously; the brothers seemed locked in combat, like twin cobras. Flakes of snow began to fall, and they nourished an idea. Hiram ran to their house a few metres away, and up the stairs, and came down with his frayed black Schul-Klopper’s coat, and held it out to Hersch. At first Hersch refused. Then, looking up at the gray winter sky, the falling flakes stinging his eyes, delighting in or ignoring a certain irony — that this had been Solomon Gruen’s coat — he shrugged his sweatered arms into the sleeves, and let his mother straighten the collar.

  Wolf Schnapper, eager to be off to Sachsen-Meiningen, stepped forward and shook Hersch’s hand. The fire captain did the same. Five metres away, Meyer, who till then had been ignored by the Liebmanns, watched without moving, not wanting to offend, wanting merely to be available. To offer himself.

  Hersch saw Meyer as if for the first time. He walked toward him, until they were face to face. Peeking at the scene from around the corner of the Pfann, Guttle chewed on a knuckle, not noticing that she’d already chewed it raw.

  “Are you here for forgiveness?” Hersch asked. HIs face seemed lit by flames.

  Meyer was taken aback. “Not to receive it, nor to give it.”

  “You made people think I’m a murderer. I hope we will meet again.”

  Hersch loudly brought up from his throat a great gob of phlegm. Meyer did not flinch. He would receive whatever Hersch felt was his due. He permitted himself only to close his eyes.

  Arrogance, Meyer thought, arrogance was my sin. Thinking I knew more than anyone. In this matter, someone knows more. To the Gentiles I must fawn in order to do business; they expect it. Perhaps the recoil of this fakery has been arrogance in the lane. I must remember to be my brother’s keeper, not his judge.

  The speed of thought is infinite. All this between the phlegm filling Hersch’s mouth and his thick expectoration. Meyer flinched slightly, but felt no sodden blow, no sickly dripping on his face. Opening his eyes, he saw Hersch walking away in the Schul-Klopper’s frayed black coat. The yellow-green glob of disgust was on the ground near Meyer’s boot.

  Watching without moving, he saw Hersch kiss his mother on the cheek, slap Hiram on the back, lift his bulging satchel in a strong hand and walk alone through the gate. Wolf Schnapper turned and left with the fire chief. Yetta Liebmann waited, to see her son turn and wave. When it was clear that he would not, she grasped Hiram’s arm and leaned on it as she walked towards Meyer.

  “Don’t feel bad, Meyer Amschel,” she told him in a shaky voice. “It isn’t your fault. He did it to himself. When he was little, after Hiram came, he used to take things to get attention. This money, he took to escape from the Judengasse.”

  “It appears that he got his wish,” Meyer said.

  Nodding, turning, still leaning on Hiram, she walked across the lane to her house. Meyer could only imagine how vast and silent would be the emptiness inside.

  As he watched Hersch’s departing figure growing smaller, fading to white, Guttle came up behind him, circled his waist with her arms. Greedily he clasped her hands.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself,” she said.

  “Mustn’t I?”

  He did not turn to her, but continued to stare through the open gate as the distant black speck that was Hersch Liebmann melted to nothingness.

  For a few days after the trial, some people in the lane looked at others with suspicion. If Hersch Liebmann had not killed the Schul-Klopper, who had? But soon this question almost disappeared, like smoke dissipating into the air. A new thought came to permeate the lane. Lev Berkov was a fine young man, a good Doctor, but he put too much faith in the new science. Suppose the chemist in Frankfurt had made a mistake, the powder in Solomon’s throat had not been poison. Perhaps milk spilled by the girl had dried there. Or perhaps sometimes from a heart attack white powder from inside the lungs can erupt. No one in the lane would commit murder. No one hated Solomon Gruen. The answer was clear. Yahweh had simply decided that the Schul-Klopper had walked the lane enough. That it was time for his eternal rest. No one could call Adonai a murderer.

  The Chief Rabbi did not discourage this line of thought. Not so Doctor Berkov, who was convinced a murder had taken place. But he saw no point in harping on the matter. Without a suspect, it would serve no purpose. Unless another suspicious death occurred in the lane.

  26

  At times, Guttle felt, the days hurried by as if they were late for evening service. At other times the hours dragged wearily, like the flour merchant’s horse. Brisk mornings could be so robust with gossip that they seemed to have four dimensions. Dull afternoons could be narrow as the lane itself, and seem to have only two. One morning whose character was not yet determined, Guttle was sitting at the office desk, making entries in the ledger, when Meyer bounded down the stairs holding a small package wrapped in brown paper, a red ribbon around it. Eagerly, he handed it to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “A gift.”
<
br />   “For what?”

  “Today we’ve been betrothed for six months.”

  “Oh, Meyer.” She stood and hugged him. “How nice. But I have nothing for you.”

  “Hardly a major oversight. A big kiss will be plenty. Open the wrapping.”

  “For a big kiss, this had better be good.”

  She untied the ribbon and tore apart the paper. In her hand she held a writing book, but one unlike Izzy’s, one unlike any she had ever seen. The cover was made of wood. Carved into the wood were two stemmed roses, entwined.

  “This is beautiful! Where did you find such a thing?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it.” She kissed, him lightly at first, then long and firmly.

  “You’re wanting another book already?”

  She opened the cover and examined the pages of fine paper, patterned in faint swirls of white on white, like the underside of clouds. “It’s much too beautiful to write in. Who made it?”

  “At the September Fair, Yussel saw his bookbinder selling these books, but with plain paper covers. He got the idea to put carved wooden covers on them, but he never did. Then last week he told me he was going to try. I wanted his first one to be for you.”

  She traced her fingertips gently over roses. “I’ll bet he could sell lots of these.”

  “He hopes to. With different designs, of course. He wants to carve figures from the Torah, Shakespearean heroes, loaves of bread. Those would be for recipe books. He’s not making coffins anymore; he told the younger carpenters that’s their responsibility now. Furniture he’ll still make, but twice each week, on his way to Mainz, he’ll pick up a few more empty books.”

  She pressed the cover to her cheek. “From coffins to flowers. It’s good.”

  “He’s a new man since he took up with Brendel Isaacs.”

  “What man wouldn’t be?” Guttle said.