The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  She looked down at the book, hesitant. Then she asked, shyly, “Do you still like her?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “No. I hope you do, because I like her a lot.”

  “Well, in that case, I do, too. There’s something about her that’s very agreeable.”

  “She’s adorable, with those blonde ringlets and sparkling green eyes. She looks so innocent, but suggests a temptress. Which she’s not. She’s a good mother, a warm person. She’s honest and real in a way that most of us aren’t. Maybe because she didn’t grow up between stone walls.”

  “You may be right. She’s like a creature of nature, with a saucy quality that’s unusual.”

  “Do I have a saucy quality?”

  “I’d say you were more … impertinent.”

  “Is that like saucy?”

  “About half way. But more refined.”

  “Is that good?”

  “It’s you. Which makes it wonderful.” He took her hand, touched it with his lips.

  “Should I try to be more saucy?”

  “Don’t you dare. Not until we’re married, anyway. And then, only with me.” His arms encircled her waist. “Anoint me with the sweet wine of your petulant lips, my impertinent love.”

  “You’ve been talking Shakespeare with Yussel again. The sonnets, no doubt. I’m afraid I’m still only me, Guttle Schnapper from across the lane.”

  “My own dark lady.”

  They kissed. She earned another book, and another, and another, before a client knocked on the door,

  24 March, 1770

  Forgive me, pretty book, for you are so beautiful and my lettering is not, and my thoughts surely are not. It has taken me five days to summon the courage to sully these lovely pages. But that‘s what you are for, so I shall will myself to begin.

  Last night I lay awake wanting to curse Yahweh. To scream at Him for keeping us locked inside the walls. But cursing Him, I think, is not a good thing to do. So I talked with Melka of the South Gate. I asked her why Yahweh has done this to us. She said Yahweh did not do it, the Gentiles did. I asked her, isn’t Adonai more powerful than the Gentiles? Melka did not answer.

  Perhaps if Yahweh reads this journal He will answer me directly. But I doubt He has the time. Though I don’t know what He does with His time, now that all has been created.

  Melka said that as I get older I will stop being so angry, and will accept the way things are, just as my parents have. I’m not sure if that is a good thing.

  26 March

  Hannah Schlicter is going to make my wedding dress. This morning I went up to her shop to be measured. I had to wait a few minutes while she finished showing new fabrics to a Countess — a real one. She comes to Hannah every few months to order a new dress for her next fancy dinner or ball. I confess that I have been wondering since what it would be like to waltz my life away in a grand mansion with marble pillars and polished floors, with classic paintings on the walls and velvet on the chairs, with just the right kinds of dogs lounging on the floor for the painters to place in the corners of family portraits, with a maid serving tea to the ladies while the gentlemen ride to the hunt.

  At sixteen I am an adult, but I still have childish thoughts.

  28 March

  Hardly a week goes by when I do not see Izzy strolling along, piping an invisible flute while a line of marching children, mostly girls, Amelia among them, follow behind, laughing and giggling. Today I was walking by the Chief Rabbi’s study when I saw him standing in the doorway with Yussel Kahn, watching. The marching children waved at us. Only Yussel and I waved back. Surprised, I asked the Rabbi if he thought something more was happening here than just a silly children’s game. Because in the legend, the Pied Piper led the children right out of Hamelin. The Rabbi said, ‘I’ve been having similar thoughts — but it’s even more problematic than that.’

  I had never heard that word, problematic. I asked him what it meant.

  ‘In the legend,’ he said, ‘the children never come back.’

  I don’t know if the Rabbi is afraid the children might leave the Judengasse one day — or that they might leave the Jewish faith.

  29 March

  It was a year ago today that I tripped on the Schul-Klopper. It is something I never will forget, and here, just in time, I have a book in which to write my feelings. Sometimes Meyer seems twice as clever as anyone needs to be.

  My quill shakes in the ink, rattling the pretty bottle — Meyer gave me that, also — as I remember the Schul-Klopper lying dead on the cobbles, hammer in hand. Me not knowing then that there was poison in his mouth, his gut.

  So much has flowed from his death! Izzy becoming Schul-Klopper. Hiram becoming his assistant. My foul encounter with the Kapitäin. (Sometimes, when I am feeling squeamish, the memory of that still makes my stomach hurt.) Meyer hiring Hersch, and the ensuing theft of the money — which may have caused Leo Liebmann’s death, and certainly caused the exile of his son. And most of all, Meyer. I first caught his eye, his admiration, he has told me, as a young woman no longer a child, when I rushed into the synagogue, among the astounded men, to hug and kiss Izzy, the new Schul-Klopper. Would we have become a couple if that had not occurred? Who is to say?

  Other things may have been set in motion whose connections remain invisible. A year later we still don’t know if the murderer was Hersch, or Hiram, or those three boys, or the young guard (why them? why then?) or Sophie Marcus. Or someone else, perhaps the murderer in the moon. Nor do we know why the Chief Rabbi was eager to defend Hersch. Perhaps we shall never know. I count that day, 29 March last, as the day I became an adult. Perhaps because, ever since, almost everything seems problematic.

  The rag dealer Ephraim Hess, clearly agitated, rushed into the coin shop just before closing time and asked if he could speak with Meyer in private. Meyer nodded at Guttle, and said he could speak to both of them.

  “I need to ask a favor of you,” Ephraim said, breathing heavily, looking over his shoulder for a moment, as if he were being chased by dogs. “I hate to impose on you, you have helped me in the past, but that’s why I come to you. If I ask too much, just send me away.”

  “First you’ll have to tell me what this is about.”

  “This morning the Chief Rabbi came to my shop. He told me he had information that the Frankfurt Polizei are planning to raid the lane in the next day or two.”

  “He came to you, because … ?”

  “I’m in my twenty-third year. Not old enough to marry. But we have the baby. If they check the records, they could haul me off to jail. Who knows for how long? I don’t want Eva to be left alone with the child. They could even take the baby.”

  “Couldn’t you hide him for a day? Leave him with another couple?”

  “We thought of that. They haven’t raided since Solomon was born. But what if they come again in a week? A month? We’d always be in fear. That’s not a way to live.”

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Eva and I have decided to leave. We’ve been saving money to do this for a long time, to get away from these walls, the cause of all our sorrow. We want to go to the British colony in America, where we’ve heard that Jews have freedom. We didn’t plan to go until Solomon was older, until we had saved more money. But we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “And you need money?”

  “No, no. We have enough to get to England. I’ll find work there for a few years. Then we’ll sail to America.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Whatever is there. We’re leaving in the morning, before the Polizei come. The problem is, I have no time to sell the apartment, and the shop.” He pulled a deed from his pocket. “I would like to sign this deed over to you. If you could sell the property in due course, you could forward the money to me when we have a proper address. Keeping a percentage for your trouble, of course.”

  Meyer closed his eyes, squeezing his lips with his fingers. Guttle did not speak, tried to be invisible. />
  “If I am presuming too much, please say so, and I will ask someone else.”

  “Be still,” Meyer said. “I’m thinking.” He glanced at the iron strongbox in the corner, with its huge padlock, the replacement for the old wooden box from which Hersch had stolen the purse. “How much do you want for the property?”

  “I’m not greedy, Herr Rothschild, I’ll take whatever you can get for it.”

  “I’ve told you before to call me Meyer. How about three thousand gulden?”

  “That’s a lot. I would gladly settle for two thousand.”

  “You don’t know the demand for space in the Judengasse. A four-room house across the lane, with no air to breathe, just sold for six thousand.” Meyer went to his desk, opened the drawer, pulled out a letter of credit. “Would you like to go directly to America?”

  “Of course. But we can’t.”

  “I have a proposition for you. I will buy the property right now. For three thousand gulden. A fair price. That will get you to America, with plenty left over to start a life. I could give you cash, but you wouldn’t want to carry that much cash on your travels. Too many robbers out there. I’ll make out a letter of credit in your name. No one else can use it. When you get to London, go to the bank I’m writing down. They’ll have money for the voyage waiting for you. For the rest, they can give you a note on a bank in America, so you don’t carry cash on the boat.”

  The rag dealer seemed amazed. “You can do all that?”

  “A bank in Frankfurt can. They have an arrangement with a bank in London.”

  Ephraim did not know what to say. Meyer told him to just sign over the deed and take the letter of credit. Which Ephraim did, saying, “You’re a good man, Herr Rothschild.”

  “As are you, Herr Hess.”

  Guttle finally spoke. “The baby is a year old. Is such a long voyage safe for him?”

  “Eva’s a good mother. She will keep him warm.”

  The rag dealer remained standing there, awkwardly, again looked anxiously over his shoulder toward the door, like a dog wanting out. Guttle hugged him, which made his face redden. “Kiss your wife for me,” she said. “And darling Solomon.”

  Meyer shook the rag dealer’s hand and led him to the door. “Have a safe journey. May Yahweh watch over you.”

  “Adonai will reward you for this,” Ephraim said. Meyer waved him away, and he took off running down the alley.

  Guttle put her arms around Meyer’s neck. “That’s a very small apartment for three thousand gulden.”

  Meyer replied, “The Atlantic is a very big ocean.”

  14 April

  The police raided the lane today, just as the Chief Rabbi had warned. Four wagons clattered to a halt outside the north gate, two Constables in each. They did not carry the usual muskets, but had pistols tucked into their waist bands. From house to house they walked, making sure nothing that is prohibited, such as a printing shop, had opened, looking for high windows that should be boarded up. For several hours they were visible in the lane, like a foreign army. One officer spent the entire time in Rabbi Simcha’s study, going over the community books. Luckily, when at last they left, no one had been arrested — and the Hesses were long gone. As the police wagons clattered off, the colorful banners over the shops seemed to flutter all at once, from everybody sighing. How the Rabbi knew they were coming, we have no idea.

  16 April

  I don’t see how Meyer and I ever will tear down the walls. Today I had a thought I never had before. Why can’t we go somewhere else, where there are no walls — as Ephraim and Eva have?

  I remember when I was a child, not long after the time I got locked outside the lane, Papa with a special pass from his Prince took me on a carriage ride to see the city. We passed a lake with boats on it — people rowing in boats, boats with white sails that leaned in the wind and gleamed in the sun. I wondered what it would feel like to sail on water. Now I wonder again. What would it be like to sail to London? Or to America? To stand on the deck of a two-masted ship like those in the harbor, to wave goodbye to our friends as the seamen cast off the thick braided ropes from the quay, smoothly to sail down the gentle Main, and the Rhine, till the wind in the sails took us far out to sea, the waves pitching beneath us, the great ship dipping and yawing, foamy spray splashing across the deck, as the seamen talk about when they visit the lane, us holding on tight, knowing our destination is worth the discomfort, like Noah in the ark, like Jonah in the whale.

  I wonder what Meyer would think. I am afraid to ask. I am afraid he would think me foolish.

  17 April

  Melka spoke to me in the night. She said that if Meyer and I love one another, there is nothing we should be afraid to discuss. That is easier for her to whisper, locked away in an attic, than for me to attempt.

  While Meyer was drinking his morning coffee, Guttle, arriving for work, perched on the desk, started to speak, stopped herself.

  “Is something wrong?” Meyer asked. “You seem upset.”

  “I want to ask you something. But you might get angry.”

  “I’m in a good mood this morning. Try me.”

  “What would you think about us leaving the Judengasse?”

  “Today? Where would you want to go? Further than the market?”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean forever. After we’re married. Sail away, like the Hesses did.”

  Meyer set down his cup, raised his eyebrows as he stood. This was a question, it appeared, that needed pacing room, though there wasn’t much of it. Four steps and he reached the wall. An office with more room to pace — how much smarter would he be then?

  “Our families are here.”

  “Papa has lots of money. We all could go.”

  “Start new businesses in a strange place? In a new language? With no contacts?”

  “I know that would be hard. But I hate these walls so much!”

  Meyer sat, reached for Guttle’s hand, guided her onto his lap. “If we sailed away, we might find more freedom for ourselves. But what would that do for our fellow Jews?”

  “What are we doing for them now?”

  “Ten percent of my profits goes to the welfare fund, to help the poor families. When I make more money, there will be more for charity. When the time does come to tear down the walls, we won’t be able to do it from London. Or America.”

  They sat in silence. When he pressed his face into the back of her neck, she asked, “Why do you love me? I’m so selfish.”

  “You’re not selfish. You’re just frustrated.”

  “Aren’t you frustrated?”

  “Of course. But I invest those feelings in the business. That’s what gives me strength to bargain with the Gentiles, day after day.”

  “I really don’t want us to sail away. I was just wondering.”

  “Do you ever think about why we’re alive?”

  “When I try to, it hurts my head.”

  “Remember that story book I gave you?”

  “Don Quixote?”

  “It was very long. Once you started reading it, why did you keep on?”

  “To see what happened next.”

  “I think that’s why we’re alive. Yahweh likes stories. He wants to see what we do next.”

  “Like us painting our painting. But what happens after that?”

  “After that, it hurts my head, too.”

  Her hand squeezed his knee. “Right now I know why I’m alive. To sit on your lap.”

  “There you go. And in six months —” his palm sliding up to her breast “— every night we’ll escape on the ships of each other.”

  “Don’t start!” She pulled his hand away. “Don’t get me itchy again.”

  22 April

  Dvorah is pregnant! She thought she might be when she started getting sick every morning, and now it is beginning to show. Doctor Kirsch says there is no doubt. Dvorah is so funny, she seems uncertain whether to hide the truth with loose dresses or proclaim it to the world with fitted waists. Some
times I write nasty things about her — perhaps I am jealous of her beauty — but I love her very much. I can’t imagine having grown up without her across the lane to giggle with, to confide in. We are closer than sisters. One time when we were little we made a pact that when we got married and cut off our hair, we would each wear wigs made from the other’s locks. The idea was to see if we each became the other one. Children can be stranger than adults. Already the three midwives are competing for who will deliver Doctor Berkov’s child. Dvorah loves the attention.

  23 April

  We girls in the lane grew up with only one question in our lives — whom will we marry? After that, there are only two other questions — how many children will we deliver, and how many of them will live. There should be something more. I don’t know what it is.

  Rumor swept through the lane that the boarded-up house at the south gate would soon be opened. “It’s true,” Guttle told Izzy as they stood in front of their adjacent doors.

  “I don’t believe there’s any grotesque Melka locked away in the attic — but who would have the nerve to look?”

  “Doctor Kirsch.”

  She began to tell him how it had come about. The young historian wanted to hear all the details. He opened his ever-present book to make notes.

  “When Rebecca came to the lane last fall, she shared Doctor Berkov’s apartment. But when he married Dvorah, Rebecca had to leave. She moved her things into the hospital, thinking it would be just for a few days. She’s been sleeping there ever since.”

  “That must be unpleasant, it’s like she’s never away from her work,” Izzy said, still looking down at his book, still writing. He had discovered that if you interjected such comments during an interview, it gained time to scrawl your notes.

  “Especially now, with this outbreak of grippe,” Guttle said. “The hospital is filled with people coughing. Anyway, a few weeks ago we were walking together, to stretch our leg muscles, and talk. I love to hear her talk of the outside world.”

  “I know. She speaks of the future — I research the past. We’d make a good team.”