The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  “The young King was crowned last spring, while I was there,” Mendelssohn said. “The Queen is a great favorite with the people, for her beauty and her compassion. She gives much charity, to help poor women and children. When she goes to the theatre, which she loves, even the cognoscenti stand and cheer for fifteen minutes. She is less popular at the court, however. Rival factions still call her ‘the Austrian,’ and are suspicious of her. As for the King, he is the object of unkind ridicule, because in five years of marriage he has not produced an heir — not a child of either sex. It is widely bruited about — only the French would discuss such a thing in public — that this absence of passion is his fault, not the Queen’s.” He glanced at Guttle and Rebecca. “I shall spare you ladies the details.”

  “Getting back to freedom, and equality,” Izzy ventured, blushing, “when will those winds reach here?”

  “The Holy Roman Empire? I love our homeland. I’m proud to be a German. But it’s not in our character, I’m afraid, to rebel against authority. In the salons of Berlin, freedom is all the talk. But intellectuals rarely take up arms. That includes myself, of course. In any case, there aren’t enough of us.”

  “What about the Jews?” Izzy asked. “Do you think we will be affected?”

  “A fine question — which I will not answer now. That will be a major concern of my speech — my debate — next week with your Chief Rabbi. I hope you’ll all be there. But I’ve prattled on enough for tonight. I fear I have taken advantage of your hospitality.”

  “Not at all,” Guttle said.

  “I will indulge myself, however, in another of your delightful Brendel’s ruggelah.” He reached to a tray and took one. “She is a genius with sweets, that woman. Were I to live here, I would get very fat.”

  A short time later, after Izzy had gone home and the women were gazing at baby Salomon in his crib, and saying their goodbyes, Meyer took Mendelssohn aside in the darkness of the lane. “Forgive me,” he said, his usual propriety drowned by the alcohol, “but I am intrigued by the details you spared the ladies. About the potency, or lack of it, of the King of France.”

  Mendelssohn laughed, and clapped Meyer on the shoulder. “It’s a decidedly un-Jewish problem. They say his foreskin is too tight, and is painful when he enters.”

  Swaying slightly, Meyer raised his eyebrows. “An odd appendage on which to hang the destiny of a nation.” He hiccoughed. “But a problem easily solved, I would think.”

  “Truly, my friend? Would you care to be circumcised as an adult?”

  Meyer winced, and stumbled slightly on the cobbles. “Herr Mendelssohn,” he said, righting himself, “I see you are a true philosopher.”

  The next morning, Meyer lay in bed long after Guttle had risen to feed the children. His head ached, he felt as if his brain had been circumcised; he was glad he had no appointments scheduled.

  “You drank a lot of wine last night,” Guttle said, sitting on the bed when she saw that he was awake.

  “So my head is telling me.”

  “Were you nervous entertaining Herr Mendelssohn?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe a little. I was still shaken by the recruiting. The faces of those men, the wife, the children.”

  “I guess we’re blessed to live in the Judengasse.”

  “That’s more than a joke. At least the City of Frankfurt doesn’t have an army.”

  Slowly he rose from the bed, holding his head; in the kitchen he drank a lot of water. Dressed, desiring the outdoor air, he walked to the post building near the town square, and found three envelopes — two orders for coins, and a letter from America addressed to Guttle. Immediately he became concerned. The only people they knew in the British colonies were the Hesses; Ephraim was always the one who wrote; this was addressed in a feminine hand. As he walked home he murmured a prayer that nothing bad had befallen his friend.

  “Open it already,” he urged Guttle as she studied the envelope front and back. It had been mailed a month before in the City of New York, where the Hesses lived in an apartment with their three young children. Guttle slit the thin envelope with a knife, pulled out a sheet of paper, and sat in a kitchen chair. Meyer sat across from her as she read aloud the delicate script.

  “To dear Guttle and Herr Rothschild:

  “Mostly before, my husband Ephraim Hess has sent letters to you. He has kept you interested about how we come to America by boat and find an apartment in which to live in City of New York on street called Canal. How he set up rag business here because that is what we know. How we birth two children in America, a girl and a boy, since Solomon, who in school has now started. I know Ephraim wrote you these things because he always speak letters to me before putting on stamps. Please excuse writing mistakes, five years here we learn good English, and always speak English with the children, but I forget some Judendeutch. In the lane I never learned to read. Here I learn good English, but if I write in English you not know how to read.

  “First I to tell you not to worry, Ephraim is feeling fine. He ask me to write this letter because he in hurry to be off. Yesterday he enlisted (right word?) he joined the Continental Army to fight for America against the British and King George III. He go to Battery to sign papers, and he come back already wearing uniform, with a new friend wearing same uniform, to get personal items and kiss me and the children goodbye. His uniform is black three-corner hat, coat of blue, beige vest and breeches, black boot. He also carried musket with long barrel. I never think I would see Ephraim carry such. Solomon was much excited with musket. He want to be soldier and go with his Papa. Ephraim is gone to join General G. Washington or General B. Arnold, he was not sure yet when he left. He made me promise to write to you fine generous friends about this.”

  Guttle turned over the letter, wiping one eye with her hand as she did, and continued reading. “I am not looking to be happy without my Effie. The children will cry when they learn he be gone for maybe a long time. But I did not make to stop him go. Ephraim and me, we always believe if you want freedom you must fight for it, in the Judengasse or here. Now is time for him. He is eager to go and fight. May Adonai return him to me in fine health.

  “We have friends here but not so many Jews as there. Perhaps it be suitable if I write you more when I feel lonely, as I know I shall? Last thing, Ephraim instructed me to remind you that America is land of opportunity. And will be more so after the war is won. So think about coming here, he says, it a better place to make your fortune than in the Judengasse.

  “Please give thoughts to Herr Yussel Kahn and all others. Now I say goodbye, I must give nurse to little Meyer. Your true friend far away, Eva Hess.”

  Guttle set the letter on the table. Meyer picked it up, glanced at it, set it down. “Knowing Ephraim, it’s not a surprise,” he said.

  She went into the children’s room. Meyer could hear her speaking softly as he read the letter for himself. When he finished, he was shaking his head. “Little Meyer,” he murmured. His eyes were blurred. “Don’t let your Papa get killed, little Meyer.”

  31

  The population of the Judengasse was growing. More newborn infants were surviving than were old people dying. This further intensified the crowding, and inspired an architectural innovation. The owners of first one, then another, then a dozen of the narrow tenements constructed outside staircases, rising from a window on the third floor to a window in the attic. This enabled the dwellers to tear out the indoor stairs, which cleared space for another bed or two. The outdoor staircases hanging over the lane were enclosed with wood, and further encroached on the light in the lane, casting shadows where none had been, darkening the twilight gloss.

  No one was more conscious of these new shadows, this altered light, than Hiram Liebmann, as he sat over his first chocolate of the day at Brendel’s Café. Still an early riser, Hiram was Brendel’s first customer most every morning, sitting at an outdoor table when the weather was dry, immune to the early chill, sipping from the cup of warm chocolate, sketching on hi
s pad a scene whose mood caught his attention: old men shuffling to the synagogue in black slippers, women emptying chamber pots into the trench, girls sweeping the cobbles, or the way a new staircase had altered a view that he had sketched before. The deaf mute was considered a vital part of the lane now that his drawings and paintings had begun to sell, not only to the inhabitants but to outsiders, to Gentiles. It was hard for people to imagine a time that he had not been there. They waved to him as they passed, and understood if he was too intent on his work to wave back. Guttle was one of many who shared the same thought: who would have predicted it — the deaf mute exhibiting such artistic talent, and a married man as well?

  He had not yet touched his charcoal this morning when a man he had never seen approached the Café and sat at a table across from him. The man bore a hump on his back, which Hiram noted and quickly dismissed; he had realized, by age twenty-eight, that everyone had infirmities, visible or not. What appealed to him as sketching material was the stranger’s deep features, the unusual beard that hung from under his chin, his intense eyes as he bantered with Brendel, who appeared to know him, and who brought him a glass of tea and a slice of sweet.

  “You enjoy my ruggelah so much,” Brendel told the man, “that I thought you might sample my strudel.”

  The stranger smiled, and looked at the table. He’d never heard a Jewish woman — or a Gentile woman of the salons, for that matter — say anything so disconcertingly innocent. But perhaps he was imagining it; perhaps he was just missing Fromet.

  Hiram, of course, could not hear Brendel’s words, or know the stranger’s thoughts, but her easy manner with the fellow dispelled what hesitancy he might have felt. He caught the man’s attention with his eyes, held up a stick of charcoal, pointed to the stranger, to himself, and scrawled the charcoal above his sketch book.

  “You want to draw me?” Moses Mendelssohn asked.

  Hiram repeated his motions.

  “Go right ahead,” Mendelssohn said, then, realizing the artist could neither speak nor hear, shrugged, and nodded yes.

  Hiram nodded his appreciation, and began to sketch on his pad. When his subject posed in a stiff position, looking directly at the artist, Hiram shook his head, mimed drinking and eating. Mendelssohn grasped the meaning, and paid no further attention to the artist.

  Hiram worked quickly. By the time his subject had finished a second glass of tea and the strudel, the sketch was finished. Brendel came around behind, placed her hands on Hiram’s shoulders, and looked at it. She was astonished not only at the accuracy of the rendering of Moses Mendelssohn drinking tea, but at the depth of feeling in the sketch. She took it from the table and showed it to the subject, who raised his eyebrows at the talent displayed, and nodded vigorously to Hiram. Brendel set it down in front of Hiram, pointed to herself, went to the kitchen and returned with her purse. She wanted to buy the sketch. She outlined a square with her hands — she would frame it — went to the wall and hung an imaginary drawing there.

  “A memento of my most distinguished customer,” she said to Mendelssohn.

  She opened her purse and held it towards Hiram. He held up one finger. Brendel took a coin from her purse and placed it on the table — one kreuzer. Hiram grinned broadly — it was a good joke. She took the kreuzer back and replaced it with a gulden. Hiram did not take it, he appeared to be thinking. Brendel added to the table another gulden, and another, until five gulden were stacked neatly. Hiram pushed the pile back in her direction.

  “How much do you want? she asked. “I can’t pay more than that.” And turned her purse over, to show that it was empty.

  Hiram pointed his index finger at her, then at himself, and made a sketching motion.

  “You want to draw me? she asked, repeating his motions. “In trade for the sketch?”

  Hiram hesitated, thinking how to convey his message. He turned his pad to a clean page, quickly drew the outline of a woman, placed dotted circles where the breasts would be.

  “Hiram Liebmann!” She pointed to herself, motioned as if opening her blouse, saying. “You want to sketch me without my clothes?”

  The artist nodded vigorously, and pushed the portrait of Mendelssohn towards her. Brendel’s face flushed. She touched her fourth finger, where a wedding band would be — if she were married — and pointed across the lane toward the cabinet maker’s shop. Hiram understood. What would Yussel say? He pointed toward the lane, toward himself, shook his own hand. Yussel is my friend. He wouldn’t mind.

  “Of course, it’s my decision,” Brendel said, for the benefit of Mendelssohn, who was observing the scene with delight.

  Hiram was motioning toward Yussel’s shop again, and to himself, and shaking his head. Brendel understood. Yussel won’t let me draw him. So he will let me draw you.

  This was one of the lesser but curious mysteries in the lives of both Hiram and Brendel. Of all the people in the lane whom the artist had wanted to draw during the past few years, only Yussel Kahn had refused. This seemed doubly odd, because Yussel still procured the paints, papers and canvas that Hiram needed, and the wooden stretcher bars. Yussel gave no reason for not wanting his portrait sketched. Even Brendel did not know why. She touched her ring finger again, pointed it at Hiram. “What would your wife say?”

  Hiram nodded vigorously

  “She would say yes?”

  Hiram nodded again.

  “You’ve asked her already?”

  He shook his head no. He pointed to himself. He mimed sketching. He pointed over his shoulder to where he lived near the north gate. He shook his head no.

  Having conversed with him every morning during the two months the Café had been open, Brendel could by now interpret Hiram’s meaning almost as well as Isidor could. I am the artist. My wife doesn’t decide what I draw. I decide what I draw.

  Brendel pushed the portrait of the philosopher from her side of the table. He pushed it back at her. She picked it up and looked at it. “I really would love this on the wall. It would give the Café prestige.” Looking at Hiram, she pointed to her temple. I will think about it.

  The artist smiled and closed the sketch book, as if to end the conversation. Brendel held her new drawing. Standing, Hiram touched her face lightly, then raised his arms in a wide, circling motion. Your beauty should be seen by the world.

  “My face the world can see,” Brendel said, then motioned, I didn’t say yes. Hiram merely smiled, as if to say, You will.

  As he stood and paid his bill, Mendelssohn asked, “Is there a place to see his work?”

  “First house by the north gate. His wife takes care of the selling.”

  The philosopher and the artist walked side by side up the lane. There was no attempt at conversation.

  30 September

  I was astonished by what I heard Meyer say this morning. He’d slept too late for morning services, so he put on his tefillin and did his dovaning at home. This rarely happened, and when it did I did not pay much attention; it was men’s business, and I have the little ones to look after. But today when I entered the bedroom looking for his socks to darn, I heard him say, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has not created me as woman.” I was struck dumb. When I did try to speak, he put a finger to his lips to silence me, and continued with his prayers, waiving me out of the room. I smoldered in the office, waiting for him to finish. When he did come out, uncoiling the tefillin from his hairy arm — at that moment the leather coils resembled a snake — he looked at me and said, “What?” Here is our conversation that followed:

  “How could you say such a thing? Thanking God you weren’t born a woman! What is wrong with being a woman?”

  “Nothing, of course. It’s not me who said it, it’s in the prayer book. Every boy says it every morning from the day he is Bar Mitzvah’d. Till the day he dies. I didn’t make it up.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know. The ancient Rabbis, I assume.”

  “I don’t want you to say that anymo
re.”

  “Guttle, it’s part of the prayer. I have to say it.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “Do I enjoy being a man? Sure I do. I wouldn’t make a very good woman.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “You of all people should be happy that I’m a man.” He grinned and tried to approach me, his favorite way to bury an argument, with a joke and a kiss, but I backed away

  “That’s not the point!” I shouted.

  Meyer did not know how to respond. He waved his arms in the air and returned to the bedroom to put his tefillin away. When he did not come right out I went upstairs to the children. I hugged Schönche especially. What kind of religion do we have that would make men say such a thing? Surely Adonai would not say that.

  Would He?

  Leaning against the first two houses at the north gate, angled so they could be seen by visitors outside the gate as well as by people inside, were twenty of Hiram’s drawings, in wooden frames. One hand on his chin, Mendelssohn moved from one to the other, gazing at each for several minutes, as if memorizing them. All appeared to be scenes from the Judengasse, vividly done in black and white, with an intriguing use of shadows from the lamps. Behind women working in the bakery you could feel the heat rising; the chief Rabbi at his desk was solid and massive as the wood in front of him; a carpenter nailing together a coffin wore the stoic face of death; a Constable leaning half asleep against a gate was menacing nonetheless; a still life of a vacant bed was made oddly disturbing by the play of darkness in the folds of the quilt; a row of grave stones in the cemetery uncannily called to mind the houses in the lane. One drawing, suggesting the myths of the Greeks, depicted a galloping horse and a running girl colliding, while three unwary children played in the rear, muted, as if in a fog. Mendelssohn turned to tell the artist how much he liked his work. He’d vanished. The young wife approached him, a thin girl of perhaps nineteen, with a sharp nose and chin, wearing a drab brown cotton dress.