by Robert Mayer
“This is strong work,” Mendelssohn said. “I don’t even know the artist’s name. Lieb?”
“That’s his signature. His name is Hiram Liebmann. I am his wife. Avra.”
“We Jews are not known as painters. I didn’t know such work was being done in here.”
“It could hardly be done outside,” Avra Liebmann, the former Avra Schnapper, said.
The one with the sharp nose and the sharper tongue. That had been her reputation, she knew. She could not help her nose. Because of that she would not hold her tongue. Her parents had despaired that she would ever marry. (They thought she could not hear them, but she could.) Why should they not despair? With Guttle ahead of her, who’d made a solid catch in Meyer Rothschild. With Amelia behind her, the prettiest of them all — most likely she’d have a dozen suitors soon. While Avra swept the cobbles, emptied the slops, worked in the bakery, walked to the market, Avra do this, Avra do that. Avra a beast of burden after Guttle moved out.
Two houses away was Hiram Liebmann. The deaf mute in her childhood years, but an intriguing prospect after he became an artist. New confidence in his manner, yet still an awkwardness. A damaged vessel filled with artistry, to her unschooled but discerning eye. Seeming as innocent as she, though he was nine years older. The more she watched him, the more intrigued she became. He was no Meyer Rothschild, he had no money, he was not handsome. So much the better. She was no Guttle. She began to think of him as she lay in bed at night. His deafness, his muteness, became stimulating new challenges. But would their children be deaf and mute? They need not have children. Her narrow hips might make delivery difficult, Doctor Kirsch had warned. That was fine. His drawings would be their children. A charcoal for her, an oil for him. Guttle, the way things looked, would have plenty of real children for her to share.
She began to converse with him. She learned his language of hands. They became friends. Some days she would prepare a lunch for him. He allowed her into his studio to watch him paint.
One summer afternoon she resolved to teach him a new language. She followed him up the stairs and into his room after his mother had gone to market. He looked at her, waiting. As if he knew something different was about to occur. As if he had been waiting for this day.
It’s hot, she indicated. Slowly she began to unbutton his shirt. He shuddered slightly, but did not resist. For each button of his she opened, she undid one of her own. He was ready before they were naked together. Her hand between his legs was a revelation to both of them.
If Yetta came home while they were thus engaged — which she did — and heard sounds emanating from Hiram’s room that she had never heard from there before — which she did — and if she quietly entered her own room and closed the door, and sat on her bed, smiling, leaving the vegetables from the market unattended in their sack in the kitchen — which she did — the young lovers were unaware of it.
Yetta smiled happily through it all. Lying under a grayed sheet in her own bed, gazing at the ceiling, she spoke to her dead husband. “Leo, did you see that?”
“Did I see that? Who wants to see something like that? I heard, it was plenty.”
“It’s a good thing, yes?”
“It’s a wonderful thing. I could take some credit for it, too. I could tell you I whispered a few things in that Avra’s ear.”
“You didn’t! You did?”
“Of course I didn’t. But I could tell you I did. How would you know different?”
“Leo! If he weds her, she could feed him when I’m gone. You think she’d marry him?”
“Of course she will.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“I’ll whisper it in her ear.”
“Go back to sleep, Leo.”
“Have good dreams, Eva.”
Yetta sat upright from the pillows. “Eva? Who is Eva? What are you doing up there?”
“Fooled you, Yetta. Have good dreams.”
“Fooled me? I’ll kill you, Leo Liebmann.”
Eva, the rag-picker’s wife with the nice breasts? Still he’s thinking of her? “You better go look in America!” she said. She lowered her head to the pillow. “Men! The old are worse than the young. And the dead are worst of all.”
Avra and Hiram were married a month later. Avra’s parents, Wolf and Emmie Schnapper, did not object, were in fact enthusiastic. Avra was eighteen already, no suitors were waiting in line. The dowry could be small. “It’s a match made by an observant Yahweh,” Wolf confided to daughter Guttle. “Avra can’t stop complaining, and Hiram can’t hear.” Guttle told her father that was a terrible thing to say — but she could not help smiling.
Gradually, something unforeseen occurred. Cooking Hiram’s meals, encouraging his work, sharing his bed, Avra Liebmann could not find a single thing about which to complain. Life was beautiful. As was she, sharp nose and all.
“I would love to purchase a drawing,” Mendelssohn said. “Perhaps several. But I’ll be traveling for weeks. They would be awkward to carry.”
“We could send them by post. Hiram’s work deserves to be seen in Berlin.”
“How do you know I’m from Berlin?”
“My sister told me about your dinner.”
“Doctor Kirsch?”
“Guttle Rothschild.”
“Of course. A lovely and charming young woman.”
“Those are rotten qualities in a sister.”
“Why is that?”
“People compare.”
“I see. Yet, if I may say so, you don’t seem unhappy. Whereas at moments, in your sister’s eyes, I detected a troubled place.”
“Guttle told me you were smart. Few people notice that look. I’m happy, because I have a mission. I devote myself to Hiram’s work. It will be appreciated, I think, for a long time. Guttle has three children, but no such mission. She wants to tear down the ghetto walls. What kind of goal is that? It’s a fantasy.”
“For the moment. Not for eternity.”
“For eternity, we’ll all be dead. But not Hiram’s paintings.”
“You’re a forceful advocate.”
“Let’s see how successful. A special price if you take three.”
Mendelssohn smiled ruefully. “In that case, I’ll have to study them again.”
Izzy came bursting out of the slaughterhouse, letting the door slam behind him, and ran across the cobbled square and in through the north gate, whirling to a stop when he saw Avra standing with Moses Mendelssohn. “Shalom,” he said, breathing rapidly, “Avra, where’s Guttle?”
“At home with the children, I imagine.”
“Go get her. Quickly. Tell her I need her, right away. You watch the children for her.”
“What’s happened?”
“I can’t talk now. Go!” Izzy ran back to the slaughterhouse.
“Please don’t leave,” Avra said to her distinguished customer, and scurried off, holding her skirt, in the direction of the Hinterpfann. Moses Mendelssohn, abandoned, stood bemused in the lane, like a disinterested prophet.
When Avra found her, Guttle hurried out the gate to the butcher shop. “What is it?” she asked as she pushed in through the door, the bell tinkling loud above her.
“Here, in the back,” Izzy whispered.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what to do. I need your advice.”
“About what?”
“I found a man in the cold room. A boy. A Gentile.”
“What’s he doing in there?”
“Shivering.”
“Why?”
“It’s freezing in there.”
“But why is he in there?”
“I locked him in.”
“Why did you do that?”
“So he wouldn’t get away.”
“From what?”
“He’s a deserter. From the Prince’s recruiters. Like Meyer talked about.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“You’re smart. Tell me what to do.”
; “First of all, don’t freeze him to death.”
“If I bring him out, people might see him.”
“I’ll go talk to him.” She stepped towards the cold room. “Don’t lock the door on me.”
She pulled open the heavy wooden door and went inside. The room was small, barely two metres square. Two halves of a cow hung on large hooks. As her eyes accustomed to the dim light she saw a boy, about sixteen, cowering in a corner. He wore a shirt, with blood stains on it, but no jacket. Guttle opened the door a bit and called to Izzy. “Give me your apron!” She took it and handed it to the boy. “Pull it around your shoulders. You’re shaking.” The boy did as he was told. “We’ll get out of this cold soon. First I need to know what’s going on. What’s your name?”
The boy’s teeth chattered, but he said nothing. His face appeared red under the flickering lamps and in the reflection of the red meat. His eyes and hair were dark, his chin strong.
“The sooner we talk, the sooner you’ll get warm.”
“Georgi.”
“Your whole name.”
“Georgi Kremm.”
“Tell me what happened. You’re hiding from recruiters in Hesse-Hanau, is that right?”
The boy nodded.
“Why did you come here?”
“I don’t want to fight in a war. I don’t want to get killed. The war is not my business.”
“I mean why here, to the Judengasse?”
“I heard Jews don’t get recruited. I figured they wouldn’t look for me here.”
“No one in Frankfurt gets recruited. Do you like Jews?”
“I never met one.”
“You met the butcher. You’ve met me. Will you trust us?”
“I don’t want to go back.”
“Can you stand the cold for five more minutes?”
“As long as it takes.”
Suddenly the door opened a slit and Izzy whispered, ”Quiet, the police!”
Hardly breathing, Guttle became aware of something dripping onto the floor. She could not tell if it was blood from the carcasses or water from the blocks of ice on a counter along one wall. Nor could she tell which was making her shake more, the cold on her skin or the nerves quivering inside her. The room was illuminated only by a small glass-covered square in the roof; the smoke from oil lamps would spoil the meat. As her eyes adjusted further she discerned two naked geese hanging by their feet in one corner, and terror in the eyes of the boy. Huddled in the room a bare two metres across with the Gentile and two halves of a cow and two dead geese and blood or water dripping, she felt trapped in a bible story, but could not think which: Jonah in the whale? Daniel in the lion’s den? She had no answer for that, or for a larger question: why did she feel she must try to rescue the boy? And realized she did not so much feel she must help him as know she was going to. Unless the Polizei seized them all.
32
A Constable from the north gate shut the front door beneath the tinkling bell. His eyes roamed in both directions through the shop. Izzy hurried behind the counter.
“Good morning, officer. Is there anything I can get for you today?”
The Constable’s belly pressed against the shirt of his uniform. Izzy could tell that he enjoyed his food. He hoped the visit was about a chicken.
“What have you got in your cold room?” the policeman asked.
“Excuse me?” Izzy almost choked on the words. Now he was in real trouble — for hiding a Gentile, no less. His father never would have done such a thing. How stupid could he be! How could the Constable know?
“All I see hanging here is chickens,” the officer said.
“It’s Friday,” Izzy replied, uncertain if the officer was toying with him. “On Friday we sell lots of chickens.”
“I know, I know. That’s why I’m asking about the cold room. Do you have a nice fat goose in there? Or a duck? I would take even a turkey, if it’s not too big. I’ll go pick one out.”
The Constable took several steps toward the end of the counter. The cold room was in that direction.
“Only chickens in there,” Izzy blurted. “And beef. Next week I can get whatever you want.”
“Next week?” The policeman stopped. “All right, next week. Get me a nice fat goose. My wife likes your Jewish birds better than the ones at the market. But to tell you the truth, she doesn’t like buying from Jews.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Izzy said. “Come back later, on your way home. I’ll have a nice fresh chicken ready for you. Free of charge. That should make your wife happy.”
“You’re not married, butcher, I can tell. Nothing makes my wife happy. But free of charge — that will make me happy. And next week a goose, don’t forget.”
“Next week a goose,” Izzy repeated.
“I’ll come in before I lock the gates,” the Constable said. The bell rang loudly as he left.
“Next week a goose,” Izzy said in the policeman’s wake. “Free of charge also, no doubt.”
He wiped perspiration from his face with his apron. Would his father get angry? The cost of doing business, Izzy would tell him. No doubt Otto had done the same many times.
He knocked on the door and entered the cold room. Guttle was hiding near the hanging beef, with the boy. “He’s gone. You can come out now.”
Guttle stepped from the small room. She glanced about, saw that there were no
customers. Most of the women of the lane already would be home cleaning and salting their Friday night chickens. “Send your helper home for lunch, put up the Closed sign,” she said. “Go to Avra at my house. Tell her to take a dress from my commode, and to wrap her head in a scarf. Tell her to put my dress and her sheitl in a shopping bag, as if she’s coming to buy a chicken. You stay with my children while Avra comes here. Do you understand?”
“What’s the dress and wig for?”
“I want to get Georgi into the lane. Past the Constable.”
“Georgi?”
“That’s the boy’s name. You didn’t even ask him? Never mind. Go do what I said.”
She hid behind the counter. When the worker left she unlocked the cold room and told the boy to come out. He had a difficult time standing.
“Walk, get your legs working,” she told him. “We’ll get you out of here soon.”
The boy obeyed, walking back and forth.
“There’s blood on your shirt. Did you kill someone?”
“It’s from the cow in there,” he said.
Izzy did his job. Ten minutes later Guttle and Avra were pulling Guttle’s dress over the boy’s shoulders, settling Avra’s wig on his head. He was no taller than Guttle, her dress covered the upper part his shoes. They thought of walking him in barefoot, but decided that would be more conspicuous. His strong chin was more of a problem, but there was nothing they could do about that.
“Pray to whatever God you have,” Guttle told him. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”
Leaving the slaughterhouse through the back door, they circled it. With Guttle on one side, Avra on the other and Georgi in the middle, the three crossed the cobbles to the north gate. Guttle and Avra laughed wildly over a funny story to distract attention from the girl in the middle. The bored Constable paid them no mind.
They strode that way to the Hinterpfann, down the alley and into the office. Guttle locked the door behind her. They took off the wig, helped the boy wriggle out of his dress.
“Perhaps I should have gone to fight,” he said.
“You’re free to leave at any time.”
Guttle’s words stopped his mouth.
Izzy came down from the children’s room. Avra pulled off the kerchief. She hesitated before donning her sheitl — it had just been on the head of a Gentile — but she put it on anyway. “Not a word to anyone,” Guttle warned them. “Not till we decide what to do.”
“He’d better be worth this,” Avra said, looking at the boy. “Mendelssohn is gone from the paintings, without buying. We could have used the money.”
> “Mendelssohn will be here for a week,” Guttle said.
When they left, she locked the office door again. “Upstairs with you,” she told the boy. “There’s a fire in the stove. Let’s get you warm.”
As he huddled in front of it, she put a kettle of water on to boil. “I’ll bet a glass of hot tea would feel good.”
“Do you have coffee?”
“He’s fussy already.” But she told him that she did.
They were sitting across from one another at the kitchen table, warming their hands in the steam of the beverages, assessing one another silently, each with his own thoughts. Guttle wondering what in God’s eye she was doing.
“Tell me how you escaped,” she said.
“At a neighbor’s I was visiting. We heard my mother screaming. She is not the type to scream. I looked outside. The army recruiters were there. My older brother Arne they were taking away. I hid myself in a haystack. My mother kept screaming long after, a warning for me not to come back. My neighbor took me to town buried in his hay wagon.” The boy’s words were splashing out as if a winding stream had come unblocked. “I stayed on the narrow streets. When I got to the Judengasse, there was a Constable near the gate. I went in the butcher’s, the back door, to hide there.”
“Did you tell your neighbor where you were going?”
“No.”
“Tell me something. Why do you think we should hide you here?”
“To save my life. I never hurt anyone.”
Guttle pondered what to do next. For a moment she wished Meyer was at home, to make decisions, to take charge. Then she was glad he wasn’t; she’d already taken charge. But her decision —which on some level she must have understood — went far deeper than that. For the first time in her life she was able to commit an act that connected to the outside world, to the civilization beyond the walls. It was beyond defiance, it was an affirmation, to that hostile society, of her own existence.