The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  They heard a pounding on the office door.

  “Sheist! They found me already.”

  “Nobody’s found you. Be quiet as we go down. You can take your coffee.”

  Cut flush into the floor beside Meyer’s desk was a square trap door that led to the basement storage space. Guttle knelt and lifted it open. “Be careful stepping down. We haven’t got wood for the winter yet, so there’s room. But be quiet. I’ll send away who it is as quickly as I can.”

  The pounding was repeated, booming through the office like a kettle drum. The boy gave her his coffee mug and climbed backwards down the basement ladder. She handed down the coffee and closed the trap door. Looking about to make sure everything appeared normal, she unlocked the front door.

  “Dvorah! Goodness, why all the pounding?”

  Dvorah pushed past Guttle into the room. “You were expecting someone else?”

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I was napping with the children.”

  “Come,” Dvorah said, entering the bedroom, sitting on the bed. She was waving about the gift copy of The Sorrows of Young Werther. “I read most of this last night, and finished it this morning. It made me cry. I have to tell you.”

  “Dvorah, this isn’t the best time.”

  “With children there’s never a good time. Guttle, sit. I’m busting my corset to talk. He kills himself!”

  “Who kills himself?

  Guttle decided to listen and get it done with, though the boy was right below.

  “It’s a love story. Werther and Lotte fall in love. But Lotte is betrothed to another, whom she will not renounce. Deeper and deeper their love grows. Lotte goes ahead with her marriage. Werther continues to love her. One time when her husband is away, he kisses her. The only time they have kissed. But she gets angry, and sends him away. And he kills himself for love. Isn’t that sad? I cried all night. How can I not go see him?”

  She felt as if through the thin soles of her shoes she could hear the boy breathing. “Go see who?”

  “Paul, of course.”

  “Dvorah, you cannot go see Paul.”

  “I can’t let him kill himself! I have to go. Tell him how hopeless it is. Tell him I care for him, but there is nothing we can do.”

  “You care for him? How can you care for him?”

  “You don’t know him as I do. I’ll just tell him to have his carriage by the market. I can meet him there and go for a ride. Like that other … ”

  Dvorah had said too much, perhaps on purpose, needing to confide.

  “Like what other? Dvorah, look at me! There’s another?”

  “Like that other time. Paul took me for a ride once. Well, twice. It was very innocent.”

  “I’m sure it was. The Jewish mother and the Gentile Count.”

  “He won’t be the Count till his father dies.”

  “Excuse me. So what does Lev think about these innocent rides?”

  “He’s always so busy. There was no reason to tell him. They were just a way to see the city. Breathe fresh air. Get away from the lane for an hour or two.”

  From under the floor boards came a sound like a muffled sneeze.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. We have a rat in the woodpile.”

  “You ought to get rid of it.”

  “I know. You should, too.”

  “Guttle, that’s not fair. Paul is very nice.”

  “So is Lev.

  “It’s true, he is. He’s just not … exciting … any more.”

  “You’d better go now. Be careful what you’re doing.”

  “I can’t let him kill himself,” Dvorah said.

  When she had gone, Guttle took the boy upstairs and introduced him to Schönche and Amschel as her cousin, who was visiting. The boy watched her prepare chicken and vegetables for the Friday evening meal. She realized he must be hungry, and gave him bread and honey. With the children crawling all over Meyer when he returned from business in the city, Guttle told him, “This is my cousin, Georgi Pinsky, visiting from Wiesbaden. My aunt Katie’s son.”

  Meyer looked the boy over and shook his hand. “Georgi Pinsky? Of course. Guttle speaks of you often. About your mother Katie as well. I see you have your mother’s chin.”

  The boy looked at Meyer as if he were a lunatic. There was also fear in his eyes that Guttle had not seen before Meyer arrived.

  “There’s blood on your shirt,” Meyer said.

  “From a c-cow,” the boy explained. “In the b-butcher’s.”

  “Downstairs, please,” Meyer said to Guttle.

  In the office she told him what had happened, and everything she knew about the boy. Meyer kept silent, as if calculating the situation from all directions. As if it were a business deal. Then he exploded in anger. He tried to keep his voice down so the neighbors wouldn’t hear, but he was barely able to as he paced about, raising his arms over his head, dropping them, signaling disbelief in what she had done.

  “Are you crazy? Bringing a runaway goy into the lane? Into my house? Are you trying to bring the police down on our heads? Or worse yet, the Crown Prince, whom I’ve been cultivating for five years? Are you trying to destroy my business? And what about the neighbors, the Rabbis? Do you think they want a goy in the lane? I can’t believe you did this.”

  She was shaken by his outburst; her lower lip trembled.

  “Do you know that if you’re caught, there’s a large fine for hiding him? Seventy-six gulden! Or else you must supply an able-bodied replacement — which will not be me, I assure you. I suggest you get rid of him now, before they lock the gates.” He took his handkerchief from his pocket, wiped flecks of foam from his lips.

  “I won’t.”

  “You won’t? What’s gotten into you? I am your husband, you will do as I say!”

  “Not this time.”

  “Not this time? How dare you? Why not this time?”

  “Because the boy’s life could be at stake. Listen to me, Meyer. You have a happy life, I know. You get to travel through the city, through the countryside, every day. You get to show off your children in schul. The business is doing well. I’m happy for all of that. You know that I am. But do you ever think of my life?” She stood, as if uncertain how far to proceed, then sat again. “While you’re riding around on horses buying coins, I’m stuck here in the lane. I can never go further than the market. In the house, I cook, I clean, I take care of the children.” With her hand she wiped a single tear from her cheek. “I have no complaint about that, those are the duties of a wife. I’m happy, even proud, to be your wife. But I am not just a wife. I’m a person, with needs of my own.” She paused, and her voice softened then, from anger to earnestness. “Do you remember how we used to talk when we were betrothed? How together we would try to tear down the walls? I don’t see us doing that any time soon. But here I have a chance to save a life. We have a chance. And I can’t let that opportunity pass. We are so religious here, following all the customs — but what was it Mendelssohn said? True religion is to be a moral person. Now is my chance to prove to myself that I am. If being moral comes with risks, I’m ready to face them.”

  Angry and confused, Meyer could only reply, “But he’s a goy!”

  “All the more reason to save him. Any Jew would save a fellow Jew.”

  With intense effort he let his breathing slow, he calmed his voice. “So this is what comes from allowing a philosopher into the lane.”

  He reached for a chair and sat. He shook his head, rested his elbow on the desk, amid a small pile of coins. With his other hand he rubbed his forehead, trying to deny a headache. “I didn’t know you were so unhappy,” he said.

  “I’m not so unhappy. I love you. I love being your wife. I love our children. But sometimes I need to do things separate from you. I read my history books, when I can squeeze in the time, when the children are asleep. But to save a boy from going to war — this in itself could be a little bit of history. It’s something I must do, to be true to Guttle Schnapper.
More important, to be true to Guttle Rothschild.”

  Meyer sat silently, his eyes closed. To Guttle it seemed as if hours passed. Perhaps it was only minutes. Meyer stood, took off the gray coat he still was wearing, draped it over his chair, as if he had just arrived home on a normal day. His voice was reserved when he spoke. “Where will he stay, till the danger passes? He can’t sleep crowded in with the wood.”

  “I thought Rebecca might take him in.”

  “She’s got Mendelssohn there. We can’t put the great man at risk.”

  “Perhaps your brother Kalman can stay a few nights with a friend. Or at Rebecca’s. The boy could have his bed.”

  “Have you asked Kalman?”

  “I wouldn’t do that without speaking to you.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Meyer said, “I don’t suppose they’ll come looking for him here. Wilhelm has plenty of other peasants.” He took a deep breath, exhaled forcefully, as if trying to exhale the boy. “Give him one of my yarmulkes, just in case. And tell him to start growing a beard — if he can.”

  “He’s got dark hair and eyes. If he wants to stay in the lane, maybe he could

  really pass as my cousin.”

  “Or as your long-lost sister. Did he make a handsome lass?”

  She took his hand and kissed his knuckles, smiled inwardly in triumph, accepting his weak joke as his surrender. She offered peace with irony. ”I’m glad you agree with me.”

  Meyer responded in kind; both understood intuitively that wry humor, as much as passion, was a substance of their love. “When do we not agree?” he said.

  On the Sabbath they made him stay in the house. On Sunday, with the gates locked and a police raid unlikely, they tested him at their end of the lane, among the neighbors they knew well. “Guttle’s cousin, Georgi Pinsky, visiting from Wiesbaden. Katie’s boy.”

  Of course, the neighbors said. Katie, who married into the Wiesbaden Pinskys. Nice to meet you, Georgi Pinsky (wink). From the very first there was the wink, directed at Meyer or Guttle or at the boy himself. Who did not remember Emmie Schnapper’s sister Katie — the one she never had mentioned, the one no one had ever seen? But there was a definite family resemblance. Avra’s nose merely had dropped to his chin. They knew, of course. Whether Izzy had told someone, or Avra, or if the butcher’s helper had overheard, Guttle could not say. Her guess was Izzy. How could he not boast to his brothers, or his Papa, of what he had found? And once his father Otto knew, the whole lane knew.

  On Monday the young man walked freely in the lane, wearing Kalman’s clothes, a yarmulke on his head, a hint of stubble on his cheeks. In the north-end houses many people might refer to him as the Gentile, or the Runaway. But in the street he was Georgi Pinsky (wink.) Katie’s boy. As if it were all a good joke. They had no fear for themselves; they had done nothing. And the Crown Prince seemed far away.

  Not all were so accepting, however. Otto Kracauer was not. Nor were Jacob Marcus, the moneylender, nor Alexandre Licht, the shoemaker, nor most of the south end. Guttle’s own mother was appalled at what she had done, though her father said nothing.

  A torrent of angry gossip washed along the cobbles like summer rain stirring the dirt.

  — Can you imagine such a thing? Who would bring a goy into the lane?

  —Meshuganah Guttle Rothschild, of course.

  33

  The debate, held in the lecture hall of the yeshiva, attracted the largest crowd, outside of the synagogue, since the murder trial of Hersch Liebmann nearly six years earlier. Guttle, Meyer and their friends arrived early, and took up half of the third row. Guttle sat between Meyer and Yussel Kahn. Beside Yussel were Brendel and Doctor Kirsch. Beside Meyer were Dvorah, Doctor Berkov and Isidor. At the hospital, the aides on duty knew where to find the two doctors if there was an emergency. Throughout the lane, younger sisters were acting as baby sitters. Amelia, now thirteen years old, was watching Guttle’s children, along with the Gentile boy.

  At the prescribed time of eight o’clock, every seat was filled, and people were standing without complaint at the sides and across the rear. Two lecterns had been placed at the front of the hall, two metres apart. Rabbi Simcha introduced the debaters. The Chief Rabbi was dressed in his constant black, the visitor in Berlin beige. Herr Mendelssohn would speak first on the subject for the evening, the future of the Jews, Rabbi Simcha said.

  “Thank you, Rabbi,” Moses Mendelssohn began. “I am grateful for this opportunity to convey my views to the people of the Judengasse, many of whom I have met personally during the past few days. The throng in this hall is a fine testimony to the civic awareness in this lane.

  “What, then, is the future of the Jews? How much of the answer depends on forces outside of our control, and how much depends on ourselves?

  “The good news is that the forces out of our control are now running in our favor, like a river rushing downhill. The time in which we live is perhaps the first time we Jews can say that in seven hundred years — since the slayings of the first crusade inaugurated all these centuries of religious prejudice, of atrocities rooted in so-called faith.

  “The time in which we live already is being called, by journalists and scholars, the Age of Enlightenment. There is a heavy irony in speaking such words here in the Judengasse, with its high walls, with its gates that are locked against us even as I speak. There is irony in saying those words anywhere in the City of Frankfurt, where the treatment of we Jews — of you forced to live in this ghetto — is the most restrictive and obscene in all of Europe, from the marital and legal restrictions to that despicable Judensau I saw as I entered the city. But the fact remains that enlightenment has been born in the world like a young lion — and it is moving in this direction.

  “Now, what do I mean by enlightenment? It is, quite simply, the application of human reason to all things. The first important thing that reason shows us is that the treatment of men by their fellowmen down through the centuries has not been reasonable. There is no way to defend with reason why some men should be born Princes and others should be born slaves. There is no way to demonstrate with reason that one religion contains the whole truth about God, and is superior to all others.

  “Modern science has shown us that the blood of nobles is no different than the blood of peasants. Yet all around us, the Princes, under their own laws, which benefit only themselves, own the very bodies and souls of their fellow men. Reason tells us that at heart, the essential message of all religions is that man should live a moral life, and treat his fellow men well. Yet we see nothing but war and hatred among Catholic, Lutheran, Muslim, Jew.

  “These ideas are not new. They trace back at least as far as the British philosopher John Locke a century ago, who suggested that the true determinant of government should be the will of the majority — not the whim of a Prince or a King. Like an underground river, these enlightened ideas have been gaining strength ever since, aided by the writings of such men as the French philosopher Voltaire, and others. These writings have influenced the British colonists in America who are rebelling against their King. These ideas are the talk of Paris. They cannot but swamp the Holy Roman Empire before long. When they do, the gates of this lane will be unlocked forever.

  “But what will happen then? Are you people of this crowded lane prepared for the new opportunities that will come?

  “I am sorry to say that, from my observation, you are not. In your heders and in your fine yeshiva, the only things taught are the Pentateuch and the Talmud. The only language spoken besides Hebrew is the hybrid Judendeutch. But the Gentiles, at least in the learned classes, are teaching their children science and medicine, history, philosophy, languages such as Latin, Greek and French. I hope you will not take this wrong, but the fact is that many of you men of the Judengasse cannot speak or read pure German — the language of our country.

  “I was going to save this talk for Berlin, but I think not. I propose here tonight that the time has come for nothing less than a Haskalah, a Jewish enl
ightenment.

  “It is essential that our Jewish schools broaden their curricula, so that our children will be able to take advantage of a new equality when it arrives. Girls should be educated as well as boys — in separate schools if that is desired, but educated nonetheless. In an enlightened future there will be freedom to choose any profession, to live anywhere one desires. But this opportunity will be worthless if you are not prepared to use it, to throw off the shackles of the ghetto. Unless you are ready to act, the gates will remain locked, the walls will stand, life here will remain unchanged. The Gentiles will continue to view us as some curious, subhuman race.

  “All of that is at stake in the coming years.”

  Guttle sat enthralled, her mouth slightly open, her lower lip loose. In all the years of her yearning for the destruction of the walls, she never once had focused on what would follow. Mendelssohn was right, she thought. Without any walls the ghetto might still be a ghetto if the people let it remain so, if they were not prepared to live in the changing world.

  She glanced at Meyer. He was listening intently, but she could not read his thoughts.

  “I have more to say,” Mendelssohn concluded, “but I shall pause here, to drink some water, and to permit your learned Chief Rabbi to respond.”

  Rabbi Eleazar sipped from his water glass, cleared his throat. Engrossed by Mendelssohn’s words, eager for their Rabbi’s rejoinder, most in the hall had ceased to notice a flickering of the lamps.

  The Chief Rabbi’s voice was deep and confident as he began.

  “I must beg to differ with our distinguished visitor, on almost everything he said.”

  Pockets of laugher erupted in the audience. Even Mendelssohn smiled.

  “The future of the Jewish nation is not an open question. It is all written down in this book — in the Pentateuch.” He held up the book for them to see. “So long as we adhere to Yahweh’s laws as set down in the five books of Moses, and to the teachings of this other book, the Talmud”— he held that up as well — “we Jews shall survive as a nation. I would point out that many nations of history are no longer with us — the Hittites, the Philistines, the Canaanites, and so forth. All have perished, along with their beliefs. The pagan gods of the Greeks and the Romans have perished. Yet we Jews have survived, despite all the attempts to destroy us, despite the destruction of our sacred temple, and the diaspora that followed.