The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  So many years had passed without discovery that Yussel no longer thought about danger — until he came upon the police wagon and its two dray horses standing in front of the bookseller’s shop. Had the police somehow discovered the officer among them who was sympathetic to the Jews? Had someone recognized the code? He had no notion of how they might have found out, but apparently they had.

  His mind sizzled like oil in a hot iron pan as more people crowded around the police wagon to see what was happening. They were looking toward the shop. Officers must be inside. Did they know that he,Yussel, was the go-between? He did not think Gluck would tell them, Gluck was a gentleman who had become through the years a friend. But the Polizei, he knew, had ways to get information from even the most resisting soul.

  An old, suppressed image came to mind: the music and gaiety of the Frankfurt Fair, of one particular Fair, of the gallows, of the blacksmith from Mainz. It always had been difficult to accept the connection, that this had been Brendel’s husband, the father of her sons. Was that now to be the fate of the bookseller? Or of himself? He did not deny to himself that suddenly he was afraid. His fear was not so much for himself —the dead felt neither pain nor desire — but what would his arrest, and what might follow, do to Brendel? How could she withstand a second horror? Dear, sweet Brendel. And the boys — what would she tell her sons this time?

  He saw a stirring in the crowd near the wagon, heard a murmuring. He inched his way further into the square, seeking a better view. Johannes Gluck, his gray hair thinning, wearing his usual gray apron, was being led out of his shop between two Constables, his hands bound behind him. Yussel watched with agony for his friend, head turned half away from the scene to hide his face, as the bookseller, under prodding by a Constable, climbed into the wagon. Yussel in the time it takes to turn a page in a book imagined what would happen in the next few seconds. Johannes Gluck standing in the wagon on the way to jail would realize what lay ahead: he would be tortured to reveal the names of his contacts — the high official who knew of the planned raids ahead of time, the man from the Judengasse to whom he informed. Johannes would want to endure neither the torture nor the inevitable betrayal; realizing this, he would find the right moment to leap from the wagon, run down the street; the pursuing officers would fire their muskets; blood would erupt like flowers all over his back; he would fall to the cobbles, to a satisfying death, a man with honor to the end. All this the bookseller would do in a moment, Yussel convinced himself.

  His heart and breath were hurtling as if he himself were running down the street. But the bookseller was not. The horses slowly began to walk. The wheels of the wagon slowly began to turn, like the earth. Flanked by two officers holding muskets, the bookseller stared straight ahead.

  Circling the Heldenplatz — the Place of Heroes, except that there were no statues of heroes, only three squat bases that stood truncated on the grassy center — as if the city had scoured the history of the Holy Roman Empire and found as yet no hero worthy of bronze — the police wagon came directly at Yussel. He turned to the wall, bent over, adjusted his hose, till the wagon with its human cargo had passed. As he bent the blood had rushed to his head, and now Yussel felt trapped in a fog. Were they, even now, looking for him in the lane? Should he hire a horse, flee to Berlin, or even further, to Vienna, and start another life? Should he risk going back, quickly sign over the shop to Georgi, explain the danger to Brendel and the boys, see if they wanted to come with him? Brendel surely would.

  One decision came easily. He would not flee from here, without a proper farewell. If the police already were waiting for him … he would have to take that chance.

  He started walking home. Shaken with every step, images created by his nerves drifted through his brain in many colors, like a patch of spent oil on the surface of the sewage ditch — slick purples, yellows, blues, greens, floating toward oblivion with the muck.

  While Yussel walked home, uncertain of the future, Izzy sat beside Amelia in the Rothschild parlor, to discuss with Guttle and Meyer his own plans for the future. He was not wearing his butcher’s apron. His blonde hair no longer stood up like a wheat field, but lay flat on his head, and had begun to darken. This had happened several years before, literally overnight. One night he had stolen his first kiss from Amelia, and the next morning he had awakened with altered hair, a change that no one could explain. In his years at the butcher shop his chest and arms had thickened, which Amelia liked, and his hands were acquiring a permanent bloody tint, which she didn’t.

  Receiving the Guide of the Perplexed from Moses Mendelssohn — the philosopher’s own copy, possibly even handled by the Rambam himself — had had a profound effect, Izzy told them. He had decided he had been put on earth by Yahveh to do Jewish scholarship; that’s how he must spend the rest of his life.

  “So I have made plans,” he said firmly, trying to sound like the man of thirty he now was, though he still appeared much younger, and often acted so. Holding the hand of Amelia, who was blushing, and looking at Guttle, he went on, “Because you were responsible for my receiving the book, Guttle, I want you to be the first to know.” He felt pressure on his palm from Amelia. “Well, not exactly the first. Amelia knows.” She squeezed his hand again. “And Meyer knows.” He saw Guttle give Meyer a questioning look, as she wondered what her husband had held back from her. Amelia dug her fingernails into Izzy’s palm. “And my two brothers also know. And my mother, of course. And Rabbi Simcha. But besides them, I want you to be the first.”

  “I’m honored,” Guttle said.

  Smiling slightly, she thought: so they have overcome their fears at last. Loving each other for so long — since they were children and Amelia used to follow Izzy’s Pied Piper of a Schul-Klopper through the lane — each as they grew older silently becoming terrified of joining together as man and wife — each making profound excuses behind which to hide. How many times have I wanted to tell them they were merely afraid, that they should look within themselves, that they should confess their concerns to each other? How many times have I held back, my mouth tightly shut, deciding they must face and accept and subdue their trepidations on their own, without my interference — when they were ready to, and not before. Perhaps, now, they are ready.

  “Here are my plans,” Izzy was saying. “You know that when my father died he left the slaughterhouse in three equal shares, to me, Eli and Aaron, even though I am running it. And he left their feather business in three shares as well. I have agreed to trade my share of the slaughterhouse, which makes good money, to my brothers, in return for their two shares of the feather business, which is going bankrupt, now that nearly everyone in the lane has feather beds.”

  “It wasn’t Meyer who gave you this business advice, of that I’m sure,” Guttle said.

  “As a matter of fact, Meyer worked it out for us. He has agreed to buy the feather business from me.”

  Again Guttle looked at Meyer, furrowing her brow. A dying feather business? Had he lost his senses? Her husband’s features betrayed only slight amusement at her puzzled look.

  “Meyer plans to close the feather shop and use the space for his office,” Izzy continued. “He needs more room, now that he’ll be taking Amschel into the business. Also, he will have more storage space for imports.”

  Guttle had not taken her eyes off Meyer. “Again I’m honored that I’m the first to know.”

  She had been aware of Meyer’s hopes, of course — but not of this sudden reality.

  “With the money from Meyer,” Izzy said, “and with whatever dowry your father sees fit to provide, Amelia and I will be married. She will remain here in the lane while I go away for a year to a rabbinical school — one that Rabbi Simcha will suggest. To be taken seriously as a scholar, I need to be a Rabbi.”

  Guttle looked at each of their faces. “It’s amazing what can go on in the lane right under one’s nose. In a single day.”

  “Everyone always asks your advice,” Izzy said. “We decided it was time we ma
de decisions on our own.”

  Adjusting her skirt more comfortably on the love seat, Amelia said, “This was after we couldn’t find you anywhere.”

  “I was at the cemetery with Mama,” she said. “Little Benjy would have been eighteen today.” She reached into her skirt pocket for her handkerchief, but did not withdraw it, merely grasped it. “Mama wouldn’t leave. For a time she didn’t know where she was. We could hear the river running. She thought we were on a boat. She thought that if we left the cemetery we would drown.” Hidden in her pocket, her fist was squeezing the handkerchief with force, squeezing away the tears she refused to let form in her eyes. “But back to your news. You’re telling me all this now, because?”

  “We’re asking your approval,” Amelia said.

  “You don’t need my approval for any of it. For marriage, you need Papa’s approval.”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention,” Izzy said. “Your father also knows.”

  Guttle felt her tears welling up, despair for her mother — today had been the worst episode by far — overwhelmed by joy for her sister. She sat on the love seat beside Amelia, forcing Izzy to move to the edge, and hugged her close. “I’m so happy for you,” she said. And to Izzy, “You don’t deserve her — making her wait this long.”

  “I didn’t make her wait. She made … “

  Meyer stood and shook Izzy’s hand. “The Schnapper girls have a strange sense of humor. You’ll get used to it.’”

  “Get used to it? I’ve been suffering barbs from Guttle since we were kids. I never get used to it.” He turned to his betrothed. “But no more waiting. Let’s go to Simcha and choose a school for Rabbis.”

  “And a wedding date.” To Guttle she said, “Papa is leaving the date up to us.”

  “He’s growing soft, it appears.” Because of Mama, she knew; the little rules didn’t matter any more.

  “It’s thanks to you, Guttle. He said to us last night, ‘Guttle made a good match with Meyer. Soon he’ll be richer than I am. That’s why Avra could have her starving artist. That’s why you can have your starving scholar. When you need money, you’ll be able to turn to Rothschild, instead of your poor old Papa.’”

  Guttle grinned and said, “He was joking.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Meyer said drily.

  When her sister and Izzy had gone, Guttle led Meyer to the loveseat, and they sat together, Meyer’s arm around her shoulder. “Did you see how happy they are?” she said.

  “She’ll make a beautiful rebbetzin.”

  “Thank you for helping them. It’s a mitzvah.”

  “You think so? A feather-business in my cap?”

  “For that, you owe me a kiss.”

  “Maybe two,” Meyer said.

  “It all happened so fast. My head is buzzing like a fly.”

  “Are you angry that you weren’t consulted?”

  “A little. But the news is so good — I would have to be a sourpuss to show it.”

  “Once Izzy made up his mind, they were like wild horses to figure things out.”

  From the floor above, the sound of violins stumbled down the stairs, burrowed through the ceiling, music, noise, a battle between the two. The three eldest children, Schönche, Amschel and Salomon, all were learning to play the violin, and, hearing the guests leave, had begun to practice, all at once, in a manner sure to claim attention. The sweet melody of Schönche’s Mozart sonata — his newest, recently published — struggled to hold its line against the ragged scales of the boys. Skinny Nathan came racing down the stairs, the index finger of each hand pressed into his ear, and threw himself to his knees in front of his parents. “Mama, Papa, make them stop,” he pleaded, popping his blue eyes wide in aesthetic pain.

  “Sometimes,” Meyer said, “I wish we had room for a piano.”

  Guttle winced at a particularly sour note in the fiddle cacophony that was pouring down upon them like an indoor storm. “Have you heard Rebecca play? She plays beautifully. She learned as a child in Berlin.” Guttle glanced around the living room. “If not a piano, perhaps we could fit a harp. I would love to learn.”

  His fingers having made his point, Nathan stretched out at their feet on the dark green rug, which contrasted starkly with his head of curly auburn hair.

  “Your friend Marie Antoinette plays the harp,” Meyer said.

  Abruptly, Guttle raised her cheek from his chest. “How do you know about her?”

  “That she plays a harp?”

  “That she’s my friend.”

  “Sometimes, when you think I’m asleep, you speak to her.”

  “You listen? That’s very rude.”

  How could that be? In sleep, she knew, he descended so deep into the night world that the entire Judengasse could burn and he would not awaken. While she would be roused from slumber by the slightest cough of one of her children two stories above.

  “The bed is very small, Guttela.”

  “Have you heard anything you shouldn’t have?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  Guttle rubbed a hand across her eyes, feeling foolish. “You must think I’m still a child.”

  “Not at all. Friends are good.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Especially royalty.”

  Guttle punched his knee, reached down, pulled Nathan up onto her lap.

  “They’re still playing,” the boy whined.

  “What about you? What instrument would you like to play?”

  “If I absolutely had to?”

  She pressed a spiraling curl into place among the others. “If you absolutely had to.”

  “Artillery!” Bouncing on her lap, he yanked at an imaginary cord. “Cha-boom!”

  Meyer could not help laughing. He rumpled the boy’s hair.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Guttle said.

  Then it happened, as it happened so often — his hair — the color, the exact auburn shade as Dvorah’s — whom she had not seen since she walked out of the ghetto nine years ago — Dvorah, who had cast her aside — or whom she had cast aside, no longer was she sure which — whom she would never see again — whom she was doing everything possible to forget, which was the only sane thing to do — the running together on the ramparts of childhood, the secret giddy laughter, the mutual nakedness of the mikveh, the birth of children, whom they had assumed would be raised like cousins — the total trust, the love — all this memory encapsulated in a vibrant shade of auburn. How was a woman to cut off the past, when the past lived on in the hair of her own child?

  Guttle pressed her lips to the offending locks.

  Meyer knew well the look that now sculpted his wife’s face — the stillness of white marble, a visage of a long-gone Greek, of a bereaved sister looking out to sea. “It’s returned?” he murmured, with sympathy.

  Her chin remained pressed to the boy’s hair. She closed her eyes, tightly.

  “Who knocks?”

  “Good evening, rebbetzin. I need to see the Rabbi.”

  “He’s sick in bed, Yussel. I thought everybody knows that.”

  “I wouldn’t disturb him, but it’s important.”

  “Everybody’s problem is always important. Go see Simcha, he’s important, too.”

  “Rabbi Simcha doesn’t know about this. Only your husband knows. There may be danger to the lane.”

  “Danger? Danger he would want to know about. I’ll go make him ready. But this had better be serious danger.”

  He found Rabbi Eleazar in a dark bedroom with blankets hung over the windows, the only illumination a candle on a bedside table. The Rabbi’s head was propped up on three pillows. His face was haggard, his eyes seemed watery in the flickering light.

  “Rabbi, I hope you’re feeling better,” Yussel said.

  “Better?” The Chief Rabbi’s stentorian voice was weak, cracked, like a bass fiddle left too close to a fire. “Better I won’t be feeling till I get to the afterlife. I know that, Berkov knows that. Now you know that. So tell me what’s happened. What danger?”r />
  Yussel described the scene of the policemen taking away the bookseller.

  “After, what, sixteen years, they found out?” he said. “How?”

  “I don’t know, Rabbi. The question is, what to do?”

  “Do they know about you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will the bookseller tell? He will if they torture him.” His voice was increasingly hoarse. “You want me to say whether you should stay or run away? I don’t know the answer. At least it’s a choice. Poor Solomon Gruen, peace be upon him, never had a choice.”

  “You still believe he was killed because of that?”

  The Rabbi twisted his torso beneath the covers, reached with difficulty to his bedside table, lifted a glass of water. His hand trembled as he raised it to his lips, and drank. He had trouble reaching the table again. Yussel took the glass from his shaking hand and set it down on the wet circle where it had been.

  “I have always believed that,” the Rabbi said, his voice smoothed by the water. “Only one thing kept me from being certain. Why was the bookseller not seized at the same time? They would have tortured Solomon to learn his source. Still, I recruited you, and put you at risk.”

  “I had no family then. I was honored to be chosen.”

  “Now this. You never know what Frankfurt will do.” He made a dismissive motion with his hand, as if in disgust. Yussel had never noticed how gnarled it was. “For some reason they preferred not to bring charges last time. Not to have a trial. Just to poison him. I have a suspicion why, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Perhaps it does matter. Will you tell me?”

  “No. I don’t know what to advise you, Yussel, it was always a risk. What you did all these years was wonderful. Who knows how much trouble you saved the people in the lane? How many beatings, or worse, were avoided? I won’t even describe what the Constables used to do in the old days, if they found a violation. Now, without the bookseller … I suppose nothing can be done. Anyway, that will soon be up to my successor, Jonah or Simcha”.