by Robert Mayer
“A fair question. No. She did not turn me down.” They had reached the south gate. The noise from the docks was rushing into the lane like an angry wind. “I wish we could go walking on the river rampart. But if you’ll bear with me, the cemetery will have to do. For quiet.”
“You have me very confused. I’m not accustomed to being confused.”
He took her elbow and guided her through the cemetery gate, to one of the paths among the stones. As the ghetto wall rose between them and the docks, the rushing noise diminished, but not the fury snapping in her brain.
“I spent a restless night,” Simcha said, “thinking of the things I said to you at dinner. Again and again they twisted through my sleep. Absurd images of you scrubbing floors. Washing my shirts. Till the truth dawned on me. What I was seeking was not a wife, but a housekeeper.”
Rebecca glanced at his face, still controlling her anger. “Why are you telling me this?”
“By the time I went to Thelma Baumgarten’s place for lunch — as you apparently saw me entering — I had made a decision. Frau Baumgarten was happy to accept my offer.”
“I see.”
“I asked her to be my housekeeper. To come a few times a week, to clean and to cook. For suitable wages, of course. And she agreed. How could I have thought she could be my wife? We would not have been a good match.”
They were in the center of the cemetery, near the Beckers. They stopped walking. Rebecca ran her hand along the top of a grave marker. She willed her throbbing nerves to be as hard as the stone her fingers were caressing.
“Which brings me to my central point.”
She waited.
A movement caught her eye, a gray cat slinking among the stones. She picked up a pebble and threw it. The cat scampered off. They didn’t need cats from the dock digging among the graves. And throwing rocks at a Rabbi would be frowned upon.
“With the housework done by Frau Baumgarten,” Simcha said, “your work at the hospital would not be diminished. We could continue to enjoy our talks, as we do every Tuesday — but we could talk every night. If … ”
She looked at the ground, at the few early weeds sprouting among the graves. She turned to him, her face chiseled stone. Her voice was harsh when she spoke. “If what?”
“If you would agree to be my wife.”
Rebecca turned away, looked at the acres of graves between them and the wall. Gulls from the river swirled overhead, dipped and disappeared. She felt anger, not joy. After the wound of the previous night, her defenses were in place, like a porcupine’s.
“You don’t have to decide now,” Simcha said. “And I want to make clear, this would be for companionship only. To fend off loneliness. I wouldn’t expect us to … I wouldn’t expect you too … not with my pocked face, my scar. I’m fifty-one years old, I’ve learned to live without that. Our bedrooms would be separate.”
Rebecca turned to him, her anger unexpectedly dissipating beneath his words, like a spring shower beneath the sun. He had never revealed himself this way before. “No,” she said.
“I see. You have no need to think. Just … no.”
“Do you want to know why?”
He reached up and held his yarmulke in place against a breeze that swirled among the stones. She could see a heaviness weighting his eyes. “If you care to tell me.”
“When I marry,” Rebecca said, “if I marry, it will not be a marriage in name only. I would expect to feel the warmth of my husband’s body alongside mine in the night. I would expect him to desire me, in the way a woman wants to be desired. Without that, I see no point in marriage.”
“I see.”
“I love you as a friend. But unless you desire me as a woman, we should remain friends.”
The sky darkened suddenly, a dense gray cloud hiding the sun. The tombstones lost their shadows. Weeds began to whisper, a swirling wind scratching them against the soapstone markers. Here and there, puffs of dirt took flight. Rebecca turned from him, as if rubbing a speck of soil from her eye.
The Rabbi moved his hands toward her shoulders, took them down, did not know what to do with them. “Unless I desire you? Surely you’re making a joke. You think inside this Rabbi’s black that I wear is not a man?” Carefully he risked one hand on her shoulder. He realized he was grateful that she had turned away; it was easier to speak to her back. “Don’t you realize how desirable you are? You don’t know how hard I have been battling not to respond to it. Not to risk losing your friendship. You are so beautiful — your lean face, your flashing eyes, your hair, your manner. Everything about you. But long ago the pox had its way with me. I can hardly expect you to want to kiss a face such as mine.”
For the first time during this long, tormenting day, the Doctor allowed herself a smile. Turning to face him, raising herself slightly on her toes, she kissed his lips, lightly. Then she settled back.
The Rabbi could feel his eyes clouding over with unexpected joy; he closed them so she would not read the depth of his feelings. “Was that to prove a point,” he asked, his eyes still closed, “or was that an answer to my question?”
She raised herself on her toes, pressed her lips to his, held them there, until his arms tightened around her, and his lips pressed back, and they were locked in embrace. She broke it only in order to breathe, and pressed her cheek to his.
“That was a yes,” she said. “But only on my terms.”
He felt a wetness on his cheek. He did not know if it were his tears, or hers. Perhaps it was both, commingled. “I like your terms better,” he whispered hoarsely
When they had kissed again, their fingers gripping each other’s backs, and had separated, breathing rapidly, and had taken each other’s hands, Simcha said, “There’s one more thing I have to tell you. If we do this, you will be the Chief Rabbi’s wife. People will look at you as … I don’t know as what. Not only as a Doctor, but also as the rebbetzin.”
“I had already guessed that.”
He touched her cheek, looked into her deep, dark eyes. “How long shall we keep our betrothal a secret?”
“Ten minutes. More I couldn’t stand.” Tears were drifting down her face. She ignored them. “People will look at the stoic Doctor Kirsch, who never shows her feelings, and they will know anyway. Especially when they see that my feet no longer touch the cobbles.”
The new Chief Rabbi grinned.
“Let’s go,” she said, pulling on his hand. “I want to tell Guttle. And Brendel. I want to tell all my friends. Let’s go to the Café. Is that all right?”
“I want to tell the world,” Simcha said.
When they were twenty steps into the lane, with the sun shining again, the applause began, and the shouting. Word already had circulated about Simcha’s promotion. “Mazel tov! Mazel tov! Long life to the new Chief Rabbi!” Women leaned out of second and third floor windows to cheer. From the doorways of shops the owners and their customers spilled out and began to applaud and call out greetings. As Simcha walked up the lane, Rebecca at his side, the hurrahs moved along with him like a rumble of thunder — which drew more people into the lane, and more applause.
“It wasn’t to be announced until evening services,” Simcha shouted into the Doctor’s ear.
“You know there are no secrets in the lane!”
On and on the applause continued as they passed the synagogue and the hospital. People began to follow behind them, clapping their hands in rhythm. As they neared the Café and Brendel’s customers saw who it was, they, too, stood and began to cheer and to shout Mazel tov to the new Chief Rabbi, Guttle and Meyer and Yussel among them. The lane in front of the Café became crowded, as did the Café itself. The Rabbi and the Doctor both appeared flushed. Simcha raised his hands and asked for quiet. Gradually the shouts faded away.
“I’m not sure what all this Mazel tov is for,” he told them. “The new Chief Rabbi will not be announced by the Schul-Klopper until evening services — about half an hour from now.”
“We know it’s you!
” someone called out. “The Rabbi is out of the bag!”
Amid laughter, Simcha raised his arms again for silence. “But I do want to make a different kind of announcement.”
Talking ceased. People wanted to hear the first thing their new Chief Rabbi — whether he admitted it or not — would say. His hand at his side, Rabbi Simcha gripped Rebecca’s hand, out of sight of most of the crowd.
“I suspect that this will come as a surprise to most of you. The truth is, it comes as a surprise to me. Just a few minutes ago, Doctor Kirsch — Rebecca, here — agreed to become my wife.”
For a moment there was silence while this unexpected news circled inside the Café like a bird. Then shouts and cheers exploded, deafening as artillery.
“Long life to the Doctor rebbetzin!” someone shouted.
“Long life to the rebbetzin Doctor!”
Laughter and cheers and the buzz of shouted whispers spilled out into the lane. Already the identity of the new Chief Rabbi was ancient history; this new news sizzled up and down the lane like the aroma of frying chicken fat, a tasty and unexpected treat. Guttle pushed forward to hug Rebecca, cheek against cheek. Meyer and Yussel shook hands vigorously with Rabbi Simcha. Others pressed around the betrothed couple to do the same. Behind the counter, Brendel turned to her younger son, Joshua, and whispered in his ear. He worked his way through the crowd and out into the lane and ran a few houses south and up a flight of stairs. A few minutes later the noisy throng quieted as talk and laughter was sliced like butter by the sharp sound of a violin. The crowd parted to make way for Pinchas Cohen, the oldest fiddler in the lane, who was well into his eighties. He stepped from the cobbles into the Café without pausing in his tune.
“A dance! A dance by the betrothed!” someone shouted.
People pulled the Café’s small tables to the sides, creating a space in the center. Rebecca Kirsch took Emil Simcha’s hand and led him to it, and while hundreds of eyes watched, people in the back urging those in front to kneel so they could see, the couple began a slow and stately dance, while some of the onlookers whistled and cheered. Soon others began to dance, not in the Café — there was no room there — but in the lane, across the sewage trench.
When the betrothal dance ended, people cheered the fiddler, whose grin showed his mottled pink gums; he’d been so excited to come lead the celebration that he’d forgotten to put in his teeth. Brendel sidled up to him and whispered in his ear. Pinchas Cohen grinned even wider. He lifted his violin to his chin, took a deep breath into his skinny chest, then another, pulled several slow notes across the strings with his bow. Slowly, infinitesimally, he began to bow faster, then faster still. Brendel motioned away people who were clogging the impromptu dance floor. She approached Rebecca and held out her hand. Rebecca hesitated, shook her head ‘no’ while allowing Brendel to pull her into the open space. Brendel kicked off one shoe, then the other. The crowd — those who remembered — began to shout encouragement.
Rebecca wagged a finger at them, then removed her shoes as well. Brendel did a few trial steps on the wooden floor in her stockinged feet, as if to loosen her muscles. Rebecca, shaking her head ruefully, did the same. Brendel raised her skirt above her ankles and began to dance, slowly at first, then quickly catching up to the music. Rebecca, frowning, shaking her head, nonetheless followed her lead. Soon the two women were stepping and whirling about one another, mirror images, Brendel in her pale blue dress and white apron, Rebecca all in black, Brendel’s blonde ringlets bouncing on her shoulders, Rebecca’s black hair flying off her neck. The onlookers clapped in time to the music that kept getting faster and faster. Guttle, watching, hugged Meyer, pressed her face into his chest, wetting his shirt with her tears. Faster and faster the old fiddler played in a frenzied display, people marveling at his dexterity. Gradually the clapping fell away like pebbles, people could not clap that fast, but the two women danced faster and faster, until suddenly the music exploded into a stunning silence. Abruptly the dance was over, and as they had done fifteen years earlier at Guttle’s wedding Brendel and Rebecca fell into one another’s arms, holding each other up as they tried to catch their breath, laughing, kissing one another on the cheek, wobbling as they struggled to remain on their feet.
“More music,” someone yelled, but in the silence the fiddler shook his head and pointed to his watch pocket. Just then they heard the fire chief, now the elderly Schul-Klopper, calling out as he walked by in the lane that it was time for evening services, calling out because amid the frenzied rhythm of the fiddle no one had hear him knocking. The throng began to dissipate, the women and children to their homes to prepare the evening meal, the men toward the synagogue.
Following the men, Pinchas Cohen paused in front of the house of the Chief Rabbi, and thought of Avram lying ill in bed, and began to play for his friend a gentle concert of mournful melodies.
Of all the men, only Yussel Kahn held back. He watched Brendel hang the “Closed” sign and lock the door of the Café, and close the dark blue curtains. Together they moved the tables back into place. Then Yussel took her hand. “Tired?”
“Very.”
“It’s been a memorable day. To begin so badly, and to end so well.”
“It’s only the end that counts.”
“I was afraid I might be in prison by now. That I might never see you again.”
“I know.”
He sat on the nearest chair, guided her onto his lap. He nuzzled the sweet, grassy smell of her faintly perfumed sweat. “I think it’s time,” he said. “Simcha shamed me into the spirit. Gluck scared me half to death. I told you once that I would know if the time came. I think it’s time.”
Brendel touched his face with her slim fingers. “Are you sure? Just because of Simcha and Rebecca, we don’t … ”
“Not because of them. For us. If you want to think about it . . .”
“I’ve had fifteen years to think about it.” She tugged on the point of his short reddish beard, lately lightened by a hint of gray. “What about your vow not to marry again?”
“Yahweh will understand.”
She hesitated. “And Lainie?”
“Lainie, too, will understand.”
Straightening the collar of her dress, he added, “You do have one thing to consider. It might destroy your reputation.”
Brendel grinned. “The Judengasse will survive.” She lightly kissed his nose. “But wait a moment. You don’t expect me to stop being me, just because of a wedding band.”
“Not for a minute.”
“Good. Because that would be bad for business.”
His hands encircled her waist, a moment’s kiss away. She whispered, “What about evening services?” His hands were untying her apron. “That, too, Yahweh will understand.”
Fifteen minutes earlier, hearing applause and shouting from below, Gilda Eleazar had made sure her sheitl was on straight and had looked out the third floor window. Rabbi Simcha, the new Chief Rabbi, was being hailed by his admirers as he walked up the lane. For a moment she began to shake with anger; her husband was not yet dead, and already they were cheering his successor. She told herself to be fair, knowing it was Avram who had made the changeover immediate, but still, they could have some consideration as they walked by the house where he was asleep. She thought of shushing them, but knew she would not be heard, and was afraid it could be taken wrong, taken as if she resented Rabbi Simcha. She did not. Only Yahweh she resented, for taking her husband before her.
She left the window and looked in on him; he was sleeping peacefully; between his gray beard and his gray mustache was the suggestion of a smile. As she sat heavily in a chair in the parlor, she said aloud, to the walls, “Me, I’m not smiling. Where will I live, Avram, the house is for Simcha now? To whom will I kvetch when my ankles hurt.?”
“Now music!” she had muttered as the sound of a violin blew in through the window. She tried to minimize her anger. “Let them play, let them cheer, they have little enough to cheer about.”
The fiddle notes continued to intrude. Wearily, she pulled herself up from her chair and went to the window to lower the glass, to close the shutters, to block out the sound. But at the window, she stopped. The music had changed. It had become a slow, mournful melody. Below in the lane she saw Pinchas Cohen gently working his bow, playing his oldest friend into heaven.
A light rain began to fall. Pinchas Cohen ignored it, continued to play.
Gilda felt a chill. She was in no hurry to shuffle to the bedroom. She knew.
43
Helmut Mann leaned against the base of a great black oak on the bank of the river Fulda, holding a fishing pole, its line drifting lazily in the current. Dragonflies buzzed along the silver surface, dipped and spun away. Beyond the muddy banks on both sides, spikey wild grasses, mostly cord grass and blue stem, sun bleached pale green in September, climbed the face of the hills. High above, to the fisherman’s left, its shadow hanging over the river just as the oak’s black branches did — just as Helmut’s fake Christian name hung over his Jewish self — was Riesenburg, the tall stone Castle of Thieves.
It had been nearly fifteen years since Hersch Liebmann, tired of being known to other highwaymen as the Judengasse Jew, had taken a different name. No longer did anyone even call him Helmut the Jew, as a few had done at first; the last cutthroat who had done so still carried a scar on his neck. Hersch did not mind his religion being known — a fair number of the highwaymen were Jews, including practicing ones who would not commit robbery on Saturdays. But when he left the cover of the hills and entered a town to have a woman, Helmut Mann suited him better on the hostel register.