The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  “What you had done to him? You hadn’t done anything!”

  “He didn’t know the words. But I had taken away his manhood.”

  “That’s nonsense. Look what you do to me.” He kissed her cheek. “So you came here to forget.”

  “I managed to get through school. I felt awful every morning for years, but I wouldn’t let him take my career from me. Afterward, I couldn’t live in Berlin. Everywhere there would be memories. When I saw Lev Berkov’s posting about a position here, I decided this would be the perfect place. I could hide myself inside the walls. Here I would not expect to see him around every corner — since there are no corners. I was a good Doctor — and an awful person. Here I could put up my own wall.”

  “You feared being betrayed again.”

  “Yes.”

  “And excised your emotions.”

  “When possible.”

  “When you first arrived here, Yussel Kahn liked you, as I recall.”

  “We used to talk. I was not ready for more. When Brendel came along, and rejuvenated him, it was clear I’d made the right decision.”

  “But all these years … “

  “Sometimes in bed at night I wanted to die, I needed so badly to be touched. To be held. Calm Doctor Kirsch, always in control. But you know the men in the lane. Most of them feel the way Lucas did. The way almost all men do. I refused to go through that again. My work had to be enough.”

  “And now?”

  She took his hand, placed his palm on her breast. “When your heart still beats, fifteen years is a long time to be dead.”

  Her roaming eyes found the horse-head knot, barely visible; the moon’s reflected light had vanished. “Though part of me hates Lucas, every year, as Yom Kippur approaches, I think I should light a Yahrzeit candle in his memory. I once heard a rumor that he was on a ship that went down at sea. But I never have. Because he might still be alive.”

  “Perhaps this year you should light one. Not for him, but for you. To signify that he is dead in your heart.”

  Unable to contain a smile in the dark, Rebecca wondered if all men were that transparent, or only her Simcha. “I think I will do that,” she said.

  Birds were heralding the dawn with an avian orchestra. A skylark and a nightingale piped a fugue, a gold-fronted leaf bird fluted in harmony, a woodpecker tapped on an oak-trunk drum, pink and blue fruit doves, a colorful chorus, cooed. Lying on the grass, his hands behind his head, Hersch was reminded of his brother; like Hiram, the birds could make every sound but words. Yet he envied the freedom of their flight. Perhaps that’s what Hiram was doing when he painted the pictures that Hersch had heard about. Perhaps the pictures were Hiram’s wings.

  “Damn birds!” Klaus Fettmilch, who had been sleeping on the grass a few metres away, sat up, muttering. “They kept me awake all night.”

  “You snored from dark to dawn.”

  As Klaus meandered down the path to the river, Leni came up behind Hersch and kissed the top of his head. “Why do you stay around that Klaus. I don’t like him.”

  “I hate the cocky whore-son. But I’ve got a use for him. When the old Landgrave dies — a few days after — we can go away without him.”

  “What kind of a use for him?”

  “I need him to tell somebody something. It’s important. Don’t worry your pretty head, find some twigs for a fire. We’ll make some coffee.”

  The birds were chirping at the risen sun when they finished. “My horse is going lame,” Hersch said. “I’m gonna go down the road a ways, see if I can find a nice horse in a pasture, that nobody’s watching.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Klaus said. “See if I can find a young girl milking, that nobody’s watching.”

  “Watch your mouth. There’s a lady present.”

  Klaus looked directly at Leni, then around and behind him. “I don’t see any lady,” he said, and he grinned at them both. Hersch found a small stone on the ground, fired it at Klaus. It struck him in the knee. “That hurt!”

  “Next time I’ll make you eat it.”

  Klaus stood, rubbing his knee. “Some day, Jew, I’ll hurt you bad. When you’re not expecting it.” He started to walk away, to find his black stallion.

  Hersch turned to Leni, but spoke loudly. “That’s the only time he’ll try anything. When I’m not looking. Hey, Fettmilch, I know you won’t poison me! You don’t have three little boys to hold me down!”

  Behind thick bushes ten metres away, Klaus bent and found a stone. In one motion he stood and fired it at Hersch. His aim was errant, the stone struck Leni in the face. From her knees she pitched forward, both hands covering her eyes, her long hair falling over her face like a curtain, almost into the dying fire. Hersch with his arms around her waist dragged her away from the smoking twigs, told her to lie back on the grass. Blood was trickling from high on her cheek, just below one eye. He looked at her small face, her pug nose, saw pain in her pale blue eyes. She had not made a sound since being struck. “Are you all right? You’re not much for complaining.”

  “I don’t like that man,” Leni said.

  The children were asleep. Guttle was strumming her harp, Meyer was reading the Talmud in his favorite chair, half listening to the tender chords. As the light burned low, he stood and adjusted the wick, and sat again. Hesitant, her heart beating rapidly, Guttle said, “We have to discuss something.”

  “I’m listening.” He did not raise his eyes from his book.

  “Many years ago, I got the idea to start a school for girls. I never acted on it.”

  “Which was very wise of you.” He turned a page.

  Guttle let her fingers rest on the strings. “Now I want to do it.”

  “Not a good idea.” He put a marker in his book and set it aside. “What is different now than back then, when you first mentioned it?”

  “Two things. Now we have the older children, who can watch the little ones. I’m thinking perhaps three mornings each week.”

  “And the other thing?”

  “Rabbi Eleazar is gone. I was afraid back then that he would forbid it.”

  “You think Rabbi Simcha would approve? He still has to uphold the Torah, The Talmud.”

  “I don’t know that he would approve. But it is not his nature to forbid.”

  “I’m not so sure. Have you asked him?”

  “I wanted to speak with you first. Then I’ll go to Rebecca for help. Surely he wouldn’t forbid his wife. I want her to teach science. I plan to teach the girls to read and write German. And perhaps French history. Yussel would teach literature, and other history. Perhaps Brendel could teach them to dance.”

  “You have it all planned. Have you considered that asking Rebecca would put her on the spot? She’s the Chief Rabbi’s rebbetzin.”

  “People have to act on what they believe. If she agrees, she could talk to Simcha.”

  “Of course. And that would put Simcha on the spot. You want to come between man and wife? Sometimes what seems like a good idea can lead to disaster.”

  Guttle stood from her round stool beside the harp. “It doesn’t have to be that way! Why do you see it like that?”

  “I see things as they are. You’ve told me that often enough.” He lifted his yarmulke, ran his hand through his hair. “Listen to me, Guttle. You have not thought this through. This is a dangerous thing you are proposing. It will divide the lane into opposing factions — divide it as perhaps it has never been divided before.”

  “There are always factions over something. Look what happened when I brought in Georgi. Some were upset, but they learned to live with him. They even like him now, if they admit the truth.”

  “Georgi was different. The idea of him upset people, but they could ignore him if they wanted. A school to teach girls — teach them subjects that even the boys are not taught? Think about it. It goes against five thousand years of tradition. That is sufficient reason right there. But consider what would happen. Some girls will want to attend the school, and their paren
ts won’t let them. This will cause unhappiness for both. Those girls who are not allowed to attend might become envious of those who do. Worse than that — it could upset the entire social order in the lane. What young man will want to marry a girl who is more worldly wise than he is? These girls you teach — the more you educate them, the less marriageable they become.”

  Guttle was stunned by his diatribe — by the obvious truth of it. “Not necessarily,” she said, weakly. “Look at Rebecca.”

  “Fine, look at Rebecca. She’s, what, forty years old? It took her that long to find a husband. Perhaps too long to have children.”

  “She doesn’t want children.”

  “There you go. I admire Rebecca Kirsch — Frau Simcha now . . .”

  “Doctor Simcha.”

  “Right. Doctor Simcha. I admire her as much as anyone. But turn girls into scholars, and where will mothers come from? And babies — the future Jews? And who was strong enough to marry her, in the end? The new Chief Rabbi! For your plan, we don’t have enough Chief Rabbis.”

  “You married me!”

  “Exceptions there always are.”

  “Who is the exception, you or I?”

  “No doubt both of us.”

  He seemed to run out of words suddenly, like a carriage horse pulling up short at the post house. Guttle sat, feeling almost as if she had been physically beaten. “What if everything you say is true,” she said, her voice hoarse, “and what I want to do is the right thing to do?”

  “Who says it is right?”

  “Mendelssohn, for one.”

  “He is just one man.”

  “Sometimes acting morally has consequences. But it is still acting morally.”

  “That’s true. But in this case, most of the lane will not agree with you.”

  Meyer picked up the Talmud from the small table beside him, looked at its worn leather cover, set it down again. He pulled his watch from his pocket. “It’s late. I have to go to bed. Promise me you won’t do this.”

  “I can’t promise so much.”

  “So much? Am I asking so much — that you listen to your husband? What can you promise then, if not that much?”

  “I can promise to consider what you said. To consider the consequences.”

  “Fair enough.” He stood from his chair. “You’re the smartest woman I know. If you consider the consequences, you’ll come to the right decision.” He leaned over, kissed her forehead. “Now, if you’ll come to bed, we can put this disagreement behind us.”

  “You go. I have considering to do.”

  “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “It wouldn’t let me sleep. Of that I’m sure.”

  Meyer moved toward the top of the stairs. “You’ll turn down the lamp?”

  “I’ll turn down the lamp.”

  As Meyer descended, Guttle exhaled deeply, rested her head on the back of her chair, tried to breathe slowly, deliberately. To the empty room she said, “Now the battle begins.”

  Rebecca and Guttle were sitting in the Café after closing time. Brendel had shut the doors, was washing dishes in the kitchen, while her two friends drank tea and talked.

  “What Meyer says is true, Guttle. Everything he predicted is likely to happen. Are you sure you want that?”

  “Are you saying you won’t help me?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You know it’s the right thing for us to do.”

  “You’re putting me in a difficult position. I’m not alone anymore. This will reflect on my husband. He could even forbid it. How would that look, if I am involved?”

  “There’s no place large enough to to do it except your old house, with Melekh sleeping in the attic.”

  “What about the community room?”

  “They would never allow that. It’s part of the synagogue.”

  Rebecca sipped her tea, bit into a macaroon. Guttle was tense as she awaited a response. The shouts of children playing in the lane were distracting. There seemed to be a fight taking place.

  “I have an idea,” Rebecca said, sounding uncertain. “But first you need to think this through again. Bitterness could run in the lane like the sewage.”

  “Then you’ll help? We can use your house?”

  “You have to request the community room.”

  “Why? That will require a public meeting. Public approval.”

  “So? You might as well see what you’ll be up against.”

  “I don’t see . . .”

  Rebecca put her hand on Guttle’s. “This question is not about you, or me. It’s about the Chief Rabbi. Trust me.”

  Drying her hands on a towel, Brendel entered the Café from the kitchen. “So, what have you two conspirators decided? Are we going to assault the bastions?”

  Guttle sighed, closing her eyes wearily, trying to rub pain from her forehead. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Someone must.”

  44

  13 October

  Consider the consequences. Think this through. How could I not?

  Three women came to visit last night. Whether I was awake or asleep I cannot say.

  We met in the bakery, long after it had closed for the night. Joan of Arc was there — not my imaginary Jennie — and Madame Antoine, is now Queen Marie Antoinette — but not Melka, or Melekh; to my surprise, Mama was there instead. The fires in the stoves had been banked, with embers left glowing for the bakery women to stoke up easily in the dawn. Perhaps that is why Mama came; she no longer works there, but it is one of the few places where she still feels comfortable. The embers cast an orange glow over all of us as Mama pulled her gray robe tight around her, the hem of her white nightgown showing beneath, and sat on the stone bench where so many years ago I used to search for beetles. Madame Antoine made a throne for herself of one of the tables on which by day the flour and eggs and yeast are rolled into braided challah, which, oddly, her pale brown hair seemed got up to resemble, though no challah braids, I think, were ever studded with emeralds. For Joan of Arc no makeshift seat sufficed to contain her. Dressed in men’s clothing, covered shoulder to boot in heavy armor that glinted a fiery orange, she preferred to pace near the entry, as far from the stoves as possible — because of the heat, she said, though the glow of the embers may have been reason enough. I did not recognize her at first, and thought she might be an impostor. The Joan of Arc depicted by all the painters is tall and thin, blue-eyed, fair and pretty; in person or spirit she was none of these; she was short, stocky, brown-eyed and dark, as befit the French peasant girl she was.

  “But I had lovely breasts,” she said when I questioned these discrepancies. For a moment I feared she would strip off her clothing to prove this. She did no such thing, modest maid that she was, and it was not long before a certain magnetism emanating from her person dispersed my doubts. “Your artists fit glory into their own notions of beauty,” she said, with benign acceptance. “Lean and weak I could not have done what I did. It was essential that I was a woman, of course, which is why I speak of breasts; a man with my accomplishments would long since have been forgotten. If the artists need make me tall and fair, let them; I would have burned equally well.”

  I was startled by her easy manner about the flames; perhaps it was because, though dead, she lives on.

  “But my appearance is not why you summoned me here,” she continued. “You are torn about how to proceed in some conflicted matter. Spare me the Jewish details, which I surely would not understand. And those involving learning; I never learned to read — though this proves nothing, except that God chooses whom He will to do His work. My simple message is this: oppose the authorities and there will be consequences, there is never doubt of that. But if your inner voices tell you to fight, then you must fight. How else to remain in a state of grace, not only with your God but with yourself?”

  As I absorbed from her own lips the words she’d lived by, my blood stirred like the blood of a warrior. But Madame Antoine, smoothing the shadows of her stunning sk
irt, did not agree. “There is such a fine thing as compromise,” she said, examining the painted nails of her fingers. “I offer myself as a prime example. The people of France are suffering. Drought has caused a terrible shortage of bread. When I ride along the roads in my chariot I do what I can; I stop and give money to the women, to feed their children; I love children; to see them hungry tugs at my heart. But what of the jewels I wear? The diamonds on one necklace could feed an entire province for a year. No one knows that better than I. But they brought me from Vienna to Versailles to be a Queen; they expect me to act like one, to look like one. A poor symbol of France I would be without rubies, sapphires, emeralds, pearls, without ivory combs and lapis buttons, without trains of the finest silk, without the rarest feathers in my hair. I give the courtiers the Queen they demand — while quietly I give the poor at least some of the livres they need. In every conflict there is a place for compromise.” She glanced at Joan, who was listening while she paced, her armor crackling at times. “If nothing else,” the Queen said, “it is a way to avoid the fire.”

  I saw Joan wince. She started to speak, then changed her mind and turned away, her sword clanking against her metal thigh. As for myself, I felt confused.

  “Compromise? I cannot start half a school for girls. They will not burn me if I proceed. But people have been shunned for less. Why should I invite such trouble?”

  “Exactly, bubbelah.” It was Mama answering; I had not realized I had spoken that last thought aloud. “Why go looking for trouble? It will find you often enough without you looking for it.” How Mama allowed herself to speak in such company I didn’t know. Perhaps the loosening of her hold on life had loosened her fears, her deference, as well.

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Are you so sure of that?” Mama asked. “Why not listen to the wisdom of the Queen, and compromise? Teach a few girls in your home, as you do already with your own daughters. Don’t call it a school, and people will look the other way. That’s the first thing we learn in the lane — to look the other way. One day some man will start a school for girls, and then perhaps few will object.”