The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  I could feel Joan seething. With anger she thrust her sword hard into a flour sack. The brown flour running out suggested, in the orange darkness, blood from a belly. “Then it will be charity,” she said, and spat. “A woman must do it, to show other women the way. There’s more than milk in a woman’s breasts, there’s courage. You need to find it.”

  “And burn in the fire?” the Queen asked.

  “There are compensations. They have shown me the future. I shall be called Saint Joan. The church that condemned me shall canonize me.”

  “We Jews don’t have saints,” I mused, and smiled at the notion of Saint Guttle. Hardly.

  “Surely you have the wise, the valiant, the heroic,” Joan said.

  “Mostly we honor tzadiks.”

  “What are they?”

  “Very righteous men.”

  “And the name for very righteous women?”

  I had to think a bit. “We don’t have such a word.”

  “Maybe no word,” Mama put in,“but there are many honored women in the Torah. Sarai, Rachel . . .”

  “Did they oppose the will of men?” Joan asked.

  “They bore righteous sons!”

  Joan of Arc, Marie Antoinette, said nothing,

  Mama turned to me with a pleading look. “Guttle, darling, you, too, have borne sons. No doubt you will bear more. You have suckled them at your breasts. Will you be instructed about a woman’s proper function, a breast’s proper use, by a virgin? By a Queen who surely employs wet nurses? You have a righteous man; he will raise your sons righteously. Why must you want more?”

  After the disarray of Mama’s mind in recent months, I felt an unaccountable fear at her lucidity. Declining rapidly, she has been regressing into Biblical yesterdays; this morning she called the River Main the Red Sea. The scientific name for this condition is dementia, Rebecca says. But Mama does have her lucid hours. For these midnight arguments, to what distant fount of wisdom had she traveled?

  For one final moment before they disappeared, the Queen spoke. “I must tell you this. I never said it. About eating cake. Never. That’s a canard invented by those who want my head. If your enemies will speak ill of you no matter what you do, why not do as you like?”

  I had no response. I lay awake most of the night, long after they all had vanished, writhing in search of an answer.

  14 October

  It was Melekh after all who led me to decide. I recalled the day we found him there in his lead coffin in the attic of the River View — me and Izzy, Yussel and Rebecca. It struck me like a revelation — two men and two women! Given the most sacred secret of the lane! Surely this would not have been so if women were to remain inferior in knowledge, and in Yahweh’s eyes. He had prepared this lesson for me so long ago — right there in Rebecca’s house! — but only now did I interpret the meaning. Unless some deeper part of me understood it, has been responding to it, has been leading me to this, all along.

  What was Brendel’s phrase? We will assault the bastions.

  Yes!

  Having finished work in his counting house, reckoning their net worth, Meyer summoned Guttle to tell her the final tally privately. He spoke without preamble, calmly, but in a voice tinged with excitement. “We have one hundred and fifty thousand gulden.”

  “Meyer, that’s wonderful! We must be the richest people in the lane!”

  “Oh, far from that. The south end banker, Emil Hecksher, has more than four hundred thousand, I would guess.”

  “That much?”

  “Still, it’s a good accumulation. We’ve surpassed your father, I think. I would estimate we’re among the ten wealthiest families in the Judengasse. But the amount is our secret. You can’t tell anyone.”

  “Not even Papa?”

  “Not even him. Something three people know is no more a secret.”

  She placed her hands on the back of his neck to rub away the knots she could feel. “Whatever you say, Herr Genius.”

  He wriggled his shoulders gratefully. “It doesn’t take genius. Just concentration.”

  “But what about that?” She was peering over his shoulder at a ledger that lay open on the slanting table. “The ledger says sixty thousand.”

  “That’s for the tax assessors. About the rest they don’t have to know.”

  “You’ve done that before?”

  “There wasn’t so much cash before.” He looked at her. “Does that bother you?”

  “The way they treat us, they don’t deserve a kreuzer.”

  “My feeling exactly.”

  A rapping on the door, by small knuckles, interrupted them. Guttle opened it and found Nathan there, in trousers she had made for him after the fashion of the sailors on the docks, and scuffed shoes, and a hand-me-down shirt from Salomon, and an oversized yarmulke — the eager boy unable to be still, standing first on one foot, then hopping to the other. “There’s a messenger here for Papa. From the Crown Prince!”

  He said the last words with awe and admiration. Puzzled, Meyer raised an eyebrow as he eased his way past Guttle into the vestibule. At the arched doorway he accepted a small brown envelope from the courier, checked that the wax seal was unbroken, and from his pocket withdrew a coin and gave it to the man for his trouble. Peering at the seal as Guttle joined him in the bright vestibule, Meyer said, “It’s not from Wilhelm, it’s from the treasury office. That means Buderus.” He broke the seal, and with mounting anticipation — for he suddenly had an inkling of what it might contain — he pulled out a single piece of note paper. He scanned it quickly, then read it to her.

  “Wilhelm’s father, the Landgrave Friedrich, is dead. The funeral is Wednesday. Wilhelm will be crowned on Thursday. You might want to be there. Buderus.”

  Both remained silent as they absorbed the news. Meyer was not completely surprised, he had heard rumors of an illness.

  “That means in Hesse-Kassel,” Guttle said. “That’s a long way.”

  “One hundred and fifty kilometres. A two-day trip each way. I should leave tomorrow to be in time for the funeral. After the coronation, I would have to stay over, so as not to ride on Shabbas. That’s all right, I can make good contacts there. I would be back in a week.”

  “You’ve never stayed away overnight before. Not even once. The children will be upset.”

  “I’ll talk to them. Guttle, do you realize what this means? As Crown Prince, Wilhelm has a fortune. As Landgrave, he’ll inherit twenty times as much. Beyond counting, almost. When I get his investments — and I will — I’ll have something real to work with. Then maybe you’ll see a genius.”

  “But you haven’t had his investments for ten years. Not since you discounted the British bills for his soldiers. He’s acted as if you lost his money, instead of doubling it.”

  “I know. I don’t know why. Neither does Buderus. But Buderus is still there. Look what he wrote, ‘You might want to be there.’ It’s easy enough to finish the sentence. ‘ … if you know what’s good for you.’ To Buderus, I still have opportunity.”

  “I don’t want you to go. It’s too dangerous. Besides, you’re clinging to an old hope. Wilhelm clearly isn’t interested.”

  “Then I have to make him interested. All my life Yahweh has told me to work hard and take risks and get rich. I can’t tell you why, there’s no place to spend in the lane. Still . . .”

  She had never forgotten Amelia’s view of Meyer years ago: that the money he accumulates represents his lost mother’s love. She dared not say that to him. Instead she asked, “Yahweh speaks with you?” He had never said such a thing before.

  “Not with a voice, like your Jennie Aron.”

  “You’ve heard me speak to her as well?”

  “Only in the night. She heard heavenly voices, and look what happened to her. Some God that was. I don’t hear Adonai’s voice, it’s just a feeling I have. Ever since my parents died. To collect coins, to make money. It seems important — for what purpose, I’m not sure.”

  “But it’s been ten yea
rs!”

  “Buderus says it will be worth my while. Maybe Yahweh speaks to Buderus.”

  “He’s Jewish?”

  “No. But Adonai may be open-minded.”

  “I’ve never met this Buderus. Does he even exist?”

  “He just sent a messenger with this note, no? I have to go. I can’t disobey my feelings.”

  “What about my feelings? Seven days? It frightens me. There are highwaymen. I don’t want to be left a widow.”

  “And my feelings about you starting a school? That frightens me. You have to follow your heart, you told me. You’d better make your heart strong for the meeting tonight, I doubt it will be pleasant. But I have to follow my feelings as well. I have to go to Kassel.” Meyer took her arms in his hands. “I’ll be safe. Adonai will look after me.”

  “Everyone thinks that.” She turned away from him. “Go then, if you must. I will miss you.”

  “And I, you.” He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, lightly kissed the back of her neck, imbibed his favorite scent.

  “You’d better hurry.”

  “I have till tomorrow.”

  “To Ziggy’s. To hire a horse and carriage, before he has none left.”

  “I was thinking the regular coach.”

  “They might be full. You won’t be the only one going.”

  Meyer kissed her cheek, and said, “Where would I be without you?” Still in his shirt sleeves, he hurried out the door.

  Hersch Liebmann was riding the twenty kilometres from Riesenburg Castle into Kassel for two reasons. He wanted to hear if there was any news, and he wanted to build the stamina of his new filly, a dappled gray no more than three years old, with a sleek but promising build. In his fifteen years in the wilds he had become a good judge of horseflesh; even Ziggy Zigmund would have found no fault with this one. Because he had to call her something, Hersch had named her Yetta, after his mother. He let the filly walk easily, galloped her, walked her more, interrupting that with an occasional sprint. He liked a horse that could change speeds quickly; back on the castle grounds he would work on her change of directions. As horse and rider reached the outskirts of Kassel, Hersch pulled lightly on the reins. The sound was unmistakable now. Church bells. He thought he’d been hearing them for the last kilometre; now he was certain. They were not tolling the hour, something had happened. He could guess what it was. He touched Yetta’s flanks and the horse moved forward. Around a bend a farmer on an empty wagon that smelled like hay was approaching.

  “What are the bells for?” Hersch called out as they came together.

  “The Landgrave is gone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I hope so, for his sake. They’re gonna bury him Wednesday.”

  Hersch grinned at the tired joke, touched his cap and moved on, leading Yetta deeper into the city. He wanted to make sure. He was peering at the Landgrave’s palace about four streets away when he had to pull up sharply to avoid running down a town crier. The fellow was walking in the road holding a sign on a pole. “Landgrave Friedrich Is Dead — Funeral Wednesday Noon,” the sign said, black letters on a white background. As the man walked he cried out the news for the masses who could not read. When Hersch had passed the man and looked back, he could read the other side. In red letters against gold, it proclaimed, “Long Live Landgrave Wilhelm — Coronation Thursday Noon.”

  Farther along the street he saw criers walking in every direction, dressed like the first in the Landgrave’s colors, red and gold, carrying similar signs as they moved through the town. The streets were becoming crowded, people streaming toward the palace. Hersch turned the filly and threaded back against the incoming tide. He knew all he needed.

  He found Klaus Fettmilch sitting by a dead fire, polishing his already gleaming sword. The former Kapitäin stood and waved the sword about, causing Yetta to back off skittishly.

  “Where’s Leni?”

  “Probably in the castle keep. She doesn’t seem to like my company.”

  “Who can blame her?” Hersch swung off the filly’s back, tied the reins to a tree. “But never mind that. Friedrich is dead. Soon the roads will be crawling with easy marks.”

  “Is the deal still good? I get three-fourths of the take?”

  “If you do what I said.”

  “I know, I know. Tell this Jew Rothberg what happened. But how come you’re so sure he’ll show?”

  “Rothschild. I told you. He was kissing Wilhelm’s ass way back then. He’s not going to miss the coronation.”

  “And I have to tell him what I did, why?”

  “Do you ever pay attention? He’s the one who accused me of murder, got me thrown out of the Judengasse. I want him to hear the truth, from your own mouth.”

  “And after I tell him, you expect me to let him live? Let him spread the story about? I’d sooner slice open his bowels.”

  “After you tell him, I don’t care what you do.”

  Fettmilch raised his sword above his head. Holding it with both hands, he plunged it viciously into the ground, as if his worst enemy were lying there.

  “A clean kill,” Hersch said, “so long as the fellow was asleep.” He patted the flank of the filly, who was grazing calmly, and he said to Klaus, ”I’m going to find Leni.”

  As Hersch walked off towards the ruined castle, Klaus called out, “I’ll give you some advice. Don’t believe a word the whore says!”

  45

  —Did you hear? Levi and Cohen are not speaking.

  —If they’re not speaking, how could I hear? What are they not speaking about?

  —That school for girls, of course.

  —How can you tell?

  — That’s what everyone’s not talking about.

  —Everyone’s not talking?

  —Steinbaum’s not talking to Greenbaum. Rosenbaum’s not talking to Cedarbaum. Frau Schwartz is not talking to Herr Schwartz. Julia Licht isn’t talking to her father.

  —Come to think of it, the lane sounds pretty quiet.

  —Except for the ones who are arguing. Kahn is arguing with Schultz. Mincus is arguing with Steinbaum.

  —… who isn’t talking to Rosenbaum.

  —No, to Rosenbaum he’s talking. To Berger he isn’t talking.

  —Berger’s also not talking? What’s the big deal, they want a school? So what?

  —That’s what you think, so what? Are you meshuganah? Feh, maybe I’m not talking to you!

  —Is that so! How will I know you’re not talking to me?

  —I’ll tell you.

  —Listen, find someone else not to talk to. I’m busy.

  The yeshiva auditorium had not been this crowded since the debate between Moses Mendelssohn and Rabbi Eleazar nearly ten years earlier. The extra chairs normally stacked high against the walls had been set out behind the permanent ones. Hundreds of men and a few dozen women filled the seats; most of the women of the lane had stayed at home with their children, and would abide by whatever rules the men decided upon, as was the custom.

  The Chief Rabbi, who at the end of the evening would rule on the question, sat alone at a small table; Rabbi Joshua would preside over the meeting. Guttle, as the chief proponent of the school for girls, sat in the front row, to the right, in a dark blue dress. To her surprise, her father had taken a seat beside her. Meyer Amschel, busy preparing for his journey to Hesse-Kassel, had arrived late, and stood with scores of others at the rear.

  The leader of the opposition, the moneylender Jacob Marcus, wearing a black suit and a brown yarmulke, sat in the front row to the left. The shoemaker Alexandre Licht, still in his leather apron, sat beside him. The two had become unlikely family when their children married.

  Banging a gavel several times to silence the chatter that filled the hall, Rabbi Joshua stated the resolution that had been the talk of the lane for days: “That a secular school for girls should be permitted to function in the community room.” He explained the rules: that speakers on each side would alternate; that the opposed
faction would speak first, since they had demanded the meeting; that each argument should be presented only once, because the Chief Rabbi would decide the case on the merits, not on the number of supporters pro and con; repetition would be ruled out of order, lest the meeting last till dawn.

  With that, he called on the first speaker for the opposition. Jacob Marcus ascended to the lectern. Guttle, breathing deeply to calm herself, wondered why she and the Marcus family seemed fated always to be enemies. She felt her father squeeze her hand.

  “Put them in their place, Jacob!” a man’s voice shouted from the rear.

  Marcus nodded, raised a hand for silence. He stroked his gray beard several times, in a manner that reminded some of the late Chief Rabbi Eleazar. Perhaps that was his intent.

  “I shall be brief,” he began. “The law, the Halakah, is on our side. There can be no overruling it. According to the Halakah, Adonai enjoined, and I quote, ‘fathers to teach their sons.’ It mentions nothing of their daughters, or their wives. Just ‘fathers to teach their sons.’ Scholars of the Torah, the Talmud, the Mishna, have noted for five millennia that the sacred writings are concise, that they do not waste a word — that omissions are as significant as inclusions. The omission of the words ‘and daughters’ is a clear statement that they were specifically excluded; it is no different than if the Halakah said, in so many words, ‘they shall not teach their daughters.’ For this reason, I ask the Chief Rabbi to declare this meeting over, and rule according to the law.”

  The crowd murmured with approval as Marcus looked at Rabbi Simcha. The Chief Rabbi waved his hand in a circle in the air, indicating that the meeting should continue. When Rabbi Jonah tried to approach the lectern, Marcus remained where he was. “I don’t know what a wave of the hand means,” he said. “Could the Chief Rabbi speak?”

  “We are here to listen to arguments, not to silence them,” Simcha said from his table, impatience in his voice. “If this speaker has finished, let us proceed to the rebuttal.”