by Robert Mayer
Guttle clenched her hands into fists. She could not respond to every argument herself, each speaker was allowed but one turn. She needed her allies to speak. Rebecca had told her she would not participate, because her husband was the judge. Guttle turned, seeking Yussel Kahn in the audience. Instead, she felt her father rise beside her, watched as he walked to the podium. He had not told her he would do this.
“The honorable Jacob Marcus has quoted the Halakah correctly,” Wolf Schnapper began. Guttle realized he had dressed in his best black suit, the one he wore to special occasions at court. “But Marcus errs when he says it cannot be changed. It has been changed, has evolved, in the past. I shall limit myself to one example.
“Our honored forebears, whose lives are recited in the Torah, practiced polygamy. They were permitted to have many wives — as was also the case in non-Jewish tribes. Perhaps the best-known example is Jacob, son of Isaac, grandson of Avram. Jacob took four wives — four sisters, in fact — Leah, Rachel, Zilpah and Bilhah. No one argues that Jacob sinned. Certainly the Torah does not. Taking many wives was common practice among the Jews of the time. Yet I wonder why it was accepted.”
He paused, poured water from a pitcher into a glass, and drank. Smiling sheepishly, Guttle found herself filling with pride as her father defended her school. She had not felt so wonderfully close to him since the night of her betrothal, when he’d entrusted her to Meyer.
“Here is why I raise this question. We all know that in the beginning, Adonai created Adam and Eve. But wait a moment. That is one man and one wife. The Torah does not say God created Adam and Eve and Emmie. Or Adam and Eve and Guttle.”
“Thank God for His wisdom,” someone yelled.
Schnapper flushed. “Or Adam and Eve and Sophie,” he said, looking at Marcus, who turned away. “Just Adam and Eve. One man, one woman. The learned Herr Marcus has pointed out that omissions in the sacred writings are as important as things stated. Very well. Where are Adam’s other wives, if Yahweh intended men to have more than one? They have been omitted, because they did not exist. It is clear from this that He intended man to be monogamous.
“A second citation. The Torah says in Genesis, ‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife, and they shall be one flesh.’ The wording is singular. One wife. One flesh. Is that not a clear instruction for monogamy?
“But for thousands of years, the compilers of the Halakah, the Jewish law, did not make this interpretation. Why not? Because it would have gone against the common practice. It was not until eight hundred years ago that Rabbi Gershom ben Judah, just down the road in Mainz, issued his famous ruling that banned polygamy among Jews. Why did he do that? What had changed?”
No sound could be heard as Schnapper paused again for a sip of water.
“What had changed was that the civilizations around us gave up polygamy. Most Jews gave it up as well. But some continued to practice it — and the learned Rabbi from Mainz saw that this was being held against us by our neighbors. They viewed us as having a lower morality. So he changed the law. He ruled that taking more than one wife was a sin. My point here is that the law can evolve. As to whether girls should be educated — I leave that to future speakers.”
Light applause sprinkled through the room like rain. Most of the audience did not stir; they anticipated juicier arguments to come. Guttle squeezed her father’s hand as he sat, and pressed her forehead into his shoulder, in silent thanks. He had been so well-meaning — even if his example could be turned against her.
Rabbi Jonah called for the next speaker for the opposition. People looked toward Alexandre Licht, but he did not rise from his seat. Instead it was Hannah Schlicter who approached the lectern. Pleased to see a woman on their side, many of the men applauded even before she began.
“My neighbor, Wolf Schnapper, did not speak of the education of girls,” she said. “But that is why we are here. So I shall speak of it. I have had two tragedies in my life. I lost my husband to highwaymen. And I lost my first-born daughter to education. Yes, to education! Many of you know the story, it has been whispered about often enough. It is time for me to speak up publicly — to save some of you from suffering the same tragedy.
“My daughter, Dvorah, was a good girl. She had no fancy notions. When her best friend, Guttle Schnapper, taught herself to read German, Dvorah wanted to do the same; you know how jealous girls can be of one another. It was a struggle, but she managed, with Guttle’s help. I thought little of it at the time. Dvorah married our fine Doctor, Lev Berkov. They had wonderful twins. Then what happened? A Christian gentleman came into the lane one day and took a liking to my Dvorah. What man wouldn’t, with her lovely face and figure? He sent her a book — a German book, some kind of love story — and with this book the goy made love to her, from afar, and turned her head.”
Hannah passed her hands in front of her eyes, as if brushing away a cobweb from the past, a spider’s lair of indecency.
“It hurts me to speak of the rest — how my Dvorah, under a Christian spell, ran off with that man, leaving her husband and children behind. Dvorah’s life, and my life, and Lev Berkov’s life have been ruined, because Guttle Schnapper, now Guttle Rothschild — the same person who wants to start this school for girls — because she taught my daughter to read German! And what has Guttle Rothschild done since? She refuses to answer Dvorah’s letters — her best friend! — as if Dvorah, not she herself, is the sinner. If this school is approved, your daughters, like mine, will be the prey of Christian gentleman. The goys do not want good girls steeped in Jewish prayers, they want ‘educated’ girls they can flaunt before the world. If we let this school open, our daughters will be educated out of the lane, out of their families, out of our lives.”
Sympathy followed Hannah Schlicter to her seat, and murmurs of assent. Guttle felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. She could barely breathe. Such nonsense, she thought — wasn’t it? It was not the book that had seduced Dvorah, but the opportunity for wealth, the chance to flee the lane. Did Hannah not know her own daughter? Had she convinced herself that what she spoke was the truth? Guttle needed to answer, to defend herself, but she could not; she was not about to waste her allotted turn besmirching Dvorah, any more than her mother had already done. But to leave that fairy tale unanswered?
She felt the warmth in the room overcoming her, the smell of sweat, of stale breath, of wool, of camphor from clothing newly rescued from cedar chests against October’s chill.
Rabbi Jonah asked for the third time if there was a rebuttal speaker. He was about to call for the opposition to speak again when the crowd, especially the women, oohed with pleasure as Doctor Lev Berkov strode to the lectern, still lean and handsome despite the worry lines in his face, the streaks of gray in his hair and goatee. Quivering with curiosity, the women leaned forward, gossip creating more rapture than Godliness, even here.
“Despite my profession, I am not a public person,” the Doctor began. “It pains me to acknowledge in any way the statements you just heard from my former mother-in-law. It pains me even more to spell out the truth, which until now has been my personal preserve. But slander against the teaching of reading, in any language, is something no intelligent man can let stand. Revealing my own personal shortcomings is nothing before that.”
Guttle recalled Dvorah’s drooling over Paul von Brunwald. Watching Lev now, she admired his courage in speaking out.
“So,” the Doctor said. “I must make it clear that what came between my former wife and myself was not a book. No made-up story can destroy a marriage — except, perhaps, whispered lies. The guilty person in my divorce was not the German writer Goethe. Nor was it Dvorah. It certainly was not Guttle Rothschild. It was myself. I was guilty of ignoring my wife, in favor of my work at the hospital. Blaming it on reading, blaming it on Guttle Rothschild in order to oppose a school — that is either malice or ignorance. I should have made clearer to Dvorah, before we married, my dedication to the hospital, to the heal
th of each one of you, and your parents, and your children.”
“Hoorah for the good Doctor,” a woman yelled.
“Please,” Berkov said, “I did not come up here for your approval, merely to tell the facts. As long as I am here, however, I would like to point out where educating a woman can lead.”
“You tell them, Doctor,” Alexandre Licht shouted, sensing an unexpected ally.
Berkov peered into the audience, and pointed. “Will you please stand up?”
Rebecca had not wanted to be part of the argument; she saw no choice now but to stand.
“You all know this woman, Doctor Rebecca Simcha,” Berkov said. “Some of you in this room would be dead by now had not Rebecca, a long time ago, learned to read.”
Murmurs and nods. Berkov left the lectern, returned to his seat beside Rebecca.
The room grew warmer still from so many bodies. One of the lamps began to flicker, as if doused by perspiration, the illusion of flames dancing on the wall. Guttle’s nerves grew taut as harp strings as her turn to speak drew nearer. Rabbi Jonah had told her he would be the final speaker for the opposition; she would follow him. She smoothed her belly to calm the tense child inside.
A woman whom Guttle did not know said what Meyer had predicted days before. “What man will marry a woman who knows more about the world than he does? How will I marry off my four daughters? I’ll have a house full of old maids. Is that how to improve our lives? Better their wombs should be full of babies than their brains full of facts.” The loudest cheers of the evening surged through the hall, men and women alike joining in. Rabbi Jonah had to rap his gavel to restore silence.
Again Guttle fretted when, at first, no one responded. Then Brendel Isaacs strode forward, shapely in a plain gray dress, a subdued style for her. “The school will not be mandatory,” she said from the podium. “No girl will have to come. That woman’s daughters will not have to attend if she does not want them to.” The Café owner took a step away from the lectern, tucked a stray blonde ringlet under her wide-brimmed purple hat, then added, “No old maid will be forced to take dancing lessons from me.”
Men in the audience laughed; others raised eyebrows. Despite her fifteen years in the lane, Brendel’s wit still was overshadowed by her sensuality. She winked at Guttle as she left the podium.
Alexandre Licht spoke next. Guttle braced for a personal attack; the shoemaker had disliked her ever since their confrontation over Georgi Kremm. But Licht, gray hair showing beneath his familiar beret, took a different approach.
“Today, my youngest daughter told me she hates me,” he said.
She could feel the attention of the audience quicken.
“You all know me, I make good shoes and boots. This I do without knowing what a bunch of dead Greeks wore on their feet. I was able to provide a fine dowry for my older girl, Leah, when she married our fine Cantor, Viktor Marcus. Every day in the schul I thank Adonai for their happy marriage, for their two healthy children, and a third on the way. My wife Sonia, peace be upon her, must be qvelling up in heaven. I have had a good life. Until today. Today my youngest said she hates my kishkas, my guts.” The shoemaker paused, rubbed his eyes with his scarred hands, as if brushing away tears, plunged his hands into the pockets of his apron. “What did I do to deserve this? She begged me for the third time to let her attend this new school her friends are talking about. And for the third time, I did what I had to do, what Adonai tells me to do. I told her no. If there is such a school, her two best friends will be attending, she says. I told her I didn’t care, that Yahweh’s word is more important. So thanks to talk of this so-called school, my daughter hates me.” He paused, glanced around the room. “I can see by some of your nodding faces that I am not alone.”
Licht seemed about to say more, but turned and left the platform. Guttle swallowed with difficulty. Who could respond to that? Who could tell a father it is all right that his daughter doesn’t like him anymore?
She was right; no one stood to respond. She slumped, feeling miserable, abject. Then like a lovely bird a girl’s voice flew over the audience from among those standing in the rear. “No daughter will hate a father who truly loves her!”
Amazed, knowing the voice, Guttle swiveled to look. Schönche was standing beside Meyer. Had he told her what to say? Of course not! Till now a shy girl, Schönche at thirteen was blossoming quickly. Guttle felt her own courage renewing itself.
Turning back, she saw that the cobbler had not yet taken his seat, but was staring at the rear with hard, squinting eyes.
No one else signaled to speak. Rabbi Jonah, his long white beard touching the lectern, began, raising one hand toward the ceiling and the heavens beyond, his forefinger extended.
“You have heard powerful arguments against this school,” he began. “I shall give you the most important one.” His voice seemed to be shaking with anger; his raised finger began to tremble; he resembled drawings of prophets from the Bible. His voice rose to a roar. “Ideas such as this school could mean the end of the Jewish people!”
Guttle was nonplussed by the thunderous claim; it was absurd. She wondered if his trembling was a trick he had learned. But from many in the hall came mumblings of agreement.
“Our religion, which is primary to our nature, is distinct from that of all other nations,” Jonah intoned. “We Jews, as trained by Moses and the prophets, set for the world a moral and social example. Our system is unique. It has been tested by time. The ancient Greeks are gone, and the Romans, and the Assyrians, and and a host of other civilizations. But we Jews are still here. In a ghetto, yes, but still here.
“Our religion is one of humility. ‘Thou shalt walk humbly with thy God.’ That’s all that is required of us in this life. Walk humbly with Yahweh. We do this in our daily prayers, in our devotion to study of the Torah, the Talmud, the Mishna. We need not study philosophy, or science, or other current fashions. We need only lead moral lives, and walk with our God.
“This is not a question of girls versus boys, of women versus men. In our yeshiva, of which I am the proud head — in every yeshiva in the world — we teach and study only our religion. That is what has enabled us to survive. Now a movement is beginning, of which this proposed school is a part, to change that; to study what the goyim study, so we will be able to mingle with them. The truth is, at this time in our history we are lucky to be surrounded by high walls and iron gates. They don’t permit us to mingle, we can hardly give up our Jewishness. But once the walls come down — and some day, however long in the future, they must — if we mingle, we intermarry. And then the Jewish race, the Jewish nation, disappears. Secular study will supersede Jewish studies. And in the eyes of Adonai, our Jewish hearts will be dead.
“You may think I exaggerate. I know that the fine women who propose to run this school for girls — this secular school, which is the larger point — I know they do not intend such consequences. But throw a single pebble, and the entire pond ripples. Let us cling to Adonai, who supported us under the severest trials, who conducted us safely through numberless perils, who smoothed our passage through the most tempestuous paths, and let us be impressed with the radiant message, that the beauties of nature shall fade, that science will bring catastrophe, that the whole visible world will sink into endless night — but that Israel shall survive, and be ‘saved an everlasting salvation.’ That we have been promised. That we must accept as sufficient. We must reject this school as we would reject tossing a match into a river of oil. All we need in our lives, men and women both, is the eternal flame of Yahweh’s grace.”
The Rabbi stopped, drank water, was done. The lecture hall filled with applause, men and women stood at their seats. “Thank God for Rabbi Jonah!” someone yelled. Guttle’s chin sunk. She shook her head, battled the need for tears. How could she follow that?
Her father nudged her shoulder. “It’s your turn,” he whispered.
“I can’t. He’s right.”
“Do you really believe that?”
/> “They do. Listen to them.”
“They had their moment. Now it’s your moment.”
“What I had planned to say — it will sound petty after that.”
“Then say something else. Open up your heart. The words will come.”
“Guttle Rothschild?” Rabbi Jonah was calling her name for the second time. “Do you want to speak, or not?”
“Yes.” Her voice was hoarse, the word came out as a croak. She cleared her throat so hard it hurt. “Yes!” Her knees felt soft as fresh challah as she climbed the two steps to the podium.
Challah! A new idea lit her face. She would choke them on challah!
She poured herself water with a shaky hand while the crowd quieted. Her thoughts were born as if independent of herself. She would pick them out one by one, like beetles.
“Give her a coffin to stand on, that’s what she likes!” a woman’s voice cried out
“The coffin of the Jewish people,” a man yelled.
Their words stung like lashes across her face. Looking out at the audience, she saw a pack of snarling dogs, like those in the rubble beyond the walls, teeth ready to devour a mother hare. She wanted to step down, go home. Who was she to oppose their will? Who was any woman?
The thought stiffened her. But she must not harangue them. She must be reasonable.
“I agree with Rabbi Jonah to a large extent,” she began quietly, “just as most of you do. I agree that the essence of our being as Jews is our Jewishness. Our devotion to Adonai as the only God. Our moral qualities as expressed in our deeds, and in our prayers, and in our following of Jewish law as set forth in the Torah and the Halakah. Why then, do I stand before you now to advocate a secular school for girls?
“When I was young I worked in the bakery. I picked the beetles out of the flour, before my mother and the other women baked our bread and challah. It was a necessary job. But it did not occupy my mind very much. I hope you will concede that Yahweh did give us women minds.” She paused to let nervous laughter pass among a few in the crowd. “What did I think about as I picked out the beetles so we would all eat pure challah on Friday nights? Not of the pain in my knees from kneeling on the stone floor, or the strain in my eyes from wanting to spot every insect. I am fortunate to have a wonderful father, who goes out into the world most days as the Court Jew in Sachsen-Meiningen. I would point out, in passing, that his business with the outside world has not corrupted his faith. Nor has it corrupted the faith of my husband, Meyer Rothschild. My Papa used to bring home German newspapers. He taught me to read German from them. This opened to me the world of books, in addition to our fine religious teachings. It enabled me, while cleaning the flour for your challah, to think of worlds beyond our walls — to escape into them, just as you men escape in schul into the ancient world of the Israelites.