The Blood of Lorraine (28 page)

“He only had one servant, Rachel. She managed the household and was devoted to him. He was always absolutely honest in all his business dealings. And generous, charitable. As for someone at the Temple…” She stopped short and lifted one dark, well-shaped eyebrow, as if to signal her dismay at Martin’s impertinence. Then she shook her head. “No Jew would kill another Jew.”

“Of course,” Martin murmured. This is the same objection he had heard from other, very disparate, quarters—the dwarf and the rabbi. He took another tack.

“I’ve read that there was an incident on the Place Saint-Jean—where your uncle lived—a poor Christian, a woman, begging for bread last winter and turned away—”

“It could not have been my uncle.” She sat straight up, offended. “He was too kind to turn away anyone, Christian or Jew. You must be thinking of someone else.”

At least she had not asked him the source of the accusation. He did not want to tell her about Hémonet. Martin took a small pad and pen out of his pocket. He made a note to confirm that the police had gone door-to-door in the square where Erlanger had lived.

“We know why my uncle was killed,” she said, when he was done writing. Her posture remained on alert, ready to defend the old notary.

“Why is that?” Martin asked quietly, eager to hear what she had to say.

“Because they hate us. That’s what my husband says. There is no reason. They just hate us because of who we are. Especially now with this scandal about a Jewish officer committing treason. My husband won’t even let me read the newspapers. He says I would find them too upsetting. He also told me that you should be looking for the killer among the anti-Israelites, among those who hate us.”

She paused. Her words, which afforded no easy answers, echoed her husband’s. But Martin heard in her voice a bitter resignation that was all her own. It was the voice of a woman who had lost a member of her family. The voice, Martin realized with a jolt, of a mother of three small children who might someday be taunted and despised just for “who they were.”

He fumbled with his pockets, putting back the pen and notebook. The wood in the fireplace crackled and sputtered, punctuating the awkward silence that filled the space between them. How could he possibly tell her how widely he would have to cast his net if he were to entangle and interrogate all of “the haters”?

Fortunately, he did not have to, for Noémie Singer was not a woman accustomed to expressing her anger so openly, particularly to a man she hardly knew.

“I’m sorry,” Noémie Singer whispered as she examined her hands in her lap. “It’s just that I loved my uncle. He was so good to me.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I know. Sometimes David tells me about his work. What he has to do.” She forced a smile as she looked up at Martin. “It’s what men do, I suppose.”

If not all men, Martin thought as he bowed his head, certainly judges like himself who consider it their right to manipulate, bully, and lie for the sake of justice.

Suddenly Mme Singer got up and started for the door. “I should call Béatrice. I didn’t even ask if you wanted tea or coffee.”

“Please, Madame Singer,” Martin was also on his feet. “Don’t bother. I won’t stay long.” He had not expected such fervent resistance from this coddled and protected woman. He could not imagine how he was going to get her to talk about the tinker. When she turned back to him, he stammered, “I’m sorry, I really am.”

That’s when a rosy blush of recognition and compassion flooded her face. “Yes, and I am sorry too,” she said in a hush. “Do forgive me. How could I have forgotten? You have suffered a far greater loss than any of us.”

The blow was unexpected. Martin sank back into the sofa. Tiny, dead Henri-Joseph. Noémie Singer had known what was going to happen before he did. Soon she was on the sofa, beside him, so close that he could feel the heat emanating from her small, compact body. He dared not look at her as she tried to comfort him. Her beauty, her sympathy thrust him into a whirlwind of contradictory and violent emotions, sadness vying with the appalling apprehension that he could be attracted to another woman.

He watched with lowered eyes, as her fingers came within a few chaste centimeters of his flattened hand. He pulled it away as if saving it from a burning fire.

“How terrible it must be for you,” she said, in a low and soothing voice. “I can’t imagine. I love my children so much. And—” she paused as she withdrew and settled back into the other side of the sofa, “I know you are a good man. That’s what David—my husband—has told me many times. You are not one of those who hates us just because of who we are. I know that, Monsieur Martin, I do.”

With each of her words the dull ache in his chest spread and pressed upon him, as he understood not only how lonely he was, but perhaps also how angry. Shame reddened his face at the very thought that he could want the alluring Mme Singer to keep reassuring him. He
did
prefer Clarie above all others. Because Clarie was a rational woman. Because she believed in the same things he did…or used to. Without realizing it, he had pushed himself further into his side of the sofa. He had to banish any doubt that Clarie might not become again what she once had been. His true companion in life. The one he must cherish forever because they had conceived and lost a son together.

Martin clenched a hidden fist. The worst was yet to come. Noémie Singer had given him an opening. He was about to use the death of his own child to try to find out what he needed to know.

He forced himself to meet the gaze of Noémie Singer’s large hazel eyes, which were glistening with tears of sympathy. “Madame Singer,” he implored, “thank you for your kindness. I don’t mean to impose, but I need your help.”

“Of course.” She drew a handkerchief from the pocket of her silk jacket and wiped away a tear.

“Not the usual help,” he said in a humble voice, his determination shot through with pangs of guilt as he exploited her sympathy. His mind was racing, trying to calculate how best to get at any animosities that might exist in the Israelite “community,” between rich and poor, between men and women. Acrimonies that might fester into murderous impulses. He began again, “I need help in understanding about your religion.”

Her mouth fell open slightly, parting her full red lips. She seemed puzzled, and a little shocked. Undoubtedly she had expected him to speak about his loss, his own life.

“Please, let me explain.” Martin leaned toward her, his tense, rigid fingers boring into his thighs. “I have found that women sometimes understand these things better than men. That they are more devoted, are closer to the traditions and the meanings of their faith.”

She had begun to shake her head ever so slightly. “Not in our tradition,” she said. “The men know the meaning. They study it.”

“Then it is different,” he agreed eagerly, sensing that if he could say something, anything about himself, he might still have her on his side. “In my tradition, many men, and I will admit I am one of them, reject the Church they were raised in, because they disagree with some of its doctrines and practices. We feel we must do this if we are devoted to the Republic. We baptize our children in church, marry, and get buried there, but we no longer call or think of ourselves as Catholics. We have given it up.”

She kept staring at him, waiting. He could feel nervous sweat sprouting under his beard and mustache. He could not imagine, at this point in time, having a similar conversation with his Clarie, whose return to the Church seemed to be leading her away from him. He cringed at the thought that Noémie Singer would report his intrusion into their intimate life to her husband. Still he had to forge ahead.

“For David, for Monsieur Singer, it seems to be different. And for your uncle, too, who worked with the Consistory. I know David is as thoroughly devoted to the Republic as I am, yet his faith seems very important, being an Israelite seems—”

“You really do not understand.”

“I know.” It was his turn to wait. And hope.

Martin watched as she bowed her head and bit down on her lip. Finally she nodded to herself and began. “You don’t have to go to your church every Sunday to exist as a French Christian. What you believe, what your history is, is everywhere. It is the sea that we all swim in, Catholic or not. You can reject it, because your rejection will not make you responsible for making those beliefs disappear. Your traditions will survive, with or without you. We don’t have that luxury. We must struggle to keep ours alive. We are French, yes. All the men I know are devoted to the Republic. It emancipated us after all. Yet we are also Jews. Why can’t some people accept the fact that we can be Jews and French at the same time?” Red patches of emotion spread on each cheek as she talked. When she was finished, she fell back into the corner of the sofa as if exhausted.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, abashed at the reminder that even he had begun to question the first loyalties of Noémie Singer’s husband. Yet when he glanced at her, it was she who seemed embarrassed. It took him a moment to remember where he had seen that look before—when Singer had chastised her for talking to the poor tinker. Perhaps she was a woman afraid that men like Martin would not take her beliefs or her ideas seriously. If so, she might be encouraged to say more, if Martin assured her that he did. This should not be hard, he thought ruefully; she had already proved herself to be an intelligent and articulate woman.

“Madame Singer, you are being very kind. And very helpful. May I ask more?” He was still leaning in her direction, wanting to show how interested he was in what she had to say.

She lowered her eyes and nodded. He sensed her reluctance and, despite the display of modesty, her pride.

“Are you saying that there are no non-believers among the Israelites, that they do not disagree about matters of religion?”
That your husband is not at odds with someone like the tinker.

“We have our disbelievers, but they cannot stop being Israelites even if they wanted to. Who would allow them to forget? Especially now.” She looked down and began to twist her handkerchief. She did not have to state what they both knew,
especially because of Dreyfus.

“And the believers? Do they have disagreements?” Martin pressed.

“Of course. Just like you. Among the men. But it’s not about killing each other,” she hastened to add. “It’s part of our tradition. There are books of debates that go back centuries.” She shook her head, smiling at the foolishness of it all. “The men study these books and carry on the debates even today.”

“And the women?” If Singer was right about the tinker’s influence, how had he gotten to her?

“We go to Temple, of course, but mostly we take care of the traditions in the home: serving dinner, lighting candles on the sabbath, teaching our children. We carry our religion in our hearts.”

“And this never causes conflicts between husbands and their wives?”

Noémie Singer stiffened. “There should be no reason for conflict; each has their role, their place.”

“And yet—”

She sprang up and walked to the fireplace, her taffeta skirts crackling defiantly. She stood there for a moment with her back to him. Then she swirled around. “Is that why you came here, because you saw me and David argue?” She was very angry, as she had every right to be.

“In part,” he admitted.

“It’s important to your investigation?” Her chin was tilted upward, challenging him. Whatever glimmers of coquettishness and sympathy had shone through her eyes had dimmed into a dark storm of anger and hurt.

Martin stood up. “It may be. I know that men and women often disagree on religious matters; it’s true in my experience,” he said, once again bartering a piece of his own intimate troubles. “Please, believe me, I don’t want to intrude on the kinds of things that should be kept within families. I just want to understand the ways in which the tinker is different from the men in the Temple.” As soon as he said that, he felt foolish. Why had he beat around the bush? Why had he decided that he could not talk to this intelligent, astute woman as he would have to a man? He bowed his head, waiting for her judgment.

She began to pace, twisting her handkerchief between her two hands. “I don’t understand what Jacob could possibly have to do with any of this.”

“Jacob the Wanderer?”

She stopped and eyed Martin. “How did you know?”

“I have talked to some of his friends, immigrants like him. But that’s all I know. This strange nickname.”

“Not so strange, really.” She began pacing again, considering what to do. Martin could imagine her turmoil, her shock at having been led into a place of conflict between her and her husband vying with her womanly impulse to be accommodating. He dare not move a muscle as he waited.

Finally she stepped in front of him, about a meter away. “He is a holy man. He has led a tragic life. He came here when he was a little boy, traveling with his father who was a trader and a teacher, a rabbi. When his father was thrown from a horse and died, a poor, childless young widow took Jacob in and raised him in a village not far from here. She took care of him until he was old enough to find his way home. That’s when he began to wander, over borders and rivers, avoiding soldiers and anti-Semites, asking all the time in our villages, Jewish villages, where his home might be. Finally he found it, in Russia, in Podolia. Isn’t that a beautiful name, Podolia?”

Martin nodded, not wanting to break the spell of her storytelling.

“Well, Monsieur Martin, it is not a beautiful place for our people. For one night, when he was away, trading, the others, the Christians, raided the town, setting fire to the houses. Jacob had married and had children. When he came back, all of them were dead. Everything he owned was a charred ruin.”

Martin nodded again. He knew about the pogroms in the east, which may well have been the reason why old Abraham had fled his homeland. He watched as Mme Singer moved away from him. Surely she could not believe that Frenchmen were capable of such. “Why did he come back here?” he asked.

She shrugged and murmured into the fire. “To find his mother, the widow.”