The Origin of Sorrow (23 page)

“But?”

“But you wouldn’t have gotten a kreuzer more than fifteen hundred.”

Tightening his lips against a smile, letting it burst forth in a broad grin that showed his teeth, Meyer stuck out his hand. He realized they had shaken hands already, and instead threw his arms around Wolf’s shoulders. The two men hugged, their chests pressed firmly together, both of them squeezing tight.

“I’ll take good care of her,” Meyer said.

“Cake!” Benjy said, as at the sound of footsteps the three little ones came running from their room.

“Cake!” little Rifka echoed.

“Let’s have cake!” Amelia, the seven-year-old, implored.

“In a moment, in a moment,” their father said, holding up his hand. “Sit again around the table. Meyer Amschel and I have some announcements first.”

The dinner plates had been cleared and washed. At each place was a flowered china cup and dessert plate — the best the Schnappers owned —and a napkin and a fork. In the center of the table was the coveted raspberry cake; in the icing on one side was a small furrow made by the finger of one of the little ones. With a scraping of chairs, the children, and Avra, Guttle and Emmie, settled into their seats. Guttle, feeling the flutter of a newborn bird in her chest, looked at Meyer standing beside her father. He seemed to be trying to control the hint of a smile. She could barely breathe from breathing too fast.

“The first announcement, you little ones won’t understand. Take Papa’s word, it’s a good thing. Our Meyer Amschel has been granted the title of court agent by Crown Prince Wilhelm.”

Our Meyer!
Guttle’s heart jumped.

“Hurrah for Meyer!” Benjy shouted. “Cake!”

“Meyer! You didn’t tell me! That’s wonderful,” Guttle said, jumping up from her chair. She meant to hug him, but her father motioned her back to her seat.

“Now the second announcement.”

Her heart was if possible beating faster than before.

“Hersch Liebmann has quit Meyer’s employ. So Guttle, if she is willing, will take his place, after the holidays.”

Her eyes were wide as she stared at them, first at her father, then at Meyer. That’s all? her brain was shrieking. Nothing more?

“Now cake?” Benjy asked.

“Oh, yes. There is one other thing. Meyer and I have had a good discussion while walking by the river.”

Guttle felt confused by the announcements. “By the river? How could you walk by the river?”

Rage at what had not been announced was pounding in her head. Even though she should not have expected it, not tonight. Impatience, she thought, would be her death one day.

Meyer rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, to indicate the bribe.

“Forget the river, the river is not important,” her father said. “What’s important is what we discussed. I have a feeling you might be interested.” He winked at her, something he used to do when giving her a special treat when she was little. Guttle settled herself in her seat, clasped her hands on the table, looked down at them, trembling.

“What we discussed is one of the most important decisions of our lives. Because it involves taking a new member into our family. Tonight, I offered the hand of our lovely Guttle in marriage. To Meyer Amschel Rothschild.”

His wife inhaled sharply. Avra gripped the table with both hands. Amelia clapped twice, then stopped. Guttle clasped her hands tighter and continued to look at them. Her head didn’t swerve. She held her breath, felt her face flushing.

“Cake!” Rifka said.

“In a moment,” Wolf replied. “When I asked Meyer Amschel if he would take Guttle as his bride, it was possible that he would say no. I am happy to report that he said yes. So, as of this moment, Guttle and Meyer are betrothed.”

Guttle jumped up from her seat, and then Avra. Frau Schnapper rose slowly. Guttle rushed to Meyer and hugged him, pressed her face into his chest. Meyer kissed the top of her head. She let go of him and hugged her father and kissed his cheek. She hugged her mother, then came back to her father. “Thank you, Papa, thank you!”

“Not that it matters,” he asked, “but is that all right with you?”

She hugged him again. “Not that it matters, Papa, but yes, it’s all right with me.”

Avra explained to the little ones what was happening. They all clapped this time. Wolf went to a cabinet and returned with a special bottle of schnapps he had purchased for the occasion. Emmie produced four small crystal glasses. Wolf poured the schnapps and offered a toast. “To Guttle and Meyer. May they be blessed by Elohim, and find happiness with one another. And may they have have many sons.”

The four adults touched their glasses and drank. Guttle hugged her father again, and her mother, and Meyer. Everyone was smiling.

“When will the wedding be?” Avra asked.

“The Talmud prefers a marriage under the sky, if possible. The one month it never rains is August. So they shall be married then.”

“August?” Guttle echoed. “That’s almost a year away.”

“You’ll still be sixteen, Guttela. But an older sixteen.”

“Some girls are married at twelve!”

“So I keep hearing from Avra. In our family, that won’t be the case.”

Guttle turned to Meyer. “What do you think?”

He drank the rest of his schnapps. “It’s not for me to decide.”

“Don’t worry, Guttle,” her mother said. “The betrothal months are the best part.”

“That can’t be,” Guttle said, looking at Meyer.

Wolf’s face darkened. For an instant he glared at his wife. But he must be mistaking her meaning, it was just a comment to comfort Guttle. This was a happy night, and schnapps was warming his belly. “Under the eyes of Elohim,” he said, “you will be married in August.”

Guttle took several deep breaths. She knew how stubborn her father could be. “Of course, Papa. Whatever you say.” She took Meyer’s hand, snuggled up to him.

“And you, Meyer Amschel?” Wolf asked. “Do you have anything to add?”

Meyer looked around the room, from one expectant face to the next, the scrubbed visages of his new family. He could think of only one thing to say. “Cake!”

The children applauded, bounced in their seats. Guttle’s Meyer had won their hearts with a word. “A good idea,” Emmie said. “Guttle, slice your birthday cake. I’ll bring the tea.”

Wolf disappeared into his bedroom. As the tea and cake were served, they began to hear the soft notes of a violin. Slowly Wolf emerged, bereft of his coat and vest, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, his violin tucked into a handkerchief under his chin. The ancient melody filled the room as he drew the bow across the strings.

Meyer offered his hand to Guttle. She took it and he led her to the small space between the table and the bedrooms, and he put his arms around her, and she put her arms around him. There was no room to attempt an actual dance, so they stood that way, her head against his chest, and swayed ever so slightly to the vibrating strings. The children clapped, and stuffed cake into their mouths, getting their fingers sticky with raspberry frosting —”Children, use your forks,’” Emmie said — and they clapped again, spraying bits of cake across the table.

Wolf bowed faster, coaxed the violin into a livelier tune. Emmie and Avra clapped in rhythm. Guttle and Meyer did not change their own slow pace. After a time, hearing laughter from outside, Avra went to a window. A couple — she could not tell who they were — was dancing to the music, while two men clapped in time with the lively violin. She opened the window to see better. As the music flew louder over the lane, another couple, then another, emerged from the nearby tenements and joined in a dance, a peasant dance that was popular in the lane when the fiddlers brought out their instruments on Sabbath nights.

“What’s the music for?” one of the men yelled up.

Avra yelled down, “Guttle and Meyer are betrothed!”

“A fine way to announce,” Emmie said, pulling her away from the window. But when she looked down and saw half a dozen couples dancing and others watching she motioned to her husband. Without skipping a note Wolf came to the window and stood in front of it and bowed the fiddle louder. Slowly the dance party grew. Fat Otto Kracauer from next door seemed to shake the very cobbles as he pranced with his Ida. In the shadows at the edge of the lamplight even Yetta and Leo Liebmann could be seen, though they did not prance, as they had in their youth, instead holding one another quietly, much as the newly betrothed were doing.

Noticing that the whole family had vanished to the front rooms, Meyer touched his lips to Guttle’s. They kissed again, long and slow, pressed their lips together till they heard

giggling, opened their eyes, saw all three of the little ones watching. Guttle spoke to them without leaving Meyer’s arms. “It’s all right, you little sillies. We’re betrothed.”

Coming up behind them, Emmie said, “They’ll be getting married, children. That’s the important thing.”

20

Gently, Guttle caressed her breasts, her ribs, her belly. She wished Avra were not in the bed beside her. How could her father be so cruel as to make them wait almost a year?

But she was also terrified that she would not like Meyer’s weight upon her, would hate him thrusting inside her — where had Yahweh come up with that strange idea? Perhaps her mother was right, the long betrothal might be the best of times. They would be able to express affection openly. They could be together whenever they wanted, without starting talk. A happy time before the pain of bearing children, and the burden of rearing them, which might be more restricting than the walls. She would bear him children, of course — boys for him, girls for her — that’s what women were for, but she was only sixteen years and a few hours old. What was the rush? How could her father be so smart as to make them wait almost a year? He was good at business, but she’d never before given him credit for being insightful about life.

The mattress shook. Avra was giggling. Guttle reached across and tickled her. Avra spun around, the two hugged, arms entangled. They fell asleep that way, in a sisterly embrace.

At the family breakfast table, Guttle asked her father a question that had kept her awake for part of the night. “What did Herr Marcus say when you told him I wasn’t marrying Viktor? And Frau Marcus?” Forking a piece of cold kippered herring onto a crust of challah, her father replied, “I haven’t told him yet. I’ll tell him this morning, in schul.”

“Papa! Why did you wait so long?”

“I wanted to make sure Meyer would accept. A spinster we don’t need around here.”

She saw him wink at Avra.

“That’s not very nice. You gave them false hope.”

“I gave them false hope? Listen to her. It wasn’t me Viktor sang to in the dark.”

“That again! Meshuganah Frau Marcus is going to kill me.”

“Sophie Marcus kill? I don’t think so. Maim, maybe.”

“Wolf, stop it,” Emmie Schnapper said.

“Papa thinks this is a joke. She watches me all the time already.”

“Sophie Marcus is a bit strange, I’ll grant,” her father said. “But she wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Except when she eats them,” Guttle said.

Avra, who had been drinking a glass of milk, convulsed with laughter, the milk spurting onto the table through her nose. The three little ones laughed, and clapped their hands.

“Children, behave yourselves, it’s Rosh Hashanah!” Emmie ordered, standing and wiping the table with a rag.

“It’s all right, today is a happy day,” Wolf said. “Laughter is appropriate. Guttle is betrothed to Meyer Amschel Rothschild. That lad is going places.”

“So,” Guttle said, “you’re not sorry that rich Jacob Marcus won’t be joining the family?”

“About that, I’m sorry. But I realized that along with Jacob would come Sophie. That’s why Meyer won out.”

“Papa!”

Her father turned toward her mother. “What happened to your daughter’s sense of humor?”

The room is white, windowless. The girl is wearing a gray shift. Languidly she pulls a comb through her long, dark hair as she sings an aria:

Over my shoulder I see her there;

I know the why — not the when of her,

At times it seems there are ten of her,

Watching me eat, seeing me dress,

Trying to multiply tristesse,

Shadowing me throughout the lane

Hoping to drive me quite insane.

Watching me make the beetles burn

She sees my ashes in an urn

Which she could steal — nocturnal witch —

And dump into the sewage ditch;

Or set my dress to flaming fire

To stop me from adoring Meyer;

Or scar my face with blazing oils —

So long as Viktor gets the spoils.

Attempt to talk with Sophie Marcus?

Sooner reason with a carcass.

Is it fair to be so loathed

Just because I am betrothed?

“He asked me, he asked me!” Dvorah said, rushing over to Guttle. She seemed to be jumping up and down in her white lace dress, though she was only rocking on her toes.

“He asked you what?”

They were outside the synagogue. Guttle wasn’t sure why the New Year should be celebrated for two days, but it was. Once more the schul was filled with shrouded men, and the lane outside with women in silk and satin, and the poor in worn but neatly pressed cotton.

“He asked me to marry him!” Dvorah said. “He left schul early yesterday and talked with my mother, and she gave her permission, and last night after dinner he came and asked me. He said the New Year seemed like a good time to plan the future.”

“What did you tell him?”

“What did I tell him? Are you crazy? I told him yes, of course.”

“That’s wonderful.” Guttle hugged her friend. “You look like a a bride already, all dressed in white. So you’re going to marry Izzy!”

“Not Izzy, silly! You can be terrible sometimes, Guttle Schnapper.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She hugged Dvorah again, longer this time, and kissed her cheek. “I’m so happy for you.”

She didn’t want to compete with her friend’s enthusiasm, but her own news was no secret; the Schlicters must have slept through the music. “Me, too,” she said.

“Meyer? Last night?” They hugged yet again, both jumping up and down now while holding each other around the waist. “Dvorah Berkov and Guttle Rothschild! Let’s do it! Let’s have a double wedding.”

“That would be fun. We’re getting married in August.”

“August? August is already passed.”

“Next August.”

“That’s almost a year. Why wait so long?”

“My father said.”

Dvorah frowned. She took off her brimmed hat, toyed with two white ribbons that hung from it. “Lev and I talked about November.”

“That’s all right,” Guttle said. “Why have one celebration when we can have two?”

“You sure you won’t mind?”

“There’s an old saying. Never get in the path of a runaway horse.”

“You mix me up sometimes. So it’s all right with you if we get married first?”

“Of course it is.” She reached out and touched Dvorah’s hanging curls. “The only thing I’ll soon miss is your hair. Maybe you’ll pass it on to your daughters.”

Dvorah pulled her hat on tight. “I’m not,” she said.

“You’re not going to shave your head?”

“I don’t have to. I asked Rabbi Simcha last week. He said if I want to I can shave it and wear a wig, like our mothers do. But I can also just keep it covered in public, tucked under a big hat. As long as nothing shows.”

“What does Lev say?”

“He loves my hair. The Talmud says you should shave your head so other men won’t look at you. Lev said he trusts me. If other men look at me, I won’t look back.”

“Of course you won’t.”

From inside the synagogue they heard the wail of the shofar, the ram’s horn. Again, again. Guttle loved this trumpeting that heralded the New Year. The doors of the temple swung open so the women and children could hear. The shofar blasted louder, in repeated bursts, short and long, seven short and one long, again, again. Till with one sustained wail that must have brought the trumpeter to his knees the service was over. The men filed out in their shrouds, their women came to meet them, “Yom tov.” Milling about in the lane, families greeted one another, “Yom tov, Yom tov,” till they drifted toward their homes, where their afternoon meals waited. Collaring Meyer, Emmie Schnapper said, “After you take off your shroud, bubbelah, why don’t you come and eat with us?”

Guttle turned to say goodbye to Dvorah, but her friend had hurried off to greet the good Doctor. A few metres away, Guttle saw Sophie Marcus, dressed in black, glaring at her.

Meyer the following day showed his new assistant the brief letter he had received from Crown Prince Wilhelm: “We, Wilhelm, by the Grace of God Landgrave and Crown Prince of Hesse, Grand Duke of Fulda, Duke at Hersfeld, Count of Katzenelbogen, Dietz, Ziegelheim, Schaumburg & reigning Count of Hanau, etc etc etc Most Graciously bestow the title of Court Factor upon the Jew Meyer Amschel Rothschild of Frankfurt.”

Guttle gave him back the letter. “He has a lot of titles for one person.”

“I think I hear a joke coming.”

“No joke. I can’t think of one.”

Meyer placed the letter in the single drawer of his desk. “My years in Hanover finally are paying off.”

“What do you mean? You never told me much about them.”

“When I was sent away from here, when I was thirteen, I was apprenticed to the Oppenheimer banking firm, in Hanover. The Oppenheimers had started out in the Judengasse. During the next hundred years, they branched out across the Ashkenaz, including Hanover. I stayed there five years. That’s where I learned about finance. They had an antique coin department, where I learned about the coins.”

“Did you like it there?”

“It was good. We weren’t locked in a ghetto. No school boys taunted us in the street. It was near Göttingen. Much freer in their views than here.”

“Why did you come back?”

“My visitor permit was about to expire. To stay, I would have had to become a permanent resident. And my brothers were here. But it was more than that. Frankfurt was becoming the big commercial center. I knew this would be the place to make money. Despite the walls and the gates.”

“And now you’ll be rich.”

“Not yet. Wilhelm’s letter just confirms that I do business with him. It’s mostly an honorary title. To make money, I’ll have to keep after him to get more of his business.”

“But you’re going to let people know?”

“Yussel is making a sign with the new title. I’ll hang it on the door.”

“Will people be jealous?”

“I don’t think so. I’m the only coin dealer in the lane.”

They were standing beside his desk. She moved closer to him, snuggled into his chest, as she loved to do. “I’m glad,” she said.

“About the title?”

“Glad that you came back.” She lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. “But what you said about your brothers and the money, those aren’t the only reasons you came back.”

“They’re not?”

“You knew that I was here, growing up for you.”

He wrapped his arms around her, lifted her till she was sitting on the edge of the desk. “You may be right. If I wasn’t aware of it, Adonai was.”

Despite his lean body his lips were full. As he pressed them to hers she reveled in the exquisite tenderness, till, leaning back as he leaned forward, she nestled amid the papers on the desk. He kissed and nibbled at her lips and she at his until their backs ached as much as their loins and he stood and slowly pulled her upright, and stepped away lest they lose control utterly.

“August,” he groaned, gripping a shelf of antique Geek and Roman figurines.

Though she could hardly speak with her breath pummeling her breasts, she echoed, “August.”

The idea came to her after he said he’d be putting a sign on the door. Few would see it, because of the Hinterpfann’s location in the rear row, down the alley from the lane. But if she made a banner for him they could hang it from a pole above the alley, and anyone looking for him would know where to go. When she had composed herself and straightened her clothing and fixed her braids she left him there and walked two houses away to Hannah Schlicter’s, to buy the cloth. Red and yellow would be nice, she thought: a yellow flag, with his name and his new title in red.

She found Dvorah sweeping the cobbles in front of the tenement. They were expecting an important visitor, she said, the Countess Freya von Brunwald. She was the Gentile lady who’d bought three of her mother’s dresses at the Fair. She was coming to order more.

As they chatted while Dvorah swept, a door clattered in the first house by the gate and Hersch Liebmann burst out and ran down the lane. They watched as just before the lane curved out of sight he disappeared into the hospital. Doctor Kirsch came out and walked swiftly in their direction. Behind her came Hersch and two male helpers holding a carrying board — a rectangle of wood padded with blankets. The Doctor scarcely noticed them as she hurried into the Liebmann house. Dvorah handed her broom to Guttle. “I’d better see if they need help.”

Guttle stared at the Liebmanns’ door, waiting to see who would come out, till she noticed a woman, a tanned, blonde stranger, standing inside the north gate, looking lost. Still glancing at the Liebmann house she leaned the broom against the tenement and approached the visitor.

“Are you the countess?” she asked.

The woman wore a simple gray dress and cap and would have been pretty if her face were not smudged with travel dust. Blonde ringlets peeped out of her cap. Her striking green eyes seemed to sparkle and burn at once. She wiped her sleeve across her forehead. “Do I look like a countess?”

Guttle was embarrassed, did not know how to respond. Either answer would be wrong.

“No matter, girl, perhaps you can help me just the same. My name is Brendel Isaacs. My late husband was a blacksmith. I’ve come from Mainz to see his grave. I’ve been told it’s here.”