The Origin of Sorrow (32 page)

Meyer replied, “The Atlantic is a very big ocean.”

14 April

The police raided the lane today, just as the Chief Rabbi had warned. Four wagons clattered to a halt outside the north gate, two Constables in each. They did not carry the usual muskets, but had pistols tucked into their waist bands. From house to house they walked, making sure nothing that is prohibited, such as a printing shop, had opened, looking for high windows that should be boarded up. For several hours they were visible in the lane, like a foreign army. One officer spent the entire time in Rabbi Simcha’s study, going over the community books. Luckily, when at last they left, no one had been arrested — and the Hesses were long gone. As the police wagons clattered off, the colorful banners over the shops seemed to flutter all at once, from everybody sighing. How the Rabbi knew they were coming, we have no idea.

16 April

I don’t see how Meyer and I ever will tear down the walls. Today I had a thought I never had before. Why can’t we go somewhere else, where there are no walls — as Ephraim and Eva have?

I remember when I was a child, not long after the time I got locked outside the lane, Papa with a special pass from his Prince took me on a carriage ride to see the city. We passed a lake with boats on it — people rowing in boats, boats with white sails that leaned in the wind and gleamed in the sun. I wondered what it would feel like to sail on water. Now I wonder again. What would it be like to sail to London? Or to America? To stand on the deck of a two-masted ship like those in the harbor, to wave goodbye to our friends as the seamen cast off the thick braided ropes from the quay, smoothly to sail down the gentle Main, and the Rhine, till the wind in the sails took us far out to sea, the waves pitching beneath us, the great ship dipping and yawing, foamy spray splashing across the deck, as the seamen talk about when they visit the lane, us holding on tight, knowing our destination is worth the discomfort, like Noah in the ark, like Jonah in the whale.

I wonder what Meyer would think. I am afraid to ask. I am afraid he would think me foolish.

17 April

Melka spoke to me in the night. She said that if Meyer and I love one another, there is nothing we should be afraid to discuss. That is easier for her to whisper, locked away in an attic, than for me to attempt.

While Meyer was drinking his morning coffee, Guttle, arriving for work, perched on the desk, started to speak, stopped herself.

“Is something wrong?” Meyer asked. “You seem upset.”

“I want to ask you something. But you might get angry.”

“I’m in a good mood this morning. Try me.”

“What would you think about us leaving the Judengasse?”

“Today? Where would you want to go? Further than the market?”

“I don’t mean that. I mean forever. After we’re married. Sail away, like the Hesses did.”

Meyer set down his cup, raised his eyebrows as he stood. This was a question, it appeared, that needed pacing room, though there wasn’t much of it. Four steps and he reached the wall. An office with more room to pace — how much smarter would he be then?

“Our families are here.”

“Papa has lots of money. We all could go.”

“Start new businesses in a strange place? In a new language? With no contacts?”

“I know that would be hard. But I hate these walls so much!”

Meyer sat, reached for Guttle’s hand, guided her onto his lap. “If we sailed away, we might find more freedom for ourselves. But what would that do for our fellow Jews?”

“What are we doing for them now?”

“Ten percent of my profits goes to the welfare fund, to help the poor families. When I make more money, there will be more for charity. When the time does come to tear down the walls, we won’t be able to do it from London. Or America.”

They sat in silence. When he pressed his face into the back of her neck, she asked, “Why do you love me? I’m so selfish.”

“You’re not selfish. You’re just frustrated.”

“Aren’t you frustrated?”

“Of course. But I invest those feelings in the business. That’s what gives me strength to bargain with the Gentiles, day after day.”

“I really don’t want us to sail away. I was just wondering.”

“Do you ever think about why we’re alive?”

“When I try to, it hurts my head.”

“Remember that story book I gave you?”

“Don Quixote?”

“It was very long. Once you started reading it, why did you keep on?”

“To see what happened next.”

“I think that’s why we’re alive. Yahweh likes stories. He wants to see what we do next.”

“Like us painting our painting. But what happens after that?”

“After that, it hurts my head, too.”

Her hand squeezed his knee. “Right now I know why I’m alive. To sit on your lap.”

“There you go. And in six months —” his palm sliding up to her breast “— every night we’ll escape on the ships of each other.”

“Don’t start!” She pulled his hand away. “Don’t get me itchy again.”

22 April

Dvorah is pregnant! She thought she might be when she started getting sick every morning, and now it is beginning to show. Doctor Kirsch says there is no doubt. Dvorah is so funny, she seems uncertain whether to hide the truth with loose dresses or proclaim it to the world with fitted waists. Sometimes I write nasty things about her — perhaps I am jealous of her beauty — but I love her very much. I can’t imagine having grown up without her across the lane to giggle with, to confide in. We are closer than sisters. One time when we were little we made a pact that when we got married and cut off our hair, we would each wear wigs made from the other’s locks. The idea was to see if we each became the other one. Children can be stranger than adults. Already the three midwives are competing for who will deliver Doctor Berkov’s child. Dvorah loves the attention.

23 April

We girls in the lane grew up with only one question in our lives — whom will we marry? After that, there are only two other questions — how many children will we deliver, and how many of them will live. There should be something more. I don’t know what it is.

Rumor swept through the lane that the boarded-up house at the south gate would soon be opened. “It’s true,” Guttle told Izzy as they stood in front of their adjacent doors.

“I don’t believe there’s any grotesque Melka locked away in the attic — but who would have the nerve to look?”

“Doctor Kirsch.”

She began to tell him how it had come about. The young historian wanted to hear all the details. He opened his ever-present book to make notes.

“When Rebecca came to the lane last fall, she shared Doctor Berkov’s apartment. But when he married Dvorah, Rebecca had to leave. She moved her things into the hospital, thinking it would be just for a few days. She’s been sleeping there ever since.”

“That must be unpleasant, it’s like she’s never away from her work,” Izzy said, still looking down at his book, still writing. He had discovered that if you interjected such comments during an interview, it gained time to scrawl your notes.

“Especially now, with this outbreak of grippe,” Guttle said. “The hospital is filled with people coughing. Anyway, a few weeks ago we were walking together, to stretch our leg muscles, and talk. I love to hear her talk of the outside world.”

“I know. She speaks of the future — I research the past. We’d make a good team.”

“Izzy, she’s ten years older than you.”

“I’m not talking about that kind of team. So what happened?”

“When we reached the south gate, Rebecca looked at the boarded up house, as if she’d never noticed it before, though she must have. She asked me why nobody lived there. I told her that somebody did. I told her about Melka.”

“She must have smirked at that.”

“She didn’t express any judgment. She just listened. But the next day she went to see the banker Siegfried Salman, who owns the house. Last week she bought it from him. At a very low price, I imagine. She was so happy at the prospect of owning her own house, she didn’t make them rip off the boards and show her the inside.”

“Why not? She could have ended the Melka story right then.”

“She knows the house must be filthy, and maybe falling apart. She also knows there might not be another house available for years. When she has time, she’ll hire workers to clean it. To make repairs. Once she’s not so busy with the grippe.”

“I want to be there when she goes inside,” Izzy said. “To watch the death of Melka.”

“Just don’t run away scared when you see her,” Guttle said. “People might laugh.”

2 May

The day his brother was exiled, Hiram quit as assistant Schul-Klopper. By giving Hersch his black coat he seemed to lose the confidence to face the world. He only does what he used to do, sits by his window looking down at the lane, timing things, noting them in his book; watching the fire captain, who took his place, knock on doors. Yetta appears to have survived the death of her husband better than Hiram has survived the loss of his brother.

Meyer still feels guilty about what happened. I remind him that Hersch was sent away because of thievery, of which he was surely guilty, not because of the murder charge. Meyer knows this, of course. Still, a small part of his heart may never mend. I will do my best to kiss the pain away.

4 May

Today we saw Madame Antoine, the young Archduchess of the Holy Roman Empire, pass through Frankfurt in an unimaginable procession of fifty-seven carriages filled with hundreds of nobles and servants. She is only fourteen, but she is on her way from Vienna to Versailles to marry the French Dauphin. One day most likely she will be queen of France.

Her mother, Maria Teresa, ordered the procession to pass in front of the cathedral here, where all of the Emperors are crowned. Peasants were urged to leave their fields and greet the Archduchess along country roads, and bid her farewell. Everyone in the Judengasse, by order of the Empress, was permitted to watch as well, to swell the crowds. Most of the men remained behind to do their work, Meyer among them. Dvorah and I left early, ahead of most of the women, and took up a good position, only a block from the church. Jews are not allowed to go closer to the cathedral than that.

We waited two hours for the procession to arrive, but the sight of that long line of glittering carriages was worth it. Trumpets and kettle drums played royal marches. The coach of the Archduchess was crimson and gold. Her complexion was pale and beautiful as she looked out through the window, luckily on our side. We could not see much of what she was wearing, but I could see her powdered hair piled high and studded with jewels, her pretty features, her high forehead, her blue-gray eyes; the carriage was that close, and had come almost to a stop.

I read in one of Meyer’s newspapers that her trousseau, made in France, cost more than a hundred thousand gulden. I can’t imagine having that much clothing. Dvorah said she could, if she didn’t have to live in the Judengasse.

And the magnificent horses! One hundred and thirty seven of them, a guard said, to pull the coaches at one time — twenty thousand horses to complete the journey. The wealth of the Empress, who is paying for this, is hard to imagine. Yet according to the newspaper, it does not compare with the wealth of the King of France.

Still — Dvorah thinks I am crazy for this — I thought I saw sadness in the eyes of Madame Antoine. And why not? Fourteen years old, and she is being given in marriage for reasons of politics — to create an alliance between Austria and France. She may never see her family again. She has never met the man she will marry, who is only sixteen years old himself, and rather fat, they say. In the instant her carriage rolled slowly by, her eyes met mine. Our glances locked. I swear she was wishing she could change places with me.

“But she’ll be Queen of France!” Dvorah said.

We could not see what ceremony took place inside the cathedral. It was very brief. Then with the creaking of hundreds of wheels the long line of carriages rolled away, leaving behind only steaming horse droppings and the image of a sad, innocent face that I shall never forget.

In a few days the procession will reach the border, and Madame Antoine will be handed over to the French. At that moment her title and her name will change. She will be called not the Archduchess, but the Dauphine. Her name will become Marie Antoinette.

She is so young to be going so far, two years younger than I. Her situation is like a fairy tale, or an opera — going off so grandly to marry a distant Prince. But in that brief moment when our eyes locked together, I thought I saw deep sorrow. As if she lived within walls that were higher than mine.

If that is true, then the walls of the Judengasse are not what the rag dealer said. They are the creators of intense suffering — but they are not the origin of sorrow.