The Origin of Sorrow (34 page)

I pray you will help me to reckon with Sophie;

I spoke with the Cantor, he holds no more rancor,

It’s just his sick Mama who plays out this drama;

Since I was a Nicht girl he’s courting the Licht girl,

A sweet shining light who now brightens his night;

And here is a new find — he’s says that he’s inclined

(To prove his forgetting) to sing at my wedding!

And Jacob, his father, for reasons, I gather,

Of business intended, my pa has befriended;

Yet still there is Sophie, the devil’s own trophy,

Intent on corrupting, befouling, disrupting,

Dismaying, waylaying, obscenely erupting.

Though lacking precision, I suffer from visions

Of bridal joy neutered, of nuptials disputed,

Of actions most foul when I leave the Owl.

Are these superstition or true premonition?

Where will she hide on the day I’m a bride?

What will she try to make sure that I cry?

Who will she be the day Meyer weds me?

Dear Melka above us, if you really love us,

While we plight love timeless you’ll watch over me.

6 July

In Meyer’s head there is a map of the entire world of finance to which I am not yet privy. I envision it as one of those engraved maps of the ancient Greek empire that Yussel bought from his bookbinder. In Meyer’s head the map is not what the mercantile world looked like in the past, but how it will look in the future. On those unknown seas he is sailing when he seems most distracted.

9 July

Hannah fitted the pieces of my dress to me today. White silk with lots of lace, the fabric a gift from Meyer’s brothers, ordered special from England. I’m getting excited about the wedding. If still a bit apprehensive.

Dvorah had grown huge. Each day she drifted slowly through the lane prow forward, Guttle thought, like Noah’s ark. Both friends were busy at work, had not chatted for almost a week, till Guttle invited Dvorah to lunch. The day was warm, she fixed a cold meal of bread with cheese and a glass of borscht. They ate in the the courtyard of the synagogue.

“I’m so big,” Dvorah acknowledged, easing herself onto a bench, grimacing. “Lev thinks it might be twins.”

“Or two of every species.”

Dvorah laughed, placing her hand on her belly to steady it as it shook. “Don’t start,” she said, “or I might have a donkey right here.”

They took bites of their bread and cheese, washed it down with the borsht. “I hear you’ve settled on the names,” Guttle said.

“David if it’s a boy. Ruth if it’s a girl.”

“And Poland if it’s a country?”

Dvorah was laughing again, although trying not to, her belly shaking more than before. She pressed her face into Guttle’s shoulder, was crying now, or still laughing, Guttle couldn’t tell. Perhaps an undecided mixture of both, like rain on a sunny day.

“I’m so happy,” Dvorah blurted into her shoulder, through sobs. “But I hate being so huge.”

Guttle held her tight and tried to calm her. “When I’m pregnant, I’m sure I’ll be the same.”

“Maybe.” Dvorah sniffled. “But you won’t have you to contend with.”

You’re wrong there, Guttle thought. I’ll always have me to contend with.

13 July

Brendel Isaacs and her two little ones are moving here from Mainz — into the small apartment and shop Meyer bought from the rag dealer.

I’m not sure if the idea originated with Meyer or with Yussel. Strictly a business deal, Meyer says, keeping his face expressionless. According to the papers, Brendel is buying the property, with money she is borrowing from Yussel — who in turn is borrowing the money from Meyer. Brendel will run the rag shop, and make monthly payments to Yussel, who will pass them along to Meyer. Unless Brendel has no money, in which case Yussel will pay Meyer. Unless Yussel has no money, in which case no one will pay Meyer. The purchase price is two thousand six hundred gulden — four hundred less than Meyer paid.

Strictly a business deal.

That’s what I mean about Brendel. She inspires men without really trying.

20 July

After we are married we shall have room in which to turn around. Meyer and his brothers have bought the three-eighths of his house owned by the Bauers, who will move in with relatives down the lane. The storage room adjoining the shop will become a bedroom for Meyer and me. This will give us privacy from Kalman, Moish and his family, who will have extra space two floors above. Meyer has ordered a new straw mattress, and feather pillows, from the Kracauer brothers. I hope the pillows won’t smell of the slaughterhouse. I still share a bed with Avra. My chest prickles with apprehension when I think of Meyer beside me, but my face grows hot.

The day of the unveiling of the centuries-old Melka had arrived. Myth or corpse or something beyond human experience? Hundreds of women and a few men crowded toward the south gate. The fire chief and his volunteers formed a line across the lane to keep them away, to prevent a stampede. Anything could happen, depending on what was found. Climbing to the attic window up a long ladder that Izzy held steady, Yussel Kahn wearing his oldest clothes pried off the resisting boards. Inside the house, he removed more boards that sealed the attic doorway. Though he was no believer in Melka, he hesitated, took several deep breaths. Hamlet crept into his mind.
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophies
. Shakespeare was a genius, yet he had peopled the world with ghosts. Who was he, Yussel, a mere cabinet maker, to demur? What seemed to him like hours were only seconds until he pushed open the door. Rebecca, Guttle and Izzy waited at the bottom of the narrow stairs, as if to leave room for a spirit, visible or not, to come flying or floating from the attic. When they saw nothing, heard nothing, they climbed to the attic and ducked under its sloping roof, and instinctively pressed backed against a wall, unafraid, they would claim later. Yussel was standing silently, staring at the center of the room. They followed his gaze. Bright sunlight slanted in through the uncovered window — the first sunlight in this room in nearly three hundred years. This was the only room in the lane into which the sun could stream at such an angle, the window being higher than the ghetto walls, and facing to the south. The floor was covered with dust, which their shoes stirred into the air. Golden motes danced in a shaft of sunlight. The sun illuminated a rectangular, dust-covered box. It was the size and shape of a coffin — a coffin that in the stream of light seemed to glow with a flame of its own.

“She’s real — or was real!” Guttle blurted.

“Why would she be buried up here?” Izzy asked.

Guttle was trembling, glad they had not found a skeleton picked clean on the floor. She reached for Izzy’s hand. He was shaking, too. Yussel and Rebecca looked at one another, hesitated, moved toward the box. Wearing an old hospital gown over her clothing, Rebecca ran a finger across the top; it left a streak in the dust. With the gown, heedless of getting it filthy, she wiped off more of the dust. Yussel knelt to examine what was clearly now a coffin.

“It’s made of lead. The kind of coffin in which they preserve Kings.”

Rebecca touched the lead, dull gray on the shadow side, gleaming in the sun. Guttle and Izzy stayed back. The fearful children of their beings held sway.

“They must have reinforced the floor to support this,” Yussel said. “But how did they get it up here?”

“Will power?” the Doctor ventured.

“Shall we open it?’”

Izzy and Guttle, clinging, pressed their backs harder against the wall.

“Let me get a cloth,” Rebecca said. She went down the squealing and creaking attic stairs, and the rat-soiled steps, to the ground floor. Guttle shivered when she returned holding two large rags. The Doctor and Yussel finished wiping the dust from the lid of the coffin, and the lighter layer that clung to the sides, trying not to swirl too much dust into the air. They are polishing eternity, Guttle thought. She and Izzy forced themselves to move closer, hearts thumping as if the Polizei were coming.

“The stench might be awful,” Rebecca said. “Do you think you can cope?”

Yussel nodded. Guttle and Izzy remained silent. Yussel examined the coffin lid for fasteners. There were none. The heavy lid merely rested on top. Kneeling, he and Rebecca pushed at the lid; it moved only slightly. “We’ll need your help,” Yussel said over his shoulder. Izzy and Guttle knelt shakily beside them. All of them pushed. Slowly the lid moved. Thick musk invaded their nostrils, but nothing worse. Guttle prepared herself to see the dry brittle bones of Melka.

They strained and pushed harder. When the lid was half way across, Rebecca crept on her knees to the other side, to guide it to the floor. When it was safely off, they stood from aching knees and looked down. Whatever was inside the coffin was hidden beneath folds of canvas. Atop the canvas was a small scroll. Rebecca lifted it out. “Parchment,” she said. “Almost like new.”

She turned the rolled parchment in her hands. Guttle wondered: had Melka left a note? Finally Rebecca slipped off two gold-colored ribbons and unrolled the scroll. She perused it silently. Then she read it aloud, while Izzy scribbled the words into his notebook.

To future residents of the Judengasse—

Jews newly arrived from Spain report that the Jewish faith has been forbidden in that country. All synagogues are being destroyed, all menorahs, Torahs and other artifacts being defaced and destroyed. Jews who do not convert to the Christian faith are tortured and put to death. Some are risking their lives by making false conversions and continuing to uphold their faith in shuttered basements.

In our synagogue here we have three Torahs, known to us affectionately, to distinguish among them, as Adonai, Eloheinu and Melekh. In this protective coffin lies Melekh, hidden here against the event that this persecution spreads to Frankfurt, that our synagogue, too, be razed. A scroll noting this location is secreted in the Chief Rabbi’s house.

If you, our descendants, read this in time of strife, we pray for you. If you chance upon this for some other reason, leave Melekh undisturbed, against a future need.

For the two hundred and six living residents of the Judengasse,

Rabbi Yitzhak ben Levi,

21 December, 1492

They were silent, stunned. Rebecca knelt beside the coffin, gently lifted back the folds of canvas. Beneath them was the most beautiful Torah they had ever seen. Hebrew letters were embroidered in gold thread on maroon velvet. The elaborate crown covering the handles was gold as well, studded with gems, and indeed made Melekh look like a melekh — a king — from the words with which all their Jewish bruchas began: Barukh attah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha-Olam … Blessed Art Thou O Lord, Our God, King of the Universe.

Awed silence in the presence of living history, thick as the dust had been.

“So this is Melka,” Rebecca said at last.

“Why not Melekh?” Izzy asked.

Still gazing into the coffin, Rebecca ventured, “Melekh is a hard word for little ones to pronounce, with the guttural sound at the end. Melka is easier. A transposition of syllables through the centuries. It could be as simple as that.”

“Or perhaps on purpose — to make it female,” Guttle said.

What to do next? Carefully, Rebecca smoothed the canvas flaps back over the Torah. After Izzy finished copying the words, she rolled the parchment scroll delicately, as if it were living flesh. She tied it with the ribbons and placed it in the coffin. From somewhere deep inside themselves they found the strength to lift the lid and place it as it had been. Except for the absent dust, Melka — Melekh, now — looked undisturbed.

“We have to agree to say nothing to anyone.” Rebecca said. “To honor the scroll.”

“In case he’s ever needed,” Izzy affirmed.

“People will want to know what we found,” Yussel said. “Should we say the attic was empty?”

“That would destroy Melka,” Guttle noted.

The Doctor rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrists, looking strained. “As I’ve said before, I have mixed feelings about preserving a legend. But perhaps that’s the best course. I don’t want to keep it alive with a lie. But it might be serving a purpose whose depth we cannot know. We’ll say a partial truth — that a note on parchment from our ancestors warned us not to reveal what we found. We’ll board up the door and window, and say we left the attic undisturbed. At least that part is true. Soon it will just be the top of my new house.

“People won’t be happy,” Guttle said.

The Doctor replied, “They live with worse.”

One by one they moved to the window, knowing it would be their only opportunity to look out. They could see the Fahrtor gate, the river with its sailing ships, the entire serpentine length of the bridge, the land on the other side stretching away to the far horizon, rich with fields and farms. Before leaving the attic, with a hint of tears, each brushed the coffin with fingertips, and touched their fingers to their lips.