The Origin of Sorrow (41 page)

“Now, on top of this house, I see a second story, much smaller than the first. In this house, Yahweh has prescribed special laws for the Jews. Because they were given to us by Him, we have accepted them. They are a sacred trust, and a sacred burden. Non-Jews do not have to accept them in order to lead moral lives. Just as accepting this special relationship with Yahweh does not make us superior moral beings. Only our actions do that — not our prayers.”

He paused for a long drink of water.

“I think that concludes the principal ideas I want to convey. Unless the Chief Rabbi has further questions of me.”

The Rabbi had none. “The people here know my views, I shall not belabor them,” Eleazar said. “I shall just repeat what I said before. Our faith is what has sustained us for six thousand years. We must not do anything that undermines that faith. Our faith is who we are. Our faith is who we shall become.”

Applause was not permitted in the synagogue, and so, by force of habit, there was no applause in the lecture hall. Its absence left tension hanging in the air — coughing, chairs scraping, silence. When Rabbi Simcha asked if anyone in the audience had a question, Yussel Kahn stood. “I’ve heard it said that this period of enlightenment is already ending. That a reaction already is setting in against pure reason. Can Herr Mendelssohn comment on that?”

“I would be glad to,” Mendelssohn said. ”Unfortunately, there is some truth to what you’ve heard. More so here in Germany than in England or France. A new sentimentality appears to be rising. The other day, in your wonderful Café — the best ruggelah in all of Europe, I dare say — a young woman asked me if I had read the book that is the talk of the land. It is called
The Sorrows of Young Werther.
I have indeed read it. It is perhaps the prime example of this new sentimentality. There is not a hint of intelligent thought or reason anywhere in the book. It is pure emotion. A young man, Werther, falls in love with a woman who is already betrothed to another. Soon after she marries her betrothed, Werther kills himself. End of story. In between is what I can only term garbage — a worshipping of nature and emotion over progress and reason.”

Guttle leaned forward, looked past Meyer at Dvorah, trying to discern her reaction. Dvorah’s face in the dim light was tense. Seeming to sense that Guttle was looking at her, she turned her head. Guttle saw in her friend’s eyes a fierce anger, combined somehow with frustration, with helplessness, as if she wanted to shout a response, but could not. As if, even if she had the chutzpah to respond, she did not have the words.

Mendelssohn was continuing. “This book celebrates what the Frenchman Rousseau has been saying, as against the views of a far superior thinker, Voltaire. Rousseau would have us seek the ideal man in a state of nature. This is naive. The truth is that man, when he is not acting as a thinking being, goes out and kills and tortures other men — and women and children — for no defensible reason. For some sick emotional release, for a misguided faith — as we have seen throughout history. Similarly, Werther, instead of understanding with his reason that his pain will pass, acts on his emotion alone, and shoots himself.

“Werther, of course, is a fictional character. The author, Herr Goethe, who appears to know well what it is to have loved and lost, did not kill himself. He wrote a book. The act of writing a book is filled with hope. Yet he makes his nature-loving character commit suicide — an unnatural act. The worst part is that there have been reports from all over Germany of young men killing themselves after reading this book. As if that makes them romantic heroes. The fact is, I half suspect that the author meant us to see Werther as pitiful, not heroic. To use a wonderful Yiddish word, Goethe’s young man is a schlemiel — as are all his real-life worshipers.”

Guttle heard someone nearby gasp. She leaned forward. It had been Dvorah, whose hand was pressed to her mouth as she shook her head. Catching sight of Guttle, she continued shaking ‘no.’ To Guttle, her friend seemed powerless to stop, as if she did not realize she was doing it.

“Nonetheless,” Mendelssohn went on, “the book’s popularity does suggest a resurgence of unreasoning sentiment — which can be a deadly and violent state of mind. It is a state of mind that is particularly perilous to us Jews.

“I have responded at some length about this because it suggests an important point regarding the future of Jewry. We must earn new respect, and new freedom — we must make what progress we can — while the ideas of the enlightenment are still ascendant. If unreasoned emotion regains sway, then once more we shall be called dirty Jews, once more the gates, having opened, will swing shut. The God in which we believe has given us free will with which to choose our actions. He has shown many times that, no matter how sincere our faith, he will not take those actions for us.”

“He will!” someone shouted from the midst of the audience. Heads turned, but no one echoed the cry.

“He won’t,” Guttle said to herself.

“Are there any more questions?” Rabbi Simcha asked. When there were none, he thanked the learned men for their provocative exchange. “The debate tonight is ended,” he told the audience, “but the ideas expressed by our speakers most likely will vie for our souls for years to come.”

Standing with the others, the lingering arguments flashing and dying and flashing again in conversations all around her, Guttle suspected that Rabbi Simcha was right. But never mind years to come. The lane might well be fiercely divided tomorrow.

34

She hit him, I tell you.

—She hit who?

—The philosopher.

— Everyone in the lane is a philosopher.

— Don’t play games. The one who gets paid for it. Moses Mendelssohn.

— Who hit him?

— The Doctor’s wife. Dvorah Schlicter.

— Dvorah Berkov?

— That’s the one.

— What do you mean, she hit him. Where did she hit him?

— Alongside the temple.

— By his ear? Where, inside the schul?

— I told you, alongside the schul. In the dark. She bloodied his nose.

— She hit him so hard?

— With a book.

— Why did the Doctor’s wife hit the philosopher?

—Is that a riddle?

— It’s a riddle unless you know the answer.

— She didn’t like what he said.

— A lot of people didn’t like what he said. I didn’t like so much what he said. Girls in the schools? What for? But I didn’t hit him.

— She didn’t like what he said about the book.

— The Talmud?

— Not the Talmud. That Gentile book.

— The Worth of Young Sorrow?

— That’s the one.

— Why would she care that he didn’t like the book?

— She liked it.

— For that you hit a philosopher?

— They’re blaming it on the schnapps.

— What schnapps?

— Not the schnapps she wasn’t drinking.

— The Doctor’s wife drinks a little?

— Lately, they say.

— Who says?

— People who see. From a flask, yet.

— So she hit him with a book. Did he hit back?

— Of course not. He’s a philosopher.

— He turned the other cheek?

— His nose she bloodied, I told you. He has only one nose.

— So what did he do? She’s a big girl.

— With those she wasn’t hitting him, I don’t think. He put out his hands to block her. She kept hitting with the book, and yelling.

— It’s a good thing she didn’t use the flask. She could have broken it.

— It was made of silver.

—His nose she could have broken. You saw?

— I didn’t see. I heard from someone who saw. Most people went home after his speech.

— Like me.

— But a few stayed in the lane, schmoozing. Yussel Kahn and Brendel from the Café were there, Meyer Rothschild and his wife.

— Guttle?

— Guttle heard, and ran to see — she’s a friend of the Schlicter girl. She grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her away from Mendelssohn. The Doctor’s wife still was yelling, struggling, and they fell down together, the sane one on top of the crazy one, grabbing her wrists, and the book went flying, splash, into the ditch. The very same Worthies of Sorrow. So now she was yelling even louder. She crawled on her knees and grabbed for her book in the ditch. A handful of you know what, she got.

—A handful of shmutz? Oy, vey.

—She lay there crying while the book floated away with the turds.

— Ashes to ashes. What about the Doctor? Didn’t he do something?

— He was in the hospital. Someone went to get him, he quick came running.

— I would think.

— He kneeled by his wife and talked to her. He stood her up and walked her to their house. She was leaning on him.

— That’s all?

— The woman Doctor fixed Mendelssohn’s nose.

— It won’t be the end of it.

— How do you know?

— You don’t hit a philosopher and that’s the end of it. Otherwise they all would get hit.

Thus did gossip pre-empt, that first day, discussion of the debate.

Guttle’s beige cotton dress, one of her favorites — what else do you wear to such a distinguished debate? — was soiled with mud, her left sleeve was torn half off. Her bare shoulder gleamed in the lamplight from the windows as they walked home. Neither she nor Meyer spoke. Her insides felt muddy as her dress, her heart had been torn from its moorings and cast adrift like a small boat in a storm.

Amelia and the Gentile boy were talking in the kitchen when they arrived. The boy said goodnight and went upstairs to his room.

“What happened!” Amelia asked, startled to see mud on her sister’s cheek.

“She’s fine,” Meyer said. “Please go home now. Thank you for watching the children.”

Amelia peered at Guttle, who said nothing, who was too upset to speak. “She doesn’t look fine.”

“Go,” Guttle said, softly. She kissed her sister’s forehead, keeping her dirty hands at her sides. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

When Amelia had gone, Guttle sat at the table, staring at nothing. Meyer made tea and placed a glass in front of her, and sat beside her with his own glass. From outside they heard a light rain beginning to bounce off the chimney. Meyer stroked Guttle’s hand. The knuckles were scraped raw. Drying blood streaked the drying mud. “You should wash that,” he said. Guttle did not respond. Her mind was in a different place, seeking Melka, or Jennie Aron, or Madame Antoine — any secret female friend. “I’m going to lose her,” she murmured.

“Lose who? Do you know what that was about?”

She did not realize she had spoken aloud. Meyer’s question brought her back to the crying of her knuckles, and the rain. She shook her head.

“You’re her best friend, surely you know something. A person doesn’t just break down like that, for no reason.”

Her eyes still were far away, her voice a monotone. “It’s woman business.”

“Mein Gott! Is she sick?”

Guttle closed her eyes, breathed deeply. “Not how you mean.”

“If it’s a woman’s thing, I won’t pry.” He stood, leaving his glass of tea untouched. “I go to Mannheim tomorrow. I need to go to bed. Shall I help you clean yourself?”

She touched his arm, her torn sleeve hanging like a broken limb. “I can do it. You go. I may sit up awhile, if that’s all right.”

Never in the five years of their marriage had she not come to bed with him. They would lie together, hand in hand, discussing the events of the day, till gently he turned toward her with a slowly rising passion, or away from her to sleep.

“Of course.” He kissed her hair. “Don’t stay up too long. The baby will be crying early.”

She sipped her tea, now cold. The scrape on her knuckles was stinging worse. She rose and took off her muddied dress and dropped it on the floor, removed her scuffed shoes and soiled stockings. In her chemise, she poured water from a pitcher over the back of her hands, blotted them with a towel, sat again at the table, sucking her knuckles for solace. Absorbing the skin and blood of Dvorah’s pain.

By the time she went to bed faint light was crawling in over the window sill. She slept through Meyer’s departure for schul and then for work — a rarity. Only the baby’s hungry cries awakened her. As she cradled him to her breast, sympathy for Dvorah’s plight gave way to anger. The world was a meaner place this morning than it had been the day before, and it was Dvorah’s fault. Guttle had no hunger for breakfast. Meyer had fed the children — another rarity. Dressing quickly, she asked Georgi to stay with Schönche and Amschel, and she carried the baby into the alley. When she saw Dvorah’s daughter Ruthie pass on the way to her sewing lesson, Guttle walked down the lane to where Dvorah and Lev and the twins resided, past the communal baths, above a shoemaker’s shop. The twin boy David would be in heder. She lingered amid the smell of tanned leather, nodded to the cobbler, Alexandre Licht, as he hammered at his bench, wearing his familiar red beret, unused nails protruding from his mouth, then climbed a flight of stairs and knocked on the door.

“Go away.” Dvorah’s voice sounded as if it were coming from Mainz, or beyond.

“It’s Guttle. Let me in.”

“Go away.”

“I’m not leaving. You need to talk before you explode.”

She stood there till she heard the padding of feet across the wooden floor. The door was unlocked from inside, and opened. Dvorah still was wearing her lavender dress from the night before, covered with dried mud and now a grid of wrinkles from being slept in as well. It looked like one of those plowed fields across the river that were visible through the south gate. Her hair resembled an auburn mop. Guttle closed the door and followed Dvorah into her bedroom, and watched as she climbed into bed and pulled the floral quilt to her chin. Guttle shifted baby Salomon from one arm to the other.

“I already exploded, don’t you think?”

“That was outward. If you explode inward it could be worse.”

“How could it be worse? I don’t dare show my face in the lane.”

“So you’ll spend the rest of your life in bed?”

Dvorah made no response.

“Those rides you’ve been taking with Paul. I’ve been wanting to ask you. The last time, you came home with white powder on your shoulders. On your collar. What was that?”

“White powder? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh. I know. It must have been powder from his wig.”

“So, you lied to me!” Guttle said. “Those rides. They were not just rides.”

Her head on the pillow, Dvorah closed her eyes. She did not say Guttle was right. She did not say Guttle was wrong.

“How could you do that?”

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Tell me, then.”

Dvorah opened her eyes, raised herself on the bed, sat with her legs crossed in front of her. “When I’m making supper, Paul is in my head. When we’re having conversation at the table with the twins, I have to fight to concentrate. My head is thinking of where Paul is. The same when Lev talks to me — which is rare enough. I want it to be Paul, making me laugh. Making me feel wanted. Even now, talking to you, I’m wondering what he’s doing. Who he’s with.” Flushed, as if overheated, she pushed away the quilt. Her toenails were painted red. Guttle had never seen that before. “All morning I’ve been picturing that beautiful book floating away with the turds. It’s probably in the river by now, being eaten by fish.”

“Fish don’t eat books. Bookworms, maybe.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I know. What did you tell Lev?”

“Nothing. Just that I’ve been under a strain. He gave me a powder to sleep.”

“That’s all? No questions?”

“He’s got a serious case in the hospital. Someone may die. I don’t even know who. He always has a serious case to think about.”

“He’s a Doctor. He helps people.”

“That doesn’t help me. He married a selfish person.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know. One day I’ll have to tell Lev. Ask him to grant me a divorce. Take the twins and move into the town, and marry Paul.”

“A divorce? How can you even think such a thing? I’ve never heard of a divorce in the lane.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“Are you sure Paul wants that? You’re not just his Jewish doxy?”

“You think that little of me? He’s already proposed marriage.”

“To marry him, you would have to convert. Become a Christian.”

“It won’t change what’s in my heart.”

“I’ve never heard you say that before — that Adonai is in your heart.”

“Guttle, Guttle. Three children, a fourth on the way, and you’re still an innocent.” She put her hands on Guttle’s shoulders. “I didn’t say Adonai was in my heart. Haven’t you been listening? It’s Paul who’s in my heart.”

“Suppose what you’re feeling is the lure of forbidden fruit. You won’t be able to come back when you’ve had enough.”

“I’ve thought of that. Am I supposed to be stronger than Eve was?”

Guttle began to arrange Dvorah’s curls. “Well, it’s not the Garden of Eden you’d be leaving.” She pressed her thumb hard against Dvorah’s lips. “Aside from, you should pardon the expression, Jesus, what does Paul offer that Lev doesn’t?”

“You need me to tell you? Theater. Picnics in the park. Fancy dress balls. Silk every day of the week, if I want. Fresh air for me and my children to breathe — they own a chateau in the Black Forest. Sailing on lakes in the mountains. A trip every year to Paris, where the fashions are. But I can put it in a simpler way. No walls. No gates. That’s what Paul has to offer.”

“He’s your Melka.”

“But he’s not, don’t you see? He’s real.”

Guttle breathed deeply, looked around the room, then, reluctantly, back at her friend. She wished Paul von Brunwald never had entered the lane. He had come, like almost all the Gentiles who passed through the gates, just out of curiosity. To look at the Jews in the zoo. Now this. “You make it sound so nice. Mountains. Lakes. Paris. Who wouldn’t want those things? It makes me a little jealous, I hate to admit. But look at the price. Look what you’d be giving up.”

“Look out the window, Guttle. That’s what I’d be giving up.”

“That, and your children.”

“What are you talking about? The children are coming with me.”

“Paul wants that?”

“Of course. We’re a family.”

“What about Lev? He’ll never let you take them.”

“Of course he will. He can hardly raise them by himself.”

Something glistening and bright beneath the edge of the bed had been distracting Guttle. She reached to the floor, drew up a small silver flask. Liquid sloshed inside it. She peered at an engraving on one face — two standing lions holding aloft a quarter moon. If pressed, she would guess it was the escutcheon of the House of Brunwald. “And this? ”