The Origin of Sorrow (53 page)

The candle had burned out during the night, and Brendel awoke in a darkness more complete than she had ever known. Not a morsel of light penetrated the stone cellar, not even along the edges of the trap door, which Guttle had covered with a rug. At first she had no remembrance of where she was. Normally happy and eager upon awakening, she sat up slowly, filled with an undefined grief from the past. She tried to wriggle from under it, as she wriggled her long legs from under the sheet that covered her. Reaching out, touching a cold stone wall, she was shocked into the present, the danger to Yussel. Only then did she hear him snoring. The absence of light had banished time, but her body had grown used to waking when it was the hour to go the Café and light the wood stove to bake her daily breads. Yussel’s snores, too, were an indicator of morning; he only snored towards dawn, on those mornings when inner anguish had kept him awake through the night. Patting about in the dark, seeking her undergarments, her hand touched the candleholder. Her fingers found the tin of matches. Wick enough remained on the candle to hold a flame as she dressed, climbed the steps to the trap door, managed to push it open despite the weight of the rug that covered it. Yussel still was snoring as she left the cellar and lowered the door beneath her.

Her body had been true to the time, much like a sleeping animal’s. Dawn had awoken, the lane was lurching to life as she clutched her shawl around her and hurried to the Café. A few steps ahead of her she saw Rebecca, dressed in black, as she walked to the hospital. Brendel strode quickly, tugged at the Doctor’s sleeve. When Rebecca turned, she seemed at first not to recognize her friend, as if her mind was far away, as if she was in a trance.

“Are you all right?” Brendel asked. “You look as if you’re grieving.”

“I’m fine,” Rebecca said, clearing her throat of morning phlegm. “But you — you’ve been crying.”

Brendel shook her head, not wanting to speak of Yussel. She kissed Rebecca’s cheek and hurried on towards the Café, wondering what was wrong with the Doctor. She knew Rebecca would never confess to a problem, would say that nothing was wrong even if she were dying; her feelings were as hidden as Brendel’s were obvious.

She was a little bit late in opening, she realized when she found Hiram Liebmann waiting outside the Café, arms folded, sketch pad leaning against the wall. She unlocked the door, motioned to him to enter, and quickly lit the stove in the kitchen. After putting up water for his chocolate, she went to wash herself. She felt bereaved, as if Yussel already had been taken by the police. When she checked her face in the mirror, near the bed she rarely used, she looked it, with charcoal smudges beneath her eyes, red circles rimming her whites. Like most women in the lane, she did not wear powder. She splashed cold water on her face, hoping that would help.

She was glad her boys had rented a room from Moish Rothschild in the Hinterpfann; she would not want them to see her like this. Daniel, who was nineteen, was working at the Zig-Zig stable as a blacksmith, following his father’s path, though she did not like to think of it that way; the smell of molten iron, the sizzle as it was cooled, must have crept into his veins when he was little. Joshua, seventeen, was in his final year at the yeshiva. Drying her face with a towel, she vowed to cry no more, to look her best when the boys came for supper.

When she stepped back into the Café she found that Hiram had helped her by opening the shutters wide and moving the outdoor tables into place. She carried his chocolate to him as he sat in his favorite spot, with a view down the lane. Trying to calm herself, to rest for a moment, she sat across the small table from him. Hiram frowned at her, pointing to her eyes, his brow furrowing, asking in his silent manner what was wrong. She squeezed his hand upon the table, thanking him for his concern. She shook her head, not wanting to speak of it, not with her voice, not with her hands. After a glance up the lane — the Polizei could come at any time — she returned to the kitchen to mold her breads. Her hands were shaky as she kneaded the dough. She hoped Yussel would sleep in the cellar all day. Perhaps, if the police came while he was there, she could tell them he had fled, that he had gone to Hesse-Kassel, or Hanover, somewhere beyond their jurisdiction; perhaps even to France. If they believed her, perhaps they would not come again.

Perhaps.

Rabbi Emil Simcha had just left the synagogue after conducting morning services when he saw the Chief Rabbi’s wife looking out the second story window of their adjacent house. Gilda Eleazar called to him, told him to get Rabbi Jonah and come upstairs, her husband wanted to speak to them together. Raising a dark eyebrow, Simcha wondered what that could mean. Surely Eleazar was not yet dying. And even if he had made his choice, why call in the two of them?

They found the Chief Rabbi propped up on his pillows, smiling, appearing more cheerful than he had for weeks. Rabbi Jonah, a large man with a full white beard and a full head of white hair, went to the side of the Chief Rabbi’s bed. Simcha, much younger than the other two, stood respectfully at the foot of the bed.

“So much wisdom in one bedroom,” the rebbetzin said, entering to see if they wanted tea. “Maybe not seen since Sarah and Abraham conceived.”

Simcha smiled at this rare public display of the wit with which Gilda Hoerner had won the heart of Avram Eleazar more than fifty years earlier; the rebbetzin had been content to bury her light in her husband’s massive shadow ever since. Rabbi Jonah did not smile at her joke; perhaps, Simcha thought, after thirty years as head of the yeshiva, he no longer registered the voices of women. Or perhaps he found her remark blasphemous.

“No tea, Gilda,” the Chief Rabbi said. “I have here a circumcision to perform.”

Simcha and Jonah glanced at one another, wondering if their mutual friend had lost his senses. Gilda left the room, a smile spreading across her wooden teeth.

“Don’t be frightened, I have no knife,” the Chief Rabbi said. “Besides, you both were circumcised long ago.” He reached to his bedside table, lifted a glass of water, drank from it, set it down. “I only meant that you are both dear to me, as its foreskin is to an infant — but in the matter of choosing my successor, I have no choice but to cut one of you off.”

Simcha and Jonah could hardly relax; what they had suspected this meeting might be about was correct. The chair beside the Rabbi’s bed beckoned; neither dared to sit.

“Instead of telling my successor in private, I have summoned you both so you could hear my reasoning. I decided that would be the best thing to do to ensure your future cooperation in the service of the Judengasse.”

Simcha thought: Joint Chief Rabbis? That would hardly work. What if they disagreed on some important issue?

“Rabbi Jonah, you have been a wonderful director of the yeshiva. For three decades you and your staff have turned out fine scholars. Ever since we attended rabbinical school together in Hanover, you have been my closest friend. If I choose you, I told myself, you will make a fine successor in upholding the sacred traditions.”

Jonah nodded with pursed lips, acknowledging Eleazar’s words.

“And you, Rabbi Simcha,” the Chief Rabbi said, gazing toward the foot of the bed. “Despite the difference in our ages, we have worked closely together for almost twenty years. By this time, you know all that I know about presiding over the lane. The young people in particular love you, perhaps more than they respect me — don’t think I’m not aware of that — and the young, of course, are the future. So there was ample reason to choose you as well.”

Impassive, Simcha said nothing.

“I am not King Solomon. I came up with no brilliant answer. I had to choose between you. My choice was Rabbi Jonah.”

Jonah coughed to conceal his delight at the achievement of his lifelong ambition. Simcha, knowing Eleazar’s precision in speech, wondered at his choice of words.

“I say my choice ‘was,’” the Chief Rabbi continued, “because I have been overruled.”

Jonah could not contain his question, it popped from his mouth like a live animal. “Who can overrule the Chief Rabbi?”

“Adonai, of course.”

He went on to recount what had happened, the threat to Jonah’s heart if he were chosen. “Unlike Abraham with Isaac,” the Chief Rabbi said, “I did not think it was a chance I should take.”

Rabbi Jonah was holding one hand to his chest. “Of course not,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse.

“So now you know why I summoned both of you. Both of you were chosen, as it were. But it is Simcha who shall serve. You, Jonah, shall remain director of the yeshiva, with the knowledge that Adonai is indeed watching. Jonah, tell the Schul-Klopper to announce the decision at evening services today. I shall not last the week. Very likely I shall not last the night.”

“That can’t be true,” Simcha blurted. “You’re looking much better. You’re sounding much better.”

“That may be,” the Rabbi said, nestling his head more comfortably into his pillows. “But the angels are waiting.” He closed his eyes, no longer needing to be strong, his responsibilities drifting away like the smoke from all the chimneys in the lane.

42

In mid-afternoon, Guttle began to wonder about Yussel Kahn. She had seen Brendel leave in the morning, but she had not heard Yussel go. It was possible, with the younger children running up and down the stairs and in and out the door, shouting and playing, that he had left without her hearing him. But she decided to go down to the cellar and check. Pulling away the rug, lifting the trap door, she called down to him. There was no response. The open trap illuminated the ladder. Careful not to trip on her skirt, she climbed down, and turned, saying his name. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she discerned his form on the dirt floor. Reaching to touch him, to make sure he was well, to see if he was hungry, she recoiled suddenly with shame, and turned away. Yussel was naked. And so silent, he might be dead.

She shooed the thought away like a rat, but heard herself whimpering as she climbed the ladder to the vestibule. She left the trap open and hurried out the door. Wanting to run, not wanting to attract attention in case the police were in the lane, she forced herself to appear calm, but walked with rapid strides. At the hospital she hurried in and looked for Doctor Berkov in his office; it was empty. In the next office she found Rebecca at her desk.

“Where’s Lev? I need him to come quickly.,”

“He’s with a patient. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Yussel Kahn. He’s on the ground. He’s not moving.”

Rebecca quickly came around from her desk.

“We need Lev. He’s naked,” Guttle said.

“Stop being silly!”

Guttle led the way from the hospital to the Green Shield, and pointed to the trap door.

“Did he fall in?”

“No. Go look. But don’t look ”

Rebecca already was climbing down the latter. “Give me some light,” she called.

Guttle grabbed the vestibule lamp and the tin of matches beside it, lit the wick and placed the lamp in Rebecca’s upstretched hand. As she did, she heard a deep moan from below. “He’s alive!” she blurted, and started to climb down the ladder, then stopped. “Is he covered?”

“He’s covered,” Rebecca said.

The Doctor was kneeling beside Yussel, holding the lamp near his face, peering into his eyes. “Yussel, can you hear me?”

Yussel moaned.

“What happened?” the Doctor asked.

Slowly, Yussel raised himself to his elbows, peered around the cellar at the stone walls flickering yellow, as if trying to remember where he was. He placed his hand on his forehead. “I had a dream. A mob was chasing me, to hang me. The leader was Voltaire. He tried to grab me, saying ‘the Jew must die’. I wrenched myself from his grasp — and I woke up just before my head slammed into the wall.”

Rebecca peered at his forehead, where the skin had swelled and already was darkening. “He’s got a nasty bruise,” she said, as Guttle knelt beside her.

Yussel raised himself higher. “Voltaire — the hypocritical fraud.”

The Doctor checked each of his limbs, and found no damage.

Yussel sat up gingerly. “My head hurts.” He grimaced as he touched his scalp.

“Can you dress yourself?”

“I want to see Brendel.”

“Put your clothes on. I want to look at that bruise in the light.”

Watching his eyes narrow, then widen again, Guttle could see the dawning within him.

“I’m not going to hide anymore. Have the police come to take me away?”

“Nobody’s taking you away,” Rebecca said.

Guttle touched the Doctor’s shoulder. To Yussel, she said, “They haven’t come yet.”

Rebecca turned to Guttle, her face in the dim light a dark question mark.

“I’ll explain later,” Guttle said.

In the cabinet maker’s shop, Georgi Kremm was making a bookcase, inserting dowels, copying the precise style of his employer. Yussel had told him once how all the great painters had apprentices. Sometimes their paintings were labeled “From the School of Rembrandt.” Or whoever. This bookcase, Georgi vowed, would be from the School of Kahn. Few would be able to distinguish it from the master’s work.

Today, however, he was Yussel Kahn. Or would be, if the police came. Only two officers could recognize him, the two that had come to the lane that time, the tall one with the thin face and the shorter one with the round face. Those two he would not be able fool. But any others … He had thought about it much of the night. He did not know why the police wanted Yussel, but it could not be for anything terrible; Yussel was too good a man, too good a citizen. Yet apparently it was serious enough to cause Yussel to hide. Georgi had stuffed a roll of gulden into his pocket, money he’d earned in the shop. If there was a fine for what Yussel had done, he was prepared to pay it. A cheap enough price for all that he had learned. If the punishment were something more serious, perhaps a few months in jail … well, he might be dead if the Judengasse had not taken him in; he owed them something. Becoming Yussel, he would become a Jew even before the Rabbi sanctioned it. He would prove himself worthy. Worthiness, he had learned in his lessons with Rabbi Simcha, was what being a Jew was about. Worthiness not to your neighbors, not even to God. Worthiness to yourself.

In the morning he had been nervous, but as the hours passed with no police, he had relaxed. He liked himself better for his decision. Even if the police did not come, he had proved to himself his courage.

“Is Yussel Kahn here?”

Bent behind the bookcase, sandpapering the bottom shelf, he choked on sawdust as he heard the words. They had come at last. At least the voice of the officer sounded mild, not brutish. Georgi stood to face the unknown.

The officer was not wearing a uniform. He was dressed in a brown coat, beige breeches, white stockings. He was older than Georgi had expected, white hair showing around his ears beneath his tricorne. Perhaps he sat at a desk at the headquarters on the Fahrgasse.

“Is Yussel Kahn here?” the man repeated.

Georgi stepped from behind the bookcase, squared his shoulders. He had rehearsed this scene for hours in his bed. For a former peasant boy, the noblest moment of his life. “I am Yussel Kahn.” His voice did not waver.

“You are Yussel Kahn?” The stranger sounded disbelieving.

“At your service, officer.”

“Indeed. What is this masquerade?”

“If you’ll look at the banner outside, sir, you will see my name and profession. Yussel Kahn, Fine Wood Work.”

“Young man, I don’t know who you are. You could pretend to be Saint Peter, for all that I care. But I have known Yussel for more than twenty years. I have sold him dozens of books, and loaned him hundreds. I’ve furnished the very glue you’re using for those dowels. And you are not Yussel Kahn. Can we agree on that?”

Georgi looked at his feet, his face flushing. When he looked up again, he said, “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you were the police.”

“Do I look like the police? What would the police want with Yussel ?”

“I don’t know.”

“I see. I’m sure Yussel did not put you up to this impersonation. In any event, can you tell me where to find him?”

“I would guess he’s at Brendel’s Café, up the lane.”

“Ah, Fraülein Brendel. I’ve been hearing about her for years. And, young man . . .”

“Yes?”

“Do a good job with that bookshelf. I suspect it’s for my shop.”

Georgi was speechless as the bookseller walked out. He felt like a fish with a hook in his mouth, in the pond near their farm. Did this mean the police might still come for Yussel? He hoped not. He could feel his embarrassment melting his resolve. His act of courage had been a declaration of stupidity; he could see that now, and felt ashamed. Despite his Talmudic studies he had not yet overcome the unlearned peasant within.

“Some day!” he vowed, speaking aloud in the empty shop, and he resumed work with vigor on the bookseller’s new shelves. As he worked, he felt his mother watching him, heard her laughing raucously through broken teeth.

Doctor Kirsch had plastered a cut on Yussel’s forehead. Perched as it was on a large purple bruise, it was earning him sympathetic questions as he sat in the Café, drinking tea. Guttle had stayed with him. Meyer joined them upon returning from the city.

The cobbler Alexandre Licht, buying a piece of strudel to take to his shop, noticed the plaster and the bruise, and asked Yussel, “Did Brendel hit you with her frying pan?”

“Voltaire hit me,” Yussel said, “with his duplicity.”

The shoemaker peered, shrugged, not comprehending, and left, his belief affirmed that those people who read too much think too much.

The lane was busy with shoppers, with women returning from the market or the bakery, with children running about, the crowd now redoubling as the heder boys and the yeshiva boys were released from school and their younger siblings ran in and out among longer legs to meet them, the boys sometimes stopping suddenly to retrieve a fallen yarmulke, causing collisions of flesh and bone, sometimes causing tears. Brendel brought a fresh pot of tea to the table and refilled the glasses of Yussel, Meyer and Guttle. Yussel blinked, then rubbed his eyes, as from the passing mass of people a figure emerged that he recognized, but could not place. The bookseller spotted Yussel at once, and approached the table. Yussel jumped up, almost knocking over the table and all three glasses, which wobbled but held steady.

“Gluck! What are you doing here?”

“A nice greeting. Am I not welcome, then?”

“No one has ever been more welcome in my life. Unless you brought the police.”

“What is all this with the police?”

Remembering his manners, Yussel introduced the bookseller to Meyer, Guttle and Brendel, all of whom were too surprised to speak.

“Fraülein Isaacs,” Gluck said, “what a pleasure. You are even lovelier than in Yussel’s descriptions.”

“Am I?” She chucked Yussel’s shoulder.

“Sit,” Yussel said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in prison.”

“Why would I be in prison?”

“Because of … “Yussel stopped and looked around. “Because of the art books. I saw you arrested yesterday.”

“Ah.” The bookseller finally sat. Yussel, still standing, also sat. “Yes, I was arrested. It had nothing to do with that.”

“Nothing … ?”

Brendel almost swooned. “Thank God,” she said. Standing behind Yussel, her knees weakening, she squeezed his shoulders. “We were terrified — for nothing.”

Guttle and Meyer looked at one another. Meyer squeezed her hand.

“What, then?” Yussel said. “Why else would they take you away?”

“Nathan the Wise.”

“Nathan the … It’s banned! You were selling it!”

“I had them in the cellar. Someone saw me bring one up, and informed.”

“That’s wonderful!” Meyer said, laughing.

“Wonderful?” The bookseller looked puzzled, then hurt.

“What did they do to you?” Yussel asked.

“Do to me? Nothing. A fine of ten gulden. And a warning — next time a hundred gulden. That I cannot afford.”

“Gluck, I’m glad you came here. More than glad. But, if I may, why did you come?”

“To talk about the art books. The authorities will be watching me now. I can’t take the risk anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry! You’ve brought us wonderful news. We thought … I thought … never mind what I thought. Cowards die many times before their deaths.”

“Are you saying you’re a coward?” Meyer asked.

“Not me. Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare did not live in the Judengasse.”

“We’re not cowards,” Guttle said, “yet we die every day when the gates are locked.”

“Enough about death!” Brendel said. “Yussel is safe. We’re all safe. That’s what matters.”

Yussel kissed the midsection of her sky-blue dress, just above her apron. “A bottle of wine,” he said, looking up into her smile. “That new champagne. To celebrate!”

She bent and kissed the top of his head, between his bruise and his yarmulke, disappeared into the kitchen, returned with a bottle of Moët — which the French had recently begun exporting — and four wine glasses. Yussel with his strong hands popped the cork, and poured.

“What shall we toast?” Guttle asked.

“How about Mendelssohn?” the bookseller suggested, pointing to the framed drawing on the wall. “The real Nathan the Wise.”

“No,” Yussel said. He stood. “I will make the toast.” He held up his glass. “The simplest and the oldest toast in the world. And the most profound. L’ Chaim!”

“L’ Chaim!” the others echoed in unison, and sipped the champagne. Brendel’s smiling lips sipped from Yussel’s glass.

Yussel sat. “L’ Chaim,” he repeated softly, in a voice both weary and relieved. Never before had the commonplace toast meant so much to him. L’ Chaim. To life.

“About your helper,” the bookseller said. He motioned to Yussel’s bruise. “Did you and he knock heads together? He seems to think he is you.”

“He thinks he is me?”

“That’s not acceptable,” Brendel said. “Not without proof.” She winked at the bookseller, and went to attend to the customers now streaming in.

Yussel’s eyes followed her with adoration. “L’ Chaim!” he said again, and he raised his glass and drank, the bubbles of the odd new wine tickling the roof of his mouth. Licking his lips for the last drop, setting down the glass, he murmured it quietly, again. To life.