The Origin of Sorrow (26 page)

“By sending a horse to kick me in the head?”

“Galloping horses we don’t see in the lane very often.” The Rabbi eased himself onto the wooden chair beside the bed. “You were running in a reckless state, I gather. You might have tripped on a cobble and fell face first into the filth of the ditch. You might have broken your leg, much as the horse did. Perhaps Yahweh sent an angel in the form of a horse to protect you.”

“An angel in the form of a horse?”

“In the form of an angel it would have caused a lot of talk.” The Rabbi stroked his beard by way of grinning.

His words were comforting. She promised the Rabbi she would think about that.

She was propped up in bed, leaning on pillows, when Doctor Kirsch returned. She said her head felt better, and asked if the Doctor could stay. The Doctor sat on the edge of the bed, and waited.

“Why do people feel jealous?” Guttle asked.

Surprised, the Doctor took time to think. “I suppose it’s a fear, emerging from deep inside us, that someone else will get what we want. Or take away what we have.”

“If you’re wondering why I’m asking, I got hurt because I was jealous.”

“Perhaps you were punishing yourself. We have a bad conscience, and an accident happens. Perhaps we make it happen.”

“It was stupid of me to be jealous of Meyer Amschel. Don’t you think?”

“That’s for you to decide, Guttle. Why were you jealous?”

“The widow from Mainz told me she likes him. She’s very … appealing.”

“Do you really think she could take Meyer from you? Meyer likes the way you look, the way you think, the way you make your jokes. Otherwise you wouldn’t be betrothed.”

Guttle looked down at the blanket covering her legs. “But what if . . .” She flushed, and could not complete the sentence.

“Oh, that’s what you’re concerned about — what if the widow is … appealing … at things you have never done.”

“Meyer is twenty-six, he must have done those things. That alone makes me nervous.”

“You should hope he has. A teacher has to learn his subject before he can teach it. I’m sure Meyer will be a good teacher.”

“But the widow… ?”

“If you trust Meyer in other things, you need to trust him in this as well. Meyer travels a lot on business, does he not? There are lots of widows out there. Either you’ll trust Meyer, or you’ll make your life miserable.”

Guttle leaned forward, pressed her forehead against the Doctor’s shoulder, felt soothed by its warmth, its solidity.

“Perhaps because of the absence of sunlight,” the Doctor said, “many people in the lane seem to burn with an inner fire. You do, Meyer does, Yussel Kahn, Ephraim Hess — lots of others. Don’t waste your inner fire on things unworthy.”

The Doctor caressed her cheek. Guttle closed her eyes. Sleepily, she lay her head on the pillow.

Her father had been away at the court of Sachsen-Meiningen. When he returned and learned what had happened he rushed to the hospital, and hugged Guttle tightly, almost desperately. He looked at the patch on her temple. “Mein Gott, you could have been killed!”

“I know, Papa. That’s why I have to ask you something. I don’t want to die without being married.”

“Of course not. So?”

“So you should let Meyer and me get married right away.”

“In case another horse comes galloping before August?”

“You never know what can happen.”

“On the contrary, I do know what can happen. You can marry on the twenty-ninth of August, as planned. Not a day before.”

“Oh, Papa!”

“I know you’re not feeling well, but don’t ‘Oh, Papa’ me. For one thing, I have to go see the Chief Rabbi, something about the message that courier brought. Then I’ll come back. But first I have to ask you something. Some heder boys saw me passing just now. They didn’t whisper, ‘That’s the Court Jew,’ as they sometimes do. Do you know what they said?”

She waited.

“They said, ‘That’s the Papa of the girl who stopped the horse.’”

Guttle covered her face with her hands.

“Wait, there’s more. Some of them applauded, and shouted, ‘Hurrah, his daughter saved the children.’”

Uncomprehending, Guttle looked at him. “What are they talking about?”

“You’re asking me? I’m the one who’s asking you.”

22

Rabbi Eleazar was seated at his desk, wearing a yarmulke instead of his tall round fur hat, when Wolf Schnapper knocked on the door and was told to enter. Rabbi Simcha sat in an upholstered armchair. Both appeared grim, as if another friend had died. Simcha asked how Guttle was recuperating, then the Chief Rabbi handed Schnapper a letter on yellow parchment. “From the Frankfurt Council,” the Rabbi said. “By the courier your blessed daughter knocked off his horse. One would think she knew what he was carrying.”

Wolf’s insides churned beneath his waistcoat. The Frankfurt Council rarely if ever sent good news. He pulled his spectacles from an inner pocket, put them on and read the letter. His right hand fell to his side, limp. Lifting the parchment, he scanned it again, reading parts aloud, as if the others had not parsed it several times.

“Your request that we permit Jews to walk in the parks and promenades without hindrance is denied … The request for equality is one more proof of the boundless arrogance of this nation which makes every effort at every opportunity to advance itself … If we granted the request, Christian women walking on the promenade might be harassed by hordes of Jews.”

Simcha muttered, “Such boundless arrogance. The nerve of us.”

Wolf handed back the letter. “Six months it took them to come up with that?”

“Apparently it was a difficult decision,” Simcha said dryly.

“Now we have a difficult decision,” the Chief Rabbi said. “Since you are Chairman of the council at present, you should be part of it. The question is, how to tell this to the congregation. Or whether to tell them at all.”

“The request last spring was secret,” Wolf said. “But there have been rumors.”

“Everyone knows the courier was from the Frankfurt Council,” Rabbi Simcha said. “People will want to know what it was about.”

The Chief Rabbi stroked his beard, his stubby fingers idly combing errant hairs. “We’ll have to let it be known. The question is, how? Should we summon a public meeting?”

“That would raise expectancy — and create serious disappointment,” Wolf said. “Perhaps a lot of anger.”

“Or I could announce it at morning services.”

“It’s not really a spiritual matter,” Rabbi Simcha said.

The Chief Rabbi raised his eyebrows at this fine distinction, though he knew that was Simcha’s way.

“You could fasten the letter to the door of the schul,” Wolf said. “Everyone will read it soon enough. The disappointment will not be great, since no one expected more.”

“Like Luther nailing his protests,” Simcha said.

Rabbi Eleazar raised his eyebrows again. “That might be the simplest. I’ll have the shammus do the nailing tomorrow, instead of me.” He glanced wryly at Simcha. “So it won’t look too spiritual.”

Guttle spent the night in the hospital at the insistence of Doctor Kirsch, who wanted to be certain no delayed problems surfaced. When, the next morning, Guttle said she felt fine, the Doctor asked Dvorah to accompany her home.

As they walked slowly up the lane, they saw a knot of people gathered. The dead stallion still lay in the ditch, still covered with flies. Two city workers, stepping into the muck wearing high boots, were fastening belts and chains around the corpse. A strange predicament for an angel, Guttle thought. A heavy wagon pulled by four dray horses had been driven to the gate, but was too wide to fit into the lane on either side of the ditch.

As the friends reached the group of onlookers, people recognized them and opened a path. “It’s the girl who stopped the horse!” someone said, and the others began to clap.

Guttle’s face flushed. Her temple began to throb under her patch. She leaned toward Dvorah. “Why are they doing that?”

“I don’t know.”

Other people came to see what the applause was about. Word skirted among them like a weasel. “It’s the girl who stopped the horse!”

Guttle saw Avra and her friends beside the ditch a bit further along. She pulled her sister aside. “What’s the clapping about?”

“It’s for you, silly.”

“Why?”

“Because you saved those children.”

“What children?”

“The little ones playing in the lane. You ran out and stopped that galloping horse with your head. If you hadn’t, the children might have been killed.”

“You saw me do that?”

“I didn’t, but other people did. Izzy told me. The whole lane knows.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t get modest now, Guttle, not when I’m finally proud to be your sister.”

“I don’t believe this!”

“Neither did I. But you’ve got a patch on your head to prove it.”

Guttle walked back to Dvorah. “There’s been a mistake. They think I saved some children by stopping the horse.”

“Maybe you did.”

“I didn’t see any children.”

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t there. Did you look down the lane?”

“Of course not. I heard the hoof beats, I turned toward the horse.”

“There you are.”

“But I wasn’t trying to stop the horse. I was trying to avoid being trampled.”

Meyer Amschel had come up beside them and was listening, smiling, grateful to see her on her feet. “Perhaps it’s as you told me at the Fair,” he said. “What’s good for Guttle is good for the world.”

She didn’t smile. “I have to explain to them.”

Meyer put a finger on her lips. “The Judengasse has few enough heroes. Why take a new one away? Besides, you may have saved some children, whether you intended to or not. Their mothers, I’m sure, don’t care what was in your mind.”

“Hold me,” Guttle said.

He wrapped his arms around her. “By the way,” he said, his lips almost touching her ear. “The answer to your question, which you ran from me too quickly to hear, is no. I didn’t get into bed with her.”

Who first read the document on the door after Izzy nailed it up is lost to history. Some say it was Sophie Marcus, but that is only legend. One man, then another, then as word spread small groups of other men, pressed close to read the Frankfurt Council’s words excoriating them for seeking equality. They muttered and cursed, and in a rare lapse of equanimity about this continuing insult — this imprisonment — of three centuries, strode up the lane in the direction of the two police officers who had come to assess the horse problem, the two city workers, and the lifeless beast. Some of the men were shouting epithets against the Frankfurt Council. People stepped out of shops and looked out windows to see what was happening. Some added their presence to what was becoming a small protest. As they neared his rag shop, Ephraim Hess heard what they were shouting, heard what was posted at the synagogue. His face grew warm, his blood grew hot. He joined the line of men directly at the front, as was his way, holding a large green apple into which he had just bitten. As the men neared the Constables, the Kapitän, his muscles tensing, let his hand rest on the handle of the pistol in his belt. The junior officer fingered his musket. A man beside Ephraim bent and picked up a handful of mud and rolled it into a ball. Others did the same. Seeing what was happening in front of their shop, Eva ran to Ephraim and demanded that he come back inside. When he refused she tried to take the apple. Gently but firmly he pushed her away.

Shouts against the Frankfurt Council grew louder. The front line of men was ten metres from the officers and the horse. Ephraim sensed that a climax was approaching. Something had to happen now or all this pent-up fury would drain away, and the men would feel impotent. Not knowing if he was being a hero or a fool, and not caring, he stepped further in front of the others, reared his arm back in a clear indication that he was about to throw the apple. The Kapitän pulled his long-barreled pistol from his waistband, held it level in front of him with an outstretched arm, the barrel pointed directly at the rag dealer. Children who had been watching the horse, as if for signs of life, held their breath. The entire north end of the Judengasse seemed to hold its breath.

“No, no, no!” Eva cried out, but as she ran towards him Ephraim did what he had intended all along. He fired the green apple at the horse.

The apple smacked into the horse’s flank, making a soft thud. It did not bounce off but remained imbedded in the muck with which the horse was covered. The captain lowered his pistol, held it at his side. The men beside Ephraim read the policeman’s message: it was okay to assault the horse. Those who had made balls of mud hurled them at the dead animal. Some hit and stuck, others splattered on impact, a few missed altogether. From a third floor window an onion came hurtling down and made a direct hit on the stallion’s back. Little boys picked up bits of mud and threw them as best they could at the beast. More food hurtled down from kitchen windows on both sides of the lane — a potato, a small green cabbage, another onion. Some hit the horse and stuck, others landed in the muck beside it. Children ran into their houses and came out with grapes to throw. The captain replaced his pistol under his coat. The two officers tried to hide smiles as the dead beast blossomed, under a rain of epithets, into a ripe vegetable garden.

The men whom a minute earlier had been an incipient mob began to point and laugh at their handiwork, and cheered the women at the windows. Draping arms over one another’s shoulders, they sauntered back down the lane to their places of business, the decision of the Frankfurt Council defused, if not forgotten. “After all,” they told one another, “what’s new? From those swine, who could have expected more?”

Watching from in front of the Pfann, Meyer Amschel mused on Yahweh’s curious ways. Where would the anger have been directed, and with what result, if the Council’s horse had not been in the ditch?

Rebecca Kirsch had been busy in the hospital all morning. She was distressed to hear that the dead horse remained in the lane. “Who knows what’s breeding in its sores?” she said to Dvorah. She hurried to where the two city workers were standing with hands on their hips. The policemen had left after the protesters dispersed.

“Why aren’t you pulling out the horse?” the Doctor asked.

“The wagon won’t fit in here. We need more men. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

The Doctor looked around for a face she recognized, and approached Avra. “Please go to the yeshiva. Tell them we need six strong boys to move the horse.”

Avra ran off. Noting the stallion’s new vegetable appointments, the Doctor rolled her eyes. She kneeled beside the blasted head, could see several kinds of vermin crawling in the dried blood, the broken eyes. With one of Leeuwenhoek’s microscopes, she thought, she would see a lot more. All these animalcules, as the Dutchman had called them, swimming inside the horse, inside ourselves. Each a thousand times smaller than the eye of a louse, he’d written. God alone knew what they were for. And He wasn’t telling.

As Rebecca shooed away three small children who had edged up close to look, Avra came running back, breathless, alone.

“Where are the boys?”

“Rabbi Jonah said no.”

“He said no? How could he say no?”

“He said learning the Talmud is more important than dead horses.”

The Doctor turned away, furious, trying not to spew out the phrases that came to mind. She could not go confront the director of the yeshiva; she was too new here. She glanced at the spectators; they were mostly children now. Pointing to one stout woman, she said, “You, come help me. Please. We can’t wait till tomorrow.”

“The bakery has lots of women,” Avra reminded her. The girl had taken over Guttle’s weekly job, the winnowing and boiling of the beetles.

“Go see if they can spare four strong women without ruining the bread.”

Glad to be useful, Avra hurried off. She returned followed by her mother and Frau Metzenbaum and two other sturdy women. When they saw the beast, Frau Metzenbaum said, “Too bad a horse isn’t kosher. There’s everything we need for a stew.”

“In your kitchen, not mine,” Emmie Schnapper replied.

Pointing at the chains already affixed to the horse, Doctor Kirsch turned to the city workers. “You two grab the first links, in the ditch. You’ve got boots. We’ll help you.”

She lined up the women behind the two men, grabbing part of one chain herself. Avra saw that the lines were unbalanced, and took hold of the other chain.

“All right, prepare yourselves,” the Doctor said. “Now, everyone, pull!”

At first they could not budge the horse. When it did inch forward, it slipped back deeper into the sewage as the women relaxed their muscles.

“We can do better!” Rebecca called out. “It’s to prevent your children from becoming ill. Take a deep breath. Now, pull!”

The two men and the six women, straining, pulled together. The horse began to inch up out of the ditch. “Keep pulling!” Rebecca yelled, as the chain pressed into the bones of her slim fingers, as she felt her shoulders wanting to tear. “Brace yourselves with your legs!” she shouted, and they did. The horse, its skin oiled by greasy kitchen wastes, began gliding out more easily. ”We’ve got it, keep pulling,” she yelled, and little by little they inched the horse up out of the ditch and onto the cobbles.

Breathing hard, the women dropped the chains and blew into their hands. They wanted to lick the bruised spots but saw rust from the chains on their palms and fingers and wiped them on their skirts instead. “And thank you, too,” Rebecca said to the city workers, not quite sarcastically.

“We’re not done yet, missus,” one of them said. “We have to get it to the wagon.”

Rebecca looked to the north gate, and beyond, to where the wagon stood, the four dray horses growing uneasy as they smelled their dead stable mate. The distance was at least forty metres. It wasn’t fair to ask these women to do that, Rebecca thought; her own hands wouldn’t do her patients much good for a day or two, even now. But the screeching sounds of the chains scraping the cobbles, then the sight of the women hauling the turd-dripping horse, had summoned some of the nearby men. The rag dealer came, the cabinet maker, Meyer Rothschild, several others. Weary, with no breath left with which to speak, Rebecca pointed to the wagon. Eight men grabbed hold of the chains and bent their backs under them, and pulled the resisting horse along the cobbles, where it left a long smear of yellow-brown muck, out of the lane to the rear of the large wagon, onto a flat metal slab. The city workers took over from there.