The Origin of Sorrow (27 page)

Most of the men rarely did physical labor, and as they strolled back on the far side of the ditch, joking, they were proud of their accomplishment. They also felt good for having come to the aid of the women — whose burden now would be to clean the slimy cobbles.

After she had slept and bathed and changed her clothing, Guttle went to Hannah Schlicter’s sewing room, and chose the red and yellow fabrics for Meyer’s flag; she did not buy the cloth from his brothers because she wanted the banner to be a surprise. Frau Schlicter refused to charge her; she said the cloth was a betrothal gift. Guttle had been ordered by Doctor Kirsch to rest. While she did, she cut and sewed the banner.

The following morning, Yussel Kahn brought over the sign he had made proclaiming Meyer a court agent. With pride, Meyer nailed it to his door while Yussel and Guttle watched. When he was through inspecting it, Guttle unveiled her surprise: the same words in red on the yellow banner, on both sides:

Meyer Amschel Rothschild

Court Agent

In red in the center was the crown Prince’s coat of arms.

Meyer held the banner like a treasure. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s to hang in the lane, above the alley. So people will know where to find you.”

Yussel went to his shop and brought back his thickest wooden dowel. He and Meyer affixed the dowel to the wall above the alley, perpendicular to the tenement. When they hung the yellow banner from it, the flag was visible from the north gate to the point near the hospital where the lane curved. As they worked, first children, then some adults gathered to see what they were doing. When the adults could read the letters on the flag they began to cheer and applaud. Others heard, and came out from their shops, and looked, and joined in.

“I didn’t know I was so popular,” Meyer said.

Someone called out, “It’s the girl who stopped the horse!” The cheering grew louder.

The hanging of the banner turned out to be a major event in the lane — not so much that day but in the days and weeks that followed. For years there had been only a few faded banners, so familiar as to be hardly noticed. Now Hannah Schlicter, seeing how cheerful Meyer’s flag looked, and filled with confidence, because the Countess von Brunwald had ordered three expensive dresses, made a banner for herself, a simple one:
H. Schlicter, Dressmaker.
She chose white letters on dark green, so as not to compete with Meyer’s flag, and she hung it from her second-floor window. Yussel thought such a banner might help his business, and paid Hannah to sew one for him, in blue and gold:
Yussel Kahn, Fine Wood Work.
Not to be outdone, Otto Kracauer told Ida to make one for the boys, in red on beige: O.
Kracauer & Sons, Feather Merchants.
Day after day, new banners appeared up and down the lane, hanging from the second story or the third or the fourth, over money-lenders, second hand clothing shops, junk shops, jewelers, wig makers, cake shops, tailors, dressmakers. Like a garden in spring, the Judengasse bloomed from a somber gray-brown into a multicolored festival.

When she was fully recovered from the horse’s kick, and with Meyer taking the coach to Worms to look at coins and antiques, Guttle decided it was time to view her new job as his assistant more seriously. She’d asked for instruction from her father about books and ledgers; now she looked for Meyer’s ledgers to make sure they were in order. She couldn’t find them anywhere in the office. He might keep them up in his bedroom, she thought, but she didn’t feel she should look up there. Instead, she opened the wooden money chest, on the floor against the wall, to do an accounting. The chest was three-quarters filled with small pouches. Some were made of leather, others of canvas or plain cotton. Each was heavy with coins and bills. On the outside of each were small ink notations of the amount of money in the pouch, followed by letters and numbers she did not understand. She guessed they were Meyer’s symbols for who had paid the money, and what for. Also in the chest were a scattering of loose coins. They either had spilled from pouches that had opened, she figured, or were small payments Meyer had not bothered to wrap.

Adding up the money listed on the pouches, and noting the amounts on a sheet of paper, took much of the morning. When she realized the pouches might not contain what the notations said, she started again, opening each pouch to count the contents herself. All the notations turned out to be correct.

She was slumping over the desk wearily when Meyer returned in late afternoon, carrying a small Greek figurine — a fine Aphrodite, he said — and a sack of coins and medals. He kissed her hair. “What have you been doing?”

“Counting the money.” She raised her head and shoulders from the desk. “I couldn’t find your ledger.”

“Probably because I don’t have one.”

“How can you do business without a ledger?”

“I keep it in my head. Looking at columns of numbers makes my brain hurt.”

Guttle’s eyes came into sharper focus. “Look at you! You bought a wig.”

He took off his hat so she could see it better. The hair in the gray wig swept back over his ears and was knotted elegantly in the back. “I thought a court agent should look more proper. Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful. It’s so distinguished.”

“Exactly the image I was looking for. To insure confidence. I won’t wear it in the lane, of course.”

She stood to examine his new hair. Eyes sparkling, she said, “Now I have two men to kiss. I hope neither will be angry.” She pressed her lips to his. Slowly lifting off his wig, and setting it carefully on the desk, she kissed him again.

“I like this game,” Meyer said. “Which man is the better kisser? I think perhaps you need more samples.”

Guttle laughed merrily, but turned away. “I think perhaps we should get back to business. You need to have a ledger. I know how to set it up.”

“Then it will be both of my pleasures to allow you.”

“Do you know how much money you have in the chest?”

“I can tell you exactly. Three thousand four hundred gulden and fifty-six kreuzer.”

“That’s close. Three thousand
three
hundred gulden and fifty-six kreuzer.” She showed him the list she had compiled.

“I’m afraid you’ve made a slight mistake.” From his waistcoat pocket he extricated a sheet of paper that had been folded and refolded so many times it was near to falling apart. He unfolded it carefully and handed it to her. On the sheet were several columns of numbers, each number with a line through it. Only the bottom number of the last column was not crossed out. “You see,” Meyer said. “I’m right.”

Guttle became upset. “I didn’t ask you what number you had written on a piece of paper. I asked you how much money is in the chest. There’s a hundred fewer gulden in the chest.”

“Not possible. I’ll tell you what. We’ll count it again. Together.”

“Meyer Amschel, I’ve spent all day counting it. Not once, but twice. You’re welcome to count the money as many times as you like. It’s almost time for supper, I hope you won’t mind if I go and rest my eyes.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to doubt your work. If you counted it twice, you must be correct.” He lifted her from the chair and hugged her, and kissed her cheek. She felt limp, and too weary to kiss him back. “You go rest, have a good supper,” he said. “Give my regards to your family. I’ll see you here in the morning.”

Guttle walked slowly down the alley. Meyer watched her go. When she had disappeared from view, he knelt beside the wooden chest, and with a slight sense of guilt and a stronger sense of foreboding, he began to count the money.

As Guttle approached the Owl, Izzy emerged from the adjacent house, curved hammer in hand. It was time for the Schul-Klopper to summon worshippers to evening service. She gave him a quick hug, as she always did these days upon encountering him; she knew he needed repeated assurances that, despite her betrothal, they still were best friends.

“I need to ask you something,” she said. “When I got kicked by the horse, did you really see children in the lane?”

“I didn’t, but Hiram did. From his window. He showed me the drawing in his book. The black horse charging, you throwing yourself in front of it, three little ones a few metres down the lane. Hiram’s book is the truth, he draws only what he sees.” A breeze curled up the lane from the river, raising dust, setting the new flags to flapping. “This horse episode is like a story from the Torah, which needs interpretation.”

“A dead horse in the ditch — is that a heavenly sign? Do we all need to fast or something?”

“The real question is, if you didn’t know children were in danger, why throw yourself in front of the horse? If the story were in Genesis, what would the Rabbis make of it?”

“Izzy … ”

“I know! Perhaps an angel saved the children. Angels are incorporeal, they have no bodies. Perhaps a passing angel saw the children in danger, and invaded your body to stop the horse.”

“That’s very funny.”

“Why?”

“The Chief Rabbi thinks the horse was an angel.”

“See! We need a conclave of Rabbis. To get a Talmudic interpretation.”

She reached up and smoothed an errant lock of his always errant hair. “Iz, this Torah project is warping your brain. You need to be a boy again.”

He ignored her words. “What if both deductions are correct? An angel in a horse, and an angel in a girl, crashing together! What would the ancient Rabbis make of that?”

She saw movement over his shoulder, a figure in a black coat. “Here comes Hiram with his hammer. You’d better go do your Schul-Klopping. Some other time I’ll tell you why I got kicked by the horse. When we’re very old.”

Hiram approached and stood beside Izzy. When the boy continued talking, his deaf assistant clenched a fistful of his shirt at the shoulder and pulled him away, toward the first house on their rounds.

Upstairs, resting on her bed, closing her eyes, Guttle tried to envision the moments before she and the horse collided. She remembers running through the alley, in a fury at Meyer. With her mind’s eye now she sees small flashes of color far to the left. She hears again the onrushing hooves. Could those flashes of color have been children? Could she in fact have divined a terrible accident coming, and rushed out to stop the horse before it ran down and possibly killed the little ones? Could the image of the children have been jarred from her head by the horse’s kick? Is that why she does not remember them? Perhaps in fact she had been trying to save them. Perhaps in fact she is deserving of applause. Could she tell this to people?

The notion caused her to squirm, induced sweat beneath her arms, between her thighs. To do so would appear as if she were belatedly seeking praise. They had already applauded her.

The rolling thoughts were making her head hurt. She doubted she had the courage to do such a thing. What if this new vision is a false memory, playing tricks? She did not know the truth of her actions. Perhaps there are often times when we don’t.

Meyer tossed the last pouch of money into the chest and slumped in his chair. Guttle had been correct; he knew that would be the case, since she’d counted twice. But his figure was also correct, and the implications were grave. A hundred gulden was missing — and therefore stolen.

One possible thief came readily to mind. Hersch Liebmann. He’d had plenty of access, especially when they were at the Fair; he’d been angry at Meyer; he had quit his job right after.

Meyer realized he was still wearing his coat, his vest. He took them off and hung them properly, and felt his stomach rumble; he had not eaten since breakfast, he hadn’t taken time to seek a kosher lunch in Worms. Now it was night and he felt not hunger but nausea. The notion of Hersch as a thief was eating his insides. To make such an accusation would be a serious affair. But a hundred missing gulden could not be ignored.

He went up the stairs and stretched out on his bed in his clothing — and sat up abruptly. If Hersch had taken this money, he might well have stolen from the synagogue when he worked there! What was it the stricken Leo Liebmann had been murmuring? Something about money. Money and rabbits. Meyer felt cold sweat form on his forehead.

There was little room upstairs to pace. Knowing he would not sleep, Meyer lit a candle in a lantern and carried it down to the lane. The night was dark, the lamps in most apartments had been extinguished for the night. The temperature had dropped sharply during the past few hours, the first hint of winter was in the air, but he did not go back for a coat. Lighting his way with the lantern, he walked slowly south, as far as the synagogue, crossed the ditch to the hospital, where lamps glowed faintly inside. Was Lev Berkov there? Perhaps he should go in and speak with him.

He decided not to. He began to walk back. Unwelcome new connections were splicing in his brain. If … then . . .

The ultimate thought was hardly tolerable.

Up ahead his love was asleep in her third-floor bed. He recalled his first time, in Hanover, when he was sixteen. A widowed dressmaker across from the bank had taken a liking to him, shy though he was, and had shown him once and then repeatedly the pleasures of the night. When he left Hanover two years later he had learned to enjoy more things than coins. But here in the lane such pleasures, unless you were married, were frowned upon; one learned to abstain. Until the desire in the loins became too severe, began to interfere with study, with work, with sleep, and then you either sought relief by yourself, and felt guilty afterward, or went to the whore-strewn streets near the town square and found unsatisfactory pleasure in the daylight of a ragged hotel. By setting the marriage age for men at twenty-five, the Frankfurt Council seemed to think that Jews did not have urges. More likely, they didn’t care.

“Meyer! Is that you? What are you doing out so late?”

The words were Guttle’s, half whispered, half spoken, from her window above. “I can’t sleep either. Wait, I’m coming down.”