The Origin of Sorrow (30 page)

“Hersch Liebmann is not stupid. Hersch Liebmann knew all this.

“Are those reasons enough for him to murder Herr Gruen? This time I suggest that they are. He had to silence the Schul-Klopper. The easiest weapon at hand was ratbane. He would not even have to leave his house and risk being seen — he need only offer the Schul-Klopper a poisoned drink when he came knocking.”

Meyer walked back to the table, drank more water, looked through some blank papers. Wanting the jurors to absorb his words, he stalled, glanced at the snow rising on the window sills.

“When Rabbi Eleazar presents his defense, he will tell you that what I have said is all speculation and supposition — that no one saw Hersch commit murder. I agree. What you must remember is that Solomon Gruen indeed was murdered — that is absolute fact. If not by Hersch Liebmann, who had such strong motives and such easy opportunity, then by whom?

“In a trial such as this, we must combine the physical evidence with logic. Remember, the Talmud agrees that a person can be tried for murder with no witnesses. That is the circumstance in which most murderers strike. If we insisted on witnesses, most murderers would go free. A terrible killing was committed in the lane on March 29th — and all logic points to Hersch Liebmann as the murderer.”

He looked from one face to another among the jurors. Slowly he turned his back to them and walked to his seat. “Herr Chairman, that is the case for the prosecution.”

The hall was silent with anticipation. Chairman Schnapper quietly asked the Chief Rabbi, “Do you want a rest before we proceed?”

“No, no, let’s get on with it.”

As Rabbi Eleazar stood, with his ship captain’s demeanor, a disturbance erupted among the spectators — a scuffling of chairs, a loud, almost inhuman bellowing sound. Hiram Liebmann had climbed onto his chair and was waving his arms, signaling wildly, trying to shout with useless vocal chords. The Chairman banged his gavel several times. “What’s going on back there?”

Hiram stopped his painful sounds, but continued to shout with his hands. All eyes in the hall were turned him.

“What does that man want?” Chairman Schnapper called out. “This is a trial we are conducting.”

Izzy stood from his seat beside Hiram. He, too, began to signal rapidly, before he realized he must speak. “It’s Hiram Liebmann. He wants to testify. He claims that he killed the Schul-Klopper.”

A conflagration of voices erupted among the spectators at this unexpected turn. The Chairman repeatedly banged his gavel for order. The defendant looked across the room at his brother, consternation and sadness in his eyes.

“Nonsense,” Meyer Amschel exclaimed. “He’s just trying to save his brother!”

“Will you let him testify?” the Chief Rabbi asked.

“It’s nonsense! He had no motive.”

“He’ll be under oath. Will you listen to him? What we want here is the truth.”

“He’ll just confuse the jury. He’ll muddy the case.”

“Isn’t that for the jury to decide?”

“He’s not on the witness list,” the Chairman said. “It’s up to you.”

Meyer tossed papers in the air with angry resignation. “Let him testify. The jury already heard what he said.”

Again and again the Chairman had to bang his gavel to restore order. “Let the witness come forward,” he said. Izzy pointed to the witness chair. Hiram nodded and followed his friend to the front. Hiram sat, and Izzy stood beside him to interpret. The Chairman spoke the oath. Izzy nodded his head. Hiram did so as well.

“Very well,” the Chief Rabbi said. “Hiram Liebmann, did you see who killed Solomon Gruen?”

Izzy enacted the question by pointing to Hiram, touching his eyes, mimicking someone handing a glass to another. Hiram shook his head, no.

“Then what is it that you have to contribute to this case?”

Izzy motioned to Hiram to say what he wanted. Hiram pointed to himself, then handed an imaginary glass. Izzy Interpreted: “I killed him, not my brother.”

The jurors and spectators were leaning forward in their chairs to hear Izzy speak the deaf mute’s confession.

“You’re under oath!” Meyer shouted across the table, forgetting for the moment that Hiram could not hear, no matter how loud the shout.

“The witness knows he is under oath,” the Rabbi said. “Now, Hiram, tell us. How did you kill the Schul-Klopper?”

Hiram enacted the scene like a mime. Izzy spoke the words. “He knocked on the door. I gave him a glass of milk, with ratbane in it. He drank it, then went outside. I put water to boil, and I poured a cup of tea. I took it to the window from which I watch the lane. He was lying on the cobbles. No one found him for six minutes, till the girl did.”

The silence was intense. The whole room seemed to be growing darker, the oil lamps flickering, as if shaking their heads in dismay.

“Why did you kill him?” the Rabbi asked.

Izzy told the question. Hiram pointed to his chest, then knocked in the air as if with a hammer. “So I could become Schul-Klopper,” Izzy interpreted.

“And are you now Schul-Klopper?”

“Assistant Schul-Klopper,” Izzy said.

The Rabbi pondered a moment. “I have no more questions.”

“Herr Rothschild?”

“I have just one. Why did you think you would become Schul-Klopper if Herr Gruen was dead?”

Izzy motioned the question, pointing at Hiram’s chest and then at his temple, knocking with an imaginary hammer, shrugging his shoulders. Hiram beat his fist hard on his chest, several times. From their close friendship, Izzy interpreted the passion, the pleading eyes. “Because I deserved it. It’s all I could do.”

Meyer wanted to give him a withering glare — or perhaps a pitying one, he did not know which. Instead he looked down at the table, and sat. Was it possible?

“Are we finished, then?” Chairman Schnapper asked.

“Not at all,” the Chief Rabbi said. “I still have a witness for the accused.”

Izzy led Hiram back to the spectator section. Every manner of expression was directed at him — incredulity, anger, pity, curiosity, admiration.

Rabbi Eleazar’s voice boomed out. “The advocate for the defense calls Guttle Schnapper.”

Wearing a dark gray dress she thought appropriate for the trial, Guttle walked to the witness chair. As she was sworn, as Meyer looked across the table at her, she seemed to him — perhaps to everyone in the room — both vulnerable and mysterious. What could she contribute? She sat, smoothing her dress. Only she and the Chief Rabbi, who had questioned her weeks earlier, knew what she was going to say.

“Fräulein Schnapper,” the Rabbi said, “please tell the jurors your movements on the morning of 29 March last, from the time you left your house.”

“We had no milk for my little brother. I took a pitcher and crossed the lane and borrowed milk from Frau Metzenbaum.”

“Was the sky still dark?”

“It was just beginning to brighten.”

“Very well, go ahead.”

“On my way back, I stumbled over something, and spilled some of the milk. I looked down and saw a man in a black coat lying there. When I looked closer, I saw a carved hammer in his hand. I realized it was the Schul-Klopper. I ran to get my mother, and almost bumped into Isidor Kracauer, who was coming out of the house next door.”

“Let’s pause there for a moment. Before you saw Izzy, did you see any other people nearby?”

“Yes.”

“Who were they?”

“Three Gentile boys, about my age.”

Meyer started in his seat. A murmur rippled among the spectators. Where, Meyer wondered, had three Gentile boys come from. He’d never heard of them.

“I must interrupt,” Doctor Berkov said from his seat at the council table. “I spoke with this witness the day of the murder. She told me she had seen no one. Surely her memory was better that day than it is today.”

Meyer nodded, astounded at his intended. What was Guttle doing? The Rabbi said, “Fräulein Schnapper, please respond to the good Doctor.”

Guttle looked at Berkov, blushing slightly. “What Doctor Berkov asked me that day was had I seen anyone in the lane. I said no, which was the truth. I didn’t even think of the Gentile boys. They were outside the gate.”

The Rabbi looked at Berkov, who slumped back in his seat. She’d been understandably upset that day, the Doctor recalled. Still, she’d been right — those boys surely were irrelevant.

“What were the boys doing outside the gate?” the Rabbi asked.

“They were pointing at the Schul-Klopper, and laughing. I ran at them, and told them to show respect. They danced about, and ran away.”

“Did you see anyone else outside the gate.”

“Not then, but later. A constable who was new that morning, I had never seen him before. Later I learned his name was Fritz.”

“When you saw these boys, was the gate open or closed?”

“It was closed.”

“Was it locked?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look that closely. I assumed it was locked. When it’s closed, it’s usually locked.”

“But you don’t know for certain. So isn’t it possible, Fräulein Schnapper, that these three boys — about fifteen or sixteen years old, you say, about your age — that these three boys, or the new guard Fritz — came into the lane, and forced Herr Gruen to drink liquid that had arsenic in it, and then retreated outside the gate and watched him die. Is that possible?”

Guttle was reluctant to answer. Her eyes flicked across the table towards Meyer.

“Is that possible?” the Rabbi prodded.

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“If that were the case, Hersch Liebmann would not be guilty of murder, would he?”

“I suppose not.”

“You suppose not? Can you be more certain than that?”

“If those boys or the Constable killed him, then obviously Hersch Liebmann did not. But there is no … ”

“Thank you, I have no more questions.”

Meyer leaped up at once, had to grab his yarmulke, which had begun to slide off. “Fräulein Schnapper” — those spectators who knew of their betrothal smiled — “did you at any time see those three boys in the lane, inside the gate?”

“No.”

She felt terrible, she was eager to help him.

“Did you at any time that morning see a guard inside the gate?”

“No.”

“Did you see Solomon Gruen outside the gate with them?”

“No.”

“Did you at any time see any of those persons offer a drink to Herr Gruen?”

“No.”

“Did you see any of them force a drink down his throat?”

“No.”

“Solomon Gruen was the Schul-Klopper for more than thirty years. Do you know of any reason why any of those people — the new constable or those young boys — would decide to kill him that morning.”

“No.”

“Do you know of anything that any of them would have gained by killing him — such as preserving their own reputations in the lane, or gaining money, or avoiding being charged with theft?”

“No.”

Meyer glared at the Chief Rabbi. “No more questions.”

“Any rebuttal?” the Chairman asked Rabbi Eleazar.

“Just one question. Fräulein Schnapper, at any time that morning did you see Hersch Liebmann offer a drink to Solomon Gruen, or force one down his throat?”

“No.”

The Rabbi nodded. “That concludes the defense, Chairman Schnapper.”

The room sighed with the expelled breath of hundreds. The Chairman stood behind the table. “Men of the jury,” he said. “The accuser has concluded his case, and the defender’s advocate has concluded his. You have heard the testimony, and seen the evidence. You are now to discuss the case among yourselves, and decide the guilt or innocence of the defendant on each of the three charges against him. Should you find him guilty of any of the charges, you shall determine an appropriate punishment from those required by the Talmud.

“Of you twenty-three jurors, twelve votes of not guilty are needed to find the defendant innocent. Thirteen votes of guilty are required to find him guilty.

“Rabbi Simcha will remain with you as you deliberate, to answer any questions of Talmudic law that need explaining. The good ladies of the bakery — among them my wife Emmie, I might add — have prepared bread and meat for you to eat, and tea. You shall remain in this room to deliberate.

“I now must order all persons not on the jury to leave this hall. When the jury reaches its verdict, Rabbi Simcha will send word out into the lane, to allow you to come back and hear the verdict. The jurors will now convene among themselves.”

He rapped his gavel once, sharply, on the table. The people began filing out, some discussing their views, others overwhelmed by what they had heard, trying to make sense of it, grateful they were not jurors.

As she donned her coat and walked slowly out into the falling snow, Guttle thought: what about Sophie Marcus, why did no one mention her?

25

The snow falling in thick flakes had covered the lane to a depth of several inches. Cobbles were visible only in patches, where little boys had been running about, pulling off one another’s yarmulkes and rubbing snow into their hair, or trying to shove it inside their shirts, while little girls wearing wool caps stood in the shelter of doorways, giggling. The slopes of the ditch were white, and the crossing boards; flakes falling onto the sluggish waste clung to life briefly, then drowned. The people leaving the trial churned up the fresh snow with their boots even as new flakes settled on their coats. The lane was brighter to the eye than during those few sunny minutes of the clearest days.

In a first floor room at the rear of the hospital, Doctor Kirsch pulled a white sheet up over the vacant eyes of Leo Liebmann, while his Yetta cried noiselessly in a chair beside the bed, and Hersch and Hiram watched.

“He didn’t want to wait for the verdict,” Yetta said through her tears.

Hiram squeezed his mother’s shoulder as Doctor Kirsch left the room, leaving the family to grieve in private.

“It was Rothschild who killed him,” Hersch said bitterly.

“Don’t say that.” Frau Liebmann wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, looking at the form beneath the sheet that for more than thirty years had been her husband, her best friend, her joy, silly old fool that she loved. “Meyer Rothschild did not steal the synagogue’s money. Or his own. Or hide it in Leo’s bed.”

“Are you saying that I killed Papa? Another accusation of murder?”

“No, my son. Nobody killed your father. Yahweh took him when Leo wanted to go.”

“The money was to get away from this place. To start a life somewhere. Later on, after Papa and you … were gone. I wouldn’t have left till then.”

Without looking at him she reached out and squeezed his hand.

“I didn’t kill the Schul-Klopper. No matter what the jurors decide. I wouldn’t kill anyone. But from now on people will look at me funny, even if the jury agrees I’m innocent. Some people will never be sure.” He signaled his words for Hiram as he spoke. And he asked his brother, with his motions, “Why did you say you killed him? Were you trying to help me?”

Hiram stared straight ahead, and did not respond.

“Is it still snowing out?” Yetta asked. “When will we bury him?”

“In the morning. Under the snow.”

“The grave?” Yetta said, a question in her voice.

“Hiram and I will dig it,” Hersch said. “As soon as the verdict is done.”

“How did the Rabbi learn about the Gentile boys?”

They were standing in the doorway of the Owl, brushing snow from their coats.

“He came and questioned me, because I had found the body. I never thought they were important, till he asked if I saw anyone outside the gate. Maybe running away.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? He made a fool of me in there.”

“He said I couldn’t tell anyone until the trial. Especially you, because you were the accuser. That was the law, he said.”

“I don’t know such a law.”

“Don’t be angry with me. I was only telling the truth. If you knew about the boys, would that have made you think Hersch was innocent?”

“No. He’s still the only one with a reason to murder. Hiram was just trying to help his brother. The Rabbi was using those boys to confuse the issue.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I have no idea,” Meyer said. “Perhaps he’ll tell us one day.”

The snow was six inches deep late that afternoon when word spread that a verdict had been reached. Volunteers had shoveled the snow from in front of the synagogue and in front of the lecture hall, but the cobbles already were being freshly covered. The men had cleared the wide window sills of snow so it would not block the light from coming inside; the snow was re-establishing itself there as well.

The seats were filled as in the morning, the jurors in place, the defendant, summoned from the hospital by Rabbi Simcha, sitting without expression in his chair. The large room smelled of wet wool and apprehension. Many of the spectators seemed tired, having argued with one another for hours about whether Hersch Liebmann had killed the Schul-Klopper, debating how they would have voted had they been on the jury.

“Have the jurors selected a person to tell their verdict?” Chairman Schnapper asked.

One of the jurors stood, a man from the south end. “I have the verdict, Herr Chairman.”

“Please convey it to us. The spectators shall remain silent till we have heard the verdicts on all three charges, as well as the sentences, if any. You may proceed.”

The man opened a folded sheet of paper. Meyer could not remember such tension in his stomach as there was now — not even when he was dealing with the crown Prince. Hersch Liebmann appeared relaxed, as if, regardless of the verdicts, he had achieved some inner calm, but a close observer could see his left eye twitching. Guttle, seated in the witness section, did not know what to think, what to expect.

“On the first accusation of theft, in the matter of one hundred gulden stolen from the synagogue, we find the defendant guilty.”

He paused while the briefest of murmurs swept among the spectators. Few seemed surprised, given the evidence.

“On the second accusation of theft, in the matter of one hundred gulden stolen from the business establishment of Meyer Amschel Rothschild, we find the defendant guilty.”

The room remained silent. That verdict had been a certainty after the first.

Meyer held his breath, intent on the outcome of the murder charge. Guttle found her whole body trembling; she did not know which verdict she would prefer. The defendant leaned forward in his chair.

“On the charge of murder without a witness, in the death of Solomon Gruen, we find the defendant, Hersch Liebmann, not guilty.”

Hardly a sound was heard. The room seemed to deflate even as Meyer did in his chair, Hersch by contrast squaring his shoulders, sitting tall, trying not to smile. Most of the spectators were too worn to talk, uncertain, as Guttle was, which outcome they had been hoping for. If Hersch Liebmann was not a murderer, that was good. But they had heard at the trial, for the first time, Doctor Berkov’s evidence that Solomon Gruen had been murdered. That terrible fact had not changed.

“Have you decided on punishments for the two guilty verdicts?” Chairman Schnapper asked.

“We have, Herr Chairman. On the first charge of theft, we sentence the defendant to exile from the Judengasse for a period of seven years.”

A collective inhaling of breath seemed almost to cause the room to implode. There had not been a criminal trial for so long that people had forgotten about exile.

“On the second charge of theft, we sentence the defendant to exile from the Judengasse also for seven years. Together, the defendant is sentenced to exile from the Judengasse for fourteen years. Such period of exile shall begin at sundown tomorrow.

“With the Chairman’s permission,” he continued, over a babble of chatter among the spectators, “the jurors have asked me to explain the sentence of exile, as follows.” The room quieted at once, as he read from his paper. “Civilized behavior is based on trust. Because as Jews we can trust no one else, it is imperative that we be able to trust one another. Stealing from the synagogue, and stealing from one’s employer, both are violations of sacred trusts. In such cases, as noted in the Talmud, the offender must be removed from society, in order to permit its congenial functioning. As for the accusation of murder, the majority of the jurors found that the charge had not been proven.”

People in the rear were scrambling to their feet, like boys let out from heder. Doctor Berkov approached the Chairman and whispered in his ear. Meyer said to the Chairman, “Please ask him to tell the vote.” The Chairman rapped his gavel, and did so.

“On the two charges of theft,” the juror said, “the findings of guilt were unanimous. On the charge of murder without a witness, the votes were eight guilty and fifteen not guilty.”

“Rabbi Simcha, are those the votes you saw in the jury room?”

“Those are correct, Herr Chairman.”

Gaveling sharply three times to silence the departing spectators, Chairman Schnapper announced: “I have just been informed by Doctor Berkov that a few hours ago, having been ill for several months, Leo Liebmann passed away. Leo, as most of you know, was the father of the defendant. He will be buried after morning services tomorrow. In deference to the widow, the Chair will use its prerogative to delay the sentence, so that the defendant may comfort his mother at this difficult time. The sentence of the jury, of exile from the Judengasse for fourteen years, shall begin not tomorrow, but after the seven days of sitting shiva.” He banged his gavel loud as a musket shot. “The court in these matters is now and forever adjourned.”

Turning to his future son-in-law, as the people filed into the snow, Wolf Schnapper asked, “Are you satisfied with the sentence?”

“With the sentence, yes,” Meyer said. “With the principal verdict, no. Solomon Gruen is dead — and someone murdered him. If not Hersch, who? If not Hersch, why?”

The snow had stopped falling, the clouds had blown away. The cemetery glowed from the ground up under a nearly full moon, which threw sharp shadows in front of each stone marker. The brothers worked alone and silent, clearing away the half-foot covering of snow in the family’s ancient plot, purchased a century before by a forgotten ancestor. When the snow was piled like white ashes on the graves of others, they dug in the earth, which was not yet frozen, a grave for their father.

Pausing to rest when the hole was three feet deep, Hiram signaled to his brother, breaking the eerie silence without breaking it, asking him what he was going to do. Hersch both spoke and mimed his answer. “They’ll give me five gulden. I’ll ride some coach as far as it will take me. Then I’ll walk. When I’m as far from this place as I can get, I’ll look for work.”

Hiram, reading Hersch’s hands and to a lesser degree his lips, made a question with his fingers.
What kind of work?

“I won’t sweep floors. Or carry parcels. Maybe I’ll become a highwayman. I’m good at stealing.”

Hiram mimicked stealing, by picking the handkerchief from his brother’s pocket. He grabbed that hand tightly with the other.
You’re also good at getting caught.

Hiram saw that his brother was glaring at him. The glare was the same as he had seen two months before when he had prowled around his father’s bed to see what Hersch was stashing there, had found the hole in the mattress cover and pulled out the two pouches of coins from the straw. Had not heard, of course, his father coming in, standing behind him. His aged father had reached down, touched the pouches with stiff fingers, slumped to the floor a moment later, stricken. Hiram remembered shoving the pouches back into the straw, running to get Hersch, who ran for the Doctor. His brother never had blamed him for what happened. Until now.

Hersch only glared. He signaled nothing. Hiram broke the visual quiet by knocking in the air, then vigorously shaking his head.
I won’t be Schul-Klopper anymore.

“Why?”

They’re sending you away,
he mimed, pointing to Hersch and then over the wall.
I don’t want to work for them.

“You have to take care of Mama now. She’ll need the money you make.”

Hiram jumped into the hole, grabbed his spade, tore at the earth with a vicious chop, then another, and another.

“It’s a different world for you now,” Hersch said, “with Papa dead, and me going away.” Whether out of carelessness or anger, he spoke only with his voice, not with his hands. Hiram heard nothing. Hersch knew his words did not need saying.

Few people came to see Hersch Liebmann take leave of the Judengasse for fourteen years. People did not want to shame him. Goodbyes, in the absence of love, would be inadequate.

As he stood near the north gate, Hersch had in his pocket five gulden from the synagogue’s welfare fund. Beside him on the muddy, snow-crusted ground was a faded satchel stuffed with clothing. His mother was there, tears in her eyes, and his brother, and Wolf Schnapper, as chief officer of the sentencing court, and the fire captain, Joshua Lamb, in case of trouble. Meyer Amschel had agonized over whether to be present. Guttle had urged him to stay away, arguing that no good purpose would be served. Meyer had decided otherwise. He would not be going to gawk at a man being driven from his ancient home. Rather, he would present himself, and stand mute, and wait — to see if Hersch, who surely hated him, needed to divest himself of words, of anger. It was his obligation as a man, Meyer believed, to face this.

There was no oratory. Hersch hugged his mother, held her in his arms for a long time, her face pressed into his shoulder. Her legs for an instant collapsed under her, but Hersch held her up, and she regained her strength. Hiram embraced him ferociously; the brothers seemed locked in combat, like twin cobras. Flakes of snow began to fall, and they nourished an idea. Hiram ran to their house a few metres away, and up the stairs, and came down with his frayed black Schul-Klopper’s coat, and held it out to Hersch. At first Hersch refused. Then, looking up at the gray winter sky, the falling flakes stinging his eyes, delighting in or ignoring a certain irony — that this had been Solomon Gruen’s coat — he shrugged his sweatered arms into the sleeves, and let his mother straighten the collar.

Wolf Schnapper, eager to be off to Sachsen-Meiningen, stepped forward and shook Hersch’s hand. The fire captain did the same. Five metres away, Meyer, who till then had been ignored by the Liebmanns, watched without moving, not wanting to offend, wanting merely to be available. To offer himself.

Hersch saw Meyer as if for the first time. He walked toward him, until they were face to face. Peeking at the scene from around the corner of the Pfann, Guttle chewed on a knuckle, not noticing that she’d already chewed it raw.

“Are you here for forgiveness?” Hersch asked. HIs face seemed lit by flames.