The Origin of Sorrow (47 page)

“I know it’s too soon. Please, come now!”

She handed the lantern to Meyer. “You’d better get the Doctor,” she said, grabbed a sheitl from the nearest shelf — it was black — pulled it over her light brown hair and hurried off along the cobbles, not bothering to lug her birthing chair. “Please,Yahweh, don’t let me lose her. Don’t let me lose my wife,” Meyer said in supplication. He hurried to the south end, the lantern with its single candle dangling at his side. At Rebecca’s, too, he pounded on the door until it opened. He could hardly speak. “Guttle … baby … coming now.” Rebecca grabbed her medical bag from the table beside the door and was gone before he could say more, running the length of the lane, barefoot on the cobbles, holding her sleep shift above her knees, barelegged, black hair flying behind her. She and the midwife reached the Hinterpfann together, dashed to Guttle, who was crying out in her bed. Moish’s wife, having heard her cries from the third floor, was with her. “I’ll look after the children,” she told Guttle, and went upstairs.

“Cramps, stomach, belly, back — it’s labor, I know,” Guttle said.

The Doctor lit the lamp on the wall, raised the hem of Guttle’s gray shift to her knees, leaned in. “It’s too soon, she’s not dilated nearly enough.” The midwife peered close, agreed. “How can we stop the uterus from pushing it out?” Guttle could not tell which had spoken. “We can’t … it could tear her … I know … Guttle, try to relax, honey. It won’t be as big as full term, it might not hurt as much.“ Guttle moaned as another spasm came and went. She groped for a hand, found Rebecca’s, squeezed it hard.

Meyer sat at his desk in the office outside the bedroom, hearing Guttle’s cries. There was nothing he could do but murmur prayers. Celia came out, asked him to heat water, dip rags or towels in it. He went up to the kitchen, to the woodstove, added a small log to the embers, did as he was told. He could hear the children talking in their room, went in to comfort them while his sister-in-law prepared their porridge. Through the second-floor window, between the house and the ghetto wall less than a metre away, he could see the gray of the new day slumping in.

He would have to leave soon for Hesse-Hanau. How could he leave with Guttle in such throes? How could he not? His life’s dream depended on his being there, the culmination of seven years of trying. “Thank you, Yahweh, thank you for your timing,” he muttered bitterly. A new experience for Meyer — being sarcastic with the Lord.

He had left fresh clothing in the office, so as not to disturb Guttle if she were sleeping. He went downstairs. Her cries were muted, but still he heard them as he dressed.

He could not leave her this way.

He dared not humiliate Buderus, and offend the Crown Prince.

You Jews are not averse to making money — only to enjoying it.

Already he was perspiring in his fresh clothes. He could not sit but paced about, went upstairs to the kitchen to drink some water, then down to the office again.

A small cry from the bedroom. Not Guttle’s, another. A baby! He hurried in. The midwife was holding an infant, covered with blood, the smallest human creature he had ever seen. “A girl,” Celia said, as she wiped the child’s body with a warm wet rag.

“Leah’s here!” Guttle said, seeing Meyer from the bed.

Meyer winced. You were not supposed to use the name till it was given to her in the synagogue, eight days later.

The Doctor was working between Guttle’s legs, using towels to inhibit bleeding. Meyer grabbed for the wall when he saw a towel turn red. “Will she be all right?”

“It’s torn tissue, not a hemorrhage,” Rebecca said, turning her head to Meyer, her hands still between Guttle’s thighs. “I think we can get it stopped.”

“You think!” His frustration burst out at the Doctor, which he knew was not fair; he would not be shouting at Doctor Berkov. “That’s all? You just think?”

“I’ll get it stopped,” Rebecca said, calmly, her eyes on her work. ”It’s slowing already.”

“Thank Gott! And the baby?” Meyer looked at his fourth child, still in Celia’s arms.

“Her lungs will be small,” the Doctor said. “I wouldn’t count too much on the baby.”

Meyer closed his eyes at her words. He murmured a desperate prayer. Opening them, he bent over the bed. Guttle’s hair and face were wet, her eyes closed; clearly she was exhausted. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I love you,” he said.

Her eyes seemed drained of all feeling when she opened them. “I know you do.” She paused for breath between each utterance. “I’m sorry about Leah … I couldn’t keep her long enough … I don’t know why.”

“It’s not your fault.”

She closed her eyes, weary. “It’s no one else’s. I hate to blame Yahweh for everything.”

Meyer touched his lips to hers. “You just rest,” he said. “There will be plenty of others.”

Guttle closed her eyes against his words. A flash of anger was extinguished by grief. She was too weary to deal with that now.

39

Buderus was pacing in his office when Meyer burst in, sweating, his wig askew under his tricorne, as the hats were now called, courtesy of the French, his heart shaken loose by his frantic ride and adrift now like a raft in a sea of guilt, guilt not over the blood of peasants — this day he had not given that a thought — but over the blood of the wife and child he had left, if only for the morning. It might be, he was aware, the only morning his newborn infant would know.

“I’d just about given up on you,” Buderus said. “I thought your conscience had tied your hands.”

“Conscience? What does conscience have to do with anything?” You sound like my wife, he wanted to say, but he didn’t

“It doesn’t to me if it doesn’t to you.”

“Am I late?”

“It’s two minutes to eleven. The others are waiting. I think you should straighten your wig, and dry your face. He is wary enough already.”

When Meyer had done so, Buderus led the way up a marble staircase, with carved mahogany balustrades, to a spacious anteroom. Crown Prince Wilhelm, standing behind a gilt writing table, talking quietly with an aide, was got up in his usual outlandish colors; he would have been born a jester, Meyer thought, if he had not been born a Prince. But the room was rich and tasteful, its golds and beiges accented with soft red velvet drapes that echoed the seats and backs of the chairs. The walls were painted red, with gold trim on a series of plaster arches. Gold chandeliers supporting red candles hung from the white ceiling. A red rug covered the floor. Meyer had never been in such a room. He’d never even imagined one. The room gave the Judengasse the aspect of a stable.

The three Gentile bankers, chatting in a corner, all were dressed in black and white — black coats and knee-breeches, white vests, shirts and hose, polished black shoes without buckles. Except for his white shirt, Meyer was all in brown, the same as Buderus. He preferred to leave black to the Rabbis.

Seeing that Wilhelm was occupied, Buderus introduced Meyer to the bankers. “Herr Schoenbrunn, Herr Krapp, Herr Krupp, this is Meyer Rothschild.” Herr Krapp was a tall, thin man with a sallow face. Herr Krupp was a short, round man with a pudgy, pink face. Herr Schoenbrunn was neither tall nor short; his pointed face evinced a bluish cast. The bankers glanced at Meyer as they might at a passing cockroach, and turned back to their own circle.

“Do all Jews sweat like that?” Herr Krapp asked his colleagues, in a reedy voice from his lofty height.

“Only in the presence of money,” Herr Krupp replied, in frog like tones, from not far above Herr Krapp’s waist.

“Like dogs on a hot day, lapping up grease,” Herr Schoenbrunn offered definitively.

Though not facing Meyer, they were speaking loud enough for him and Buderus to hear. That was the point. Meyer stood silently, but the coils of his brain were sizzling. He decided to resurrect an idea that had come to him during the ride — an idea he had discarded as perhaps too provocative.

When Wilhelm’s aide left the room, the Crown Prince motioned to Buderus, who led Meyer and the others to the front of the writing desk. “Your Excellency, you are acquainted with Herrs Krupp, Krapp and Schoenbrunn. Perhaps you remember Herr Rothschild.”

“Of course, the Jew Meyer. He has a way with coins. But Buderus, how many times have I told you that I am not yet Your Excellency. My father is His Excellency. I am only Your Serenity.”

“I’m sorry, Your Ex … Your Serenity.”

“You seem nervous, Carl Friedrich. As well you might be.” The Crown Prince looked directly at Meyer while speaking to Buderus.” Do you want to withdraw your recommendation? There is still time.”

“Not at all, Your Serenity. I have full confidence in Herr Rothschild.”

Meyer noticed something he had not seen before in the Crown Prince — a twitch that closed his right eye in a kind of grimace every few seconds. He wondered what the Prince had to be nervous about, beyond that which makes every man nervous, his own mortality. Perhaps, Meyer thought, conscripting his peasants into a foreign war does not agree with him.

“Very well, let’s proceed. I’m sure Buderus has informed you all of the conditions of the discounting. If there are no questions, you may sign in my presence the contracts here on the desk, each for the discounting of one fourth of one hundred thousand gulden, at ten percent.”

Krapp, Krupp and Schoenbrunn remained silent. Meyer glanced at Buderus, then spoke, oblivious of his Judengasse accent, which evoked smirks from the three financiers. “I would like to thank Your Gracious Serenity for including me in this august company. As a token of my esteem for Your Serenity, but also to demonstrate sound financial practice, I am prepared to discount the notes assigned to me at eight percent, instead of ten. If it please Your Serenity.”

The three men in black looked aghast. The Crown Prince raised his eyebrows, glanced at Buderus, who merely shrugged. “Is there a catch to this, Buderus? Some kind of Jewish trick?”

“This is the first I hear of it, Your Serenity. I wish Herr Rothschild had informed me earlier of this proposal, but he did not.” He turned to Meyer. “I assume that you would not attempt to swindle His Serenity in some way.”

“Of course not. It’s a simple matter of fairness. I believe I can earn a fair profit at eight percent.”

Wilhelm pursed his lips, nodded, twitched, brushed a fleck of white dust from his orange coat. “Interesting,” he said. “The fact is, I have been thinking along the same lines myself, for future contracts.” He turned to the others. “What about you gentlemen? Are you prepared to match the offer of the Jew, and discount at eight percent?”

The bankers coughed in unison, raised fists to their mouths as their faces reddened. “Your Serenity, I doubt that is possible in the current climate,” Krapp said.

“I would have to check with my bank,” Schoenbrunn offered, “however … ”

“This is an alarming proposal, undoubtedly a Jew plot,” Krupp barked. He pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his perspiring forehead. “I must urge His Serenity to cast the Jew from among us, and divide the notes three ways, at the standard ten percent. The fiscal stability of Frankfurt could be at stake.”

Wilhelm summoned Buderus to his side. The aide’s red hair was a close match to the Crown Prince’s coat. They turned their backs and conferred briefly. Facing the group again, Wilhelm said: “I appreciate your concern for the fiscal stability of Frankfurt, Herr Krupp. As you may know, however, I am the Crown Prince of Hesse-Hanau, which does not include Frankfurt. While I wish my neighbors well, their financial stability is hardly my concern — certainly not as opposed to the health of my own treasury. I would point out that some of our citizens may be sacrificing their lives in defense of our treasury, as it were. It behooves me, therefore, not to let them down.”

The Crown Prince reached for a gold goblet of water that stood on his desk, and drank, looking over its rim at the bankers, his eye twitching faster. Neither Meyer nor the others knew where this was leading.

Setting the goblet down, wiping his lips with a white lace handkerchief, Wilhelm continued. “A more reckless ruler than I might dismiss the three of you at once and offer all of the notes to Herr Rothschild at eight percent. Prudence, however, dictates that I continue to spread the investments about. I therefore have determined to amend the contracts only slightly in deference to this unexpected offer. You gentlemen in black will discount at ten percent, as previously agreed, but only on fifty percent of the notes, which shall be divided equally among you. The other fifty percent will go to Herr Rothschild, at eight percent. I assume that is agreeable.”

“But. . .”

“But . . .”

Buderus leaned close and whispered to Meyer, “Can you cover fifty percent?”

“Absolutely,” Meyer whispered back — without a notion, just then, as to where he would obtain the money.

“Very well, then,” the Crown Prince said. “There being no objection, Carl Friedrich will amend the figures before you sign the contracts. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

Wilhelm glided, as only silken nobility can, through a doorway to his inner sanctum. “Please wait down in my office, gentlemen,” Buderus told the bankers. “It will only be a moment. Herr Rothschild, remain here, if you will.”

The eyes of Krapp, Krupp and Schoenbrunn flashed murderous hatred at Meyer as they filed out.

“You were afraid they would tear me apart?” Meyer asked.

“Something like that. You’ve made a good start with His Serenity — but I wish you had warned me ahead of time.”

“I did not think of this ahead of time.”

“Herr Rothschild — Meyer, if I may call you that — I doubt that you do anything without thinking of it ahead of time. But I want to be certain again that you can pay for the notes. Fifty thousand gulden is a lot. You don’t have a bank behind you, like the others.”

“I can borrow what I need in the Judengasse. At four percent. Five the most. That still leaves me three percent profit.”

“That’s not much, for the risk you’ll be taking when you invest Wilhelm’s funds.”

“Ten percent of twenty-five thousand gulden,” Meyer said, “is a profit of twenty-five hundred. Obviously. Whereas eight percent of twenty-five thousand, plus three percent of an additional twenty-five thousand, amounts to a combined profit of twenty-seven hundred and fifty gulden. That’s an additional two hundred and fifty gulden.”

“You figured that in your head, while Wilhelm was speaking?”

“With all respect, did you see me using my toes?”

“I would have liked to,” Buderus said, grinning at the image.

“I have a motto, Herr Buderus.”

“You may call me Carl.”

“My motto is, Slow but Steady.”

“Not very original. Those bankers would agree with it.”

“Of course they would. But I don’t mean slow in the head.”

Smiling, Buderus asked, “What would you have done, in their place?”

“Me? I would have met my eight percent. I would have come down to seven percent. Even six. To drive out the upstart Jew, as they would put it. But because they did not do that, in future discounting, God willing, they will have Meyer Amschel Rothschild to contend with.”

“God willing? Does your Jewish God take an interest in money matters?”

“To tell the truth, I have no idea. I should have said Carl Friedrich Buderus willing. Also, his Excellency willing.”

“His Serenity.”

“To me, today he is an Excellency.”

Buderus moved behind the writing table, sat, dipped a quill into an inkwell, and amended Meyer’s contract from twenty-five to fifty percent of the notes. Meyer scrawled his signature at the bottom of the two copies.

“Should your transactions please the Crown Prince,” Buderus said, “it’s possible that in future dealings we would be able to offer you a line of credit, so you would not have to borrow.” He slid one copy of the contract into a drawer, handed the other to Meyer. “I would ask you where you’re planning to invest Wilhelm’s money — but I don’t think I want to know.”

“Then I’ll give a little hint. ‘Slow but steady’ is my motto only sometimes.”

“I suspected as much,” Buderus said.

Leaving the palace, reclaiming his mount, the contract tucked carefully into his waistcoat, Meyer was exultant. Fifty percent of the notes! He could never have planned it that way. His instincts had served him well. Would he have dropped to eight percent if they had not been so smug, had not insulted him? He could not be sure. It was possible — one glimpse had assured him they would be no threat, would not bargain down; they were too pompous for that. Now he was in the chase. Now he was ‘Meyer’ to Carl Buderus, and he was ‘Herr Rothschild’ — no longer ‘the Jew Meyer’ — to the Crown Prince. He’d been amused by the titles owed the nobility, by the difference between Serenity and Excellency. Never mind noble blood, he thought: with enough money you could become an Excellency. If he invested Wilhelm’s notes well, if he had good luck — and luck was three-fourths information, he reminded himself — he soon might truly stop adding his money, as he had said to Guttle, and begin multiplying it.

His mind was filled with prancing numbers and galloping investments till he was half way home, when he recalled the grim early morning, Guttle’s blood, Leah’s too-tiny face, and a rush of guilt so overwhelmed him, like a blow to his head, that he almost fell off his horse. Only by slowing the mare to a walk and clinging to the saddle horn could he balance himself on her back the rest of the way.

The infant was curled on Guttle’s breast as Guttle lay on the bed, her head on the pillow, the quilt of muted colors in disarray. The newborn wrinkled her nose, tried to suck at a distended nipple. Guttle could hear her taking in air.

“She’s not getting much.”

“She won’t need much milk the first day. So long as she keeps breathing.”

“There’s nothing we can do to make sure?”

“Nothing,” Rebecca said. “It’s up to Yahweh and Leah.”

“Then she’ll be fine,” Guttle said.

Rebecca had sent the midwife home, asked her to stop at the hospital and tell Doctor Berkov where she was. Her own body was wet with sweat, her shift clinging to her breasts.

“Do you want children?” Guttle asked.

Rebecca straightened the quilt, sat on the bed, looking at the infant. “I don’t know. I’m thirty years old. It’s a little late to start. Especially without a husband.”

“But would you want them?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What about love? You care about your patients, but that’s not love. Not what I feel for this baby. My heart already is so full, I would gladly die if that would let her live.”

“That’s no way to talk. You have other responsibilities … if Leah doesn’t survive.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of responsibilities?”

“Every day. But . . .”

“But what?”

“What else is there? Pleasure? I love to dance. But how long can you dance? And who does it help?”

“Don’t you want a man?”

“A man would be nice. But I haven’t met a man yet who could accept my being a Doctor. Really accept it, with all his heart.”