The Origin of Sorrow (62 page)

“Is that like a yarmulke?” one girl asked.

Amid laughter, Guttle said, “Very much so. Like a mental yarmulke.”

Near the ruins of the castle, a pair of ravens glided to a perch high in a black oak. Watching their silhouettes against the afternoon sky, Hersch Liebmann, sitting on a patch of browning grass, was struck not by their blackness — he was familiar with that — but by their two-ness. The world in pairs. Noah’s Ark.

“Where’s your bitch?” Klaus asked, as if reading his mind. “I haven’t seen her around for days.”

Tempted to say he had sent her away, Hersch in his bitterness was honest. “She rode off.”

“Got tired of you so soon?”

“She was in a rage that I didn’t kill you, after what you did to her. I would have, if I didn’t need you to enlighten” — he found an odd pleasure in the word — “to enlighten Meyer Rothschild on Sunday.”

“What did I do? She’s a whore. Oh, I get it.” Klaus reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a kreuzer, tossed it at Hersch. It fell in the grass beside him. “You see her again, give her that. Tell her we’re fair and square.”

Hersch strode a few steps to the river to hide the anger that was reddening his face. Kneeling, he scooped water into his palms and poured it over his head, and ran his hands through his hair. He could see small fish darting beneath the surface, leaving silver trails. The truth was, he missed her. That had never happened before, there was always an easy girl in the next town.

But with her — a shiksa whore - could he ever return to the lane?

It had been two months since he had gone back — almost. He had ridden to Frankfurt, left his horse at a stable, walked through the streets to the Judengasse. More beggars than he remembered had been camped outside the north gate, but the odor of chicken shit from the yard of the slaughterhouse was the same. He might have been one of these grubby beggars, he told himself, had he not become a highwayman.

His exile had ended months before, but he’d been hesitant to enter. His parents were dead. The cloud of the Schul-Klopper’s murder so long ago would still hang over him like an evil sign. Yet as he stood outside the open gate, looking in, he was surprised by the magnetic pull he felt. He recalled the years of playing near the ditch with Hiram when they were little. But those had not been so wonderful, he reminded himself, astonished to find himself longing for the past in this prison he despised, when for years now he had been sentenced only to freedom, to roaming the outer world, to sleeping amid the fresh smells of grass and trees and flowers, to sporting with almost any girl he wanted. Gentile girls, who expected nothing more.

He could walk the length of the lane for the sake of old times, he’d thought, see what had changed, what shops had closed, what new ones had opened; perhaps no one would recognize him after fifteen years. But as he hesitated he had seen through the gate a woman emerge from the first house — his old house — and begin to set paintings and drawings along the front wall. A moment later Hiram had emerged, carrying another batch. Hersch had been surprised by the confident way Hiram carried himself; he looked older, of course, and was wearing a short beard now, but appeared strong, secure, despite his infirmities. And this must be his woman. Hersch had heard long ago that the artist Lieb was married, but he had not known to whom; he recognized her narrow face now, she had been a neighbor. Her name was Amelia — no that, had been the pretty little one. This was Avra. Hardly a beauty like the others, too skinny for his taste, but a Schnapper nonetheless. He watched as Hiram disappeared inside and Avra set up a chair beside the paintings. His pockets were bulging with gulden notes, he could go in and buy the biggest of the lot, pass himself off as a wealthy collector — but what would he do with it?

For a long time he stood with the beggars, admiring the business of the lane — the rag dealers hawking old clothes, the money-changers offering deals, the women carrying bread from the bakery. Little ever changed in the Judengasse. Growing somber, he turned away and went to reclaim his horse, and he left the city rapidly. He would not return until the suspicion of him as a murderer, planted so long ago by the hateful Meyer Rothschild, was gone. Which might be never.

Then last week the Landgrave had died, and like a forgiving angel his idea had come to him in the night, while Lena slept at his side.

Walking up the slope from the river, Hersch picked up the coin Klaus had thrown, and tossed it to him. “You wouldn’t want to leave your fortune lying about.”

Catching the coin, Klaus grinned through yellow teeth and hurled it as high as he could, watched it come down in the branches of the black oak, sending the ravens flapping, dropping into the river. “That was from your share,” he said.

“I told you that you could keep all of it.”

“First I keep three quarters, now all of it. I always heard Jews were good at business.

Guess you can’t believe what people say.” Klaus stretched his arms over his head, lay back on the scratchy grass. “What if your rich Jew goes home tomorrow, and we miss him?”

“I told you, he won’t ride on a Saturday. Sunday we’ll be waiting. A one-horse carriage, black, with red moldings. I followed him in the town and got a look.”

“I never heard of waylaying a man to tell him a story.” Klaus pinched a bug that was crawling across his shirt, and threw it off. “I thought of something funny, though.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a story he’ll be dying to hear!”

Puffs of white clouds passing low overhead hid behind the heights of the hills. A crow cawed high in a linden tree.

“That’s funny,” Hersch said. But in his voice nor his visage was there a hint of mirth.

Guttle lit the Shabbas candles and fed the children. The first Shabbas since their wedding that they had been apart. Later, sitting alone at the kitchen table in front of a bowl of cold borscht, she was too upset to eat, the morning’s confrontation at the school still weighing on her, causing pain in her belly. No matter. She closed her eyes and said the brucha for food. She added an improvised prayer for Meyer Amschel’s safe return. Late into the night she sat by candlelight, then in smoky darkness. His return was still three days away.

47

A heavy mist hung over the Fulda valley like a blanket of wet cotton. The hillside palace was invisible from the streets of Hesse-Kassel, as if it existed only in the Landgrave’s mind. Leaving the city at dawn in his rented one-horse carriage, black with red trim, Meyer let the roan mare walk slowly; it was impossible to see up the road more than fifty metres; collision with incoming traffic was a definite danger. Meyer was glad it was Sunday morning; few Gentiles would be on the road.

He had gone about ten kilometres when a breeze came up, shredding the fog into what the rag dealers called odds and ends. On the hillside across the river, rounded bits of fog shone brightly against the green grass, until he realized that the mist was gone and that it was a flock of sheep at which he was gazing. At that moment the rising sun climbed over the hill and set the moist grass to sparkling like bits of ice — or diamonds — and illuminated swirling swatches of lavender wildflowers. A swift shadow crossed the flank of the roan and Meyer saw an eagle diving from the sky, towards the river bank; no doubt it would rise in a moment with some small animal in its talons. Meyer hoped for some reason that it would come up empty; this time it did, soaring skyward carrying no visible prey, gliding further along the river in search of a catchable meal.

With the morning clear now, Meyer flicked the reins and the mare increased its pace to a slow trot as the road veered away from the river. He marveled at the infinite beauty of the universe that Yahweh had created — then was overcome with sadness. Guttle, he realized, would never in her life see such scenes as he had just witnessed, unless confinement to the Judengasse was lifted; nor would Schönche, Amschel, any of the children, so long as the gates were locked and the stone walls stood. For hundreds of kilometres in every direction there must be beauty like this, and to the cloistered Jews it did not exist. His sadness turned to anger, first an indiscriminate and, he knew, useless anger at the unfairness of it all, then an anger focused on Wilhelm, who had slighted him so at the ball. In Meyer’s mind money and freedom were entwined like a woman’s braid, though he could not unravel a connection so long as the Judengasse stood. Anxious now to get home to those he loved, he flicked his whip lightly on the rump of the mare, who responded with a faster trot. The increased speed whipped freshets of cool and calming air across his face.

Far to the left he could see the remains of an old stone castle — a remnant from Ivanhoe’s day, he thought. The castle disappeared as the road wound through a copse of trees and tall brush. He heard voices and galloping hooves behind him, and out of the brush on either side came a horse and rider, stirring up the dusty surface of the dirt road, one on a large black stallion, the other on a brown filly, the faces of the riders covered by masks as they raced past his carriage until they were about fifty metres ahead. They wheeled their mounts and blocked the road and he had to pull on the reins, hard.

His face broke out in sweat as his carriage creaked to a halt. He waited for them to speak, to demand his cash. They said nothing. The one on the black stallion, a silver sword hanging from his saddle, came close, leaned over and yanked at the reins of the carriage, which flew from Meyer’s hands like twisting snakes. Holding the reins, the robber moved beside the roan and began to lead the horse to the left. Meyer could see a narrow dirt path that led through the trees.

“What’s this?” Meyer asked loudly. “You want my money? I have some. Not a lot.”

The fellow on the stallion did not answer, did not bother to turn his head, continued to lead Meyer’s carriage away from the main road. The other drew up beside the carriage on the other side. Meyer was becoming frightened now. Did they mean to steal his horse, leave him alone out here in the wilderness? But horses were cheap, he’d heard that nobles paid more for a pineapple from the New World than for a horse. What did they want with him?

The narrow path wound deeper into the shadows of trees and brush, slightly downhill. Then it burst into bright sunlight and crossed a scraggy field. Meyer could smell the river Fulda, and saw up ahead the half-fallen castle that he had spied not long ago, from afar. They led his carriage half way around the castle remains, to a place shadowed by irregular walls, broken in places but still standing. Two large crows cawed as they flew off from a roosting place in the castle tower high overhead, then glided in circles in the blue, as if curious to see what would transpire below

Be calm, it would be a simple business transaction, Meyer told his throbbing heart; they just don’t want to stay by the road in case another coach, or a Constable, comes along. But they had been well hidden from the road in the trees through which they had passed; there had been no need to come this far.

The fellow on the stallion dismounted and tied his horse and Meyer’s to a weathered post that seemed to have been hammered into the ground long ago for that purpose. The morning had grown warm and the man was sweating as he pulled off his mask and tossed it on the ground. His face seemed vaguely familiar, from the distant past, Meyer thought, but he had no idea who it was. The other man dismounted, wrapped his horse’s reins around a fallen rock.

“Get down,” the first man told him. “And bring that money you mentioned.”

Meyer did as he was told, his knees shaky as they absorbed his weight. He took his purse from the pocket of his coat and tossed it to the robber; coins clanked as he caught it in the air. The robber seemed to weigh it in his hand. “Not much for a rich man.”

“I’m not so rich,” Meyer said.

“Forget about the money.” The voice was the other highwayman’s as he came around the carriage, and it resonated in Meyer’s ears in an eerie way. The man pulled off his mask.

“Is it possible? You resemble Hersch Liebmann. From the Judengasse.”

Allowing himself an ironic grin, Hersch bent in a mocking half bow. Meyer saw the handle of a pistol protruding from the waistband of his trousers. He looked at the other fellow, who was counting the coins and notes in the pouch. In the context of the Judengasse Meyer remembered him now, though his face was rounder than Meyer recalled, and his stomach larger. “You were the guard Klaus.”

Grinning, Klaus finished counting, returned the money to the pouch, tied the pouch to the saddle of his horse. Untying the reins, he swung up into the saddle. “Hardly worth the effort,” he muttered.

Quickly Hersch confronted the mounted highwayman, his long barreled pistol aimed at arm’s length at Klaus’s chest. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said.

“You’re not serious,” Klaus replied. “You’d shoot me over that old turd?”

“Climb down, or you’ll find out fast,” Hersch said.

Meyer had no notion of what was being played out in front of him. He was relieved when Klaus, after staring hard at Hersch to read his intent, shrugged and swung off the horse. Meyer had never seen a person shot, had no desire to. Violence against a fellow human — anything more than a light swat on a child’s tush — was one of life’s prime evils.

Yet he was aware of a twinge of exhilaration at the sight of a Jew holding a pistol and pointing it in anger.

“Let’s get it done, then,” Klaus said. He unsheathed his sword from his saddle and carried it with him through a low opening in the castle wall. Hersch motioned Meyer to follow. Unnerved by Klaus’s sword, Meyer stared at Hersch, who remained expressionless and waved him through the opening, his pistol still in his hand. With no choice but to obey, Meyer found himself in a stone room from which the roof was missing. A raven asleep in a crevice high in the wall screeched and flapped its shadow across the earthen floor as it lunged in heavy flight through the absent roof. A lizard, invisible against the pale dirt floor until it moved, skittered around Meyer’s dusty shoes and disappeared.

“If it’s more money you want, I can get it at home,” Meyer said.

“I told you before, this is not about money,” Hersch said. “Fettmilch here has a story I want you to hear.”

“For that he needs a sword?” And then: “Fettmilch, as in the riots?”

Meyer looked from one to the other. Klaus Fettmilch grinned.

“The captain thought Fettmilch on my tag would have been an unnecessary provocation, as he put it. I couldn’t give a turd.”

“The story is about the Schul-Klopper who was poisoned,” Hersch said. “Fifteen years ago. Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Of course you do. You accused me of killing him. Fettmilch remembers, too.” He motioned to Klaus with his pistol. “Tell him what happened.”

Klaus lifted his sword, plunged it into the earth. He leaned on it as if it were a walking stick. “The old Jew was a spy.”

“I know that.”

Hersch interjected, “You know that?”

“I found out only recently. Why didn’t they arrest him? Bring him to trial?”

“It was a mess of slops,” Klaus said. “When raid after raid found no violations, produced no nice fines, headquarters suspected the Jews were being tipped off. The informer was a Leutnant at the gate, name of Gruber. He was seized the day before the killing.”

“Fritz, the young one, took his place!” Meyer said.

“He’s got a good memory,” Klaus said to Hersch, then turned back to Meyer. “Gruber was taken into the forest and shot. He never confessed, but they had made the Jew Klopper talk.”

Meyer did not know why he was being told this now. He felt droplets of sweat running down his back beneath his shirt. “I still don’t see … ”

“The Kommandant of the Polizei wanted to keep things quiet. He was embarrassed to have an informer on the force. He didn’t want the Frankfurt Council to know. Or the Empress. So he ordered that they both be killed, the Leutnant and the Jew. I did what I was told to do.” He turned to Hersch. “Is that enough for you?”

“Tell him the rest.”

“How they got caught? They were buggering each other, the faggots.
Once or twice a week they were going at it. In a field behind the Judengasse. That’s when the Jew got his information about the coming inspections. After someone saw them at it, and they were seized — and maybe toyed with a little — the Jew confessed.”

Meyer’s face was flushed. He had heard talk of such things. He’d assumed it only happened among the nobility; among the Gentiles. Among the ancient Greeks. But Solomon Gruen? Was it possible he truly enjoyed such behavior — or had he sacrificed his body in the service of his fellow Jews?

“That’s not the part I meant. Tell him about the killing.”

His mouth taut, his lips a thin, bloodless line, Klaus pulled his sword from the dirt, slowly wiped it clean. He jammed it again into the earth. A raven fluttered out of the sky to the edge of the roof, discerned the human presence, took flight.

“The Kommandant wanted the Jew dead. But with no trial, no testimony of a depraved Leutnant. He wanted it to appear a natural death. Or a murder among the Jews.”

“Go on,” Hersch said, when Klaus paused. “You’re awfully shy today, considering all you’ve done since.”

“Shut your mouth. I’m almost done. Then the Jew here is done.”

Sweating heavily, Meyer tried not to accept Klaus Fettmilch’s meaning. Surely this could not be happening to him. Where was he to run, where was he to hide, how was he to fight?

“The Kommandant ordered me to arrange the killing. But not to be seen doing it. I bought rat poison, found three boys who were willing. Gave them a key to the gate.”

“For money?” Meyer asked, nervously, not knowing what difference it made, not knowing if he was speaking of Solomon Gruen’s murder or his own.

“For fun,” Klaus said, looking directly at Meyer, who saw madness in his eyes, as if he, too, were uncertain which murder they were talking about, the one fifteen years ago or one he would soon commit.

“Two of them held him, forced his mouth open. The third poured poisoned milk down his throat. He squirmed for a few minutes, then died. If anyone had seen from their windows, it was just some hooligans. Who never would be found.”

“The boys Guttle saw outside the gate,” Meyer murmured.

“Which, thank God, she told the Rabbi about,” Hersch said.

At first Meyer felt the story made no sense. He had met the informant at Brendel’s Café just the other day. The bookseller Gluck. Then he understood. When he was arrested, Solomon Gruen implicated Leutnant Gruber in order to protect the bookseller and the real source.

Had he been forced by the Leutnant into disgusting sex? Or had the Schul-Klopper been using Gruber all along, as an emergency cover story if needed? Surrendering his body to protect the lane? To keep the bookseller in place?

Meyer turned to Hersch. “I owe you a strong apology. I owe you more than that.”

Klaus pulled his sword from the earth. He wiped the blade on his trousers. Facing Meyer, he spoke to Hersch. “Is that what this was about? An apology? You Jews are madder than I thought. You create the great plague, wiping out half the people of Europe, but I have to go through this nonsense for an apology?”

“What are you talking about?” Hersch said.

“The Black Death, of course. When you Jews poisoned the wells”.

“We caused the plague? You’re meshuganah,” Hersch said.

“Who told you such things?” Meyer asked.

“Who told me? No one told me, everyone knows. I heard it at school. Among the Constables. It’s not a secret. My great grandfather, at least, was one who wouldn’t stand for it. He led a raid into the Judengasse to kill the Jews.”

“Who fought back well,” Meyer said. “The Fettmilch riots — that was your grandfather? The Frankfurt council did not agree with him. He was arrested, tried, and hanged.”

“The council were fools. But today, thanks to Helmut, or Hersch here, I can take my revenge, in my family’s name. I can hardly let you live, to spread what I just told you. The Polizei Kommandant — he’s still the same — would not be pleased. As for me, I was only following orders. But when the dripping head of that Jewish thief was stolen from the Fahrtor gate, and smuggled into the Judengasse, all the guards, including me, were fired. The Kommandant was afraid there might be another collaborator. We were told to leave Frankfurt and not return.”

Klaus was babbling on, as if the impending sight of Jewish blood had loosened his tongue. “I assume the Polizei know what l’ve been doing. They could find me, if the wrong word got about. So you see, Jew, you have to die. Even your friend Hersch here has agreed to that.”

Grinning, Fettmilch ran a finger along the blade of his sword. Meyer backed away. In two steps his shoulder blades were pressed against the castle wall of stone. He looked at Hersch, who had not stirred. He thought to start saying the She’ma, but refused to accept his imminent death. Images of Guttle and the children flashed through his mind in an unspoken visual prayer. For him to die here, now — this could not be Yahweh’s plan.