by Robert Mayer
She tried to calm herself. If that were the case, the Chief Rabbi or the Doctor would already have made an announcement about what should be done.
As Hiram and Hersch Liebmann strode the cobbles together, a stranger might have mistaken them for twins. Both were broad-shouldered, their arms and legs well-muscled. Both kept their hair long but their faces beardless. They wore faded clothes Yetta had bought at one of the rag picker shops. Their shirts were open at the neck, a tangle of chest hair poking through. Their sturdy faces were similar, though Hiram’s features were leaner. Hersch at twenty-four was two years older. He wore a dark blue yarmulke pinned to his hair; his job at the synagogue required one. Hiram’s head was bare; he would worship no God that had deprived him from birth of hearing, of speech.
An occasional rag picker or dealer in junk furniture waved at them as they passed. Most people in the street did not. The boys were not outcasts, there just seemed no reason for them to be included in other peoples’ lives. When Solomon Gruen a few years back hired Hersch as janitor at the synagogue, most people accepted it, but nobody cheered.
Their first stop was at the coffin maker. They found the coffin leaning against the wall outside. Hersch pointed to the narrow lower end, grabbed the wider end himself, and together they carried the empty box down the lane and across the trench to the hospital. At the direction of Doctor Berkov, they placed it on a low table in a small room. Through the doorway of an adjoining room Hiram saw on another table a long shape covered by a sheet.
They left the hospital quickly and crossed to the synagogue. Hiram waited outside. He pulled his watch from his pocket. Barely more than a minute passed before Hersch emerged with Rabbi Simcha, the second in command, and together the three walked toward the south gate. Just before reaching it they turned right. The cemetery spread before them, the only piece of visible land remaining in the Judengasse. Gray tombstones, many listing at odd angles, seemed to grow in uneven rows all the way to the ghetto wall, which veered away in a slight arc to accommodate the graves. The burial ground was older than the Judengasse; it had been there when the Jews of Frankfurt were free to come and go. The oldest grave was from the Christian year 1234. More than five thousand graves had been dug since.
The boys grabbed weathered spades that lay inside the cemetery gate. They followed as Rabbi Simcha, walking among the stones, reading an epitaph here, another there, looking for a spot in which to fit Solomon Gruen. Near the center of the cemetery, he stopped. “Let’s do it here,” he said, looking at both, then realizing, speaking only to Hersch. “It’s the Becker plot, but there are no more Beckers here. They moved to France years ago. The graves are tight, but Solomon Gruen had no family, we’ll squeeze him in. He was a good man. I don’t think the Beckers will mind.”
“If they do, they won’t complain,” Hersch said.
The Rabbi put a hand to his lips to hide a small grin. He was not sure if Hersch was indulging in morbid humor or was just being crude.
Thirty-six years old, Rabbi Emil Simcha was a slim man, with a calm demeanor despite intense dark eyes that peered, ever curious, above his full brown beard. A pink scar ran from above his left eye to his left temple. His cheeks were pitted with souvenirs of smallpox. Pacing off where the grave should be, he took Hiram’s spade and drew a narrow rectangle in the dirt. When he handed the spade back, Hiram waved his free hand in front of him, and made knocking motions with his fist. He pointed at the ground. When the Rabbi hesitated, uncertain, Hiram repeated the motions in reverse, pointing to the earth, knocking in the air, tapping his hand on his chest.
“Yes,” the Rabbi said, nodding, mouthing his words slowly to Hiram, not knowing if he could read lips. “The grave is for the Schul-Klopper. You’ll dig his grave here.”
Hiram nodded vigorously. The Rabbi replied with two nods of his own. He was glad to have communicated, though he was not sure he understood all that had been said.
The Lord speaks in many tongues, the Rabbi thought as he left the brothers. We are deaf mutes in front of Him. We cannot hear, neither can we reply. Yet we pity the obviously deaf and dumb among us — but not ourselves.
Restless, Guttle asked her sister Amelia if she would help pump water for the Sabbath. Seven years old, with bright blue eyes that were unusual in the lane, and pale brown hair, Amelia did a skip and jump, indicating she was eager and ready. She loved working the hand pump, watching the water spurt as if by magic from beneath the ground. Guttle lifted a large bucket from beside the stove, handed a kettle to the child and took a larger kettle herself. Together they went down the stairs and through a narrow passage three houses down the lane that led to the space in the rear where the pumps grew like a stunted iron tree between the front and rear rows of tenements. Guttle set the bucket in the mud under the spout. Amelia, using both hands, primed the pump vigorously, until water began to fall from the spout and splash into the bucket.
When it was almost full, Guttle, straining, lifted the heavy bucket away from the spout and set a kettle in its place, and Amelia began to pump again. They needed enough water till Sunday; pumping on the Sabbath would violate the day of rest.
“Will you dance with me tomorrow night?” Amelia asked as she pumped.
“I don’t think there will be dancing this week.”
“But there’s always dancing on Saturday night.”
“The Schul-Klopper died today. I don’t think the men will bring out their fiddles. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
The child stopped pumping as the kettle overflowed. Guttle replaced it with the smaller one.
“Didn’t the Schul-Klopper go to heaven?” Amelia asked.
“I’m sure he did. He was a devout man.”
“Isn’t going to heaven good? Shouldn’t people be happy for him?”
“That’s a good thought. But grown-ups don’t seem to look at it that way.”
The child stopped pumping. The water had filled the second kettle.
“I’ve got an idea,” Guttle said. “Why don’t we dance now?”
“Here? People might see.”
“They always see in the lane.” She took the child’s hands in hers, and led her a few metres from the pump, to where the ground was dry.
“There isn’t any music.”
“Listen to the music in your head.”
Humming, Guttle began to turn her sister in a slow dance. Amelia heard her inner music, danced more rapidly, causing Guttle to spin. Guttle was hearing a waltz; the child seemed to hear a polka.
“Swing me, now!” Amelia said, and as she ran in a rapid circle around Guttle she lifted her legs off the ground and their arms stretched taut. Guttle, whirling in place, spun her about, the child’s legs extended full out under her green dress, her hair flying behind her. Around and around she swung, her feet inches off the ground, till her arms tired and she let her legs sink and dragged the toes of her scuffed and muddy shoes, and stumbled to a stop. The grinning faces of both sisters were flushed. Wiping perspiration from her forehead, slightly dizzy, Guttle stepped backwards, and nearly bumped into Eva Hess, the rag picker’s wife, who put a hand forward to prevent a collision, and placed an empty kettle on the ground.
“Looks as if you were going around in circles, Amelia,” the slim young mother said.
“That’s what Jews do.”
“Why do you say that?”
“If we went in a straight line, we’d bump into a wall.”
Guttle looked at Eva, but spoke to Amelia. “Who told you that, Ami?”
“Nobody told me. It’s obvious.”
Eva looked at the child. “The lane is a cruel teacher.”
Climbing the stairs, Guttle felt confident she would not lay awake that night thinking of the Schul-Klopper’s body. She had seen a body before, when her brother Joseph had taken ill and died; she’d been nine at the time, and Joseph four. But Amelia’s picture of Jews walking in circles, exhausting circles with no end in sight, was an image new to her. A weary carousel, without color or destinati
on — already it turned and turned before her eyes.
4
“He asked you for your hand? Surely he knows better.”
“He thinks no father would turn him down.”
“He may be right. A Cantor in the family would be sweet. So, if you feel that way, why do you lead him on?”
“I don’t lead him on. I merely walk with him.”
“At night!”
“In the evening. The lane is narrow, when you walk you are always walking with someone. Besides, we always go to the cemetery. That’s hardly a place for courting.”
“Then why do you go there?”
“It’s deserted in the evening. He sings to me there.”
“Guttle! You let him sing to you?”
“Not to me! He sings arias, from the operas he knows. He tells me stories, of Milan and Berlin, where he studied. He describes the operas. I view him as a teacher, and I his student.”
“Your father took you to see opera once, at the Prince’s court.”
“You think I don’t remember? Prevus and Euridyce, by Glock. The costumes were so beautiful — and the music. It soared! No doubt that’s why I admire Viktor’s songs.”
“Perhaps tonight, after the funeral, his father will ask your Papa for your hand. I doubt your Papa would say no.”
“No!”
“Viktor’s father, Jacob Marcus, is a moneylender. He comes from a good family.”
“You mean a wealthy one!”
“The boy himself may have come into wealth today, when his uncle passed away. Solomon Gruen had no children of his own.”
“I didn’t know the Schul-Klopper was Viktor’s uncle. But his mother is a shrew.”
“That may be true. But you will marry whom your Papa wishes. The Cantor, who is wealthy now, could be the perfect match.”
“No.”
“It’s so.”
“No!”
“It’s so!”
“No, no, no, no, no!”
She selected Sabbath clothing and carried it to the washing-up closet. Pouring water from a kettle into the wash basin, she stripped off her clothes and began to scrub herself with a soapy cloth. She would have liked to go to the communal bath, but on Fridays it was reserved for men, so they could bathe before the Sabbath. She soaped under her arms, looked in the mirror above the wooden commode, lathered under her breasts. Nice enough, she thought, though she had never caught up in size with her friend Dvorah Schlicter; that contest she’d lost forever. She washed away the soap and dried herself with a towel and put on the clothes she’d chosen for the funeral: a black skirt to go with her black cloak, and a beige silk blouse, one of three silk blouses she owned. She could have made more but there wasn’t any point; under Frankfurt law, Jewish women could wear silk only on the Sabbath.
She peered into the children’s room. Avra had put the little ones down for a nap, and had fallen asleep herself. Until not long ago the children had been Guttle’s responsibility; she’d read them stories from the Torah till their eye-lids grew heavy. It was a way to learn more of the Torah for herself. And it put them to sleep every time. What courageous chutzpah Izzy had, she thought. A companion book to the Torah! Well, if anyone could do it, Izzy could.
She told her mother she was going out. In the street, men who’d had business in the city were hurrying in through the gate to get ready for the funeral. As a little girl she used to wait for her father impatiently every afternoon and run to the gate when she saw him coming, and hug him around the knees, till he picked her up and she kissed his cheek and he carried her to the house. She hadn’t met him there for a long time. He’d like that.
From the slaughterhouse beyond the gate came the sound of a cow lowing. She approached the gate and looked out. The new young guard from the morning still was there, his back to her. How long ago that seemed! The bell of the cathedral rang out over the city, the hourly mockery. It was not yet the Sabbath, perhaps she should go past the gate and taunt that new guard. See if he would arrest her for donning her silk blouse three hours early. But she was not feeling mischievous, just bored.
Jennie Aron, alias Jeanne d’Arc, alias Joan of Arc, stared at the entry. The high stone walls on either side curved together and formed an arch over the gates. The Maid of Orlean noticed something she’d never focused on before. Between the iron gates and the stone walls was pebble-filled cement to which the gates were attached. Cement was vulnerable. The carpenters would have tools that could chip away at it. In the dark of night the cement could be removed, and with her sword she could lead her people through the opening. A night guard with a musket was always stationed outside, he would hear the assault. She could overpower him — but what then? That was the larger question. Her fellow Jews could get outside the gates — but their homes, their shops, their schul would remain within. They would have no place to go. Only she, the leader, if caught, would have a destination — the Frankfurt prison across the river, with its narrow cells, its stench, its rats, its gallows. Jennie might be executed a second time.
Idling backwards, Guttle found herself on the precise spot where she’d discovered Herr Gruen’s body. Quickly she jumped away, out of fear or respect. One shoe landed on the edge of a muddy cobble, her ankle turned, sprained; she shuddered, as if she had trod upon a soul.
Across the river from the Judengasse, not far from the Sachsenhauser Bridge and the Fahrtor Gate, which was the principal entrance to Frankfurt, a black carriage pulled by a snorting white horse rolled to a stop at a stable. The driver, who was the lone occupant, stepped down amid the smell of horses and manure. He handed the reigns to a stable boy and walked towards the office to settle his bill. He was a short, stout man with an ample belly packed into a tight-fitting blue coat and vest, gray knee-breeches and gray stockings. On his head was a black three-cornered hat, partially covering a stylish but unpowdered wig. His shoes had silver buckles, his white blouse was ruffled at the collar. The man was Wolf Schnapper — husband to Emmie, father to Guttle, Avra, Amelia, Rifka and Benjamin. He was a successful moneychanger, the trusted personal banker to the Prince of Sachsen-Meiningen. He handled the Prince’s investments, changed money for him when he was going to travel, provided loans at low interest when the Prince needed a new stallion, a new carriage, a new mistress. The fact that the principality was a small one did not lessen Wolf Schnapper’s pride in his position.
In the stable office, Wolf signed his name to a ledger. His credit was good here, he settled his account promptly at the end of the month. The stable manager put a mark beside the signature, indicating that horse and carriage had not been ill used.
As he stepped outside, Schnapper heard the pounding of a horse racing along the hard-packed dirt road. With a strong pull on the reins the rider tugged a stunning black stallion to a stop at the gate, and leaped off. He was a younger man, twenty-five, tall and lean, with a short brown beard, wearing a three-cornered hat much like Schnapper’s, but no wig. He was dressed less formally than the Court Factor — brown knee-breeches, loose white blouse, leather vest, well-worn shoes. A small leather pouch hung from his waist.
“Meyer Amschel!” Schnapper called as he approached the younger man, a neighbor who lived a few houses away. “You were riding like a bandit. Look, you’re out of breath.”
“So’s the horse,” the young man said. He handed the reins to the stable boy and took several deep breaths. His smile suggested he was pleased with his ride, and also with his dismount. He wiped the sweat from his face, from the small trimmed beard on his chin.
“Is the public coach not dangerous enough for you?” Schnapper asked.
“Not fast enough. I wanted to be back for the funeral. I imagine that’s why you’re early as well.”
“Exactly so. But there are cutthroats on the highway, it’s not safe to ride alone.”
“So they say.”
Schnapper shook his head, disapproving of the young man’s recklessness. He knew Meyer Amschel was an orphan, had been for many years, had no father t
o caution him. Then Schnapper realized that he himself had traveled alone today. But that was different, he felt protected by his closeness to the Prince.
“Will you walk across the bridge with me?”
Meyer Amschel replied that of course he would. First he went in to see the manager. He did not have the credit the Court Factor did, he had paid in coins for the rental of the horse; now he received back in coins the deposit he had left for its safe return.
“Will you be wanting Blacker again tomorrow?” the manager asked.
“Not tomorrow.” Tomorrow would be the Sabbath.
Schnapper was waiting when Meyer stepped outside. Together they walked toward the bridge. A light breeze was raising ripples in the river as it flowed east towards its confluence with the Rhine less than thirty kilometres downstream. The bridge had been built as a series of fourteen stone arches under which the water flowed. Small boats could slip under the arches with their sails intact. For larger ships coming up from the Rhine, the journey ended at Frankfurt. They couldn’t fit under the bridge.
Meyer Amschel strode briskly, then slowed his pace to accommodate the older man’s shorter legs. As they began to cross they could see commercial buildings with gabled roofs lining the waterfront that stretched away to the west. Almost directly ahead, just west of the bridge, were the towers of the church of St. Bartholomew, where each new Emperor was crowned. Just east of the bridge were the walls of the Judengasse.
“So,” Schnapper asked as they walked, “how is the antique coin business?”
“I can’t complain,” the younger man said. “I know it’s not as good as the factor business.”
“There’s nothing better, for us Jews,” Schnapper said. “Since I was named Court Factor a year ago, my business has tripled. Just the title of Court Jew — the fact that I’m the court’s official banker, that people know the Prince is borrowing from me — makes me more in demand.”
