The Origin of Sorrow

by Robert Mayer

  “I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want it contaminating my holy books.”

  “Then I’ll take it to my office. It won’t contaminate my patients.”

  He folded the report into the pocket of his coat. The Rabbi gave him a curt nod. Lev took this to mean he should leave the study without shaking hands. Crossing the lane, he was blind to the pedestrians, to the running children, deaf to their noise. He was furious. Yet he could not deny there was truth in the Rabbi’s words.

  The Chief Rabbi closed the window curtain. He glanced at the rows and rows of books on the shelves. Endless dissections of almost every line in the Torah, by the wisest Rabbis who’d ever lived. He sat down in his large chair, put his elbows on his desk. He bent his head into his hands. His fingers clenched tufts of graying hair.

  “Solomon,” he murmured in despair. “Solomon, what have I done?”

  10

  A cloudburst was pouring rain into the lane. Rushing water was cleaning the cobbles in some places, covering them with mud in others. The muck in the sewage trench was running rapidly, the liquid level rising. Merchants with open stalls had moved their goods inside and shut their doors. In the house of Meyer Amschel Rothschild, fifth house rear from the north gate, east side, the carpenter Yussel Kahn was finishing a long confession to his friend. An eavesdropper might have called it a heartburst.

  “Do you want to tell me her name?” Meyer asked.

  He was perched on a desk in the first-floor shop that he shared with his two brothers, who were in the city on a buying trip. The one-room shop was crowded with file cases, with bolts of silk and cotton, as well as displays of coins. Samples of fabric hung on the walls. The rain pouring down was threatening to roll in under the door. Too agitated to sit, Yussel was pacing about, as he had done since he arrived before the rain began.

  “Her name doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s not her fault.” He picked up a coin from the desk, looked at it, tossed it back onto a pile. “I’ll tell you how bad it has gotten. Friday night, when I couldn’t sleep for thinking of her, I got out of bed and went to my window. I stood there for a long time, staring out into the dark. Trying to figure out what to do. And I saw her. I know you won’t believe it. In the middle of the night. Walking up the lane, all alone. I knew it wasn’t possible. It was an apparition. This girl wouldn’t be walking about at that time of night. But she looked so real. When I realized I wasn’t dreaming, I decided I was going mad.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Meyer said. “Have you spoken with her?”

  A knock on the door cut through the sound of the downpour. “That must be my scribe. But stay till the rain stops. I’ll make some tea. It’s not a problem.”

  He moved to the door and pulled it open. A girl stepped inside, out of the rain. Her long brown hair was soaked. The shoulders of her white blouse were wet, as was the hem of her skirt.

  “You must be Guttle,” Meyer said. “Look at you! You’re drenched.”

  He pushed the door closed behind her. Swelling from the moisture made it a tight fit.

  “I couldn’t find the house. Papa said the fifth house. He didn’t tell me it was in the back. I knocked and knocked. I tried the fourth house, and the sixth. Till I found the alley leading here.”

  Her hair, her clothes, were dripping a small puddle onto the wood floor.

  “You poor girl. Let me get you a towel.” He turned to the carpenter, who had faded into the corner. “Do you know each other? Guttle Schnapper, this is Yussel Kahn.”

  Meyer ran up the staircase two steps at a time to the living quarters. When he came down he handed a towel to Guttle. She tossed her head to the side and began to dry her hair.

  Meyer looked about. “Where’s Yussel?”

  “He said he had to go.”

  “In this rain?”

  Guttle pulled lengths of hair through the towel. “He hurried out the door as if his tooth hurt. I had to push it closed.”

  “Mein Gott!” Meyer said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.” And he thought: Poor Yussel! This must be the girl!

  “He’s the coffin maker, isn’t he?”

  “I suppose he remembered an appointment. But look how wet you are. You should have waited until the rain stopped.”

  “Papa said it was important.”

  “It is important. But not so important it couldn’t wait an hour.”

  She dried the nape of her neck. “We live just across the lane. In the Owl. I would hardly have gotten wet if Papa had told me the right place.”

  “Here, let me get you another towel.” He hurried up the stairs, came down with a dry one. He handed it to her, draped the wet on the back of a chair. He thought: Laine has been gone a long time. Yussel ought to stop suffering and marry the girl.

  “Is this your office?”

  “Not much to look at, is it? I share it with my two brothers. The coins are mine, the cloth is theirs.”

  Rubbing her hair again, she looked at the coins set carefully in boxes divided into small compartments. “Is it a good business? The coins, I mean.”

  “It’s getting better. I’ve loved coins since I was little. So it’s almost like I’m still playing.”

  He wondered why he was prattling like an idiot.

  “Do your brothers share the house as well?”

  “They do. Also another family. The Bauers.”

  “What about your parents?”

  He looked at his hands for a moment. She followed his gaze. She thought they were nice hands, long and thin.

  “They’re gone, may they rest in peace. They died when I was twelve. In a smallpox epidemic. I had been sent away to school at the time.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So. You’re your father’s secretary.”

  “Just a little. At home. Most of his work is at the court.”

  Finished with the second towel, she handed it to him. He tossed it on top of the first.

  “Rothschild is an unusual name,” she said. “I mean . . .” She grew flustered, but completed her thought. “I mean, it doesn’t sound like Judendeutsch.”

  “It comes from a house.”

  “A house?”

  “There used to be a house down the other end of the lane that had a red shield on it, for decoration. Like yours has the owl. Zum Roten Schild, the house was called. It was built about two hundred years ago, by my great great somebody — Isaak, son of Elchanan. In those days people didn’t have surnames. They were called by their addresses as much as by their names. Isaak ben Elchanan began to be called Isaak Rothschild, after his house. When his grandson moved to this place later on, he brought the name Rothschild with him. It’s a good thing.”

  “Why is it a good thing?”

  “Because I’d hate to be named after this house. It’s called the Hinterpfann. My name would be Meyer Amschel House-Behind-the-Saucepan.”

  Guttle laughed. Then she sneezed. “Hinterpfann.” She reached in her pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, blew her nose. “You’d think my father would have known it was in the back.” She sneezed again. “So the front house is the Saucepan. I always thought that carving was a loaf of bread.” She folded her handkerchief, but kept it in her hand.

  “It’s not very clear, is it? Young lady, I hope you’re not catching cold.”

  “I’m fine. What’s this?” She picked up a small picture frame from the desk.

  “An antique. I’m starting to branch out from old coins into all sorts of antiques. The collectors are the same people, so it makes sense. In that one is a poem by Nahum Baum. Written in his own hand, in 1626. You can read it.”

  She read it aloud: The poem was called Gentiles.

  They see a race

  With every face

  The color

  Of its bones.

  “That’s the whole poem? It doesn’t say very much.”

  “If you think about it awhile, it can say a lot.”

  “Such as what?
”

  “Well, to me it says: The Gentiles create something they hate — and then they hate it.”

  Guttle put the framed poem back on the desk. “I like your way better.”

  “It’s nice of you to say. But my way isn’t worth twenty gulden. Even if I signed my name.”

  “Maybe you could sign it Hinterpfann.”

  Meyer grinned. Outside, the rain seemed to have stopped; he could hear individual drops falling heavily from the eaves. Time was passing quickly with this girl.

  “Speaking of gulden, I guess we should get to work. Your family will think I kidnapped you. Sit here.” He tossed the wet towels from the back of the chair onto the floor. “Here’s paper, pens, ink.” He took a sheet of paper from the drawer of the desk. “Oh, before I forget, I have a question. Do you know your neighbor Hersch Liebmann very well?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m thinking of hiring an assistant. To take things to and from the post. To deliver the antiques, if I start handling bigger objects. I know his family could use the money. And they were kind to my parents when they got sick. The fellow said he’s interested, but I want to find out more about him first. Mostly if he is honest. He’d be handling some expensive coins.”

  “I really don’t know,” Guttle said. “Just that he seems to love his brother.”

  “Am I my brother’s keeper? I suppose that’s recommendation enough. He can work here when he’s not too busy at the schul. Anyway. Here’s the letter I want you to write. In a nice German hand. Can you read my writing, or shall I dictate it to you?”

  She took the paper from him and looked at it. “I think you’d better dictate.”

  “You see the problem.”

  Meyer began to read the letter aloud, slowly. Guttle lifted a quill, dipped it in the ink, but did not write. Her mind had fled to what her father said just before she left the house. To the scary exchange they’d had.

  “Let me know what you think of him.”

  “What does that mean, ‘Let me know what you think of him?’”

  “Nothing. Just what I said.”

  “Papa? Papa! What are you thinking?”

  “Thinking? I’m not thinking anything.”

  “Yes you are! I know you. Papa, I’m not ready to get married. Not to Viktor Marcus, not to anyone.”

  “Married? Who said anything about married?”

  “Ooooooh.”

  “Now hurry. Don’t keep Meyer Amschel waiting.”

  Her anger returned as she recollected.

  “You’re not writing,” Meyer said.

  “I know. I like to hear the whole letter first. So I know how long it is. So I know how much space to leave.”

  “That makes sense.” He read the letter aloud. “Are you ready now? Shall I begin again?”

  “Please.”

  “To his Lofty Highness the Honorable Crown Prince Wilhelm. Your Gracious Sir … ”

  She began to write. She stopped and looked up at Meyer, who was standing beside and above her. “Are you writing this letter to impress me?”

  Meyer lifted his white yarmulke, ran his hand through his hair, scratched his head, put the yarmulke back on. “To impress you? My dear young lady. I am writing this letter to impress Crown Prince Wilhelm, of Hesse-Hanau. He is the heir to the throne of Hesse-Kassel, one of the largest principalities in the region. I am hoping he will purchase some of my antique coins. Perhaps other things later on.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his hands. He picked a polished coin from a loose pile on the desk. “Do you have enough money to purchase antique coins?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Well, when you do, I will write a letter to impress you.”

  She looked down at the desk, squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment. She wanted to disappear into a wooden chest that sat against the wall. “I hope I haven’t offended you,” she said softly, still looking down. “Perhaps you can begin the letter again. And I will write it.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea. That’s why you’re here … I suppose I should assure you that I am not offended. I am just … amused.”

  He began to read the letter, slowly. Guttle dipped the quill in the ink and began to write. She was careful not to make mistakes. When she was done she sprinkled sand onto it from a canister to blot the ink. She left it there for him to brush away when the ink was dry.

  “Amused! He said he was amused!”

  She was back in the Owl, shouting at her father, who was sunk in his soft chair near the window. A book of the Talmud lay open on his lap.

  “Papa, did you hear me? Amused!” She was almost screaming. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me the house was in the back? I got soaking wet! My hair was hanging down in strings. Like a mop! I must have looked like a witch!”

  She ran to her room, slammed the door behind her. The lamps in the house shook. The floor was jolted again as she threw herself onto her bed.

  Emmie Schnapper emerged from the kitchen, wiping her pudgy hands on her apron. “What’s the shouting about?”

  Her husband looked casually into his book. “I think she likes him,” he said.

  11

  In the ensuing days — weeks — months — unspoken measurings occurred between Guttle Schnapper and Meyer Amschel Rothschild.

  Visiting the bakery on Friday (he went out to work later than usual that day, so he could catch a glimpse of her as she rid the flour of beetles) he noticed that when she was not smiling or speaking, when she was not aware that she was being observed, her lips turned down at the corners with a curve both pensive and sultry.

  She was struck, stealing glances at him outside the synagogue that same night, with how unusually deep his dark brown eyes were set within his skull, grounded by crescent moons beneath that were darker than the rest of his lightly tanned face, shielded by long, dark lashes — eyes that suggested a sensitivity which, she suspected, even he himself could not articulate.

  Taking a seat beside her one Sunday afternoon in the courtyard beside the synagogue, as she looked after her younger siblings while they played, he noticed how when she spoke she always seemed to be deferring to him — yet her words made clear that she was not. How she accomplished this he could not say.

  She became aware that same afternoon of the way the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled merrily when he smiled, or laughed, or made one of his subtle jests.

  At home alone that evening he conceded that it was perhaps the contrast to her sorrowful lips that made her bright smile, when she flashed it at him, like an offering of heady wine.

  Writing a letter for him, on a warm spring afternoon when his sleeves were rolled, she observed his muscular forearms, his large hands with prominent knuckles, and envisioned in them a place of safety for anything entrusted there.

  When, as she wrote, a wisp of her hair fell out of place alongside her temple, he longed to ease it back where it belonged — except that, drifting free, it excited him. He dared not presume to touch it.

  She tried to recall in her solitude the smell of his nearness, a distinctive scent all leather and honey, horse and sweat. Few men in the Judengasse roamed the surrounding towns for their business, fewer still rode on horseback. The aggregate of his aromas held the promise of sensuality. Perhaps also, in some obscure way, of freedom.

  Each morning, because he might glimpse her that day, he awoke smiling, before he remembered the reason — as if he’d drunk deep of wine before he rubbed the cobbles from his eyes.

  When she stood alone before the wash basin, it was his hands that soaped her breasts.

  When one day he encountered her leaving the fruit market, just as he was returning from business in the city, he thanked Gott for paying attention. He noticed that when she was walking forward, her corseted breasts forthright, she often turned her head, then cocked it further, her eyes exploring the buzzing periphery, suggesting to him a fanciful canter though life, in contrast to his own blinkered gait.

  She
wondered if he had purposely arranged their meeting.

  He recognized a layer of anger buried within her — buried, perhaps, not quite as deep as his own.

  In the dark of midnight he kept seeing the sorrowful, sensual curve of her lips. That more than anything made him want to take care of her — also to make love to her.

  Secretly, she cut a small circle from the edge of a dress pattern, and slipped it onto her finger, to see how it looked, to see how it would feel.

  He became concerned about the ten-year difference in their ages.

  She worried at the giddiness she felt beside his calm maturity.

  When her hair was in braids atop her head his eyes kept darting compulsively to its tight, upswept origins at the nape of her neck.

  She began to sleep with her pattern-paper ring in a small box under her pillow.

  Agreeing to walk with him on a delightful May evening — if one ignored the stench from the ditch — she asked what the cities he visited on business were like — Mainz, for instance, or Hesse-Hanau — and he said he did not like to discuss what he saw outside, so as not to increase the frustration of those who were locked within.

  In her presence he became less reluctant to speak of the world beyond the lane. He vowed to himself that one day he would take her to see these places, in a carriage of their own, drawn by a high-stepping filly.

  One night she imagined him taking her to the cities of which he spoke, in a fiery chariot that crashed through the gates and set ablaze the roads as they passed.

  He sensed in her a generosity of soul, which, if he could dwell within its circumference, would make him a better man.

  She found herself seeking innocent pretexts under which to visit his office, to examine his coins.

  He came to anticipate her tread in the alleyway, and his heart raced out to meet her, though he did not leave his chair; no sooner had she left than he began to hope she might find some excuse to return. And always he felt guilty about his shy friend Yussel. He was poaching on the cabinet maker’s love.