“You might be right,” I said. “Anyway, let’s read a couple more pages, and then get this packed up. I think I should take it back to the office tomorrow.”
Michael looked disappointed. “I was hoping we could get through it together before you bring it back.”
“I know,” I said, “but I’m going to ask Larry if I can let Robert have a look at it. He knows a lot about Jewish history in the medieval period. And since he’s doing the research – even though he doesn’t realize what it is – it seems only fair.”
I could tell what Michael was thinking; how much we were both enjoying poring over the manuscript together, even how much fun we were having getting the apartment ready to take it out of the case. And, I thought, we hadn’t fought in days.
“Listen,” I said, “I’ll let him take a look at it, and then I’ll bring it back in a couple of days. Okay?”
“Sure,” Michael said, his tone full of understanding. “But I’ll miss looking at it with you. You know, watching TV just won’t be the same now.”
“I hear you,” I smiled. “Why watch Law and Order, when you can live it?”
I had not been able to return to Daniel since that last day before my marriage, having become newly occupied – at William’s direction-with the trivialities of my life; my dresses and my hair, tending my needle-work and growing the flowers that pleased William, and bearing the merry visitations of the courtiers who came to see us, all the while pining for a child and for my books, one as much as the other.
One day, some time after my wedding, I found the opportunity to sneak away from the house, with my father and William again occupied with matters of the monarchy, to leave our home and visit the Bookseller’s again. I had hoped and planned and looked forward to my visit there, and though he was a Jew, according to my father and William, I felt that I did not have cause to fear him. Indeed, he was, I believed, the only person who could help me – my only friend among those who sought knowledge.
And also, Daniel seemed unlike the People of the Tribe about whom I had been told; he did not wear the trappings of his faith – at least, not in my presence – no fringes dangled from his waist and no covering lay upon his head.
When I entered the shop he smiled as if happy to see me. –How now, Mistress Roper, he asked, with a small bow and a smile.
-I am well, I answered him. But the sadness of my eyes betrayed me.
-I hear thou hath been married, he said.
-Yes, I answered.
-I wish thee much joy of thy marriage, he said politely.
- And I thank thee for thy good wishes, I rejoined civilly.
He peered at me again. – I do wish only joy for thee. Yet in the manner in which thou speakest, without smiling, without joy in thy voice, I fear that thou art unhappy. When I think, Mistress Roper, that a newly wed bride should be as the lark in the spring sky, and yet in thy dress and demeanor, thou art as shrouded in darkness as a stone in a churchyard.
I looked upon him, wondering if it was the cunning Jew within him that could know the secrets of my heart without the words ever coming to my lips. –Hush, I told him, for who are you to ask me of such matters?
-I am none but your friend, he said.
-You cannot be my friend, I told him, for I have no friends. Once, my father was my best and sweetest friend, but he hath sold me as one would sell a plot of land or a field of grass. He spent years feeding and tending and cultivating my soul only to put it into the keeping of one who would let it lay fallow.
Daniel sighed gently, almost as a lover might. –Thy father is still thy friend, he said tenderly. -I know this for he hath been a friend to me; in a friendship borne of the love for learning. Thomas More hath stood before me, in this very space in which you stand, and it is in thine eyes that I see his love of learning and justice. For thy father is a just man, and he hath spoken of thee in constancy and love.
-He hath put thee into the care of one who will keepest thou safe, Daniel said, his voice growing more quiet as if burdened by its very secrets. He hath placed thee in the hands of one who shall never himself be at risk because the reins of power are not within his reach. William Roper is of little importance to the monarch. Thy father is wise to make you the wife of such a man, for he wishes to protect thee from the monarch’s whims.
I stared at Daniel. –So it is true. Thou art the Jewish bookseller of whom they hath spoken.
The unmasking of his secret was apparent in his eyes.
-And thou art acquainted with my father, I said. Then thou must also be acquainted with my husband.
-I am, he said, and there was sympathy in his voice. William Roper is not the same sort of man as thy father, but because he is such as he is, Roper shall keep thee safe. Though he tries to curry favour with the king, he is only tolerated because of the monarch’s love for thy father. But he hath no power, nor will he, among the churchmen and councilors who surround the throne.
As I looked upon Daniel, I realized then that I had betrayed my eavesdropping and that it was dangerous for me to know of my father’s business.
–Thou must never let them know that I know of these matters, I pleaded. If thou art my true friend, thou must never reveal to my father or to William that we have spoken of such things.
-My lady, he said, it is I who must ask secrecy and discretion from thee, as I have obtained it from thy father and which he graciously bestows upon me in silent approbation, he said humbly. But I must ask thee not to speak of me to thy father, or to thy husband, for it is dangerous for thee to know that I am acquainted with such men, and the purposes for which we seek knowledge of the affairs of the throne. Should things not come right with these matters, I shall hath more to fear than thou shalt ever know.
I knew that he spoke of his Jewish faith, his misplaced and misguided belief that there was no Saviour, that for him there was no redemption nor hope of heaven, that he still toiled and waited in vain for a false messiah – a hope that was nothing more than a lie. I knew that I should recoil from him, for tho’ he was going about my father’s business, and the work of preserving the Holy throne, he was not one of us. I told myself that I should leave his shop, that the tiny bell over the door would ring over me in mockery of the True Faith, and yet the warmth in his eyes compelled me to be still.
I felt his glance become one with mine, his eyes as sweet and pure and dark as honey. At that moment the terrible tense breath of doubt left my body, and I felt that he was, indeed, my friend.
After that moment we talked easily. I leaned upon the table before him as he shewed me texts and books of study and I admired and breathed and drank them in as one whose thirst could never be satisfied.
And as the hour wore onwards we spoke of other things, and while I could not bring myself to tell him of the marriage that felt to me like the walls of a prison, I confessed to him my other great sadness: my fear that my sister Cecily could never be restored to me.
It was then he told me the story of his own sister, the only other member of his family who had escaped the tortures of Spain. His mother and father had been taken from their home in the night, never to be seen again.
There was grief in his eyes when he spoke of them; he said someone whispered to him that they had died upon the racks and in the fiery furnaces of the Inquisition, refusing to accept the faith of Christ.
I bristled slightly when he said that; he saw and laid a gentle hand upon mine.
– Do not be distressed, Miss Margaret, he said, by our faith. For it is not an imperfect faith in an imperfect God that causes such destruction; it is the injustice born when faith is used as a weapon to divide nations from one another. And thou shouldst be most distressed by this injustice, rather than concerned about the state of my people’s souls, which have survived undimmed by doubt for thousands of years.
I nodded with something that resembled understanding and gestured that he should continue telling me the story of his family. He and his sister, by the grace of God, had been staying
in another city in the home of his teacher, and when word reached them that their parents had been murdered, his teacher had fearfully placed them on a boat that was bound for England, hidden beneath the deck by a sailor bribed to take them.
On the journey his sister had taken chill in the damp quarters. She died the day before they reached England. Her body had been given to the sea. There was not even a grave where he could place a stone in her memory.
My heart ached with his loss, and I was more determined than ever to bring peace between Cecily and myself. He told me to find her in a silent moment, one that would not be witnessed by my father or by William, and he told me that in the next weeks there would be moments when they would be concerned with matters more urgent than my marriage.
I blushed when he said that word, and felt the heat of his eyes upon my face. It was then that I gathered up my shawl and my parcels, and told him that I must return home. There was an unbearable sweetness in our parting, for after our silence had been broken, I faced the emptiness of my return to a house in which the monster William lived. But at the last moment before we parted, Daniel had given unto me a parchment to study, with assurances of his continued friendship, and I carried the tiny scroll against my breast like a shield, and felt strengthened by the comfort of his nearness.
When I stole to my chamber that night I unrolled the scroll that he had given to me and to my surprise there lay on the page the words of a poem, written in his fine and precise hand: Draw me, we will run after thee; the king hath brought me into his chambers; we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will find thy love more fragrant than wine! sincerely do they love thee.
I am dark, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.
Look not upon me, that I am swarthy, that the sun hath tanned me; my mother’s sons were incensed against me, they made me keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept.
Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon; for why should I be as one that veileth herself beside the flocks of thy companions?
If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock and feed thy kids, beside the shepherds’ tents.
Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thine eyes are as doves.
Behind thy veil; thy hair is as a flock of goats, that trail down from Gilead.
Thy teeth are like a flock of ewes all shaped alike, which are come up from the washing; whereof all are paired, and none faileth among them.
Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy mouth is comely; thy temples are like a pomegranate split open behind thy veil.
Thy neck is like the tower of David builded with turrets, whereon there hang a thousand shields, all the armour of the mighty men.
Thy two breasts are like two fawns that are twins of a gazelle, which feed among the lilies.
Until the day ends, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.
Thou art all fair, my love; and there is no spot in thee.
Come with me from Lebanon, my bride, with me from Lebanon; look from the top of Amana, from the top of Senir and Hermon, from the lions’ dens, from the mountains of the leopards.
Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my bride; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one bead of thy necklace.
I clasped the unrolled paper to my heart, and felt it beating against the inscribed words. I knew the text – it was the Song of Solomon – but surely this bookseller – this man – this son of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob – this dearest friend — could not have meant the words for me. I rushed to the looking-glass and saw my own pale countenance. But there were no doves in my eyes, no jeweled thread upon my lips, and the same plain scholar’s face looked back at me as always.
Hearing the footsteps of my husband approaching, I quickly rolled up the parchment and hid it away, imagining only that Daniel the bookseller had meant this poem as a token of luck for my well-being as a newly wed bride. With my own foolish imaginings safely disposed, I extinguished my candle before William’s steps reached my chamber, and prayed that he would not trouble me with his obscene lust and cruelty that night. But he did not enter my chamber, and I soon fell asleep.
In the night, I dreamed of Daniel’s eyes, his curling hair entwined in my fingertips, his sweet voice nourishing my hunger for music and words. But when I woke up in the morning, and saw William’s head bent next to my father’s at their desk, deep in some discussion of law, his sparse blond hair barely covering his scalp, I dismissed my dreams as fanciful, and went to find Cecily in the garden.
I feared at first that she would not listen, for I was loath to explain to my sister how our father had wittingly usurped her beloved, and promised me to him; but after I had confided in the bookseller about the sadness that lay between my sister and myself, I took Daniel’s counsel on the matter. For even though I was not able to speak with my father out of William’s presence, the bookseller encouraged me to find Cecily among the gardens where she wept in quiet solitude.
Thus, I was finally able to console my sister. I had begged her to turn to me for comfort in her darkest hours of spurned despair, and - thank God for the goodness of her pure and clear heart – she finally understood that we had both been wronged. It was only thus that allowed her to conceive of true honor in those she loved; she spoke of both myself and my father as blameless for her own misfortune.
And so I was able to free my conscience of this unwitting sin; with my beloved sister’s forgiveness I could turn my mind towards other thoughts that had begun to occupy me. The time of my bleeding had been and passed, and I was clean; my linen was clean in the mornings, and within me I felt a new stirring. I wondered if the miracle could be happening – if I could have taken with child – if I would now be spared the humiliation of my husband’s brutality. I prayed to the Lord that it would be so; that I could do my wifely duty, and perhaps even be relieved of the burden of my mortal life while delivering him of a child.
Such would be the sweetest wish granted, I told myself – to be released from the bonds of this life, where there was no joy for me but that which I could steal, away from my home and hearth, away from the man into whose my hands my soul had been given.
And then I thought of Daniel and wondered if my wish was not a selfish one, for while my friend lived and breathed, and while we couldst share our love for knowledge, couldst there not be hope for me?
17
I decided to take a cab downtown early the next morning; taking the bulky artifact case home after a late night at work was one thing, but lugging it through crowded rush hour subways was entirely another. For the twenty minutes it took to get downtown – a miracle considering the hour – I luxuriated in the rare treat of a car ride.
After paying the driver, I got out of the cab, shouldered my work bag, and carefully extricated the case from the back seat. I then walked into the museum, passed through Security and took the elevator up to my office.
I took off my coat, put down my bag and the case, and turned on my computer. A new email from Robert came up almost immediately. It was timed from 10:36 the night before:
To: Jill Levin
From: Robert Goldstein
Date: February 6, 10:36 PM
Subject: Hidden Child Research
Hi, Jill:
I took a look at the database and ran a search using the information you gave me. The closest thing I could find was a record for a Marnie Berkson, who went by the name of Minna as a child. Her mother, father, and two brothers died at Belsen. She was the only survivor of her family, due to the fact that she was hidden by a Polish family outside of Lodz –
It’s not her, I thought, disappointed.
and gave several artifacts to the museum before her death in 2002. Not sure if this is who you are looking for. Another a
venue I can look into is the Hidden Child Foundation which is a branch of the ADL. They have pretty detailed records of where and how children were hidden during the war. I know some people there who might be able to help, but as for artifact donors, I don’t think there’s much more I can do to refine the search. Let me know if you have any more information or if you’d like me to contact the HCF for you.
See you tomorrow.
Robert
Before I could reply to Robert, I opened up a new window and started composing an email to Larry. He was traveling again – this time to Berlin, and I hoped he would be able to get to his email within a reasonable amount of time.
To: Larry Grossman
From: Jill Levin
Date: February 7, 8:39 AM
Subject: Manuscript
Good morning, Larry,
I would like to let Robert take a look at the manuscript that we discussed before you left. I think he could be helpful in terms of figuring out the significance of some of the Hebrew notations; there are a couple more that have surfaced. Let me know if that’s OK with you – I know you wanted us to check in with you before we let anyone else know that it exists. Have you heard at all from the Archdiocese? Hope all is well in Berlin. See you soon.
— Jill
I got up from my chair and went to the break room, and returned with a cup of coffee. Then I started getting my notes ready for the meeting, and read a memo about the exhibition de-installation that Aviva had left on my desk. Within a couple of minutes, I heard my e-mail notification alarm go off.
To: Jill Levin
From: Larry Grossman
Date: February 7, 8:53 AM
Subject: Re: Manuscript
JL:
MS OK to show RG but keep under wraps otherwise.
No word from ArchD of NY – yet.
All well in Berlin.
See you Tues.
The Bookseller's Sonnets Page 19
