The Bookseller's Sonnets

by Andi Rosenthal

  I felt my face lose its composure, and Cecily’s hand gripped mine. – Get out, she said bravely. Leave this chamber at once.

  He turned to leave. But before he did, he fired one last malicious phrase at us both. – I thank God for making me not a woman, said he, for thou art worthless creatures, good only for carrying the seed of men. Would that God hath been clever enough to find a way to people the world without thee.

  He slammed the door shut behind him, and Cecily and I cradled each another in our arms for a few moments.

  In the light of the tower window my sister did regard me, and said unto me - -Thou art ill, Margaret, and it is long since the grace of humour has lighted thy countenance. Thou art not the sister that I know, for where I once knew wit and gentleness, there is sadness within thee and a dulled tongue.

  I replied, - Alas, little one, that thou hast been spared this fate; where once thou knew envy, I only know despair. Marriage hath brought nothing to me but a long and merciful wait for Death. My dearest Cecily, gentle sister, I would not have had thee suffer this fate, for thou must know that it is my husband who denies me all pleasures, and hath replaced wit with bitterness, and gentleness with rage.

  -But I shall reveal a truth to thee, my dearest sister, and that is that I hath found love, even though the priest may say that this love is a sin of the gravest kind; and that yes, I may even be condemned to the fires of hell for it. William, for once, is not lying; I hath consorted with my friend, and he is a Jew.

  -But I am sure of one thing only, Cecily, and that is should I be forced to endure an eternity of hell for having loved my friend, my beloved, my dearest one, and if the demons should rage against me for giving birth to his child, then I shall endure it. For my soul belongs to him, our souls belong to one another, and God Himself is the One who hath united them in this holy bond.

  Cecily gasped as I revealed the swelling curve of my belly beneath the heavy folds of my gown.

  - O my sister, she said frantically, thou must conceal this from William. He will kill thee shouldst he come to know of this.

  - I know, I said, but William is busy at court; he will not come back before the hour of my deliverance is at hand.

  -But what if he doth, she cried.

  -He hath not returned to me out of desire since the birth of our son, I said. -And now it is said that he stayeth at court in the company of his mistress. I am no fool. Should he come back to his rooms here, he will not see me.

  -You cannot be sure of that, Cecily wept. –For with this new transgression he may wish to control thee even more. What if he doth imprison you as he hath imprisoned our father? And a woman who hath borne a child out of wedlock couldst be punished unto her death for such a sin.

  -I smiled serenely at my sister’s fair countenance. –Would that it were so! For I am not strong, and when my hour of deliverance is near, then I shall pray for God to take me from this earthly place, and God shall find a way for Daniel to care for our child.

  Cecily seemed loath to speak and her silence best became her. She looked around my stone chamber, perhaps for the first time understanding all of my cloistered years of silence, and she said unto me, - Margaret, it is long since I have held thee in my confidence, for it is long since I hath cast my sin of envy upon thee. Not only because of thy marriage but also because our dearest father held thee in his highest regard; he confided in thee his love of learning; he made a marriage in thy name but was arrested before he could get me and our other sisters to husbands. It was for many years that I believed, it is Margaret who is our father’s heart’s dearest, and Cecily only the pale shadow reflecting her light. But it is only now, dear sister, that I see the ghostly years of anguish, that I see the prison of thy pain; and that is why I hath come to you today, with these –

  Then, from within the sleeve of her gown, she brought forth the letters which my father wrote to me in his last hours.

  And she thrust forth the parchments written in my father’s familiar hand. It had been so long since any of his words had come to me, that I leapt upon them, reading and weeping and again weeping, that his words had come to me so late upon his death. Cecily said nothing for a moment; she did not embrace me in my wretched sorrow, nor did she explain the words of our father’s hand.

  She said, after a silence – Thou must read them, dear Margaret, for these words were meant for thee. William had received these missives in thy name, and bid me to conceal them from thee.

  - I thought perhaps that he might seek to destroy them, she said, and so I hath told him that I would hide them, that I would not tell thee of their existence. But when he said that after our father’s death, these letters may bring us wealth – I knew that William truly was the serpent you described, and I knew that the time had come to show these letters to thee.

  And it is thus with wretchedness and anger that I knew William kept my father’s words from me.

  It is with such sadness and loathing that I longed to say to my imprisoned father: I too, know of the loss of liberty and the loss of learning; how God’s grace beckons from that noble place of the mind, where learning is mingled with duty and so bestowed in the service of the Lord, and how that grace is denied me; how I am kept apart from my work; how I must record these hours in secret, away from the traitorous eyes of my lord and husband. O father, I too hath known brutality at the hands of a traitor!

  The letters made ample mention of the grace in which he died, but he was filled with sadness at the parting of our family, and bid me to bide the time usefully before we should meet again in Heaven. I read the missives in which he wished me grace and the protection of the Lord to guard my footsteps always, and for the blessings of God to befall me, and my dearest child Thomas, and any future child. He closed his last letter by saying that he did not wish for me to give birth to a daughter unless she was brought forth into the world with her mother’s grace of learning; for such a girl he would prefer to all the glory of Heaven.

  It was then I wept without solace, for unbeknownst to my father, because I knew in my heart that such a girl was about be born, and indeed, the mother of that child had been denied all grace and learning.

  But without thy love, my Daniel, it is my wish indeed that God would spare me any future births, for I could not bear to be without thee; our parting will most certainly end my life.

  When my tears ceased, my sister looked at me with tenderness and pity.

  -I shall do what I can, Cecily said, to protect you and your child. Even if it means putting myself in William’s way.

  I reached a hand out to her. – The birth is but ten weeks away, I told her. But I cannot let you cast your own soul into sin for me.

  -My soul hath already been ruined, she said sadly. I can only hope to find love, as thou hast, and weather the fires of hell should it ever come to me as it has come to thee. But thou hast given me hope, Margaret, that love can still be born out of the depths of the most broken soul. And when your hour is come, I will bring the child to your beloved.

  I embraced her then, and for ten long weeks, she was true to her word, mortally endangering the holy purity of her soul by giving herself over to William’s evil desires.

  And then the night came when I cried out with the pains of birth, and she came to me and held my hand, held the roped sheet that I pulled upon as I waited for our child.

  And then she was born, our daughter, in the quiet dawn of the morning. William was at court, he had not been home for weeks, after becoming exhausted and contemptuous of my sister. Together Cecily and I held the child and washed her and cared for her, and made ready for her to be brought to thee.

  And so my hour hath come, my beloved, my friend, and I am not strong. I have given life to our girl, our daughter, my love, and Cecily hath vowed to deliver her unto thee with this letter.

  I bid thee to name her according to the laws of thy People, for she shall be with you and yours; she must not be a stranger among them. Thou must name her with a name that will give meaning to her
life, and will establish her as our sweetest hope, as the girl who will renew our love as she grows, in God’s grace, into womanhood.

  It is now, Daniel, that I bid thee to flee. Thou art in danger. William hath said thou art to follow the fate of my father, and I believe it to be so. Thou must wander again, this time with our daughter to console thee. I bid thee, Daniel, go.

  Thou it doth grieve me to imagine a world without thee, I know also that I shall never be permitted to venture beyond these walls again. I know the time of sickness is upon me and soon, I shall join my father and knoweth God’s grace in the World to Come.

  I bid thee, Daniel, to flee with our daughter. I bid thee to teach her the teachings of my father, of your father, of our faith and of our God, and the love that we hath created together. I bid thee to seek me in the next world when, in the words of the poet of thy People, the voice of the turtledove shall be heard in our midst, and the time of singing will be at hand. And in his words, I bid thee to set me as a seal upon thy arm, and as a seal upon thy heart, for love is strong as death.

  Into thy keeping and thy protection I give to thee not only our child, but all of these papers, the secrets of my heart, the true and unbidden story of my marriage and my love for thee. I would like to think someday, in safety, thou shalt bind them in a book, and hide them in some secret place, so they may be preserved through our daughter and the daughters that will come after her, and perhaps, at some day, they will tell the truth about me, how I was once a woman of wit, grace and learning, but I was imprisoned by a husband moved only by cruelty and jealousy, who hath used the name of my noble father only for his hateful gain. And though love was late in coming to me, though delight was almost a stranger to my soul, I hath found thee, my beloved, my friend.

  Now may I haply go to God and my dear father. I beg thee to commit my words to some noble place, away from the eyes of those who would traduce my name, as my body shall soon be committed to the ground and my soul sanctified unto the Lord.

  Daniel, though I hath bid thee to flee, be thy soul at peace. For peace is mine. I am content that through thee, these words will flourish in some uncharted future, like the eternity of nature ever anew; my words shall go with thee to a safe harbor; and they shall rest in the minds of the worthy, safe at shore.

  I bid thee depart with our child in safety and love; by the grace of God and Holy Word, I am ever thine own –

  Margaret

  I leaned back in my chair and sighed deeply. Michael turned over the final page and saw nothing more. Then he closed the book.

  “I wonder when she died,” Michael said. “You went online for biographical information about her, right?”

  “She died about ten years after her father,” I said, almost automatically. “That was a long time to be sick, a long time to live after Daniel left.”

  “Did she ever have any more children?”

  I shook my head wordlessly.

  Michael sighed. “It doesn’t say what happened to Daniel.”

  “I guess that he got out,” I said. “That Cecily got this last letter – and hopefully, their baby to him, and he did as Margaret asked. He created this book.”

  “But there’s still a missing piece,” Michael said. “We don’t know where it came from. We don’t know where Daniel went. We don’t know what happened to their child. We don’t even know her name.”

  “Well, I assume that he went to Germany. I know from the last letter that the book was buried there during the war, and somehow it was recovered. But beyond that – in terms of how it got to Germany in the first place, is still a mystery.”

  “Are you bringing it back to work tomorrow?” Michael asked.

  I nodded. “Yes. It’s time. Besides, I want to put this in the same room with the letters, look at them all at one time, hoping that somehow, we’ll be able to obtain some sort of answer. Or at least, we can speculate.” I sighed again. “But we’re no closer to authentication than we were a couple of weeks ago.”

  “No, we’re not,” he agreed. “But as long as the letters keep coming, you might get some more information.”

  “That’s true.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s pack this up and get some sleep. We’ve both had tough days.” Michael placed the book back into the case. We tucked the packing materials – the excelsior, the bubble wrap, the soft, acid-free material that we used for wrapping – all around it, as if we were preparing it for a long journey. Then we closed the case and locked it. We rolled up the paper and I watched as Michael opened the door of the hall closet and put in inside. I was about to tell him that there was no need for us to keep it, but I could tell that he didn’t want to throw it away. And somehow, neither did I.

  He moved the case over to where my work bag lay by the door, and then he shut off the lights in the living room. We went into the bedroom and got ready to go to sleep. In the darkness of the room I waited for him, and when he finally came to bed I watched as the dim light streamed in from the window, illuminating the shadows of his body, and listened to the muted city sounds from outside.

  He got into our bed and we reached for one another. I felt the familiar touch of his skin underneath my fingertips, the warmth of his caress on my naked thigh, the softness of his lips upon my mouth.

  Afterwards, I lay in his arms and watched his eyelids slowly flutter closed as he fell asleep, and pressed my cheek against his chest so that I could hear his heartbeat. I watched his chest as it rose and fell with each breath.

  22

  I arrived at work the next morning, lugging the case into the building. Aviva wasn’t in yet. The morning meeting had been postponed to the afternoon in an effort to finish up the presentation we had begun assembling the night before.

  I locked the manuscript in the vault even before I had my coat off. Then I put my belongings by my desk and went down the hallway to the conference room. It didn’t look as if anyone was around yet.

  As I passed my mailbox I peered inside. There were two letters there. One had a pink post-it affixed to the front. I lifted it from the envelope and read it:

  Jill: Can you please come talk to me about this later? Ariel will find you an appointment. See you then. –SS

  I extracted the letter from its heavy cream-colored envelope emblazoned with the gold and burgundy seal and began to read:

  Dear Dr. Schiffman:

  Since we have received no word from you, nor your staff, regarding the authentication of the Margaret Roper diary, on behalf of His Eminence I must regretfully inform you that we intend to pursue other avenues of viewing the document and determining whether or not it is 1) an authentic representation of Margaret Roper’s works and 2) if indeed it should remain the property of your institution.

  At the request of the St. Thomas More Vatican College, the archive of our Venerable Most Holy Martyr Saint Thomas More, we are pursuing legal action to take appropriate steps to determine the rightful possession of these documents, which we must assume were once under the rightful ownership of the Holy Church prior to the archive’s existence.

  We seek to restore these documents to Church ownership without delay.

  Our lawyers will be in contact with you within ten business days to determine a time for deposition regarding the authentication process.

  In the interim, should you wish to surrender these documents to the Archdiocese, we will gladly cease this action.

  Yours very truly, in the Name of Christ our Lord —

  Monsignor James Francis Tully, O.S.F

  Oh, dear God, I thought, as I leaned heavily against the wall. I couldn’t even think about losing the manuscript, about it being locked away in some dusty archive and never seen again. I couldn’t think about Margaret’s story being condemned to silence for as long as the Church pleased. I hoped that the other letter would be the answer to the prayer I felt in my heart.

  I looked at its face, lettered with the same familiar lettering, no return address. I slit the envelope open with my thumbna
il and pulled out a bulky packet of brittle pages. Smoothing them out with my hand, I leaned against the wall and began to read.

  Miss Jill Levin

  Senior Curator

  Museum of Jewish Heritage

  36 Battery Place

  New York, NY 10004

  Dear Miss Levin:

  I hope that the last few letters have reached you, for I realize that I keep needing to look up the address of your museum. I cannot remember certain things anymore. Indeed, because my memories of the Shoah are so powerful, they do not leave room for much else.

  I wrote last to you of how I buried the book at the edge of town, how I left my daughter Minna in the care of the convent, and how I was then deported to Dachau with my mother and sisters.

  When we arrived at Dachau, I heard the cries of the mothers as they were taken off the trains, and the children’s screams as they were separated from their mothers. Not even the sound of the trains arriving in the depot could block out the sound of all those crying children. The fear was louder than the puffing smoke, louder than the clacking wheels. And then, as we were led away from the depot, we could hear, in the distance, the cracking of gunshots coming from the forest. With every bullet we shuddered and wondered which of our people had died.

  They told us that we were the lucky ones. The children, the old people, our mothers and greataunts, our grandmothers and grandfathers, were not allowed to leave the trains. Their journeys continued on to Auschwitz. My mother was among them. We found out later that they were stripped of their belongings, and, almost immediately, sent to the gas chamber. We, the strong ones, the young women, were to remain at Dachau, where we would spend the next three years, dying slowly.

  I was assigned to a work detail with my sisters. Our job was to dig pits in the forest near the camp. They told us that we were digging bomb pits for the soldiers, but we knew otherwise. I had heard otherwise with my own ears, that day in the forest.

  But now we were sent to do the work for those who were not strong enough to dig their own graves. Almost every morning, as we walked along the forest path, we tripped over bodies, bones and blood that had been strewn, skulls exploded by bullets. These were the ones who had tried to run. The others lay in the freshly dug craters, sometimes five or six bodies deep.