walk with him, alongside the Schul-Klopper, Herr Gruen. Yahweh wouldn’t do this to him. I have to go see.”
“The journey takes three days,” the Rabbi said. “More important, let me read from your mother’s letter. ‘Please tell Meyer Amschel I shall be writing to him directly as soon as I am able. Under no circumstances should you allow him to come home. I know that will be his desire, but the lane is rife with smallpox, and it would not be safe for him. I am praying that this plague will pass before the school year ends.’” The Rabbi put the letter on his desk. “You see now why I cannot let you go back?”
Meyer had nodded dumbly, and left the Rabbi’s office and went back to class, where the numbers no longer had meaning. That night he slipped out of the dormitory with all his spending money and one change of clothes in a sack, and walked two miles to the stable, and hid amid new-cut hay, till he could board the morning coach. He slept two nights on ragged beds arranged by the coach driver in cheap way stations. In Frankfurt the driver left him not at the town square but one street away from the north gate. His mother hugged him and kissed him and cried tears into his hair, and was frightened. It was not safe for him to be here, she said.
He visited his father’s freshly turned grave with her. He did not cry. He wanted to be strong. Four days he stayed before making the long journey back to school.
When he next returned to the lane, six months later, it was because his mother, too, had succumbed to the pox. He was too late for her funeral as well. His small consolation was that he had come to see her when his father died. Again, he forced himself to be strong. He did not cry. Perhaps he had been too angry at Yahweh to cry.
As he stood by their graves now, Meyer unexpectedly felt tears welling. They seemed to be rushing up from his chest to his eyes like water from an underground spring. This had never happened in his many visits to their graves through the years. He did not know why it was happening now. Perhaps the death of Herr Gruen, his father’s good friend, had stirred old memories. Or perhaps because he had just become old enough to marry, and realized his parents never would meet his bride. Under the dark sky pocked with stars he sobbed for them. He sobbed until there were no more tears within him. He felt as if the tears had cracked a wall of stones in his chest. He could feel the stones crumbling. He could hear them.
Reaching for his handkerchief, he discovered his pocket was empty; he had forgotten to bring one. He wiped the last of his tears on his prayer shawl, and found his way among the stones to the lane, and back to the schul, to his own seat, which long ago had been his father’s.
The synagogue was almost full, as it always was on a Friday night, but not nearly as crowded as before. Moving past a knot of standing women, Hersch was surprised to see his mother among them, wearing her best hat and her one good coat. She was holding the arm of their young neighbor, Guttle Schnapper. The dread in his chest reached deeper, like a small tree extending its roots. He should never have told her about Hiram’s stupid hope. He slumped onto the nearest bench. Hiram sat beside him, his shoulders thrust back, looking around eagerly.
The Sabbath service was led by Rabbi Simcha. It lasted, Hiram guessed in his silence, about half an hour, though he did not take out his watch to check; that, he’d decided, would not be proper in schul. Upon its conclusion, the Chief Rabbi once again approached the lectern. He held up his hands for quiet. In one of them Hiram saw the new carved hammer with its sleek, sensual curve. Just by looking he could imagine touching it.
Hersch peered at his brother. For a moment he himself wanted to be not only deaf but blind. He did not want to see or hear what happened next. He covered his eyes with his hand. He didn’t dare to cover his ears. Where had Hiram gotten
“The journey takes three days,” the Rabbi said. “More important, let me read from your mother’s letter. ‘Please tell Meyer Amschel I shall be writing to him directly as soon as I am able. Under no circumstances should you allow him to come home. I know that will be his desire, but the lane is rife with smallpox, and it would not be safe for him. I am praying that this plague will pass before the school year ends.’” The Rabbi put the letter on his desk. “You see now why I cannot let you go back?”
Meyer had nodded dumbly, and left the Rabbi’s office and went back to class, where the numbers no longer had meaning. That night he slipped out of the dormitory with all his spending money and one change of clothes in a sack, and walked two miles to the stable, and hid amid new-cut hay, till he could board the morning coach. He slept two nights on ragged beds arranged by the coach driver in cheap way stations. In Frankfurt the driver left him not at the town square but one street away from the north gate. His mother hugged him and kissed him and cried tears into his hair, and was frightened. It was not safe for him to be here, she said.
He visited his father’s freshly turned grave with her. He did not cry. He wanted to be strong. Four days he stayed before making the long journey back to school.
When he next returned to the lane, six months later, it was because his mother, too, had succumbed to the pox. He was too late for her funeral as well. His small consolation was that he had come to see her when his father died. Again, he forced himself to be strong. He did not cry. Perhaps he had been too angry at Yahweh to cry.
As he stood by their graves now, Meyer unexpectedly felt tears welling. They seemed to be rushing up from his chest to his eyes like water from an underground spring. This had never happened in his many visits to their graves through the years. He did not know why it was happening now. Perhaps the death of Herr Gruen, his father’s good friend, had stirred old memories. Or perhaps because he had just become old enough to marry, and realized his parents never would meet his bride. Under the dark sky pocked with stars he sobbed for them. He sobbed until there were no more tears within him. He felt as if the tears had cracked a wall of stones in his chest. He could feel the stones crumbling. He could hear them.
Reaching for his handkerchief, he discovered his pocket was empty; he had forgotten to bring one. He wiped the last of his tears on his prayer shawl, and found his way among the stones to the lane, and back to the schul, to his own seat, which long ago had been his father’s.
The synagogue was almost full, as it always was on a Friday night, but not nearly as crowded as before. Moving past a knot of standing women, Hersch was surprised to see his mother among them, wearing her best hat and her one good coat. She was holding the arm of their young neighbor, Guttle Schnapper. The dread in his chest reached deeper, like a small tree extending its roots. He should never have told her about Hiram’s stupid hope. He slumped onto the nearest bench. Hiram sat beside him, his shoulders thrust back, looking around eagerly.
The Sabbath service was led by Rabbi Simcha. It lasted, Hiram guessed in his silence, about half an hour, though he did not take out his watch to check; that, he’d decided, would not be proper in schul. Upon its conclusion, the Chief Rabbi once again approached the lectern. He held up his hands for quiet. In one of them Hiram saw the new carved hammer with its sleek, sensual curve. Just by looking he could imagine touching it.
Hersch peered at his brother. For a moment he himself wanted to be not only deaf but blind. He did not want to see or hear what happened next. He covered his eyes with his hand. He didn’t dare to cover his ears. Where had Hiram gotten
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