Читать книгу The Rabbi of Worms - M. K. Hammond - Страница 10

They were lying in wait. Those horrible boys were waiting for him to pass through their territory, for another chance to make him cry. One time Josef had tried to find his way home by a different street, but he had become lost and wandered for nearly an hour, causing his mother much anxiety. Now he would simply lower his head and walk straight ahead, hoping they would not block his way.

He should have been accustomed to it by now, since he walked through their territory twice a week on market days and also on Mondays when he bought sewing supplies for his mother. But they always found new ways to torment him, and though he tried to ignore them, he could not. If he closed his ears to their taunts, they threw pebbles at him, and if he walked through the pebbles, they pulled his hair.

Today was Wednesday, and Josef was coming home from the market. He was carrying a small jug of milk and a basket of vegetables his mother had asked for. As he came down Market Street and passed the first house beyond Jews’ Alley, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the tall boy with big feet waiting by the doorpost. Josef noticed his feet because once the boy had stepped out and tripped him. But today the tall boy stayed where he was and gave out a shrill whistle. Josef looked straight ahead and kept walking.

Out of another doorway came the red-haired boy and the fat one. They walked beside him, one on each side, while the tall boy came up behind him and shadowed his steps. He got closer and closer until Josef could feel the boy’s legs just behind his own at every step. All three started to chant, first quietly, but then growing steadily louder.

“Bastard, bastard, bastard . . .”

Two more boys joined the group, and the chanting became even louder. Josef did not dare try to run away because he might spill the milk, and anyway, they could run faster than he could. So he kept walking and tears began to fall off his cheeks, and the chant became, “Cry-baby, cry-baby . . .”

If only he could make it to the next corner where the old crooked man sat and begged, he felt sure they would turn their attention to that unfortunate man.

At last he reached the corner. One of the boys slapped his backside and sent him stumbling forward. He kept a tight hold on the basket and the milk jug, and only a small amount of milk splashed onto the road. Josef could feel the boys falling away from him but he dared not look back. Once before when he turned around and looked, the boys came running after him shaking their fists in the air.

He walked steadily forward for two blocks without turning his head to the right or left. After a few more minutes he saw the entrance to his house—only then did his taut body begin to relax. He passed the butcher shop on his left, then turned to lift the latch of the gate. He entered through an archway in the stone wall into a small unpaved courtyard, bordered on three sides by wooden buildings daubed with clay. Various shops occupied lower floors of the buildings, while Josef and his mother kept two small rooms on the upper level. He went into a hallway at the rear of the courtyard, climbed the steep, narrow stairway, and pushed open the door. There stood his mother with broom in hand.

“Josef, are you home so soon? I’ve not even had time to clean Frau Schmid’s house.”

“Yes, Mutti, I walked fast.”

“Well, all right then. I suppose you’re hungry?”

“Yes, Mutti.”

“Bring the milk over here.”

Josef set the basket on a small sideboard and carried the milk jug to a worn wooden table in the middle of the room. His mother filled a bowl with porridge and poured milk over it. Josef ate quickly and eagerly. His mother sat and watched and smiled a little when he looked up at her. Maybe this would be a good time to ask the question. It had been gnawing at him for a couple of weeks. But would she know the answer? He had never heard her use that word before. Maybe it was an unmentionable word, forbidden in the Bible. Would it be a sin if he said it? But in the end Josef’s curiosity would not allow him to keep silent. All at once he blurted out, “Mutti, what’s a bastard?”

He was not prepared for his mother’s reaction. Her smile instantly vanished, and she took on that sad look, the look he had seen many times before but had never understood. In silence she stared at her son while the color faded from her face. Finally she spoke.

“Where did you hear that word?”

“Some boys on the street.”

“Don’t listen to them.”

“No, Mutti, but what can I do?”

“Don’t listen to them.”

With that she picked up her broom and hurried toward the door. She did not stop to remind him of his chores as she usually did. She merely gave him a quick glance over her shoulder as she went out the door. Josef noticed that her eyes and cheeks were moist.

What was he to do? He had upset his mother, and now she would be in one of her gloomy moods for many days. He vowed he would try to be a good son and not do things that annoyed her. He would do all his chores without being told. And of course he would never again ask her that question.

Still, he had to find out what a bastard was, but who would tell him? Certainly not the boys on the street. They were the last ones he would ask. Could he ask old Wilhelm who lived across the courtyard? No, he might report back to Josef’s mother. What about Anna and Lotti, the little girls he played with over in the next street? Anna was eight years old, two years older than he was, and she might know the answer. Maybe he would ask Anna. He would have to think about it. But now he had to do his chores and do them extra well.

By noon, Josef had carried kindling wood and hauled buckets of water to all the shops in the courtyard. The baker had given him a misshapen bun that was burnt at the edges. On most days, Josef would have stuffed it in his mouth and devoured it in a few seconds, but not today. He decided he would save it for his mother.

She was already fixing their midday meal when Josef returned home. A pot of potatoes was bubbling over the fire, with a few carrots and leeks adding color to the stew. It was the same meal they had yesterday and the day before and every day except Sunday. Sometimes the pot contained turnips and cabbage, but always they ate boiled potatoes. Frequently Josef complained. But today he would not complain.

They sat down, each with a bowl of potato stew, and ate in silence. After he had cleaned his bowl, Josef said with some hesitation, “Mutti, I brought you something.”

His mother slowly raised her head and looked at him. Josef took from his sleeve the misshapen bun, now quite flat as well. He handed it to her across the table. She took the bun in her hand and stared at it for a few seconds until tears welled up in her eyes. Josef thought once again he had done something wrong.

“What did I do, Mutti?”

“Oh, Josef. It has raisins.”

“Yes, Mutti. I thought you’d like them.”

“But, Josef, it’s your favorite. You take it back.”

“Let’s divide it. You eat half and I’ll eat half.”

They shared the bun, though Josef’s mother pulled most of the raisins from her piece and pressed them into his. Before they went back to work, she put her arms around him and tenderly kissed the top of his head.

•

Some weeks later, as Josef was leaving the market square on a bright, clear morning, he felt the first warm breezes of summer surround him like a blanket. It was a wonderful feeling that made him want to skip all the way home. Of course he could not skip with his load of vegetables, so he began to whistle instead. He was turning his head from side to side, noticing colorful flowers blooming in upstairs window boxes, when he heard a sharp voice.

“Stop. Why are you whistling?”

He immediately stopped whistling but kept walking and looked straight ahead.

“I said stop! You better stop when I tell you to.”

The tall boy jumped in front of him and blocked his way. Immediately five other boys came out from doorways and alleyways and surrounded him. One grabbed the basket out of his hand. The tall boy demanded, “Okay, bastard. Tell me why you were whistling. Are you a bird, or just a bird-brain?”

Josef stammered under his breath, “I . . . I’m not a bird. I’m a person.”

“You hear that, boys? He thinks he’s a person!”

“He’s not a person, he’s a bastard!”

The boys pushed Josef into an alley and up against a wall. They crowded close around him.

“Who’s your father, bastard?”

“Tell us who your father is.”

Josef remained silent.

“Hey, fellows, he can’t tell us who his father is!”

“That’s ‘cause he’s a bastard and he ain’t got no father.”

“I’ll bet his mother’s a whore.”

Josef had never heard that word before, but he felt sure it was an ugly word. Tears filled his eyes and he cried out, “She is not!”

“Cry-baby. Look, he’s crying ‘cause his mother’s a whore.”

The boys began pushing him back and forth between them and calling out “Cry-baby” at each push. Josef heard the familiar chant echoing in his ears from all sides. Suddenly it stopped.

“Who’s there?” came a quavering voice from the head of the alley. Josef knew the voice. It was Father Albert, the old priest who was nearly blind.

“Who’s there?” came the voice again.

The tall boy whispered something to the others. All but one of them disappeared out the back side of the alley—they left the red-haired boy to guard Josef. He immediately grabbed Josef’s wrist and told him not to move and not to say anything. He said the boys would come back and give him a “cudgeling” if he cried out. They stood silently with their backs against a wall for a few minutes, the red-haired boy keeping a tight grip on Josef’s wrist. They heard no more from the old priest.

From the back side of the alley came the sound of footsteps. It seemed to Josef more like the sound of one person than like a whole gang of boys. Whoever it was walked up close to them and might have passed by without stopping, except that Josef gave out a short, involuntary sob.

“What’s going on here?” asked the one who had just arrived.

“Get lost,” said the red-haired boy.

“Let me hear from the other boy first.”

Josef was too frightened to speak but he sobbed again.

“Okay. Let go of him, and if you won’t tell me what’s going on, then you just get out of here.” With that the speaker clenched his fists and glared at the red-haired boy, who backed away slowly. From a safe distance, he threatened to return with his gang and beat them up. Then he spun around and ran.

The new boy turned to Josef. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Josef.”

“Well I’m Mosche. I’m nine years old, but my granny says I’m big for my age, and strong too. Where do you live?”

“Down Market Street, behind the butcher shop.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

Josef found his basket. One of the boys had dropped it in the alley. He picked up the vegetables that had spilled out and carefully put them back in place. “Where do you live?” he asked as the two boys emerged from the alley.

Mosche pointed in the direction of the market square, but more toward the river. “Over there, in the Jewish quarter.”

“Does that mean you’re a Jew?”

“Yes, I’m a Jew.”

“What’s a Jew?”

Mosche laughed. “Well, my mother and father are Jews, and my sister. We read Torah and keep the laws and worship the Holy One.”

“You can read?” asked Josef in astonishment.

“Yes. I started school when I was six years old. All the boys do. And some of the girls learn to read at home.”

“I’m six years old, and I don’t go to school.”

“Do you want to?”

“I can’t, because I have to haul water in the morning and help my mother in the afternoon.” Josef hesitated. “Could . . . could you teach me to read?”

“Well, my father says it is the duty of every scholar to teach others. So I guess if you want to learn to read, I’ll have to teach you. But you’ll need to know Hebrew first.”

“Okay.”

“All right. I make deliveries for my father every morning except Sabbath. I guess we could meet early at the market and do lessons while we walk around.”

Josef was becoming excited. “Yes! My mother mends clothes, and sometimes she asks me to return them to their owners. It would help her if I did all the returns. And some mornings I get sewing supplies and shop at the market. Could we meet every day?”

“Well, let’s try it once or twice and see how it goes.”

The following Monday morning Josef approached the market square apprehensively. Was this the morning they had agreed upon? Would Mosche be waiting for him out in the open, or would he conceal himself? What if they couldn’t find each other? What if Mosche decided he didn’t want to bother teaching a kid he met on the street?

When he passed the last buildings and emerged into the square, there was Mosche! He was waiting by the well in the middle of the square. Beside him was a small pull-cart loaded with hunks of cheese of all sizes, from slim wedges to huge wheels. Josef ran to meet him, holding tightly to the articles of clothing draped over his shoulder.

“I’m here!” he called out.

Mosche laughed. “I can see that. Let’s get started. I usually go down Martinus Road toward the old prison, then over on Corn Lane and back up Chambers Street, with visits to some of the side streets. Sometimes I cut through an alley to Market Street, like I did the day I met you.” After a short pause he added, “Who was that ugly red-haired kid?”

Josef winced. “Just someone who hates me.”

“Well, don’t worry about him. He won’t bother you when you’re with me.”

The boys set out together to make deliveries. Mosche began his instruction immediately. “Okay, here’s how it works. First you learn the Hebrew alphabet. Those are letters we use to make words. You learn how to pronounce the letters and what they look like. I brought my slate so I can draw them for you.”

Mosche pulled from his cart a smooth, flat, rectangular board and made some marks on it with a piece of charcoal. “That’s an alef. Abba starts with alef. Abba means ‘dad’. You got it?”

“Yup.”

“Okay. After you learn the letters, you put them together to make words, and then you put words together to make sentences. Then you start memorizing sentences, lots and lots of sentences, from Torah. Can you do that?”

“Yup. I think so.”

“Good. We’ll try it for a couple of weeks. Then if you want to keep going, you’ll need to have a ceremony.”

“What kind of ceremony?”

“An initiation ceremony. Every boy who starts school has a ceremony. Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt.”

As they traversed the streets, Mosche’s instruction flowed quickly, and Josef soaked it up eagerly. Once they had made all their deliveries, the boys agreed on a day and time for their next meeting, and they parted. Josef set out for home in high spirits. Approaching the courtyard, he remembered he was supposed to stop at the sewing shop to get thread and patches for his mother. He ran back at full speed and returned home completely out of breath, but happier than he had ever been in his life.

•

The next afternoon, Josef went with his mother to St. Paul’s Church where occasionally, on Sundays and holy days, they would sit at the back and listen to the Mass. Not today—there was no Mass this afternoon. Josef was helping his mother carry heavy linens back to the church. She had washed them, and now she would meet with other women to press and fold and put them away. It was a task she enjoyed, a brief respite from routine and a chance to chat with her few friends. Josef enjoyed it, too. He was expected to wait in a small garden beside the church.

A portion of the garden was bounded by the church itself, and the rest was surrounded by a high wall that shielded it from street noises and random intruders. For Josef it was the most peaceful, secluded place he knew. He would spend hours (or so it seemed) admiring the colorful flowerbeds and watching bees hurry from one blossom to the next.

But today Josef settled on his favorite bench and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply of sweet-smelling lilies and heard faint buzzing noises. The warm air made him drowsy. He could have fallen asleep had he not been jolted awake by the sound of the heavy iron latch opening and snapping shut.

Through the gate came old Father Albert. He was short and stooped, and his feet shuffled when he walked. His frizzy white hair pointed in every direction. As he drew closer, Josef could see his small eyes, set close together and bunched up in a perpetual squint. Father Albert hobbled straight to the bench and sat down beside Josef. Nevertheless, Josef was not certain the old priest had noticed his presence. The boy looked up and marveled at the network of wrinkles in the man’s face, divided by deep creases. Slowly Father Albert turned his face toward the boy.

“Hello, little one.”

“Hello, Father.”

“Tell me your name.”

“I’m Josef.”

“And why are you here on this lovely afternoon?”

“My mother washes linens.”

“Ah, yes.” The old man turned his head and seemed to focus on the wall opposite, if he could see that far.

“Father, can I ask you a question?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Can you read?”

Without turning his head back to the boy, the priest answered, “No, it was not deemed necessary for me to read. My work has always been with the sick and the lame and the poor. It’s only those who teach or copy books or intone Scripture who require the skill of reading.”

“Didn’t you want to learn?”

“There was a time, when I was young, when I thought it would be wonderful to read the Scriptures and other works of literature as well. But it was not the will of God. My superiors determined I was to be a humble servant and not a scholar.”

“Did you try to change their minds?”

“No, it was the will of God. I learned the prayers and doctrines and memorized certain formularies I would need in my work. The Father provides all that we need.”

Josef mumbled quietly under his breath, “I haven’t got a father.”

The man turned and looked directly into Josef’s face. “Nonsense, boy. You have a Father in heaven.”

“I mean I haven’t got a father at home.”

“That may be so, but your heavenly Father loves you and cares for you just the same. And remember you call me ‘father,’ and the other priests.”

Now Josef turned his head and looked intently at the wall. Should he ask Father Albert what a bastard was? He still was not sure what the word meant, although he suspected it had something to do with his mother. Would this simple old man recognize the word, and even if he did, would he explain it to a boy? No, it would be better not to ask a priest, in case it was a sin to say the word. Besides, if Josef asked about it, Father Albert might tell his mother.

When Josef looked up again at the old man, his eyes were closed. He seemed to be deep in thought or asleep. Josef remained silent until his mother came to get him and they went home.

•

Ever since he met Mosche, Josef was approached less often in the Market Street by those horrible boys. They stayed away from him entirely whenever Mosche was with him. Even when Josef ran errands alone, his schedule and his route were less predictable now, and he was frequently able to sneak through their territory unobserved.

One Saturday morning, however, they met him as he returned from the market. The tall boy stepped in front of him and walked backwards in Josef’s path. “Well, if it isn’t the bastard! What have you been up to, bastard?”

Josef kept walking.

“Hey, boys, look what I found!” Three others came out and walked alongside, chanting the usual refrains. “Bastard, bastard.”

“Who’s your father?”

“Tell us who sleeps with your mother!”

Josef stopped abruptly and looked straight into the tall boy’s face. The others ceased their taunts and stared down at him. Josef said quietly, “My father is God.”

The boys exchanged uncertain glances until the tall one burst out laughing. “His mother slept with God! Can you believe it?”

“Or maybe she slept with the bishop!”

“Naw, he’s too good for her. I’ll bet she sleeps with Jews. That’s why this kid smells so bad.”

Josef pushed his way forward and resolved to say no more. Some day he would understand the words they used and then he would be able to refute them. But now it was useless. He would just try to pretend they were not there.

As he walked down the block, the boys followed close behind. Josef could hear them talking about what they would do to anyone who gave them trouble in their territory. They would beat him until his eyes bulged out of his head. They would tear his arms out of their sockets. They told each other they were stronger and meaner than anyone else in the city. Josef was relieved when he crossed the next square and could no longer hear their boasting.

•

Late one morning the following week, Josef was resting in the courtyard by his house. He had already made deliveries and done a lesson with Mosche, and had just finished hauling water to the shops around the courtyard.

Now he was playing with the blacksmith’s cat. He happened to look up and see Father Matthias, the young priest from St. Paul’s Church, peering over the gate. Father Matthias lifted the latch and came through. He was a stocky, red-faced man with straight black hair.

“Hello, young man. You are Josef, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Father.”

The priest sat on a ledge of the stone wall and motioned for Josef to sit beside him. “I was passing through your neighborhood and thought I might have a word with you.”

“With me, Father?” the boy asked incredulously.

“Yes. Old Father Albert spoke to me the other day and said you seemed to be interested in books and reading and that sort of thing.”

“Yes, Father.” Josef looked up at him eagerly.

“Perhaps some day you would like to be a priest and a learned man?”

“I want to learn as much as I can. If I didn’t have to work all the time, I could go to school.”

“There are no schools in Worms.”

“The Jews have schools.”

Father Matthias narrowed his eyes. “Who told you that? What do you know about Jews?”

“A boy I met. He said all the boys in his street start school when they’re six.”

Father Matthias assumed a serious tone. “Now, listen. You must not mingle with Jews. They are infidels and Christ-haters. We allow them to live near us because they are masters of commerce. It’s all right to buy and sell with them but not to talk to them about other things. Do you understand?”

“I guess.”

“And besides, it’s not necessary for all boys to learn to read. In fact, it would be harmful. Most of what has been written is utter trash. The common people get all the learning they need from the creeds and what the priests teach them. Anything else is likely to undermine their faith.”

Josef remained silent.

“Here is what we will do. In two years you may commence your study of Latin. I myself will instruct you. In the meantime, Father Albert will teach you creeds and doctrines so that you may be ready to read Holy Scripture with the right understanding.” As he said this, Father Matthias leaned closer, and Josef could smell his breath. “If you make good progress in Latin, perhaps you may someday study with the monks at the cloister. We’ll see if we can make a scholar of you.”

The priest rose and opened the gate. As he was leaving the courtyard he said, “You may speak to your mother about this, but no one else. And, mind you, stay away from Jews.”