City of God (47 page)

She would light five joss sticks to each of the gods in the house. Very big dangerous all cash gamble to allow the little bud to go alone to meet the
yang gwei zih
. Big gamble. But Ah Chee was convinced she had won.

“H
ERE
,” N
ICK JABBED
at the magazine on his desk with a decisive finger. “I found the article I was telling you about.”

“I don’t yet have my hat off”—Ben removed it while closing the office door behind him—“and already you are shouting at me.”

“I’m not shouting.”

“Sorry. Talking in a loud voice. What article?”

“The one by Ignaz Semmelweis in Vienna. Discussing how many fewer women die from childbed fever when the doctors wash their hands between patients.”

“Germs,” Ben said.

“Yes, germs. You never doubted before. Why now, Ben? Why can’t we publish?”

“It’s a theory only. Why should we put our names to a theory? What have we got to offer that’s new? Tell me that.” He leaned over the desk and swung the magazine around so he could see it. “They’ve got the name wrong. It should be ‘Ignac.’ With a
c.
”

“How do you know?”

“Because in Germany his name is spelled always with a
c.
And I read Semmelweis’s article in the original.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You don’t need more convincing about germs.”

“Ben, what’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on. Semmelweis says that in the midwife wards the women don’t die from childbed fever. Only where the doctors are delivering the babies.”

“Yes,” Nick agreed, “but when he has all the young doctors wash their hands with chlorinated lime, then the incidence of death from childbed fever goes from forty percent to one percent. For years I’ve been thinking ordinary soap isn’t enough. What more proof do you need? I’ve ordered a supply of chlorinated lime for the office.”

“Good.”

“Good? But if you don’t believe—”

“I said only that it wasn’t proven. In the midwife wards the women don’t die without the chlorinated lime hand-washing. How do you explain that?”

Nick had no explanation. It was the piece of the puzzle he’d been trying to find for years, the one that would be definitive and end the argument. “I don’t know,” he said.

“That’s why we don’t publish anything,” Ben said. “You don’t know. And you know a great deal more about this and everything else than I do, so it follows that neither do I know. And we can’t publish.”

“The germs don’t appear spontaneously,” Nick said stubbornly. “Nothing in science is without cause or a reason.”

“You already said you don’t know.”

“That’s one of those arguments. About angels dancing on the head of a pin. Unprovable.”

“We Jews would call it a Talmudic argument, though I think the angels were discussed by a Catholic saint. And I’m sorry I ever mentioned it. But you can’t explain the midwives.”

Nick sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. “My young
colleague, I am the senior physician, am I not? Your guide and mentor in all things medical?”

“Most things.”

“All right, most things. But I believe there is something you are not telling me. How can I guide if I do not have the facts?” He saw Ben grimace as if he were suddenly gripped by a gastric cramp. “There! I knew it. Your guilty expression betrays you.” And a few seconds later, more seriously, “If you don’t want to tell me, we’ll drop it. But I think we should definitely start using chlorinated lime.”

“I already agreed to that. Look, Dr. Turner, there is something.”

They had been in practice together for sixteen years. At least once a month Nick said that Ben should call him by his given name and Ben always said he would. But he never did. Nick accepted that, just as he accepted that the other man had to tell a story in his own way. It was, he thought, a barrier Ben Klein had to cross each time: the Jew trusting the gentile was how Carolina put it.

“Mr. Simson was against it,” Ben said now. “He said it was a disgrace considering. But the others wouldn’t listen.”

Nick wanted to ask what others and what was a disgrace, but he didn’t. He waited.

Ben took a deep breath.

Nick prepared himself, the dam was about to burst.

“They’re opening a hospital,” Ben said. “Samson Simson donated the land. On Twenty-eighth between Seventh and Eighth avenues it will be. The trustees are Mr. Hart, Mr. Isaacs, Mr. Nathan, Mr. Davies, and Mr. Hendricks.”

Nick knew every one of them and had treated a few. “That’s excellent. The town needs more hospitals.”

“They’re all Jews,” Ben said.

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s to be called Jews’ Hospital. They don’t want to let you see patients there.”

He didn’t understand at first. “Why should I want to see my patients anywhere I don’t see them now?”

“The trustees don’t want the hospital to serve only the poor. They hope ordinary people will come as well, and some of them think all the doctors who do anything there should be Jewish. So if anything good happens, we get the credit. Mr. Simson thinks it’s a terrible idea. He said that because Jews were the objects of prejudice, that is not an excuse to start practicing it.”

Nick took a moment. “Very well,” he said finally, “but I think you should make sure they have a supply of chlorinated lime.”

“Yes.”

“And I take it that somehow your not wanting to weigh in publicly on the question of germs is connected to the matter of this Jews’ Hospital.”

Ben shrugged. “I only don’t want to give them more ammunition.”

“What else could I tell him?” Ben didn’t wait for Bella to answer. “Half the trustees have consulted him about their own illnesses, their relatives’ illnesses. But when they open their hospital, Dr. Turner can’t be listed on the roster of doctors who see patients there.”

“Have more tea,” his wife said. “You’ll feel better.”

“No, I won’t. It’s a disgrace.”

“But you told me they said the hospital must be available to everyone. Whatever their religion.”

“Patients, yes. And Mr. Simson and most of the others think any doctor in good standing should also be welcome to practice.”

Bella bit her lip. It was a way she had when she wanted to say something and didn’t want to, both at the same time. “What?” Ben said. “Tell me.”

“The some who don’t want Dr. Turner to be welcome at this new hospital…Ben, don’t be angry, but is it that they don’t want all
goyim
or only Dr. Turner?”

Ben put down his cup because his hand had started to shake. “I never thought…You mean they know about him and Mrs. Devrey? Way up
there on Seventy-first Street where no one lives but maybe some wild cats and some pigs?”

“People talk in this city, Benjamin. I think sometimes that’s all they do. And she’s been…well, not like most ladies.”

“And he’s very successful and well thought of.”

“Exactly. It’s mostly jealousy.”

“Not entirely,” he said. “It’s prejudice as well. We have to stop this, Bella. If Jews are going to be successful in America, we have to be like everyone else. This afternoon, after I left the office, I went to see the rabbi.”

“What rabbi?”

“On Chrystie Street.”

Bella bit her lip again.

“What? What aren’t you saying? We agreed. It has to be different here.”

“You went to Chrystie Street to arrange for David to be a
bar mitzvah,
” she said. It was not a question.

“Of course.”

“At Temple Emanu-El.”

“On Chrystie Street. I already said that.”

“What about your father?”

“He will have to accept it. Or not accept it. I don’t care, Bella. I cannot stand that things should not change. That a man like Dr. Turner should not be accepted because he’s not Jewish.”

“I told you. That’s not why.”

“I don’t care about that either. Services in Hebrew when no one understands—”

“At Temple Emanu-El the service will be in English?”

“No, in German. And the women sit separately now, but some in the congregation think that should change. Someday you’ll be able to sit beside me, Bella.” He saw the expression on her face. “Your own grandfather was involved in the reform, Bella, back in Prussia. Papa told me. And you and me, we talked about it. You said you agreed.”

“About some things only. And David doesn’t speak any German. Not a word.”

“He doesn’t speak Hebrew either,” Ben said. “To do it at B’nai Jeshurun he would have also to learn his
Torah
portion by heart.” Papa would say that was Ben’s fault. That it was shameful he had not seen to it that his son learned Hebrew.

Bella rang for the maid to come and take the tea things away. “It will be on a Sunday?” She did not look at him when she asked the question.

Among the reformers Sunday worship was preferred. In the countries in which they found themselves, they said, that’s how things were done. Adaptation was the key to survival. So they would meet to pray on Sunday and there should be an organ, like in a church. Flowers also. Who could object to flowers and music? No man would wear a skullcap or the traditional prayer shawl, not even the rabbi. He would wear black robes like a minister, and the congregants would not cover their heads, because that was the custom in Western society. The Chrystie Street rabbi also mentioned to Ben that there was some question about whether a thirteen-year-old should be asked to commit himself to life as a Jew, if maybe fifteen or sixteen wasn’t the better age. He wouldn’t tell Bella that.

“I asked if maybe we could have the service on a Saturday. The rabbi said—”

The door opened. It was their eldest daughter, ten-year-old Rebecca. “I can take the tea tray away, Mama.”

“Yes, I know you can. But why should you? Where is Liza?”

“She’s busy.”

“What do you mean, busy? And if she is, why didn’t Sofie come?”

“She’s busy too.”

Ben wasn’t paying a great deal of attention. Domestic things were entirely Bella’s province, and she was wonderful at managing them. His household always ran smoothly. Except that right now Bella was looking…the only word was thunderous. Thunder from Bella was a great rarity and not something to ignore. “What are both Liza and Sofie busy with, Rebecca?” he asked. “I think you must tell us. Immediately.”

“They’re just busy.” Rebecca attempted to take the tea tray and escape.

Bella put out a hand and stopped her. “Leave that. Yesterday when I came home from shopping and wanted someone to take my parcels, you came. Not Liza and not Sofie. That’s what you said then, that they were both busy.”

“Mama, I don’t want to say any more. I promised and I can’t break my word. You always say that’s a terrible thing to do.”

“Yes,” Ben said. “Your mother is right. Breaking your word is a shameful way to behave, but lying to your mother and father, that is a sin.”

“But I’m not lying! I never said anything. How can it be a lie if I don’t say anything?”

“Rebecca Spinoza,” he said under his breath. Bella, who for all her intelligence knew nothing about seventeenth-century Jewish philosophers, looked puzzled. His daughter tried again to take the tea tray and go. Ben stood up. “That is a sophistic argument, my darling Rebecca. And once we have settled this business about Liza and Sofie, I will explain what sophistry is and why I do not approve of it. Now put down the tray and take us to where whatever it is that is going on is going on.”

There were a black man and woman in the cellar of his house, way in the back behind the coal bin. The woman was moaning, delirious. It was the effort to silence her that was occupying the Kleins’ household help.

“Runaway slaves,” Bella said, though it did not require saying.

“I didn’t want to tell.” Rebecca was in tears. “Papa made me.”

Liza looked at the girl and shook her head. Sofie made a clucking noise that was, Ben thought, supposed to offer some comfort. He turned to his daughter. “Stop crying. That is a waste of energy and no one has time for it just now. Do the other children know about this?”

“Only David.”

“Good. And is this the first time there have been such…such visitors in our cellar?”

Neither Liza nor Sofie looked at him, but Rebecca shook her head to indicate it was not.

“Very well,” Ben said. “We will talk more later. Now go get your
brother. I want both of you down here immediately. You are to bring my bag.”

Bella took a step forward. “Benjamin, I don’t know—”

“I know, Bella. Please, my dear, go upstairs and look after the rest of the children and the house. If anyone comes to the door, say I am out and you don’t know when I will return. Say I’ve gone to visit a patient.” He turned to Sofie. “Is anyone else likely to come?”

“Not nobody what’s to do with us, if that be your meaning.”

“It is.” And to his wife and daughter, “Go. Both of you.”

Though Ben found it hard to believe that anyone in this country still had a musket rather than a rifle, the delirious woman had a musket ball in her thigh. She’d been shot four days before, according to the man who had arrived with her. Not by the overseer of the North Carolina plantation they’d run from, but by some old man whose barn they’d hid in during their last night in Maryland. “Barn be wide open, like it was meant for us. Should’ve known that meant a bounty hunter.”