The Fifth Servant (60 page)

           
“Wife’s name?”

           
“Reyzl bas Zalman Rozansky of Prague,” she said, closing the latch with a distinctive
click
.

           
Reb Avreml inscribed Reyzl’s name on the parchment.

           
“And you’re writing it on a
yontef
?” I said.

           
“The rabbis have given us special permission due to the current emergency.”

           
“I don’t think this is what the rabbis had in mind.”

           
“Shows what you know. Cause?” The pen hung in the air, waiting.

           
“The groom does not provide enough to support his bride,” said Reyzl.

           
“He readily admits that this is the case?” said the scribe, sniffing at me with his pickle-nose.

           
The
get
wouldn’t be valid without my approval. Otherwise, it was a thoroughly illegal and invalid document that would never stand up in court. I had it in my power to cling to her until she relented.

           
In theory, that is.

           
Then Reb Avreml advised me that the city fathers had already decided to place me under house arrest and keep me from leaving the ghetto in my—
ahem
—ridiculous costume, unless I approved the
get
.

           
God knows what strings Reyzl had pulled to get the rabbis to allow this.

           
I could have fought them on it. I could have battered through what ever flimsy cordon they used to hold me back, but then what? I couldn’t fight the whole community by myself. (Right, it takes at least
three
people to do that.) And the community was clearly supporting their native daughter’s cause.

           
Reb Meisel and Rabbi Loew would have backed me up, but Reyzl knew that I didn’t have the time to summon them and make my case.

           
I nodded, but it wasn’t enough. They needed to hear the words. For the record.

           
Finally, I said, “Yes, I admit it.”

           
Scribble, scribble, scribble.

           
And so I approved the
get
, irrevocably divorcing my lawful wife, Reyzl, and giving her permission to marry another man, as witnessed on this, the 16th day of Nisan, 5352 years from the Creation of the World, by Reb Avreml ben Shloyme the scribe and Reb Rossl ben Shimon the rent collector. Then Reb Avreml folded the document and sewed it up with a special needle and thread, and placed it in Reyzl’s hands.

           
And that was that.

           
“MAYBE I’ LL SEE YOU SOMETIME at the great fair in Lublin,” said Reyzl, trotting down the stairs as if she couldn’t wait to get out into the open air.

           
I followed in silence, carry ing her trunk on my shoulder.

           
“There’s no one else, in case you were wondering,” she said.

           
No one else y
et
. She didn’t have to say it, but I bet she had a lot of possibilities.

           
“But I’m glad that you’re finally giving me a second chance to produce an heir for my father, even if it’s with another man,” she said. “It shows a great heart and a charitable spirit on your part, and I’m thankful for it. Really I am.”

           
I had nothing to add to that, although I certainly wondered who would be benefiting from my great heart and charitable spirit.

           
We descended into darkness, to an eerie nether region inhabited by the musty smell of damp stones—the bare bones of the original ground floor, long buried under layers of silt. I had to feel my way along the mold-covered walls with my free hand, but I still stumbled a couple of times, while Reyzl’s step never faltered.

           
I finally saw the small window embedded high in a buttressed wall, a square shape only vaguely lighter than the surrounding blackness.

           
“I didn’t realize there were so many ways out of the ghetto,” I said.

           
Her eyes twinkled at me in the darkness.

           
“What about your parents?” I asked.

           
“It’s safer if we split up. My father has his own way of taking care of things.”

           
“I’ll bet he does. Then why do you have to leave?”

           
“You saw what they did to the Kaminskys’ print shop,” she said. “I’d rather be alive and penniless than die defending my wealth. But if God wills it, we’ll start over and build up the business again. Now, don’t just stand there gawking at me. The least you can do is help me out the window.”

           
I set down the trunk and shoved it closer to the wall.

           
“What about last night?”

           
“You needed a few hours’ rest,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Now I need you to go back out there and make the world safe for me and my people.”

           
So she thought of last night as nothing more than a noble sacrifice for the good of the community?

           
But after a while, there was nothing left to do but cup my hands for her dainty feet and raise her to the level of the window. She undid the rusty catch herself and pushed open the tiny windowpane.

           
“I need another boost.”

           
I raised her some more, till she could pull herself up and wriggle headfirst through the tiny opening to the dark alleyway above. Her legs danced in the air for a moment while she shifted her weight, then her long skirt vanished before my eyes.

           
Darkness. Then she thrust her head back in.

           
“My trunk, please.”

           
I picked up the trunk and handed it to her.

           
“I will never forget you, Reyzl.”

           
Her face was expressionless.

           
“Goodbye, Ben.”

           
I STOOD THERE THINKING ABOUT the time we saw the Bremen Town musicians, and danced the night away without feeling the time go by, fitting together so tightly in each other’s arms. Those were the days. But that was a long time ago, and getting further away by the minute.

           
SOMEONE WAS POUNDING ON the door.

           
I heard footsteps and heated voices. And as I felt my way back toward the stairs, one voice cut through the noise.

           
“What do you mean, he’s not here? He
has
to be here. We need his help.”

           
Anya’s voice.

           
I bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and came upon a scene straight out of a Roman tragedy. The landlady was blocking the doorway as Anya and her beloved Yankev stood on the threshold pleading their case. Like a pair of mirror opposites, Anya’s face was flushed and passionate, while Yankev’s was pale and trembling.

           
One look at Yankev’s face and I knew. We all knew.

           
He had shown weakness, and they had broken him. They had tortured and tormented him until he talked, and Yankev was now a
moyser
, the lowest form of human life in the world. In fact, in the eyes of the community, he was now
subhuman
.

           
Anya said, “We need to hire a boat to take us across the river before—”

           
Before they whip him, break his bones, stuff him in a barrel, and dump him in the river
.

           
“Before it gets too light,” I said.

           
“Yes. And I’m afraid we’ll need some money,” she said, somewhat embarrassed to be asking for such things, and perhaps more than a little disappointed in the man she had chosen.

           
“Why are you taking up with this
paskudne moyser
?” said the landlady. “A man who is weaker than a couple of helpless women?”

           
“What can I say? I fell in love,” she said.

           
“You fell in
something
, all right,” said the landlady.

           
“What did you tell them?” I asked Yankev.

           
“We have to warn the rabbi,” he said, keeping his eyes on the ground. “The Inquisitors said they’d be coming for the whole community with something called a
sub poena
, what ever that means.”

           
“It means
under the penalty
of punishment, you putz,” said the landlady.

           
“There’s no need to get like that,” Anya said.

           
“What did you tell them?
” I asked. I wanted to grab him by the neck and shake him till his head fell off.

           
“He’ll have to explain later—” said Anya.

           
“The Catholic authorities hold court sessions on Easter Sunday?” I said. “Even the Jews aren’t working today.”

           
“Why not?”

           
“It’s the second day of Pesach,” said Yankev, his voice shaking like a reed.

           
“I thought—” I stopped myself. I was going to say,
I thought you people respected your own Sabbath
.

           
“What are we going to do now?” Yankev whined.

           
“Well, for starters, you better learn how to say
Good morning
in Slovakian,” said the landlady.

           
It was a harsh way of putting it, but Anya agreed.

           
“It is the Moravian custom to offer refuge to all exiles,” Anya said. “In keeping with the commandment,
Thou shalt not deliver unto his master the slave who escapes from his master unto thee. He shall dwell with thee, even among you, in that place which he shall choose
.”

           
I told Yankev, “You’d better thank God for this woman, because she’s your only salvation.”

           
Then I took them to Rabbi Loew, but the Lion of Judah refused to bless their union.

           
“He’s not worthy,” said the rabbi.

           
“No, but she is.”

           
“And even if he were, weddings are not permitted during the forty-nine days of mourning.”

           
The sky was getting lighter with every passing minute, and I had no choice but to take the anxious couple down to Mordecai Meisel’s house to beg a few gold pieces from their former benefactor. Anya directed us to the back entrance, where we found the cook hanging a leftover piece of Pesach matzoh over the door to protect the house from the Evil Eye during the coming year. At our insistence, the cook went and roused the master and brought him back to the kitchen.

           
“Why don’t you take refuge in my shul?” said Meisel, adjusting the belt on the red velvet dressing gown he had thrown over his nightshirt. “The
keyser
has decreed that it shall be a sanctuary to all in need of his royal protection.”

           
“Forgive me, Reb Meisel,” I said, “but right now the best thing you can do for this poor bride is to present her with a dowry that will allow her to flee the city.”

           
Anya averted her eyes, but I’ll say one thing for the old fellow: Mordecai Meisel was one rich man who had not forgotten what it was like to be poor.

           
In the end he gave the unfortunate bride a generous dowry.

           
“Oh, and one other thing,” I said.

           
“Yes?” said Meisel, tapping his foot as if we were pushing the limits of his hospitality.

           
“We could also use a glass with a few drops of wine in it.”

           
His expression took a whirlwind tour through the regions of confusion and surprise before coming to rest in the land of understanding and acceptance.

           
“Very well.” He instructed the cook to bring us a glass of wine from the sideboard. She grudgingly left to fulfill his request. “So tell me, what kind of wedding is this supposed to be?”