The Silver Cup (12 page)

“Did you find Martin?” asked Hagan when he opened the door.

Gunther shook his head.

“Well, what have you found?” asked Hagan. He stared at the girl.

“A child.”

“A Jewish child escaped? Will you sell her?”

“I do not trade in people. Did you know her father, the spice merchant Jakob?”

“Yes. I'm sure he's dead or there'd be a good reward. Too bad, he was very rich. Well, there's not much to her. She'd be a poor servant. Even a cat earns its keep, but that one? What will you do with her?”

“Ask my daughter,” said Gunther, glaring at Anna.

“I'll take her off your hands. Perhaps I can find someone to buy her. Make no mistake, I killed no one, and I stole nothing. I am not proud of what happened here, but I have no love for her people. Worms can do without Jews. Besides there's many a debt now forgiven with the death of the lender. Leave her here, Gunther. I can get a coin for her,” said Hagan.

“Father, no!” Anna held the girl's hand tightly.

“Your little town has never had a Jew,” said Hagan.

“Anna, we've done enough already. Do you have any understanding of this burden?” asked her father turning to her.

“Father, would you want
me
left here, to be sold?” she asked defiantly.

“Thank you for your help, Hagan,” said Gunther, tossing Hagan a small sack of iron nails. “We'd better be going. It will soon be dark.”

No more words were said, but Gunther helped both girls onto his horse, and he walked along, leading the animal. Anna held the girl close, and although it was late May, she could feel her trembling. As they moved away from Worms, toward the setting sun, the air cleared, and Anna breathed deeply.

“Anna, have you any notion of what we face at home?”

“No, Father.”

“Do you think your aunt and your cousins will welcome this Jew? ”

“No, Father.”

The journey home was slow, and the sky was darkening. Anna was relieved to see the first stars. This awful day was ending, and she tried to think only of home. She thought of her dog. She thought of their house. She thought of each stool, each chest, each pot, of anything that was solid, and she emptied her mind of Worms, of Martin, of the future.

21

SILENCE

 
Two weeks passed, and in the meadows along the Rhine the first hay was cut and raked. Below Anna's town, a brook was dammed to make a washing pool for the sheep. The ewes were sheared. Their bleating lambs complained as they were left to graze, weaned so that their mothers' milk could be sold to the cheese makers.

The weather was warm, and everyone was busy with late spring's chores, but inside Anna's house it seemed like winter. Her father was short-tempered, and he rarely spoke to Anna, nor did anyone else except Lukas. To the rest of her family, the “Jew girl” was a disease or curse that Anna had brought into their lives, and Agnes was furious. When Gunther was on the road, the house was desolate, lifeless. The Jewish girl had said nothing at all. Anna's only company was Smudge with his wagging tail and sometimes Lukas.

Lukas had come to fetch wine that Gunther had promised Father Rupert and found Anna sweeping the floor. The girl crouched in a dark corner.

“I know she understands, but she hasn't spoken a single word,” said Anna.

“Perhaps she's mute.”

“No. I'm sure she isn't. But she just sits in that corner.”

“Can you think what she saw in Worms?” asked Lukas.

“I wish I knew what to do. At night she sleeps in a ball, curled in that corner where I've put straw for her. Sometimes I hear her weeping. She eats almost nothing. She barely breathes.”

“I wish I could bring her into our church. If we can make her a Christian, she'll be saved.”

“You frighten her, Lukas.”

“Me? Why would she fear me?”

“How should I know?” answered Anna sharply. “Why does your family hate her
and me
for bringing her here? After I brought the girl here, everything changed. First it was the family. Your sisters never talk to me anymore. Now the neighbors have begun to avoid me. When they see me, they walk the other way.”

“Anna, I'm sorry. But they are afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of her. Of having a Jew here. But if she became a Christian, it would end.”

“If she were baptized?”

“I believe it would change everything. For now, you must be patient with the town and with the child. It will take time.”

“I have nothing but time. Time and silence,” answered Anna bitterly.

Lukas backed out of the house, and Anna pushed a stool against the wall where there was light from the open window. She sat, leaning back, and looked at the dark corner where the girl sat. Smudge licked the girl's face, and when he nuzzled against her arm, the girl stroked his head and looked into his eyes. As she whispered something to the dog, she looked up and caught Anna watching. Anna smiled, but the girl looked away.

Watching this orphan, Anna thought of her own mother. Their mutual loneliness was crushing. Anna climbed into the bed and cried until she had no more feelings at all.

Late that afternoon, Gunther returned and was in the garden currying his mare when Anna heard Aunt Agnes's voice through the open door.

“Good afternoon, Gunther.”

“Good afternoon, Agnes. I've seen little of you of late.”

“You must know the cause,” answered Agnes.

“Yes. The child,” he sighed.

“She is filth. You have brought filth and misfortune into our family.”

“I did not wish to bring her here, but it's done. What would you have me do with her?”

“Turn her out. Send her away.”

“She is a child.”

“She is a Jew.”

“So I should just push her out my door?”

“Take her from the town, leave her outside our gate.”

“Abandon her?”

“You have no duty to that Jew. Your duty is to us. She disgraces the family.”

Anna moved closer to the garden door so she could hear better.

“So you would have me turn the girl out, unprotected and alone?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“To starve or worse?”

“You must think of our family's honor. You have no choice.”

“It seems I do have a choice,” said Gunther forcefully.

“This land was my father's father's and his father's before that, my family's since the beginning of time. What right have you to bring a Jew into my house?”

“It is my house, Agnes.”

“I won't have that Jew here. And neither will the others.”

“What others?” asked Gunther. “No one is going to tell me what I must do.”

“You brought nothing to this family when you married my sister. Nothing but her death, and now you bring us disgrace.”

Anna was furious.
She has no right to say these things,
thought Anna.

“Agnes, what kind of Christian are you? Have you even a single drop of mercy? ” asked Gunther, angrily.

“Mercy? What mercy did the Jews show our Savior? ” asked Agnes.

“Perhaps you should take the girl to gather nuts in the forest,” said Anna from the doorway.

Words cannot be unsaid. The damage was done, like a jug knocked to the floor—shattered and never to be repaired.

SUMMER

22

LEAH

 
Anna had become no more visible than the wind. Her greetings were ignored, her questions unanswered. On Tuesday Elisabeth was to be married. Anna remembered how they had played as little girls, taking turns being and dressing the pretend bride, weaving garlands of flowers in their hair. Now, Anna knew she would be unwelcome at the marriage.

On Monday, Gunther was leaving for a fair in Mainz, not to return before the week's end. He asked, “Will you be all right?”

“Yes, Father.”

Gunther looked at Anna sadly and said, “I thought this would happen. It's been hard here.”

“Yes.”

That night, on the eve of Saint John's Day, the townspeople celebrated the endless light of the summer solstice. Bonfires burned in the fields, and Anna could smell the wood smoke and hear the night's games and singing. It was the first year she had not gone to the celebration. Instead, she stayed home with the Jewish girl. Anna's days were filled only with work.

On the following morning Elisabeth was wed. Anna watched from a window as the rest of her family, preceded by a minstrel, a juggler, and two acrobats, escorted the bride to the church. Once they passed, she left her house and walked slowly to the square where neighbors and friends gathered to watch the bride and groom standing on the church steps. Father Rupert guided the couple as they made promises, and he blessed the rings. Afterwards, the wedding party went into the church for a mass. When the bride and groom came out from the church, they walked among the crowd, giving gifts to the poor. Elisabeth had married the miller's son, and as Anna watched, hidden within the crowd, she thought that Johann was as handsome as Elisabeth was pretty. Everyone cheered and followed the musicians and performers to the bride's home.

There, throughout the house and in the garden, the guests feasted on stewed mutton and beef, and on roasted capons, ducklings, chickens, and geese. They drank barrels of honeyed wine and ate meats baked in pastry. People danced until just before sunset. At the church and at the joyful celebration that followed, Anna lingered unnoticed on the outskirts, watching as one watches images in a pond, another world, untouchable, imaginary.

Before leaving, Anna crept up to a table laden with custards and cakes and snatched two mulberry tarts that she slipped into her sleeve. As she edged her way out, a hardened hand grasped her elbow.

“You little thief!” hissed an old woman whom Anna had always known and liked. “Has the Jew devil taught you to steal?”

Anna shook free and ran home, where she found the girl sitting in her corner, facing the wall. The house was shuttered and musty and silent. Though she had seen Elisabeth marry, she had never felt more alone, more aggrieved.

I've been so foolish,
she thought bitterly.
I've lost everything. All for what? That girl!

“Why won't you talk to me? Can't you see what you've cost me? I hate you! I hate everyone!” Anna screamed.

She flung the tarts against the wall and ran from the house. Hearing the rowdy parade of celebrants who were marching the bridal couple to the groom's house at the mill pond, Anna ran in the other direction, away from the mill. She ran until she could not breathe, and then she stopped. As she caught her breath, Anna began to think about what the old woman had said. The woman's eyes had burned with hate. Frightening hate. Anna began to run again—toward home.

By now, it was very dark. To her enormous relief, Anna saw the girl's form in the curve of the blanket and heard the even breathing of her sleep. She was also deeply sorry for what she had said to her. Anna banked the embers on the hearth and boarded the doors and windows before she climbed into bed. Smudge jumped up on the bed, licked her face, and circled a few times before settling with his head on her feet.

 
 
In the morning, when Anna awoke, the shutters were open. She stretched and rubbed her eyes, and she saw that the girl was sitting with Smudge next to the hearth where a small fire burned. The girls stared at each other. Anna had always thought her cousins were beautiful, but she was stunned by the beauty of this delicate girl. Her skin was smooth and milky, and she had thick chestnut hair and liquid charcoal eyes fringed with heavy lashes. Her teeth were small and straight, moon bright. Her slender hands had long tapered fingers and smooth nails, each blush pink and as perfect as an eggshell. Anna recalled the first time she had seen her in Worms, so lively, so happy.

“I'm sorry,” Anna said, but the girl just looked at her. “You don't have to talk, but
I
can't be silent anymore.”

So Anna began to talk, a conversation of her own. Though the girl never replied, Anna knew that she was watching and listening as Anna told small stories of her life and of the town. She told simple tales, nothing sad or frightening, just bits of gossip and stories of silly things that she had done, of curdled custard, of missing pies, and of unexpected puddles.

“Did your family keep chickens? I wonder if they did. Probably, but I'm sure you never saw a rooster like the rooster we once had. We called him Toes, because he had the most peculiar feet. The funny thing was, Toes thought he was a chicken. He was a sorry bird, with dull feathers like a hen and a mangy comb which fell over his eyes. And he couldn't crow. He screeched a little but nothing like a cock's crow. Everyone would laugh, even my father. And the way he walked. He didn't strut, but he minced about with the flock of hens.”

As she told her tale, she did a chicken walk, and she saw the girl smile, and for Anna it was like the first swallow of water to a parched throat. It was the smile she would now return.

“And he would set,” she continued delightedly. “As though he could have given us eggs! Of course we all knew he wasn't a hen, and the hens knew it too, and sometimes they pecked at him. Father was amused and wouldn't butcher him. But we also had a good laying hen who didn't like to set at all, so I put a few of her warm eggs under Toes. And he grew all broody, proud even, and he became a perfect hen. In three weeks time, Toes had his chicks. And then the other hens were truly confused, for they must have thought he was indeed a hen.”