what you’re doing?” asked Zizka.
“I’m afraid that I have a great deal of experience consoling the grieving parents of murdered children,” Rabbi Loew said, stepping under the eaves out of the rain.
Zizka said nothing as he pounded on the door with a chain-mailed fist.
But when Marie Janek opened the door, her eyes grew wide and she screamed at us, calling us shameless murderers for daring to show our faces. Then Viktor Janek came toward us with a heavy iron poker straight from the fire.
Rabbi Loew spoke quickly. “I realize that you can’t help hating the people you believe are responsible for the death of your child, but you must understand that we are trying to find the guilty one because your loss is being turned into a rallying cry for more blood. May God punish us for our sins, but violence always begets more violence, and no amount of bloodshed will bring her back.”
I waited to see what effect the rabbi’s words would have.
Then Viktor Janek swung the poker at our heads. I threw myself between the rabbi and the impaler’s edge, as the guards deflected the blow with their pikes. Rain sizzled on the hot metal tip of the weapon as they grappled with Janek and kept him from branding any Jews with it.
“I ought to shove this down your throats!” Janek shouted. Some of the neighbors egged him on.
“Take it easy, big fellow,” said Zizka, restraining the vengeful man with both hands.
“Thanks for protecting us in the name of your city,” I said.
“Stuff it, Jew,” said one of the guards.
“I told you this was a lousy idea. Let’s get out of here,” Zizka complained.
“No, let them stay.”
The men stopped struggling. Marie Janek stood in the doorway, her face streaked with tears.
“Marie—”
“Why have you come here? What do you want from us?”
Rabbi Loew said, “We are here because we are your cousins and brothers in blood. And we grieve for you, as we would grieve for any parent who has lost a son or daughter. But you should take comfort in the fact that the soul of this innocent will shine a light upon the darkness.”
“How can that be?” she asked, desperate to find comfort anywhere in the wide, empty world.
Janek said, “Don’t listen to this garbage—”
But she stepped inside, and left the door open for her rain-soaked visitors.
We followed her in, and were greeted by the faint aroma of exotic herbs and spices. I removed my hat in deference to the Christian custom. Rabbi Loew faltered, then did the same. He must have felt naked without his fine velvet hat, but at the moment the Janeks did not need to be reminded how different we Jews were.
We sat near the fire, waiting for the mourners to speak first, even though this was not a place of shiva.
I got a glimpse of the barrels stacked inside Janek’s shop, and noted the jars of herbs and oils and powders before Janek slammed the connecting door shut.
Eventually, Marie Janek said, “One of you took my little girl away. They tell me she’s in a better place, but I will never stop seeing the emptiness all around me, her empty clothes, her empty bed. What can you possibly do about that?”
Rabbi Loew nodded, and let a moment of silence pass before saying, “Children are supposed to carry our memories with them into the future. We never really die, as long as someone is alive to remember us. For even when a mighty cedar is felled, there is always hope that if God sends the rain, fresh shoots will sprout up from the roots.”
“And now we have nothing.”
“You have more than you think,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“They say that the less you have in this world, the more you shall have in the next.”
Marie nodded dully.
I spoke in Germanic Yiddish now, reversing my earlier emphasis on Hebrew words. “Doesn’t the Gospel of Saint Mark say that whoever is like a little child shall enter the kingdom of God? So you should take comfort in the knowledge that Gerta’s spotless and innocent soul is up there in heaven praying for you.”
“And for all of us,” said one of the guards, crossing himself.
Marie was shedding tears of thanks.
Rabbi Loew seemed surprised by my knowledge of Christian Scripture, but he must have felt compelled to complete the eulogy because he said, “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed is the name of the Lord. Amen.”
“Amen.” They all said it reflexively.
I let the echo