“You mean that she can read and write better than a boy?”
“Not everyone likes that. You are treating her as if she were your son. But one day she will grow up and marry, and it is for the husband to lead the family in these things, not the wife.”
“Anything else?”
“You take her everywhere. This is your choice, naturally. But when she is older, she will have to restrict where she goes. To family, to friends. We hope you make her understand that it is not seemly for Jewish women to wander about the town. Especially …”
“Especially what?”
“Jacob, you have been seen taking your daughter into Christian churches. Is that wise?”
“We live in Paris. She should know what the inside of Notre Dame looks like.”
“Perhaps. But not all the community think so.”
“Is this all?”
“No, Jacob. It is not. She has been telling the other children stories. Of Saint Denis. Of Saint Geneviève. Of Roland.”
“But these are the heroes and heroines of France. Every Christian child in Paris knows the story of the killing of Saint Denis on Montmartre. They say now that he picked up his head and walked away with it. Absurd, but a children’s tale. I told her how Geneviève—supposedly—saved Paris from Attila the Hun. I find these stories absurd, but shouldn’t she at least know them?”
“When she is older, I would agree with you. But she tells these stories to your friends’ children, and they don’t like it.”
“They say nothing to me.”
“No. But to me they do.” The rabbi took a deep breath. “Jacob, we are sorry that you have no son, but Naomi is a daughter. You cannot turn her into a boy.”
“Have you any other advice?”
“You do not always come to the synagogue.”
“Perhaps this is the real reason you are here.”
“No. But if you turn your face from God, then God will turn his face from you. This is certain.”
“I am grateful for your concern.”
“I have told you only what is for your own good.”
Jacob stared at him. He was angry. But he was also hurt. And the fact that some of the things the rabbi said might be true did not make it any better.
“I will consider your advice,” he said coldly.
“You should. It is good advice. I shall tell your friends that it has been given.”
This was the last straw. Was this rabbi really trying to impose himself between him and all his neighbors? Was this his object?
“You are a fool,” Jacob suddenly burst out. “My father always told me your father was a fool. Your son will be a fool as well.”
“Do not speak to me like that, Jacob.”
“Get out.”
The next week, Jacob observed the Sabbath in his home. But he did not go to the synagogue. He did return the week after. But although he had many friends, an invisible bond between himself and the rest of the congregation had been broken. What else, he wondered, might his so-called friends say to the rabbi behind his back?
And then, as if to give the lie to the notion that God had turned His face from him, Sarah announced that she was going to have another child.
If Jacob was thrilled, he was also concerned. God might be smiling upon him again, but common sense told him to be careful. Two boys lost and a miscarriage: the record was not good. He resolved to take every precaution. He wished his father were still alive to give him guidance.
As the weeks went by, therefore, he protected Sarah night and day. He made her promise not to exert herself. If he was out in the city, he’d come back several times during the day to make sure that she was keeping her promise. He realized that he was giving less attention to Naomi than he usually did, and felt guilty about it. But though she was only eight years old, Naomi seemed perfectly to understand. Each evening he would read stories to them both in front of the fire.
They never discussed whether the baby would be a girl or a boy. The subject was too sensitive. But one day when Sarah was in her sixth month, a visiting neighbor remarked to him: “I see your wife is going to have a boy.”
“Why do you think so?” he asked.
“By the way she carries the child, the way she walks,” the woman replied. “I can always tell.”
And at this news, Jacob’s heart leaped for joy. But he said nothing even to Sarah. And he was glad that he had not. For a few days later, passing the kitchen, he overheard Naomi say: “I wonder if my father will still love me so much if the baby is a boy.” And he knew that his little daughter was right, and his heart went out to her. And he vowed on the spot that never, never would he love her any less, or show that he cared more to have a son than a daughter.
It was in the eighth month that things began to go wrong. The physician, a man whose judgment he trusted almost as well as he had his own father’s, took him aside and told him: “I believe this will be a difficult birth, Jacob.”
“You mean she may lose the child?”
“It may be difficult for both of them.”
“What can I do?”
“Trust in the Lord. I will do the rest.”
It was now approaching midwinter. Some mornings, the cobbles in the street were slippery with ice. He told Sarah that she must on no account go outside. He kept the fire burning night and day.
Two more weeks passed. Her time was drawing near.
Then one night came a knock on the door.
It was Renard. His friend came in quickly, embraced him, asked after Sarah and Naomi and then said in a low voice that they must speak alone.
They went into Jacob’s little counting house and closed the door.
“No one must know that I came here tonight,” Renard began. “What I have to tell you must remain a secret for your own sake and for mine.”
“You can rely on me.”
“I know.” Renard took a deep breath. “Jacob, I have a friend who is close to the counsels of the king. He has given me news that I share with you alone. I must ask you not to share it with others, however tempted you may be. Otherwise, I can tell you nothing. I beg you for your own sake and your family’s to promise that you’ll keep this secret.”
Jacob was not sure that he liked the sound of this. But he had no doubt that if Renard told him that it was for his family’s sake, then it was so.
“Very well,” he said after a pause. “Please go on.”
“The king has been persuaded to move against the Jews. I do not know when he will strike, but it will not be long.”
“What will he do?”
“I am not certain. But it’s not just a fine. It is something more significant.”
“It must be expulsion, then.”
“That is what I think.”
Both men were silent for a moment. Where would the Jews go? The King of France controlled far larger territories than when Philip Augustus had briefly expelled the Jews a century ago. The nearest possible refuge might be Burgundy, if the Duke of Burgundy would have them.
Jacob thought of Sarah in her condition, and of the unborn child. Must he wander the world with his poor little family? Would they survive?
Then Renard spoke. His voice was quiet, though troubled.
“Years ago, dear friend, I made a suggestion to you. I never raised the subject again. I respected your wishes. But when I see the situation now, as your friend, I must beg you to reconsider. For your own sake. For the sake of your family.”
“You are speaking of conversion.”
“I am. I needn’t remind you of the advantages. All the limitations placed upon Jews would be raised. You would be a free man. Your family would be safe. You could continue to reside here in Paris. I could do so much for you.”
“I must turn my back on my God to find safety?” Jacob said.
“Is it turning your back on God?” Renard responded earnestly. “What is it, Jacob, that we Christians say? Only that Jesus of Nazareth was the very Messiah that the Jews were waiting for. Those Je
ws who realized it became the first Christians. We are waiting for the rest of the Jews to follow them. That is all that divides us in our religion, my friend. And to me it seems but a small step to take. The ancient Jewish prophecies have been fulfilled. That is all. It’s a cause for rejoicing.”
Jacob smiled at his friend.
“You must talk to my rabbi,” he said wryly.
“One thing I must urge upon you,” Renard continued. “If you are prepared to take this step, you’d better take it soon. The Inquisition desires that all men should be good Christians—of course. On the other hand, the Inquisitors are suspicious of converts, because they suspect their conversions may not be sincere. While the information I have given you remains secret, your conversion should be acceptable. But once it’s known the king means to expel the Jews, then it might arouse suspicion.”
“This I understand,” said Jacob, but he gave no further answer before Renard departed.
Jacob did not sleep well that night. For a while, he lay in bed thinking. Then he got up and sat by the fire. Twice he took a candle and went softly to look at his wife, and at Naomi, as they slept. And all the time he pondered.
He did not care about the rabbi. He did not even care so much about the Jewish congregation. Not since some of them had shown themselves to be false friends.
But what of the Lord God of Abraham and his forefathers? If I have suffered when I have served the Lord my God, Jacob considered, will He not smite me with afflictions far worse, if I betray Him now? Besides, wasn’t the Lord making His face to shine upon him, by granting him a son at last? To turn away from God after such a blessing would be madness indeed.
Yet was the baby a son? A neighbor’s wife had said so. What of it? The truth was that he did not know. Besides, he’d lost two sons already. And now the physician was concerned about the birth itself. Even the safety of his wife was in doubt.
Hour after hour Jacob turned these things over in his mind. To trust in the Lord, or to betray his heritage. To save his little family, or to see them destroyed. Thus he passed the dark night of the soul. And it was only at dawn, when he heard his wife cry out in pain, and sent hurriedly for the physician, that, unable to bear it anymore, he had made the terrible decision.
Jacob had been baptized into the Christian faith a week later. Renard had made the arrangements with a priest, and it had been discreetly done. For Jacob had been so afraid that the shock of his conversion might cause his wife to miscarry that neither she nor Naomi had any idea of it until two weeks after his son had been safely born. They called the little boy Jacob, since it was the family tradition. During this time, he did not go to the synagogue, but allowed it to be thought that this was because he would not leave his wife’s side.
When at last he told Sarah, she had been greatly shocked. He explained to her in secret what Renard had told him, and why he had done it. When he had finished, she said nothing for a few moments, and then remarked with some bitterness: “So, I am to lose every one of my friends.”
Had she not been nursing her baby, and caring for Naomi, he supposed she might have said a lot more than she did.
As for Naomi, the little girl was mystified. The first night after she was told she was to be a Christian, he had come to say prayers with her as usual, and she had begun:
Shema Yisrael Adonai eloheinu adonai ehad …
But there he had gently stopped her, and explained that from now on she should begin her prayers with a new prayer.
“It is a very beautiful prayer,” he promised. “It is addressed to the one Lord, the God of Israel, and of all the world. It begins ‘Our Father …’ ”
“Am I not to say the Shema anymore?” she asked.
And with a sudden pang of grief he found himself telling her: “Christians sometimes say the Shema, too, in Latin. But it’s better that you use this other prayer instead.”
When Naomi asked her mother about it the next morning, Sarah told her firmly that she must obey her father and that he knew best. But that afternoon she came in crying because another little girl had told her that the prayer was used only by the enemies of her people. Soon, none of the other children in the quarter would speak to her.
She could not be told the secret about the coming expulsion. It was too dangerous, and she was too young. Jacob could only watch her suffering and comfort her as best he could.
It was clear they had to move.
If Henri Renard had been the cause of all this pain, he certainly kept his promise when it came to helping his friend once he had made the fateful decision. He had already prepared the ground, both with the priest who baptized Jacob, and with a wide circle of influential merchants and their families.
“You’ll remember his father the physician, of course,” he’d say. “One of the most trusted men in Paris. So Jacob grew up among Christians like myself from his childhood. He couldn’t discuss it publicly, of course, but to my certain knowledge he has been considering converting for nearly a decade.” Technically, since he himself had broached the subject to Jacob years ago, this was true, if somewhat misleading.
As a Christian, Jacob was not supposed to practice moneylending. But in no time Renard had got him into the merchant guild. There were plenty of opportunities for a man of his skill and fortune to make money as a merchant, and he was soon an active dealer in the city’s great cloth trade. Renard had also helped Jacob find the house in the rue Saint-Martin.
“It’s only a short walk from Les Halles, and it’s in my own parish of Saint-Merri, so we can hear Mass at the same church,” he explained. And he ensured that the newly converted family—for Sarah and Naomi, however unwillingly, had also been baptized—were welcomed by their fellow parishioners. So at least they now had neighbors who spoke to them, and Naomi had the chance to make new friends.
The greatest relief for Jacob, however, had been the health of his newborn son. The birth had not been as difficult as feared. The baby was in good health, and within weeks was giving every sign of being robust. So far, at least, it seemed that God had not turned His face away from Jacob. Indeed, Jacob even wondered if it was possible that the Lord might be pleased with his conversion.
Strangely, during the whole business, the reaction that troubled him the most, the words that haunted him, came from a man he didn’t even care for.
The morning after his conversion had become known the rabbi came straight to his house.
“Is this true, Jacob ben Jacob? You have converted? Tell me this is not true.”
“It is true.”
He had expected the rabbi to be angry. But there was an even more striking reaction, a look so deeply carved in the lines of the rabbi’s face that it gave him a new dignity. It was grief.
“Why? Why have you done such a thing?”
“I have decided that Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah.”
It was not true. He could not tell the rabbi the truth. And as he stared at this man he did not like, he felt a sudden and terrible guilt. He longed to cry out: “I did it because the Jews are going to be expelled. I did it to save my family.” But he could not. There lay his greatest crime. He was doing nothing to warn his own people. He was going to wait as their doom approached, watch while they lost everything, including their homes, and were cast out to wander the world.
“Will you betray us then, Jacob ben Jacob?” the rabbi asked bitterly. “Will you be another Nicolas Donin?”
This was a searing accusation. For every Jew knew that Nicolas Donin, the Franciscan who’d persuaded Christendom to burn the Talmud, had been born a Jew himself. Nothing was more terrible, it was often said, than the vengeance of the traitor.
“Never!” he cried. He was deeply hurt. But it was the rabbi’s parting words that would haunt him.
“You call me a fool,” the rabbi said. “But it is you who are the fool, Jacob. You convert. You join the Christians. And you think: Now I shall be safe. But you are wrong. This I know, and this I tell you.” He shook his head. “You are a Jew, J
acob. And no matter what you do, no matter what the Christians say—believe me—you will never be safe.”
So Jacob attended church and learned what it was to be a Christian. In a general way, through his intimacy with friends like Renard, he had always known. But because it was his nature to be intellectually curious, he began to study the religion to which he had committed his family. The Old Testament he knew well. Now he studied the New. And he was interested to discover how directly, how intimately, the one grew from the other. To him, Jesus and his disciples did not seem like Christians at war with a Jewish culture they shunned. They were Jews. They were Jewish in culture, they obeyed Jewish laws, followed Jewish observances. They read from the Torah, and sacrificed at the temple in Jerusalem.
As for the Christian message of love, who would argue against that?
When Renard had urged him to remember that the Christian Church had begun as a group of Jews who recognized that their rabbi had been the promised Messiah, Jacob had assumed it was to help him convert and save his skin. And it probably was. But, in fact, Jacob now concluded, his friend had spoken the truth. As he read the Acts of the Apostles, it struck him forcibly to what an extent the first Christians were Jews, and how easily—but for Saint Paul’s persuading the Savior’s reluctant family and friends to let the Gentiles join them—they might have remained a Jewish sect. Time, and the tragedies of history, accounted for all the rest.
But no man could ignore that long history. It could not be done. If the Church regarded him cautiously, if the rabbi no longer spoke to him, if his wife was unhappy and his daughter mystified, he could not blame them.
Meanwhile he waited, with a heavy heart and secret shame, for the terrible blow that was about to fall upon the Jews of France.
Weeks passed. Nothing happened. He wondered if Renard had made a mistake about the king’s intentions. Had he put his family through untold misery for no good reason at all?