Mrs. Rothschild’s Love

Frankfurt am main, 1770

I stood at the open window like I do every day, my eyes seeking hesitantly, wishing to capture the image of Meir Amschel Rothschild emerging from the dusk. Ever since my father’s second refusal of the match, he has not turned up on our street. Eight long weeks have gone by since the day he appeared again in our home, standing tall, and requesting to speak to Father. He giggled with (enchanting!) apology for assuming the role of both matchmaker and match, said that his late mother and father would have certainly been happy with his choice, and announced that he loved Gutaleh (me!) and promised that she (I!) would want for nothing in his home. But Father ran his eyes over Meir’s faded coat, hesitated for a moment, and to my great sorrow turned him down again, and Meir Amschel Rothschild left our home, never to return.

I almost went to the neighbors, to see if they knew anything. Perhaps he’d decided to return to the yeshiva? Or maybe he’d been called back to work at Oppenheimer’s bank, far away in Hanover? And if one of these were true, when was he planning to return? But I was concerned that my interest would disclose my emotions, and so I locked and bolted shut the doors of my mouth.

Instead, I wandered the street, seeking my beloved.

One day, my feet carried me toward the northern gate, the Bockenheimer Gate, one of the three gates of the ghetto. His house was near the gate, at...