Page 62 of The Phoenix Bride
“I am not brave, Jan. I have no courage to draw upon.”
He releases me and gives me a chiding look. “Nonsense. Who came to a city he had never seen before, merely in the search for something better? Who went into plague houses without care for his own survival?”
“Many people have done such things,” I say.
“And they are brave, also,” he replies. “We all are: you and I and all the rest. London is a city of lion hearts, David. It has survived centuries of war and death, and it will survive a thousand more. Don’t forget that.”
Then he strides away from the bailey, and I have no choice but to follow him.
—
I return home that night to discover a pamphlet that has been left on our doorstep. I pick it up. It is entitled,A Historical and Law Treatise against the Jews and Judaism.
Such things are not uncommon for me to find, unfortunately, and better it be used as kindling than left for another to see. I glance over it and see that the author has listed the supposed “crimes” that merited our expulsion from England in the first place, hundreds of years ago:
First, for blaspheming the name of Jesus Christ.
Second, for stealing, crucifying, and mangling Christian children.
Thirdly, for cohabiting with and debauching of Christian women.
At this, my stomach turns, and I crumple the pamphlet in my fist. Once I am inside, I throw it into the scrap basket.
I go upstairs to give my father his medicine. When I enter his room, he is fast asleep, and I must shake him awake.
He props himself up with pillows as he drinks the decoction, grimacing. I watch him.
He puts the cup down on the bedside table. Then he looks at me, frowns, and says, “David.”
“What is it?”
“You are crying.”
I lift my fingers to my cheek. When I draw them away, they are wet.
We look at each other with twin expressions of astonishment. I rarely cry, and certainly, I cannot remember the last time I did so in front of him.
“What is the matter?” he demands. “Explain.”
His tone brokers no argument. I sit on the bed. “It really is nothing,” I say, wearily. “I am tired. Confused.”
He waits expectantly for me to continue. I prepare an inane elaboration—another denial, another deflection—but when I look at his face, and I am met with the intensity of his concern, I cannot bear to lie. I haven’t the energy for it anymore. I am so tired.
“I think I have fallen in love,” I say. “Fool that I am for it.”
His frown deepens. “I see. It cannot be Sara, I think, since she would never bring you such grief. So, then, it is this gentile you spoke of. Am I correct?”
I do not reply, which is more incriminating than if I had. Father says, “David.”
“I know.”
“What would you do with this girl, hm? Where could it go?You cannot marry her.” He shakes his head. “I want grandchildren. I want you to find a wife, and to have the life of a happy man.”
“I wouldn’t be happy to live that life,” I reply. “The wedding, the children—I do not want those things. I never have.”
“But…”
“Is it not enough simply to be?” I demand. “Not enough to live as I wish, and be thankful for it?”
