The Fifth Servant Read Free Page A

five years old, a boy and a girl, took turns shooting marbles into a chalk circle.
                As I called on all the Jews to come and serve the Creator, a pair of women’s voices answered from opposite sides of the street. The children obediently got up from their game and went in to their mothers, the boy through a doorway marked by a mezuzah, the girl through a doorway with a cross nailed squarely in the middle of the upper frame.
                So young and compliant, I thought, smiling to myself. They haven’t learned to be difficult yet.
                They haven’t learned to think of all human relations in terms of what language you pray in or how much gold your family has to buy friends in high places.
                Because you can only buy fair-weather friends.
                That’s why Rabbi Shemaiah says, “Love work, hate authority, and don’t get friendly with the ruling powers,” because no matter who’s sitting on the throne, all those petty lords and nobles just use your friendship when it serves their needs, but they do not stand by you in the hour of your need.
                Just look at Emperor Rudolf II’s grandfather Ferdinand, who expelled the Jews from Bohemia , even though he gave his word as king that he would never do so.
                Back on the lower Geistgasse, a middle-aged Christian woman with a dark blue headkerchief was banging on the door of one of the Jewish shops I’d just called to shul. She looked up at the second-floor window, then went back to rattling the flimsy door. Another woman, who must have been the proprietress, stuck her head out of the upstairs window.
                “What can I do for you, paní ?”
                “Are you open today?”
                “Sure, sure. Until noon. I’ll be down in a minute.”
                I was halfway back to the East Gate when a bleary-eyed Jew and a pair of Christians beckoned to me.
                “Come join us,” said the Jew. He was trying to open his door with a key that was far too large for the narrow lock.
                I didn’t budge. “Join you doing what?”
                “Is there something wrong with your eyes? Can’t you see that we’re celebrating Purim?”
                “Purim was over a month ago.”
                “Can I help it if I celebrate Purim a little more often than other Jews?”
                I turned to go, but the Jew spread his cape wide and blocked my path.
                “We, sir, are entertainers to the lords and burghers, and only a gawking newcomer from the provinces would fail to recognize the great Shlomo Zinger and his associates. Professional merrymakers, a su servicio .”
                “We also do weddings,” said one of the Christians.
                “And when we see a man looking troubled"—Zinger patted my cheek with sloppy familiarity—“it is our sworn duty to cheer him up.”
                “Taanis, folio twenty-two A,” I said, reflexively citing the Talmudic passage in which Elijah the Prophet announces that two humble jesters will have a share in the World-to-Come because they are helping people to forget their troubles.
                “Ah yes, I heard you were a scholar,” said Zinger.
                “You did?”
                “The Yidnshtot is big, my friend, but word gets around just like in a small town. A promising disciple of the great Isserles and some other Polish rabbi, who tossed it all to come after a woman. That’s the stuff of romantic ballads, mate.”
                “No, it isn’t. She hasn’t spoken to me yet.”
                “Don’t worry, she will.” He leaned in closer. “We also heard that one time you fought off six men at once. Six big, drunken