Work Text:
30th of Nisan, 5168
(For your convenience, John, 5th of May,1408)
Dear John,
The cherry and sour cherry trees are no longer in bloom; all the petals have long fallen off and dissolved into the spring grass. It is a shame you didn’t see them at all- I think you would have admired their aesthetic value, or something along those lines. You would probably try to do something ridiculous, like wrangling them into a bouquet, with no regard for the fact that tree branches are not malleable enough, with no regard that the trees will have less fruit that way.
Still, I probably wouldn’t have the heart to scold you for it. I am quite fond of the expression you make when you are frustrated- you bite your lower lip and squint at the object of your interest, as if its mere existence offended you. You are probably making the expression at this letter right now, if I am to make a guess, and now that you have been reminded, you will carefully school your face back to the neutral mask you know I hate. So please, squint as much as your heart desires.
I hope that you will at least be here, even for a short while, when the trees start bearing fruit. I’ll be a generous host to you and give you a small bowl for you to eat, though you will have to help with the picking, at least a little. I know that at Jobst’s court, all you would need to do is tell a servant, and you could have two whole baskets in a matter of an hour.
But they wouldn’t know not to give you the overripe pieces you don’t like. I know you haven’t told them you don’t like those.
I must admit I like that some things stay between us, like this. I like knowing you more than even those you spend most of your time with. More than those whose job it is to take care of you.
I will give you both sweet cherries and sour cherries, which you are not as fond of, but still like more than blackberries. You really are pampered- to turn up your nose at sour food like this, when it can be so refreshing in the heat of summer.
I truly do hope you will come in time to taste them.
I wonder what you are doing now. I don’t even know where you are again- Vienna? Brno? Prague? Someplace entirely different? Has your brother had need of you? Are you at the gates of Kolín? In that case, I hope you haven’t been on horseback for too long, I do not like hearing you complain how your back hurts. Not because I do not like to hear you complain -complaining is healthy for the soul and mind- but I know how much you hate pain.
Still, there will come a time when you will have to make peace with it. You are over thirty years old, I doubt it will get better. Try to think of it as a gift- many people do not get to experience the aches of old age. Do not get cross with me now! I am not calling you old at thirty two years of age, I am merely pointing out the inevitable. Your body will not get any younger.
I hope Jobst is not being a nuisance. I hope he is not being unreasonable. I hope he didn’t have any idiotic ideas recently, and if he did, he at least told you about them so you could stop him before he could execute them.
I am equal parts excited and nervous about what you will bring to me this time. But I think every child, man and woman in the quarter demanded of me to show them the bag of little deep red gemstones you brought me last time from Turnau, when Jobst sent you to negotiate with the Wadlesteins, asking: “why did you give them to me, for what purpose?” So I beg of you, please make it something less conspicuous. Honestly, I have no idea what you thought I would do with them. Though now that I am thinking about it, maybe I will give them to the jeweler to make something nice for mame.
Still, I request that if you absolutely have to gift me something every time you come, make it something simple. Maybe something that falls on your head from a tree and flicks you on the nose. Preferably something that doesn’t scream “my lover is a nobleman who can afford a pouch of gemstones.”
Pesach ended not that many days ago here, and I can already hear you asking, “Oh, Sam, please, did you save me some wine?” And you will surely bat your eyelashes at me as though you are some young maiden and I a potential groom.
But you were not here to help with the preparations or cleaning at all, and believe me, mame, zayde, and I, all of us, would welcome another pair of hands at work. I know you know intellectually that cleaning a whole house and getting rid of all chametz takes a lot of time and effort, but you have to experience it yourself to truly understand it.
Still, my fondness for you knows no bounds, so when you do come, some leftover wine is waiting for you here.
Thinking of you,
Samuel
***
Carefully folding the letter, Samuel stayed sitting at his desk, and ensured the creases were neat. Of course, he had no intention of actually sending it, because these letters never ended up in the hands of a messenger. He wasn’t lying when he wrote he truly had no idea where John could be, not having seen him since early March. And even if he did, he wouldn’t send a letter like this. It was just too risky.
When the rare letter from John did come, it was always concise, to the point, no trace of any feelings. “Be careful, Samuel,” the letter would read, “someone who might cause trouble is coming to Kolín.”
And if Samuel knew where John was at the time, and had information to share, the text would be similarly brief. “I heard the city whispering something you might find interesting, usable. I hope it will help.”
So instead, Samuel opened a drawer by the candlelight, sun long having set, and put the letter on top of the stack of other letters. Currently, there were five in total.
It was always a joyous occasion when the drawer was empty, when there were no letters at all. It meant that John was here, in Kolín.
Samuel would welcome John with open arms and, behind closed doors, open affection.
In the evening a day or two later, when their passion has settled down, Samuel would get up, open the drawer, take out the letters, and give them over to John to read. John would in turn pull out his own stack from his leather satchel and hand them to Samuel.
Together, they would sit on their bed, John laying his head down on Samuel’s shoulder, and they would read each other’s letters in quiet companionship. Samuel’s to John tended to be longer, but written less frequently, one every week or two, whereas John, who had much more parchment to spare, would write every week, one or two or three letters, but shorter, oftentimes not even filling up a whole page.
Strange, how that worked. One would think that with their personalities, it would be the other way around. Impulsive Samuel, though not as impulsive as a few years ago, writing much more often than John who tended to weigh every word. However, John’s need to talk when in good company won out over any prudence he might have, and this, it seemed, carried over to writing letters.
Samuel liked thinking deeply in advance about what he was about to write. It gave him a sense of peace he rarely found elsewhere. At the shul, maybe, but that was about it.
Samuel continued staring at the letters. Five little folded pieces of parchment, filled to the brim with words that condemned them both. That was not that bad. Usually, John came to visit before there were seven. Hopefully, that would stay true.
***
Only once, ten letters had piled up. Samuel was truly worried that something had happened to John, that he had gotten caught. A foreboding feeling stalked him at all hours of the day, like someone was looking at the back of his head, but when he turned, nobody was there.
When night rolled around, sleep either eluded him, or was filled with smoke so thick Samuel thought he would choke and houses on fire and roofs on fire and the trees on fire and-
Sometimes, John was locked inside, unable to get out. And Samuel could just watch as he was consumed along with everything and everyone else he loved.
When he woke, he missed the feeling of John rocking him slightly, like he always did after Samuel had a nightmare.
***
To Samuel’s horror, it turned out he had been right. When he was returning from a rare evening service he was able to attend, Eli having kicked him out of his own tavern for moping around, he found John sitting at his doorstep like an abandoned fawn, more haggard looking than Samuel had ever seen him.
He was resting his head against the doorframe, eyes closed, knees drawn up to his chest. His clothes were a little stained with dirt, no doubt from sitting on the ground. How long had he been waiting here?
When Samuel approached, John jerked slightly, sleep being ripped away from him, and his eyes blinked open.
Wordlessly, he turned his gaze at Samuel, and when Samuel crouched down in front of him to check him for any injuries, he caught his wrist and forced out shakily, “I’m sorry I didn’t come. I was captured.” Nothing more, nothing less.
He brought no letters of his own back then, for which he apologized profusely, saying he had them back in Brno, hidden under a floorboard, but that he forgot about them, that he is sorry, sorry, so sorry. He just wanted to come here.
Honestly, the letters were the last thing on Samuel’s mind as he held John in his arms. A part of him wanted to know every detail, wanted nothing more than to hear his voice. A part of him dreaded what he would learn.
It was with a strange mix of detachment at some parts of the story, hysteria at others, that John recounted what had happened. Captured by a duke from Austria the Liechtensteins had fallen out of favour with, he was supposed be executed at first.
John sounded strangely hollow when talking about it, like it didn’t really register what was to happen. But Samuel knew first-hand. Sometimes, what a person experienced could weigh so heavily on them it threatened to be their undoing. It was easier, then, to relegate it to the depths of their mind, and talk about it as if it happened to someone else. But he also knew it was temporary. That it would come back one day.
However, by some stroke of luck, or rather a miracle on par with Aaron’s staff turning into a serpent, Jobst learnt in time what was going on. What’s more, he managed to work out a deal by himself for John to be released. Samuel had to give Jobst a little credit there, he honestly didn’t think the margrave was capable of negotiating anything.
“It was such a horrible deal. So horrible. I can’t believe it. So much money. He didn’t negotiate at all,” John had mumbled into Samuel’s gambeson. He didn’t give Samuel a concrete number, but it must have been a lot to register as “so much money” for a member of the Liechtenstein family.
(When John did finally tell him how much it was, a few days later, Samuel almost let go of the pitcher of water he was holding! 2000 kopecs! You could buy a small army for that! But also, how strange it seemed. That John’s life now had a concrete number on it.)
At the end of his tale, John looked practically dead where he was sitting at the table. And no wonder about that, Samuel thought as he led John to their chambers, John’s arm thrown over his shoulder as he stumbled along the wall.
Once John’s head hit the pillow, he started shaking. Only a little at first, then more and more, as if his body also realized he could finally let his guard down. So Samuel laid down next to him and pressed him to his own body, loosely, gently, thumb stroking lightly the nape of his neck, and started talking about the various happenings in Kolín.
He told John about the little dog a boy across the street started taking care of, about a recent wedding, about a chicken that often stood in front of Samuel’s tavern, waiting for scraps, about a book of poetry his zayde had given to him not long ago, written by a Jew from Rome. All the while John tried to take laboured gulping breaths.
John had done the same for him, more than once. Samuel still remembered the sweet nothings John had whispered into his hair when they first came to Kolín. Tucked away in the corner of a stable, the stars were their only witness as John repeated, over and over again: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. How brave you are. My beloved.”
Then, the shaking gradually stopped.
John just lay there staring at the ceiling, catching his breath, clutching at Samuel’s arm. Fingers tightening on Samuel’s sleeve, his voice broke the silence, “I always thought that when death came for me, I would accept it, because it was inevitable, in the end. What does it matter whether he claims me today or in ten years.” He confided into the darkness, a horrible secret.
He hid his face in Samuel’s neck, and Samuel stroked his hair, curls damp with sweat. Neither of them said anything, and eventually, John’s breathing started evening out. Just when he thought John had finally fallen asleep, his eyes opened again, eyelashes lightly tickling Samuel’s neck.
“But, you know, when I was waiting there, just sitting around all day, I realized I don’t want to go. I want to continue sharing the world with you.”
Samuel didn’t know what to say to that. He looked out the window, at the sickle of the moon. She waxed, she waned, things got better, things got worse.
“I want to share the world with you too,” Samuel whispered, and this time, John truly was asleep.
When the sun rose, Samuel got up on time to start opening the tavern but let John sleep it all away. And John slept, and slept, and slept, with Samuel checking in on him every hour or so, just watching his chest rise and fall. He didn’t look like he was having nightmares or really, any dreams at all. It was probably for the best, sometimes the oblivion of sleep was the only thing a person could ask for.
Only when it was long past noon did John rise, not looking that much better, but at least the bags under his eyes weren’t as prominent.
He huddled next to the clay oven on the floor, holding a bowl of broth Samuel’s mame pressed into his hands. He put one spoon into his mouth, then another, and then he set to bowl aside, apparently not able to eat any more than that.
He leaned his head against the wall behind him, closing his eyes. “I still feel like I can see him, from the corner of my eye. The skeleton, you know? Like he’s waiting for me. Now that I know I don’t want to meet him he’s waiting for me.”
“It will pass,” Samuel reassured him as he sat down next to him on the floor and took his hand, “you’re just tired.”
And he prayed that it was true and John just needed rest. He prayed the angel of death wasn’t planning to take John away just yet.
***
Since then, when the number of letters started to increase, Samuel was gripped at times by indescribable dread. It was the knowledge that a day could come when there won’t be any more space in the drawer. That John won’t ever get to read them.
He had shared as much with John one evening, when both of them were deep in their cups. The room was warm and the light from the candles was soft, making it all feel even more hazy. Unfortunately, this was one of the nights when John’s disposition wasn’t that of a social butterfly wanting nothing more then to share good wine and good stories with those around him. No. Instead, he got progressively more and more melancholic the longer he drank, so instead of reassuring Samuel and kissing his stupid ideas away, he looked to be on the verge of tears.
“Sam, you know that if you were, if you were unhappy, with how things are, I wouldn’t mind,” John stammered, looking away from Samuel’s face, instead choosing to stare at the corner of the room. “I wouldn’t mind if you found someone else. I mean, you are respected here, I’m sure it would be easy for you to find someone who probably wouldn’t stress you out most days of the year. Maybe someone who could make you happier.”
“Don’t-“ Samuel stopped him before John could continue his horrible speech, “don’t say things like that.” He took John’s hand in his own, squeezing it. “The waiting all the time, it is horrible. But it is what I chose, so do not try to take that from me.”
They sat like that for some time, an anxious atmosphere enveloping them.
If Samuel was being honest, he knew that finding someone withing the quarter, and preferably marrying a nice Jewish girl would be easier. But when the topic of marriage came up from time to time, Samuel was always sure to rebuff any innocuous proposition, saying that he was simply not a man meant for such things.
The colour of freshly picked blueberries and the smell of an expensive perfume always filled his mind.
There would be nothing more Samuel would hate than to live his life in a lie, just because it would be easier.
Swallowing through the lump in his throat, Samuel broke the silence, “Besides, is devotion not a blessing? Sometimes I wish things were easier, but they are not, and this is all we have. I will gladly wait for you here, whenever you might turn up and read your letters.”
John moved all of a sudden, and Samuel found his lap full of an Austrian noble. He gripped Samuel’s shoulders, staring into his eyes. “I will always come back. I promise you. Always. Even if it might take some time.”
“Alright, alright,” Samuel agreed, not knowing whether he was soothing John or himself. Perhaps both. “We should probably stop with the wine for tonight.”
Gently urging John to get up from his lap so circulation could return to his legs, he realized it must be quite late already. Outside, all was quiet, not even the sound of cats fighting for territory could be heard. The city itself, the quarter, was holding its breath. Simply waiting.
“We should go to sleep, so we do not look like ghosts once morning comes. But it is Shabbos, so I suppose we can get up a little later than usual.”
Some of the sadness left John’s eyes, and Samuel felt relieved as well. It was not the best option to talk about this when they were both drunk, but it was inevitable it would come up one day. It felt good to hear John say he will always come back, even if it might be just wishful thinking. And John also must have had this on his mind for some time.
But, Samuel thought, they have each other right now, and that is most important. And they will continue returning to each other, for as long as they are allowed to.
