Author: Cambria Gordon
Category: Other
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“The clerics pushed back. Persuasive Dominican and Franciscan friars wrote papers comparing the minority religions to the devil, preached hatred in town squares, and worked common folks into a fever. There was even a public debate on heresy in Barcelona between the Christians and the Jews. Actually, just one Jew, Nachmanides.”
“Who won?”
“No one, I’m afraid. But it caused problems for us. The argument was over the Messiah. The Christians said that Jesús was already here. Nachmanides argued that our Messiah had not yet come. Nevertheless, after days of testimony, the Christians stopped the debate and decided the Jewish religion was invalid.”
“All this fighting over ideology,” said Isabel. “I had no idea.”
Abuela nodded. “At the same time, the Christian kings and queens were waging wars against the Moors, reconquering cities that had been taken from them.”
This Isabel did know about. Everyone did. When the Moors crossed over from Morocco seven hundred years ago and took the capital of Toledo, their leader, Tariq, became the face of evil in every Christian child’s bedtime story told thereafter. The Spanish queens and kings, determined to reunite their country under a Christian banner, took back city after city from the Moors. It all made sense to her now. The Church, with their fears about Jewish and Muslim teachings, emboldened the Crown.
Abuela continued. “By the end of the twelfth century, the golden age of Al-Andalus was over. Spain became a land once again ruled by religion, where belief was a matter of life or death.” She paused. “I also think there was jealousy.”
“Over what?” asked Isabel.
“The power, wealth, and influence of the Jews.”
“How ridiculous that sounds today,” said Isabel, imagining someone like little Yuçe holding all the power when he grew up.
“It is hard to believe. But there has always been fear of the outsider. Many Jews and Muslims willingly converted during this time, desiring to be on the inside, part of the majority. They thought erasing the past would make their lives easier. My family remained Jewish. But everything changed for us on June sixth.”
The air weighed heavy with silence. Even the chickens seemed to quiet down to listen to Abuela.
“The year was 1391. My grandfather, Rabbi Crescas, was head of one of the twenty-three sinagogas in Valencia. He was well respected by Jews and non-Jews, despite the incendiary rhetoric that had spread throughout the city for months. Nearby in the town of Seville, a Christian monk named Ferrán Martínez had been giving public sermons, calling on good Christians to destroy sinagogas, lock Jews in their ghettos, and force them to accept Christianity. He said the Jews were unbelievers and that pillaging their homes was not a crime.
“It was a blazing Thursday afternoon. In the judería, the summer heat made everyone lazy. Grandpa Crescas and my grandmother, my father, and his four sisters were sitting at the table, finishing their midday meal. Abuelo rose to return to sinagoga for evening prayers. My father heard shouting from the street. When he looked out the window, he saw rabble-rousers chanting, ‘Lock them in! Lock them in!’ My papá and abuelo ran to the east gate of the judería but it had already been locked. Angry rioters circled around it, daring my father and grandfather to defy them. They turned back, running to the west gate, but someone called out, ‘Don’t bother. The other gate is blocked, too.’ As they arrived back home, black smoke billowed from the roof. Their house was on fire. My grandmother and the children were standing outside, handkerchiefs covering their faces. Other neighbors, whose homes and shops were also burning, stood near. ‘The sinagoga!’ yelled my grandfather. A large group, including the men in my family, rushed to the sinagoga, but that, too, was aflame, including the Torah.” Her voice broke.
“It’s all right,” said Isabel gently. “You don’t have to continue.”
“I need to. It has to be told.”
Isabel put her arm around her grandmother’s shoulders.
When Abuela had composed herself, she continued. “A mob encircled my grandfather and their neighbors. ‘It’s the rabbi,’ yelled a youth. I remember my father telling me how the young man bared his teeth at Abuelo, so ugly and cruel. My grandfather, in his black gown, beard, and skullcap, was tackled to the dirt. ‘Become baptized or die,’ screamed a second rioter.
“My abuelo struggled to stand up. He wouldn’t kneel. He would not give them what they asked. As he recited the Shema prayer, they dragged him through the streets. A week later, he took his own life in prison rather than convert to Christianity.”
“Madre mía! What happened to everyone else?”
“My grandmother had a cousin in Hervas. When the chaos died down and the gates were finally unlocked, the family left Valencia permanently. That’s how I was born here, on the other side of the country, in Extremadura.”
Isabel was consumed by the story, but now that Abuela was finished, the sense of her own hopeless future fell down upon her, heavier this time. There were no fires or vengeful mobs in Trujillo. She felt as if she was being forced to marry someone she despised for the sake of a sacrifice that happened nearly one hundred years ago. “I’m sad for Grandpa Crescas. For your father and the whole family. But I don’t understand why Judaism, or any religion for that matter, was worth dying for.”
“Do you know the story of Adam, the first human?”
“Claro.” Of course.
“Then you know that God created a single man and then a woman and all of humanity descended from them.”
Isabel nodded. She felt like a child again, being tested by a stern Fray Francisco as he watched her dutifully recite her Latin benedictions in church. But she relayed the story as she knew it. “God created Eve out of Adam’s rib and they ate an apple from the forbidden tree and saw their nakedness and were expelled from the Garden of Eden. Then Cain and Abel were born, and so on.”
“Your details are correct, but you’re missing the deeper meaning. God did not create two men at once, he simply created Adam. To ensure that no one could say, ‘My ancestry is better than yours.’ ”
Isabel traced circles in the dirt with the toe of her shoe. “But the Old Christians do feel superior in lineage to the Jews.”
Abuela nodded. “It’s strange. The Jews call themselves the chosen people, but we have never felt better than anyone else. On the contrary, being chosen means we have more responsibility: to both God and our fellow human beings. Yes, we are physically closer to God since He chose us, but the closer you are to God, the more you sense your insignificance. It is the opposite of feeling superior to someone. God is infinite. All our feelings of self-importance fall away when we stand before infinity.” She paused. “I think that’s a concept worth dying for.”
Isabel still had questions. “If being Jewish is so important, why did your grandmother and all her children convert?”
Abuela’s head dipped down in shame. “They were afraid. My abuela was a widow. She had children to feed. Her family in Hervas had already converted. They didn’t imagine that being baptized had any significance. Not the way it did for Grandpa Crescas. It was merely a means of survival so they could keep Judaism alive in secret.”
“Then you and Papá were born Christian?”
“Officially, yes. Your mother, too. Her parents were Crypto-Jews as we were.”
Even though Isabel had been living the same duality, she had questions, ones she’d never considered before. “Does it not make people go mad, living a double life?”
“One adapts. But I prefer to think of it another way. That we are simply in a period of waiting before we can go back to being openly Jewish.”
“Like the Cohens,” said Isabel.
“I’m not sure they’re so safe right now either, mi nieta. But yes, like the Cohens.”
Isabel thought about how many generations had converted before her. “What if the waiting lasts too long and people forget the traditions and prayers and Judaism disappears altogether?”
“That could happen,” admitted Abuela. “
It already has in some converso families. They believe in the divinity of Jesús. They will never return to Judaism. I don’t judge them. That’s their choice.”
Isabel crossed her arms. “Well, I don’t have a choice. At least when it comes to marriage.”
Abuela clucked her tongue in the direction of the coop. Isabel didn’t know if it was meant for her or the chickens. “Sometimes you are as immovable as a fence post.”
Isabel didn’t deny it. A breeze came up, rustling leaves in a nearby tree. She wished she hadn’t hurried out of the house without her mantle.
“I remember my father talking to me about the Talmud,” said Abuela. “Other than the Torah, it’s the most important book for the Jewish people. Grandpa Crescas and he used to study it together at the sinagoga before all the troubles in Valencia. My father’s eyes would light up like stars when he described how the text turned in circles and went sideways over the page in all different sizes. I remember feeling jealous because I knew I would never see a Talmud in real life. Imagine being envious of your own father!”
“Why did you think you’d never see one?”
She sighed. “I was a girl. Women didn’t study sacred Jewish texts.”
“But your father taught you to read.”
She raised one finger in the air. “In Castilian. Jewish books were forbidden in converso homes.” Abuela gave me a wink. “But I managed to learn Hebrew anyway. I pestered my father every day until he finally relented and wrote down the aleph-bet from his memory. After that, I practiced putting letters together to make words and he had no choice but to correct me.”
“And I thought I was stubborn,” Isabel teased.
“There’s a lesson from the Talmud on uniqueness that I’ve always liked,” said Abuela. “Coins are minted by the king, made from one mold. Each one looks the same. But God is more powerful than a king. God mints each human being to be different. Yes, we are created in His image, but it’s a spiritual image. Like Adam, humans have two legs, two arms, one head. But no two people look the same. Skin can be dark or fair like yours. Even within the same family. Take how different you and Beatriz look. You have your mother’s wide-set eyes and long, wavy brown hair. Beatriz has your father’s high forehead and prominent nose.”
That was true. Isabel often felt guilty that she had the prettier features.
“God puts His unique stamp on everyone so they can be different on the outside and on the inside,” explained Abuela.
“It was intentional!” exclaimed Isabel. “That means our differences are good because everything that comes from God is good!”
The rising sun illuminated Abuela’s smile. “Celebrating our differences is one of the best parts of Judaism. We embrace the stranger, the one who doesn’t belong.”
Isabel sighed. “I wish I lived during the golden age of Al-Andalus. I would be a poetess.”
“I believe we can return to that time again,” said Abuela. “Not in my lifetime. But maybe your children will live to see that day, and their children’s children and all those who come after.”
The thought of Abuela not being alive to see paradise disturbed Isabel so greatly she wrapped her arms around her middle to hold in the pain. Maybe she connected to Abuelo Crescas’s story after all. “It’s just so melancholy, isn’t it?”
“Your betrothal?”
“That, and the future. The past. Everything.”
“Listen carefully. Your task right now is to make the best of your present situation. You have been given an opportunity to protect your family. A sacrifice we are all grateful for, believe me. But you will lead a comfortable life with Don Sancho. You can clean him up. Get him to use a woolen cloth soaked in lemon on those teeth. Follow Maimonides’s advice and feed your husband only when he is hungry. The alguacil clearly does not know when to stop. And know that his age is his deficit. He will make you a rich widow in no time. And your dowry and our land will be returned to you.”
How strange to be discussing someone’s death who had been very much alive in their sala last night.
“Every New Christian will be envious of your parents,” added Abuela.
Then why did it still feel so much like a punishment? “I don’t want envy. I want—” Her voice broke like Abuela’s had.
There would be no poetry in her life. Isabel wished she could run as far away from Trujillo as her legs would carry her. Her eyes welled up again.
Abuela took her hand. “There’s something I want to show you. I’ve been saving it for your wedding day, but I think you need to see it now.”
Retying her scarf around her head, Abuela led Isabel to a spot close to where they dumped their latrine. She looked around. “Has Beatriz returned from the well yet?”
“She must have,” said Isabel. “I don’t see her.”
Abuela brushed off some dirt to reveal a hole and pulled out a milk tin.
“You’re storing milk from our cows out here?”
Abuela shook her head. “It’s the only place I could think of safe enough for a Jewish text. No one would think to look out here, next to the contents of our chamber pots.”
Isabel giggled. “You’ve hidden a book inside that milk can?”
“Of sorts.” She lifted off the top of the canister and removed a roll of thin parchment. Carefully, she spread it on her knee. Isabel could not read the writing.
“Are you sure it’s a Jewish text? It looks Moorish.”
“The writer was Jewish but wrote this poem in Arabic. My grandmother was able to rescue a few belongings from the house in Valencia before the fire consumed it. She passed this down to me. It belonged to an ancestor of hers. A young girl, I think. I can’t remember anything else. And I don’t know how to translate it.”
“May I hold it?”
“Be careful.”
Isabel gently touched the parchment, her hand quivering slightly. The ink felt alive on the page before her. All these years she’d thought she was the odd one, because no one in her family read as voraciously as she did, let alone recorded their thoughts on paper. This discovery was nothing short of a miracle. “I wonder what the poem says. I wonder who she was,” she murmured.
“I’ve been meaning to take it to Isaac the bookbinder,” said her grandmother. “But these eyes are old. You be my vision and ask him to have it translated for you.” She gave Isabel a kiss on each cheek. “And tell me everything!”
The Jewish bookbinder did not work on Saturday. His shop would be closed on Sunday as well, in deference to the Christian day of rest. Therefore, as she added up Papá’s ledgers, Isabel could only count the minutes until Monday. She sat at the table in the cool cellar, surrounded by large cone-shaped baskets piled high with grapes. There had been a delivery this morning and the aroma was especially sweet, even without sugar added. Tomorrow, Papá and his trusted helper, Pedro, would dump the heavy baskets into the press.
Each basket had two leather straps, so the grape pickers could wear the carriers on their backs. It was laborious work, to handpick the grapes off the vines, then carry their load three kilometers to the market. Luckily, Papá owned a mule, so for his share, the workers only had to strap the baskets onto the beast and lead the animal directly to the cellar. Once, Isabel had tried to lift a full basket, and she had tumbled backward, landing on her bottom. She had not been able to raise it more than a few centimeters off the floor.
Isabel heard the creak of the cellar door. “How is it coming?” Papá was always impatient, anxious to see the profits each month.
“Slowly, to be honest.” She had been working all morning, but something didn’t add up. The total was off. In the wrong direction. “I keep finding an inconsistency. I think it’s my math.”
She heard the heavy thud of Papá’s feet on the stairs. “Let me take a look.”
His eyebrows joined together as he scanned the columns of accounts received. “Unfortunately, your numbers are perfect. A few of my best innkeeper customers have stopped ordering as much wine as they used to. They
say it’s because business is slow, but I think there’s another reason.”
Isabel put down her turkey quill. “Surely it can’t be the quality of your vino tinto?”
He frowned. “No. Simply Old Christians trying to show their loyalty to the Crown by not buying from conversos.”
“Then we’ll just have to find new customers,” said Isabel with more conviction than she felt.
An hour before sundown, the Perez family left for Sucot dinner at the Cohen house. Abuela stayed home, not feeling well. Abuela had preferred the family wait until after three stars appeared in the sky, signaling the official end of Shabbat. But Mamá wanted to leave earlier. Isabel glanced back to wave goodbye to Abuela, and thought she saw a curtain flick closed in the window of their neighbors’ house, the Herreras. Or maybe it was simply her imagination.
The low sun cast a pink glow near the granite-rock mountains as the family passed through the muralla, Trujillo’s defensive walls. Just outside the city loomed the iron gates of the Jewish quarter, dark and imposing. It seemed to Isabel as if no light could ever seep through those bars.
Beatriz stopped a few meters from the gates. “I’m not going in there.” Her voice quivered.
“Don’t be foolish. The judería is nothing to be afraid of,” said Papá.
Beatriz’s feet were firmly planted in the dirt as if she had grown roots.
“I guess you don’t want new dress fabric, then,” said Mamá, wisely.
Beatriz shifted her weight. “I just wish there were another way.”
“Well, there isn’t. This is where the Cohens live now,” said Mamá. “With the rest of the Jewish community. And we’re not going to make them feel uncomfortable about it either.”
Isabel wished Abuela were here so she could ask her if Grandpa Crescas liked living in the judería. Perhaps it was different back then and Jews chose to live all together in one tight community instead of being forced to move there.
“Besides, we’ve been celebrating Sucot with the Cohens every year since you were born,” added Mamá. “It’s tradition.”