Author: Cambria Gordon
Category: Other
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She closed her eyes to stem the tears, but they poured down her cheeks anyway. She missed the strength of Diego’s chest supporting her on the horse. The feel of his hands in her hair when they kissed. She removed his handkerchief from her wrist and covered her face in his scent. An idea for a poem came into her head, about being caught, or stuck, as it were, in a kind of purgatory between Don Sancho and Diego. She had not written anything since that verse she recited in Monfragüe for Diego. She stood up and walked straight to her bedroom to write it down, so as not to lose it.
O you who claim to be supreme in law and order
You bring storms of fear to my nights
Yet he erased the flashing bolts of lightning
And soothed my tumultuous heart.
Why must I languish ’tween fire and water
Hell and Heaven?
I am but a kite
Chinese silk
With no one holding my string
Untethered, never to touch the ground
She supposed she should be grateful for the inspiration. Poems never came this easily. Melancholia was a mixed blessing.
“Isabel,” called Mamá from the sala. “Papá needs you in the cellar.”
Closing her notebook with a sigh, she made her way downstairs.
One of Papá’s best customers, the duque of Alba, was waving around a bottle of wine, his face red as a beet. It was early enough in the day so that if the cellar door was propped open, one could see easily without the need of an oil lamp.
“You cannot expect me to serve this líquido asqueroso, this contemptible drink, to my guests. It’s no better than common table vinegar.” The duque’s ruffled collar shook.
“WAS THE ORDER MISSING SOME BOTTLES? I PACKED IT MYSELF. TWELVE CASES.” Papá answered him too loudly, with words that had nothing to do with the situation.
Duque Alba looked perplexed.
The hearing had still not returned to Papá’s good ear. In addition, certain sounds had disappeared from his speech over the past weeks, so that when he said doce casos, twelve cases, it sounded like DO-AY CA-OS. Between the volume and the dropped consonants, most Castilian speakers could not understand him. Isabel had been able to intervene in most deliveries, but when a customer stopped by the house, she was not always around. And Papá was stubborn and proud, unwilling to admit he could not conduct business in the same way he used to.
This was the first time, however, that it appeared the quality of the wine had suffered. Isabel thought perhaps some sort of contaminant had gotten into the press and turned the wine.
“Duque Alba,” began Isabel. “My apologies. Allow me to serve you some finely aged brandy instead?” She walked farther into the rear of the cellar to open a bottle. “Por favor.” She handed him a splash of the sweet liquid in a glass.
He sipped it, nodding. “This will do, thank you. But I expect to be compensated for my investment in your vino.”
“Of course. I have ducats here at the house to repay you. Please come upstairs and finish your brandy while I retrieve them.” She did not want him to see the hiding place where they kept their gold coins. It was behind the loose bricks, where Papá kept his Jewish prayer book and where Yuçe’s Talmud now lay.
She carried the bottle of brandy and led him upstairs with Papá following. Isabel asked Mamá to bring out olives and bread and sit with the duque and Papá while she went back downstairs to get the money.
Isabel removed the two loose bricks in the cellar wall and reached in her hand. She touched the dusty leather cover of the Talmud. She had not looked at it since the day Mamá and Papá had been taken.
The sounds of Mamá’s and the duque’s voices drifted down to her. Hopefully, her mother was holding up her end of the conversation without sounding too affectless. The hair on Mamá’s bare spot had begun to grow back. Fuzzy baby hair filled in the whiteness. Life went on. Though her mother remained a shell of her former self. She had never been an overly joyous person, but she was generous with her smile and ran the household with a steady hand. That had all changed since her encounter with the Inquisitors.
Isabel pulled out the Talmud, frustrated that she could not even read the word embossed on the front. The wisdom within the pages was locked to her and she had no key. What secrets did it hold? Was God inside there? Or was He in Monfragüe with the wind whistling through the leaves of the trees? Wherever He resided, He was the same God for both her and Diego. Yet she couldn’t reach either of them.
Her life since Mamá and Papá had been taken by the Inquisition was busier than ever before. Full. Yet unfulfilled. It would continue like this until she married Don Sancho. And then it would be more of the same. With a shock, she realized she had nothing to look forward to any longer. No reason to wake up each morning. Without hope, what did one have?
With a heavy heart, she returned the Talmud to the niche and took out the metal box of money. Two gold coins was worth 750 maravedis. This would set them behind significantly.
It had to be done.
That evening, after supper, when Abuela was retiring, Isabel knocked softly on her bedroom door.
“It seems I’m forever visiting you before you lie down,” said Isabel, shutting the door behind her to make sure no one in the family could hear them.
“Everything all right, mi nieta?” said Abuela, removing the pins in her bun.
Isabel wasted no time. “I want you to teach me how to read Hebrew.”
“Cómo? What?”
“The aleph-bet. I want to learn it.”
“So you can recite the blessings?”
Isabel shook her head. “So I can study the Talmud.”
“Do not say such a thing!” Abuela reached for the hand-shaped hamsa charm she kept near her breast to ward off evil spirits.
“But, Abuela, I want to understand God.”
“I can teach you about God.”
“But I have questions that you may not know how to answer. My friend …” She stopped. She wanted to tell her grandmother everything. But the less Abuela knew, the safer she would be if she were ever questioned by Don Sancho or the Inquisition.
“Which friend?”
“Forgive me, Abuela. I don’t know what I’m saying.” Her lip quivered and she tried to compose herself. “I’m just so … unhappy. I thought perhaps reading the Talmud would give my days meaning.”
Abuela’s eyes softened. “What’s come over you? Are you still upset about Don Sancho?”
Her grandmother’s sympathy touched her deeply and she began to cry. “It’s so much more than that, Abuela. I don’t understand the point of anything anymore. Why are we even on this earth? To marry someone we don’t love? To live in fear every time we walk out our door? To watch a parent lose his hearing or, Heaven forbid, his life? Is this all there is?” She sobbed harder.
Abuela wrapped her in her arms. “Shhh, mi nieta. Shhh. I did not realize you had fallen into an abyss. It pains me to hear you speak like this. Knowing our purpose in life is one of the great gifts of being human.” Then she pulled away and held Isabel at arm’s distance so she could look into her eyes. “I never thought I’d consider something like this. But we are living under different rules than my father and grandfather had. And perhaps it’s time for Judaism to treat its women differently.” She took a deep breath. “The Talmud is written mostly in Hebrew, the ancient language of our scholars. But there is some Aramaic in there as well. It’s a mix of Arabic and Hebrew, more commonly used by the people.” She frowned. “Though both languages use the same letters, learning two different spellings could take months. Surely you must return it to Yuçe?”
Isabel sniffled, letting the sobs subside, allowing herself a glimmer of hope. “We can keep it for a short while. Yuçe gave me no indication that he needed it back right away.”
Abuela considered this. “Putting aside the obvious danger of having a book such as this on our property, learning to read it is just the first step. Interpreting the text is another challenge entirely
. My father spent his whole life finding new meanings in those laws.”
“Then we’ll do the best we can with the time we have left.”
Abuela gave her a rueful smile. “I always say that your impetuousness will be the death of you, but you are going to be the death of me. Hashem yishmor.”
Isabel sat at the cellar table, an oil lamp beside her. She rested her head atop Papá’s ledgers, just for a moment. She was bone-tired. The next moment, she was asleep.
“Mi nieta,” whispered Abuela. “Should we forgo the lessons tonight?”
Isabel raised her head, rubbing her neck where it ached from being turned at an awkward angle. “How long was I out?” Her voice came out slow and thick.
“At least three-quarters of an hour.”
“I want to study. Por favor.” Learning with Abuela had brought a more welcome distraction than Isabel could have imagined. Though the frequency of Diego’s notes had not diminished, learning a new language had helped take away the all-consuming sadness over not seeing him. Over the past few weeks, she and Abuela had made much progress. Isabel had memorized all twenty-two Hebrew and Aramaic letters, plus their five final forms. She could now read rudimentary sentences and was anxious to delve into the teachings.
“Very well,” said Abuela, pulling out a chair.
Isabel twisted the cap closed on the glass ink pot and cleared space on the table.
“Now, where were we … ?” said Abuela, opening the Talmud.
“You were going to begin with some commentary.” Isabel knew from Yuçe that Rashi had written his opinions next to the law. Abuela had shown her other handwritten comments as well from descendants of Rashi’s school of thought, Maimonides and other commentators.
“We may as well begin with Shabbat, since you already know a pinch about it from our Friday night dinners.” She carefully turned the pages. “It’s still so strange to see this book in front of me. I used to listen at the door to my father’s study as he sang these laws. He said that singing the words helped make them permanent in his mind.” She directed Isabel’s attention to the parchment. “Here they are talking about the law of refraining from any work on the Sabbath.”
“These rules put us Crypto-Jews to shame,” admitted Isabel. “We always go about our regular schedule on Saturdays with nary a feeling of guilt.” She paused. “Sometimes I wonder if Mamá and Papá took the easy way out.”
“The Babylonian Talmud was first scribed in the year 500. This is 1481. The world is vastly different today. You can’t apply the same standards.”
“You mean Jews weren’t afraid back then?”
She shook her head. “We have always been an oppressed people. I just think that now is the worst we have ever seen with these forced conversions. We are not openly Jewish like the Cohens. But our faith is still real. God understands. He doesn’t judge your parents, and neither should you.”
The Cohens. Isabel was wracked with guilt. She was so busy with Papá’s duties and studying that she had not thought about them in over a month. Mamá had not asked about them either, which was understandable. Isabel suspected she had buried the entire episode deep in the recesses of her mind in order to avoid reliving it. If Señor Cohen had been beaten in front of the children, how serious was the damage? Were his hands broken? Could he cut cloth or still travel to the port in Cadiz? How were Yuçe and Rachel handling all of this? With their mother sick, what were they doing for food? God’s nose hair, she felt responsible. After all, it was she who convinced her parents to pay Hannah a visit. And here she was using the Cohens’ Talmud and she had not even gone to see them. It wasn’t right. Yet the fact remained that the Perezes were being watched, which made slipping out for anything other than necessities very challenging.
Isabel slowly sounded out the words before her. “Katav ot echat … what does that mean?”
“It means wrote one letter. The rabbi is saying that if someone wrote a letter from the aleph-bet on the Sabbath as an abbreviation, representing an entire word, he committed a sin.”
“Just by writing a single letter?”
“It sounds like a small thing, but it can mean so much more. If he altered a word in any way or completed a sentence, it is considered working on the day of rest and that’s a violation of the rules of the Sabbath.”
Isabel pointed to a word that looked different for some reason. “Is this Hebrew, too?”
“It’s the Aramaic word for rules. See how it’s just stuck in the middle of all that Hebrew?”
Isabel was awestruck. What a treasure trove. She felt insatiable. She wanted to devour as much as she could before she would either have to return the book to Yuçe or marry Don Sancho, whichever came first.
She had a new enemy now. Time.
The next morning, Mamá stood gazing out the window in the sala.
“What are you looking at?” asked Isabel. She sat on the floor with a bucket of thyme water and soap, trying to scrub the crimson-colored stains from her fingers. Cleaning the filters and handling so many grapes had permanently stained her nails. Beatriz and Abuela were on floor cushions, mending woolen socks. There had been no time lately to knit new ones, but it took little effort to stitch the holes closed on the old ones. Also, it saved money, which was becoming scarcer.
“Nada,” said Mamá in her monotone voice. Nothing. She worried a stone in her hand, rubbing it this way and that.
Isabel dropped the soap into the bucket, an idea forming. “When’s the last time you visited Ruy’s grave?”
“Hmmm?”
“Soli’s grave, Mamá. When did you last go?”
Mamá turned from the window, her expression blank. “I’m not certain.”
“Come,” said Isabel, rising. “Let’s you and I take a walk over. You can bring a stone.” It was a tradition for Jewish families to lay rocks atop the graves of their loved ones. Isabel looked at her sister. “You too, Beatriz.” An Inquisition spy following them on the calle could hardly complain about a grieving mother visiting the grave of her son.
Beatriz continued sewing. “I’m too tired. Also, we are near the hour for the sext prayer.”
Isabel shook her head in exasperation. “Sext prayer? What in the world does that even mean?”
“The third of the midday prayers,” explained Beatriz.
“How many times do you pray a day?”
“Seven.”
“The habit is actually taken from Judaism,” interceded Abuela.
Beatriz turned sharply to their grandmother. “You lie.”
“Abuela never lies,” said Isabel.
“The Jewish practice of reciting daily prayers comes from zmanim, or specific times of the day in Jewish law,” explained Abuela.
Isabel was immediately curious. She wanted to dash downstairs to the hidden Talmud this very instant and look up how the rabbis defined a calendar day. She supposed the words for sunrise and daybreak meant two very different things. It was incredible the amount of specificity written into the commentary. The way the sages parsed each root and phonetic sound. But she must wait until everyone in the house was asleep before she could indulge herself and study further.
“I’m remaining here no matter where the idea originated,” said Beatriz.
“Well, I’d like to go to the cemetery,” said Abuela, preparing to stand. Though try as she might, she could not rise from the floor cushion.
“You stay here and rest, Abuela,” said Isabel, gently putting her hand on her grandmother’s shoulder.
Abuela did not argue, but she looked sad. There was no denying her mobility was now permanently limited.
“We’ll take the mule next time, Abuela. And you can ride in the cart.” Isabel removed her mother’s hat from the wall hook. “Come, Mamá.”
The spy was in his usual spot. With nary a glance at him, she led her mother toward the cemetery. Outside on the calle, the world was busy as always, even though life inside the Perez family had constricted. Horses pulled wagons of fresh vegetables or goa
tskins full of drinking water. A messenger boy hurried past, carrying a parcel. The smell of turrón, the holiday dessert of roasted almond, egg whites, and sugar, drifted in the air.
“They’re baking for Navidad earlier and earlier every year,” said Isabel. “It’s only the beginning of November.”
“Are they?” remarked Mamá. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Isabel could see the alcazarejo, Diego’s home, standing out majestically on the hill. Her heart tightened. What was he doing this exact minute? she wondered. Eating a midday meal with his parents? Collecting taxes out of town? Hopefully, he was letting the wax harden on his writing desk, knowing Isabel was correct not to meet him, not to answer his letters. It was better for both of them this way. She drew closer to her mother, seeking comfort in her familiar fragrant scent of lemon oil.
She did not look behind but sensed the spy was following a short distance from them.
Señora Herrera was walking toward them, heading back home, with one of her many grandchildren in tow. “And where are you two ladies off to this fine day?”
“The cemetery,” replied Mamá. Then she turned left and began to walk toward the city walls.
“Why, it’s down there,” said the woman, pointing in the direction Isabel and Mamá had been walking. “You were going the correct way.”
Mamá stopped. “I’m confused. I thought the cemetery was outside the gates.”
Isabel knew Mamá was thinking of the Jewish cemetery, not the Christian one where Ruy was actually buried. “Mamá hasn’t been feeling well, Señora Herrera,” said Isabel. She gently placed her hand on Mamá’s arm and walked her back to where their neighbor stood.
“My poor Soli,” murmured Mamá.
“You mean Ruy,” corrected Isabel with a false smile.