Yiddish for Pirates(13)
“Bocher,” he said. “You like it here?”
Moishe nodded.
“See? One doesn’t forget the mamaloshen,” the old reb said. “Not like the foreskin.”
The rabbi made a scissors motion.
Moishe inhaled sharply.
“Sha. That’s language you don’t forget either. Now I know for certain you’re a Yid.”
“What made you suspect?”
“Words and how they’re said are maps also. But nisht gedayget—don’t worry—you’re safe. You’re a hindl, a chick, among chickens.”
Miguel had become Moishe again.
“A hindl with a feygeleh—a bird—on his shoulder,” the rebbe mused. “You’re just the boychik for us. We have a bisl job for you. A delivery.”
The mapmaker, sitting beside him, smiled wanly, though it wasn’t clear if he knew what was being said.
The rebbe explained about the Inquisition. “It’s like the old inquisition but worse,” he said. Ferdinand and Isabella, rulers of the combined kingdoms of Castile-León and Aragon, had created a made-in-Spain solution including threatening to withdraw Spanish military support in the war against Turkey—they had received the Pope’s blessing by way of a Papal Bull.
“Ach,” the rebbe said. “It’s still kosher to be a Jew in Spain, if you don’t mind an occasional pogrom. Or to be accused of blood libel or witchcraft, whenever anything goes wrong. Or—as in Seville—you’re ready for the foot-on-tuches invitation to leave your city and all you know.”
Many had converted to Christianity. “But you’d better make sure there’s smoke coming out the chimney on Shabbos, and on Friday, to eat a bisl fish. You want it to look like you’ve had a relapse? That’s heresy. But,” he said, “there’s a cure for that. It’s called death.”
Those converted were called conversos: “New Christians.” Some families had been Christian for over a hundred years, converting after a previous outbreak of pogroms and persecutions. They’d left their Jewishness behind like a distant and half-remembered homeland. Some were more recent graduates. At any moment, the Inquisition might ask you to produce a Limpieza de sangre—documentation of blood purity. It was how many discovered that they had a Jewish great-grandmother or grandfather. This was tantamount to discovering fatal traces of peanuts in your nut-free lunch.
After you’ve had a bite.
Some conversos were hidden Jews, Marranos, crypto-Jews, practising their faith in secret. The Jewishness that dare not speak its name. They lit Shabbos candles in cupboards, shared Passover meals in cellars, whispered blessings as they walked through doors. Studied the Talmud and davened from prayerbooks late in the night. Hebrew books, Jewish books were treyfeneh bicher: verboten.
“So, Migueleh,” the reb said. “We want you to shlepp some books to the secret Jews in Seville. But no one can know. It would be fatal. Farshteyst? You understand?”
Moishe nodded.
“But you’re not a Jew. You’re a goyisher sailor from Lithuania. You were almost sold at port but you escaped.”
No so far from the truth.
“Besides, what do they know from Ashkenaz?” the reb shrugged.
“You’ll have a horse, something to nosh, a letter of introduction, and a small sword,” the mapmaker said in Portuguese. “You’ll be paid, enough. There are those—like Reb Isaac Abravanel, the treasurer to King Alonso—who have the money to support such things.”
“And if there’s trouble, maybe you’ll let your parrot do the talking,” Bartholomeo said. “As far as I know, there is no Inquisition for birds.”
“At least not yet,” the reb said. I said nothing, but wondered, nu, what’s the right word for snatching parrots like feathered fruit from their perches in Africa?
Your new life, a procession of cages, jesses, clipped wings, and exile.
Starved and poked until you speak the language of those who did it.
Converso parrots singing our Lord’s song in a strange land.
But, as they say, there’s job security.
And, after awhile, the words we spit in rage are the words of those we rail against.
Feh.
Eventually, all that’s left is words.
Chapter Six
A day later we gathered our few things in both sack and saddlebag, and shtupped our pockets full with bread and dried fruit.
“Boychik,” the old rebbe wheezed. “Sit.” The rebbe put his shaky spiderweb fingers on Moishe’s shoulder. “There’s news.”
The story had travelled west, through a network of Jewish learning and trade, taking many months to arrive on this furthest European shore.
There had been pogroms in the distant east. The east which had been Moishe’s home. Shtetls had been plundered then torched. Jews raped then killed.
Cossacks like pirates boarding the landlocked villages.
Moishe’s shtetl. Was it on the banks of the Neve?is near Panevezys?
Ash. Chickens. Lost and baleful dogs.
No one survived.
His parents?
Ha-Shem yikom damo. May Elohim avenge their blood.
It was a week along the road to Seville, a connect-the-dots route of small villages drawn together by dirt roads, scattered stones, and an assortment of travellers. The thought of his parents burned in Moishe.