Yiddish for Pirates(2)

Except for us Jews. Moishe might celebrate good fortune and the Lord’s bounty with a nafkeh—a whore—or two, keneynehoreh, those times ashore, but by reason of custom rather than belief, he wouldn’t nosh pork, nor would he, unless compelled by the situation, fight on the Shabbos.

The situation? More gold than usual.

And usual was often none.

We dined on hardtack and salt fish washed down with the Spanish captain’s private store of Madeira. There was a small supply of nuts for me, Aaron, the captain’s familiar. Under his breath, Moishe said the brocheh over wine and then for bread.

“Amen,” I said, between bites. “Amen.”

We ate and Moishe looked at the Spanish charts, a treasure as valuable as gelt for a mensch like him.

Pirates change coats as do snakes, snails, thieves, and Jews in these times of hate. They shed ships and gain others. They shed past lives, identities, names. But: even with a different skin, they still have the same bones. The North Star is always a yellow star.

So, you ask, how did this shell-less cheder-bocher—schoolboy—drawn from the waters of Ashkenaz find himself on the Spanish Main, the blade of his sword pressed against the quivering kishkas of Spanish captains? How did Columbus, the Inquisition, and the search for some books cause us to seek for life everlasting?

And, come to think of it, how did I, an African Grey, become his mishpocheh, his family, and he my perch, my shoulder in the world?

That, wherever I begin, is the story.

And you want to know?

Okay. So I’ll tell.





Chapter One



Moishe as a child. He told me stories. Some were true.

At fourteen, he left the shtetl near Vilnius for the sea. How? First one leg out the window then the other. Like anyone else. Before first light. Before the wailing of his mother.

A boychik with big ideas, his kop—his head—bigger than his body. He would travel beyond the scrawny map of himself, and beyond the shtetl. He’d travel the ocean. There were Jews—he’d heard stories—that were something. Not rag-and-bones shmatte-men like his father, Chaim, always following the dreck of their nag around the same small world. Doctors. Court astronomers. Spanish lords. Tax farmers. Learned men of the world. The mapmakers of Majorca. They were Jews. Rich and powerful, they were respected by everyone. They could read the sky. They knew what was on the horizon and what was over the horizon. Jews had trickled through the cracks of the world and had rained upon the lands.

He’d travel the globe. He’d travel to the unknown edges of the maps, to where the lost tribes had built their golden cities, where they knew the secrets of the waters and of the sky.

And nu, perhaps along the way there might be a zaftik maideleh or two, or his true love, who knew secrets also.

So this Moishe put the cartographer before the horse and left.

Luftmensch, they say. Someone who lives on air, someone whose head floats in the clouds of a sky whose only use is to make the sea blue. The world is wide because the ocean is wide. So, nu, he’d had his Bar Mitzvah, why shouldn’t the boychik sail west on a merchant ship, some kind of cabin boy, learning not to be sick with the waves? A one-way Odyssey away from home, his mother weaving only tears.

And where had he heard the stories? On the shmatte cart, making the rounds with his father. The sun rising, they travelled from home. They didn’t fall off the edge of their world, they circled around it, until by nightfall they were home again. Moishe’s old father, the bent and childless man who had taken in the drownedling, spoke to him of the great world that they shared. Moishe’s father, grey beard, wide black hat, stooped back. The world, he said, was a book. A great scroll. Like the Torah, when it ended, it began again.

Everything began again. Each week with its Shabbos of silver candlesticks and braided challah. Each year with its seasons, festivals, Torah readings. Child, father, child. It was a Moebius strip. At the end of the story, the story begins again and so we live forever, his father said. His father was a mensch. His mother also. Good people. But though they spoke of it, they never tried to find out “and then what happened?” They knew. Second verse same as the first, a little bit more oysgemutshet worn out, a little bit worse.

Before he climbed out the window, Moishe left a letter for his parents.

If the world is a book, I must read it all.

He had packed only his few clothes, some food, a knife, a book he had often examined when alone, and two silver coins that he took from where his mother had hidden them behind a stone of the hearth. He sewed these into the waist of his pants.

He had come across the book by accident, this book that had a beginning and an end. Playing at a game of catch-and-wrestle with his friend Pinchas, Moishe had slid under his parents’ bed and pushed himself against the wall where he hoped he would be invisible behind the curtain of the embroidered bedspread. Breathing hard, attempting to remain quiet and undetected, Moishe felt its shape beneath his hip. When he was eventually discovered—after he’d deliberately released a prodigious and satisfying greps, a gaseous shofar-call alerting his friend to his location—he left whatever-it-was beneath the bed to be disinterred and examined later. He knew it was somehow important and secret, so better to wait until he was alone and his mother out at the mikveh.

When he unwrapped the old tallis—a prayer shawl—that surrounded it, Moishe was surprised to discover a book. An ancient book. Grainy brown leather with faded gold lettering and pages the colour of an old man’s hands. The script looked like Hebrew but it was the language of some parallel world, gibberish or the writing of a sorcerer.