Yiddish for Pirates(85)

Nifter-shmifter, what does it matter, as long as you make a living?

In the distance, a warm breeze and a brightness. We were near shore. We continued forward, listening for the Spanish.

I flew ahead on reconnaissance.

Gornisht. Nothing. We were safe.

Moishe crept from the trees and onto the sand. He was coated in a crust of algae, a woodwose, a greeneh, a vilder Yid of the woods.

And one who was so tired he could plotz.

He collapsed on the shadowy sand beneath a fruit tree. We noshed on the flesh of fallen fruit, soft, overripe and dribbling, and thought only of a warm bath.

Then we slept.

For an afternoon or a day, who knew, but we woke in an instant.

“Hei!” the voice said. “Hei, hei!”

I dove into the air, took refuge on a branch out of cutlass range. Moishe vaulted to his feet, crouched in fighting position, and drew the sword he didn’t have.

His only weapon: chutzpah.

Before us stood the three beguiling young crones who had attempted to entrap us. The now blind parrot rested on the shoulder of the most bountiful. They, too, did not appear to be armed with anything beyond surprise and the sorcerous terror with which they had just turned our spines into gliver human jelly.

“Put the sword down,” the first one said, as if Moishe were brandishing anything but air.

Moishe’s hand dropped to his side. He face rested but his eyes scanned the beach for means of escape. Not for nothing was he the Yam Gazlen, the elusive Yiddish scourge of the Indies.

“Zorg zich nit. Don’t worry,” the second said.

“You have your health,” said the third.

“And we have killed the governor, Panfilo de Narváez,” said the first.

“Eyn toyt iz far im veynik—iz far im veynik,” said the parrot.

“Takeh,” said the second. “As you say, we killed him only once, though he deserved to die many times.”

“As he caused many deaths.”

“He sat on his horse gnawing cheese and commanded his men to kill thousands from our village, even as they brought them food,” the third said. “Our babies were snatched and broken against rocks. Cuffs, blows, cudgelling. They killed our families. They cut legs and arms off our sisters and mothers, our sons and daughters and fed them to their dogs.”

“I cannot forget. My heart tastes it. I breathe its memory,” she said.

“I, too, have seen such things,” Moishe said. “In worlds both old and new.”

The woman considered him.

“We escaped by hiding in a latrine pit covered by palm leaves,” she finally said. “I would not recommend it. Then we travelled by night in a canoe. We travelled for many nights, not knowing where.

“Then we came to a small island. For years, we lived there alone and were silent. We did not want to remember even the words for what we knew.”

The larger woman continued. “We saw where had once been a small tribe of Jews, but sometime before, they had been murdered: their houses razed, their synagogue burned, their bones, some shoes, candlesticks, all that remained. Except for this parrot.” She indicated the parrot on her shoulder. “Which spoke many of their words.”

“Oy vey iz mir. Oy vey iz mir,” the parrot said with impeccable timing.

So, nu, it was a parrot, but though its feathers were brighter than mine, it strutted and fretted like an idiot, full of sound and mamaloshen, but signifying nothing.

“We also found some books of their writing hidden in a tree stump. And so we began to speak again,” she said. “These strangers’ words.”

The women sat with Moishe in the sand. From a small sack hanging around her neck, the first woman retrieved some dried leaves and tobacco that the women assembled. The second woman removed some strands of dried grass, a small stone and a well-worn stick from a similar sack. Then she spun the stick between her palms while the first woman blew. Takeh, like this they could bring even the clay shvants of a Golem to life.

Curls of smoke, then fire. Each woman lit a cigar. The third gave one to Moishe.

They sat together for a few minutes, breathing slowly, exhaling clouds, looking out through the white, almost-creamy smoke.

Then the first woman spoke. “After some years,” she said, “the great schooner of Narváez sailed to our island, anchored off the shore, and soldiers landed. We hid deep in the forest but it was a small island and they searched everywhere, digging and overturning. Finally we were found. But our skins were not their quarry. They wanted the Jews’ books. We showed them such books as we had, but they threw them away. They sought others. Then they took us as prisoners.”

“The devil himself would not say what they did to us,” the second woman said. “How they punctured our insides with their shlechteh barbs. Who would wish to remember?”

“Miseh meshuneh,” the third said. “Curse memory. The past poisons every future.”

“And dos hob ich oykh in dr’erd. The hell with the present too. It fills with both the past and the bitter future,” the first said.

The second woman continued. “We were taken to their ship and chained below with others. For months in the dark, they raped us. Then we were brought to this island. And this trap was set for you. We did what we were asked. They had broken our bones and picked their teeth with the splinters.”