Journey of Strangers

by Elizabeth Zelvin

  “What about Davila?” Rachel asked. “It is our mother’s family name and that of cousins who traveled with them.”

  “I am sorry,” Signor Bianchini said. “Our Jewish community is bigger than it was. For a while, our synagogues were packed with strangers. Many of the refugees from Spain and Portugal have gone on to Ottoman lands, not trusting any town in Italy to remain tolerant if trouble comes its way. Perhaps they did the same.”

  “They might have left a letter,” I said. “They had no way of knowing where we were, so they could not send a message more directly. But neither had they any reason to believe that we would ever visit Ancona.”

  “Even if they believed us dead,” Rachel said, “Mama would have written.”

  “Is your father a learned man?” Signor Bianchini said.

  “Yes, he is,” I said.

  “We have two synagogues,” he said. “Some of the refugees were nearly as starved for intellectual discourse of the kind that was forbidden in Spain as they were for bread. Rabbi Gershon is our most brilliant Talmudic scholar. I will take you to meet him in the morning. If he does not remember your family, we will visit the other rabbis. There are also Jewish merchants who outfit travelers to the Levant. Do not be discouraged. Among them, they will surely be able to give you news of your parents and much useful information if you wish to venture east. They are not all Turks in the sultan’s realm, you know. There are Jews and Christians among them, as well as Muslims who were born Christian Serbs and Albanians.”

  “They are forced to convert, then,” I said, “as we were?”

  “It is not the same,” he said. “Every year, the Ottomans take young boys from the towns and villages in the Balkan lands. Whether they consent or not—or whether the parents sell them, in years of poor harvest—is a matter of opinion, depending upon whom you ask. It is certain that after converting them to Islam, the Turks educate them in a special school in the sultan’s own palace in Istanbul. Once grown, they become either janissaries—soldiers in the sultan’s personal army, with the prospect of reward and advancement—or palace officials who may rise to greatness as his closest advisers, even his chief minister, or governor of a province with all its perquisites.”

  “That is astonishing,” Rachel said.

  “It is certainly different from the Christians’ conversion of Jews!” I said. Amir had told us the same, but I wanted a Jewish opinion. “Having given them high office, does the sultan not mistrust them, as the Spanish sovereigns suspect even the most sincere conversos?”

  “From all I have heard,” Signor Bianchini said, “once a man has embraced Islam, he is given the same trust and respect as a born Muslim. Certainly, there is no Islamic Inquisition.”

  “There must be some drawback,” I said, “that is, besides the genuine beliefs that make folk unwilling to cast off the faith of their fathers.”

  “And mothers,” Rachel added.

  Signor Bianchini grimaced and took a sip of wine.

  “They say that every official and janissary, the grand vizier included, is considered a personal slave of the sultan. That does not mean they can be sold as chattel or that they don’t become rich and powerful through the sultan’s favor. He is clever to catch them young and treat them so well that it is said they are unwavering in their loyalty to him.”

  “I would rather be Jewish,” I said.

  “As would I,” Signor Bianchini said. He lifted the wine jug, raising his brows in inquiry.

  Hutia, who had said nothing but had been listening intently, had barely touched his wine. Rachel was enjoying hers and lifted her goblet eagerly to be refilled.

  “You will have a headache in the morning,” I warned her, “if you keep on. We must have our wits about us tomorrow. We have much to ask and much to learn.”

  “Diego, you worry too much,” she said airily, knowing that I would not react as I usually did, either by growling or by grabbing her and tickling her, in front of Signor Bianchini. “Besides, you will do all the talking tomorrow. I doubt that either the rabbis or the Turks will wish to converse seriously with a woman.”

  Signora Bianchini entered the room, smiling, with her cap over one ear and her apron half untied.

  “You must be exhausted,” she said, “and ready for your beds. I hope you will be comfortable.”

  “A good thought, my dear,” her husband said. “You are right as always.” To us, he said, “Is there anything more you wish to ask that cannot wait till the morning?”

  “Nothing that cannot wait,” I said, “but I had better ask the question on my mind now, so I will not forget it. Crossing the Adriatic would have been a great undertaking for my family, as would our doing the same in search of them. What is the likelihood of their having continued down the coast and found a safe haven in some other Italian city?”

  “I do not think it likely,” Signor Bianchini said. “There is Pescara, which is part of the Kingdom of Naples and thus unstable at this time. Bari has a bloody and confusing history and no particular fondness for the Jews. No, I am certain that since they are not in Ancona, you will find them in the Ottoman Empire.”

  The Last Letter

  Ancona, November 1494

  My dearest children,

  May Adonai preserve you both and grant my fervent prayers that you will find your way to Ancona and seek news of us from Rabbi Gershon, who, if you are reading this, will have put my letter in your hands. Knowing Papa, you will guess that he would seek out the wisest man in Ancona! We are all well, baruch Ha’shem. After leaving Firenze, we spent many weeks on the road, not knowing where we would lay our heads each night and enduring many dangers and privations with which I will not trouble you. The girls have been very brave. Elvira has been a great comfort to me, and Susanna has put aside all her vanity and silliness. It makes me proud to see her grown into a woman, though I confess I sometimes miss her frivolity, her easy laughter, and even her pranks. Both of them, indeed all of us, grew thin and anxious on the road, although we have been much restored by our stay in Ancona.

  We were fortunate indeed to reach this hospitable city in July, along with many other Jewish refugees. For a time, we hoped that we could make it our home. This hope found joyous expression in the wedding of Elvira and Akiva, which we celebrated in September. There were many women to accompany Elvira to the mikvah. Rabbi Gershon himself joined them in marriage. Both Miriam and I cried when we saw our children standing under the chuppah and again when Akiva broke the glass. It seemed a miracle that so many Jews could gather to cry “Mazel tov!” to the bride and groom and feast together without fear. Since then, the newlyweds have been billing and cooing like doves, although we cautioned them to wait before building too elaborate a nest until we were certain that things would remain stable.

  Sadly, we were right. If Elvira had accumulated the household goods that give a new bride so much pleasure, bedding and dishes and pots, or filled her cupboards with stores of grains and spices, she would now be forced to abandon all these possessions. We have had terrible tidings of a place called Mordano, little more than a hundred miles from here and thirty miles from Bologna, much farther east than we thought the French invasion would go. The French army besieged the fortress, refusing surrender when it was offered, and bombarded the walls until the fortress fell with cannon that they carried from France on wagons. Besides the garrison, all of whom were slaughtered, many folk from the surrounding area had sought refuge within the walls. Most of these were killed without mercy and other horrors visited upon those who survived. Much of the harvest was already in. The French seized the stores within Mordano and pillaged and trampled the fields for many miles around, so there will be famine throughout the whole region this winter.

  It happened three weeks ago, and ever since, the few survivors have been straggling into the eastern coastal towns, Rimini and Pesaro as well as Ancona. These are Italian refugees, but they have surely suffered as much as Jews and deserve our compassion. King Charles now marches on Firenze on his way
to Naples, of which he considers himself the rightful king. It is said that the Neapolitan army that opposes him consists of mercenaries under what they call condottieri who did not expect the savagery of the French. The Italians, it seems, with their constant quarrels between one city and the next, only play at war and expect their opponents to obey the rules!

  Who knows where this invasion will end? And whether or not the French attack Ancona, we know all too well what frightened Christians do when faced with danger and adversity: they blame the Jews! Before that happens here, we must seek refuge in Muslim lands. We cross the Adriatic tomorrow. I do not say, “We sail,” because we have booked passage on a Turkish galley. Its captain has assured us that the sultan wishes more Jews to bring their knowledge and skills to his capital at Istanbul and already employs Jewish physicians, appoints Jewish tax farmers, and encourages trade with Jewish merchants. The journey will not be without its dangers, even if we make it under the protection of an Ottoman caravan, because not all of the Balkan lands are under the sultan’s rule. Bosnia, Albania, and Bulgaria are part of the Ottoman Empire, but Montenegro is not. Papa encouraged the Turkish captain to give him quite a history lesson, which he then passed on to me. He says the captain assured him that the sultan would add Montenegro to his European possessions in the near future. Papa says we must all learn as much as we can about the Ottoman Empire and Islam, its religion, so that we can make the most of opportunity in our new home.

  I cannot deny a lively interest in all we will learn and the new experiences we will have. It will be a great relief not to be looking constantly over our shoulders as we have these past few years. To my surprise, I am looking forward to the prospect of Istanbul, rather than feeling only that we are running away once more. If only, if only, my darlings, we had word that you are safe and on your way to Istanbul to join us, I might actually be happy.

  All my love, Mama

  Chapter 21: Joanna

  Joanna sat on the beach, enjoying a rare moment of privacy as she watched the brief equatorial sunset blaze in a glory of reds and golds. At this latitude, one moment the sky was on fire; the next, night had fallen. So suddenly had her life changed three times now: from beloved daughter to neglected stepchild; from citizen of beautiful Granada to refugee in danger of torture or death; from disregarded but not uncomfortable maiden to violated slave, without hope of reprieve however long she lived.

  She had just had a quarrel with Simon. All legs and Adam’s apple and impatience as his voice cracked and changed, he was beginning to sound like Natan.

  “Why can’t you make up to a rich fazendeiro? You could be a planter’s wife and live in luxury. Some of them must wish to beget white children and grandchildren. You have only to stop being so angry all the time. You could be pleasing to them if you tried.”

  She must stop trying to explain herself or reason with him. Unlike Shmuel and Benji, he could remember being Jewish once. But the memory of studying Torah and looking forward to becoming bar mitzvah held no appeal for him.

  “What good did it do us?” he asked. “If I follow the teachings of the Church, I have a chance of making something of myself here. I have agreed to work on Saturdays at Ignacio Pereira’s sugar mill. Don’t tell Belmiro. Ignacio has promised to teach me the trade, and if I am diligent, in two years he will pay me one braço, maybe sooner if the mill prospers.”

  “A slave?” Joanna shrieked. “You would own a slave? Simon, what are you thinking?”

  “That I would rather own a slave than be a slave. Besides, any I do not wish to keep can be sold on for gold. They say that Governor de Caminha has asked the king to consider manumitting any degradado who marries and bears children on a black. Why should he not do the same for us? You cannot say that you wish your children to be slaves!”

  “There is no talking to you!” she said in despair as he stomped away, annoyed at her refusal to understand.

  Shmuel too was growing and no longer came to her for comfort. All the surviving older boys shared Natan’s and Simon’s opinions, while the girls were growing up compliant: some timid and obedient, some striving to appear seductive at what Joanna considered far too young an age. Many had died of the mysterious fevers that plagued the island. Others had disappeared into the swamp, prey to the giant carnivorous lizards and poisonous snakes that made it their home. None of the degradados would venture into the swamp. They sent the children to spear frogs, whose legs made a delicious dinner, net crabs, and fish. This was not one of Joanna’s usual duties, but she preferred to accompany the boys. She liked to keep an eye on Benji, who was still small enough to be cuddled and might listen when she cautioned him about the dangers of the swamp. He usually obeyed her, but he became reckless when the older boys were present. It was natural that he wanted to be one of them. She would lose him too before long.

  After her argument with Simon, she was not sure if he would wake her before dawn as he had promised. But gray light was filtering into the hut and parrots beginning to scream when he shook her shoulder and whispered her name.

  The air was humid. It smelled of rotting vegetation and swamp lilies whose spidery blooms brushed against Joanna’s cheeks as she parted their tall stems, squidging barefoot through the wet, sponge-like floor of the swamp. The thick miasma made it hard to breathe. As the sun rose, mosquitoes began to whine around her ears. Simon, Shmuel, and Benji slapped at them as they attacked the boys’ arms and legs, necks, cheeks, and foreheads.

  “The mosquitoes aren’t biting Joanna,” Shmuel said. “It’s not fair!”

  “Yenenga gave me an ointment to keep them away,” Joanna said. “Do you want some?”

  “I don’t need it,” Simon said. “I don’t believe in juju.”

  “Neither do I,” Shmuel said.

  “Do you see me having to slap away mosquitoes? Benji, what are you doing?”

  Benji was staring in fascination at a mosquito perched on his outstretched finger.

  “Look at this bug,” he said. “You can see its body, and it’s turning red.”

  “Stop that!” Joanna swiped at the mosquito.

  Benji jerked his hand away, the insect still clinging to his finger.

  “Let it go, Benji! That’s your blood it’s feeding on. Kill it.”

  “But it’s interesting,” Benji protested.

  “You’ll get sick.”

  “No, he won’t,” Simon scoffed.

  “No, I won’t,” Benji echoed.

  “It’s just a little blood,” Simon said.

  “Benji’s got lots more,” Shmuel added.

  Sated, the mosquito flew away.

  “Come on, Benji,” Joanna coaxed. “Let me put some of Yenenga’s ointment on you.”

  “Let me see it first,” he said. “Ew, it looks disgusting.”

  “You won’t even see it once I rub it in,” Joanna said. She grabbed his arm and smeared a dab of sticky ointment on the back of his neck.

  “Come on!” Simon said impatiently. “The frogs hide when the sun gets too high. Follow me. I found a sort of pool last time with lots of frogs.”

  He led the way under towering trees dripping with mosses and past murky waters covered with bright green scum. Simon, surefooted, forged a path between stands of grasses by pushing them aside, disrupting the business of insects bright as jewels and stilt-legged birds poised to snap up the unwary frog or fish. Shmuel followed him, then Benji, Joanna bringing up the rear.

  “We’re almost there,” Simon called over his shoulder. “We just have to skirt around this pond, toward the tree trunk sticking up with the two trees just beyond it.”

  Looking at the landmark he indicated, Joanna was not paying attention when Shmuel said, “Why skirt around the pond? Look, there’s a shortcut. I’m stepping on this log.”

  Then everything happened at once.

  “Wait, Shmuel!” Simon cried.

  Shmuel screamed.

  Benji tripped and fell back against Joanna, who flung her arms around him and squeezed him tight. />
  The log rose up, a knobby muzzle, the same murky gray-green color as the swamp, yawning wide to reveal dripping spikes of teeth in a cavernous jaw. The creature’s powerful tail smacked down with a tremendous splash.

  Shmuel screamed again as he fell, arms windmilling in the dark water.

  “No!” Joanna gasped on a quick intake of breath. She forgot to exhale as Shmuel floundered and Benji struggled in her arms.

  “Crocodile!” Simon screamed.

  “Help me!”

  Shmuel twisted frantically, trying to paddle toward the edge of the pond, where he might pull himself up by grasping the tangle of vines and grasses. The crocodile seemed to be everywhere, lashing its tail, turning the water into a whirlpool, blocking the boy’s every move. It gnashed its huge teeth, the great jaw snapping closed and opening again without ever losing its dreadful smile. Malevolent yellow-green eyes seemed to take in not only the terrified boy but the others: Simon lying on his stomach holding out his wooden frog spear, too short for Shmuel to reach; Benji punching and kicking at Joanna as he screamed his brother’s name; Joanna unable to do anything but prevent Benji from getting away.

  Blood spurted as the beast’s dripping teeth clamped down on Shmuel’s arm. The boy uttered one agonizing howl of pain, then went limp. He’s fainted, Joanna thought. Her lips, unbidden, shaped a b’rucha and repeated it over and over. The crocodile’s jaws shifted, opening and closing, to get a better grip on Shmuel. The water frothed and bubbled as it fed. Shmuel’s head was underwater now, his legs flopping as the beast crushed his body in its jaws. A dark stain of blood spread slowly outward on the water.

  “Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.”

  Joanna pressed Benji’s head to her chest and bent over him, burying her face in his hair. He squirmed frantically, still sobbing out his brother’s name. She felt a hand on her shoulder and a gust of warm breath at her ear.

  “Let us go,” Simon said, “now, while it pays us no attention. We can do nothing for Shmuel.”