“I am a close personal friend of the Sultan. He would do almost anything to help any member of my family.”
“Family?” Reyna questioned.
“Well, it’s only a matter of months at this point.”
Stunned, Reyna and José said nothing.
“Why, hasn’t your aunt told you?”
“She has not,” José replied frostily.
“I’m sure she intended to tell you both. Reyna is promised to my eldest son. I thought you both knew. It’s been agreed upon for many years now. A thousand apologies. I can see you are exhausted from your journey. I won’t keep you a moment longer. Welcome to Istanbul!”
Neither José nor Reyna uttered a word as the carriage made its way beneath the Cyprus trees, along the hilly streets of Istanbul. At every turn, glistening domes and spiked minarets thrust skyward from mosques throughout the city. They passed tall, wooden houses with latticed windows and breezy, second-story patios overlooking narrow alleys and vaulted walkways.
Finally, they arrived at a small stucco villa nestled up against the edge of the Bosphorus River. Pink, red, and blue wild flowers blossomed from shrubs all about the secluded property. Without a word, they retired to separate quarters, where they were stripped of their tattered rags and bathed in lavender scented water. At sundown, they dined in separate quarters, over fresh fish and steamed vegetables served on silver trays by their handsome attendants. That evening, they both lay awake, tossing and turning in the plush pillows and silken fabrics lining their beds. For weeks, they had slept side by side. He’d grown accustomed to her soft body tucked against his torso. She’d grown accustomed to the warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck. Until this night, they’d slept upon thin mattresses stationed in cramped barracks smelling of must and perspiration.
In bedchambers situated at opposite ends of the villa, Reyna and José lay awake that night, each wondering what the other was thinking. They worried the same worries and longed the same longings, to be tucked away side by side like spoons, in the musty hull of a stinking merchant ship.
In the morning, José was escorted through the winding streets of Istanbul past the enormous mosque to the gates of the Topkapi. The palace was situated on a bulging peninsula overlooking the place where the Marmara Sea met the Golden Horn. Unlike the grand, singular structures of European palaces in Portugal and Spain, the Sultan’s residence was more of a fortified city, a labyrinth of covered pavilions, disparate quarters and conjoined apartments.
The carriage passed a majestic Byzantine church before making its way through the imperial gates into the first courtyard. The vaulted passage of the Gates of Salutation was an intimidating structure, with two watch towers separated by crenel tips that shown like pitchfork spikes along the horizon. José passed through these gates as though he were walking into the lion’s den. He closed his eyes and when he emerged from the dark shadows, he was standing in the midst of a plush green paradise, where prancing peacocks poked their heads up from the grass, and gazelles grazed the low shrubs blossoming with blue and pink hydrangea. A few yards further, they passed through the Gates of Felicity, leading to the chamber where the Sultan was waiting to receive him.
José smoothed down the burgundy caftan that Moses Hamon had given him as he walked through the azure-tiled sanctuary. At the far end of the room beneath a gilt canopy, Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent sat on his jewel-studded throne. José was led across four enormous oriental carpets before he finally found himself kneeling at the heels of the Sultan.
Sultan Suleiman Khan, the tenth sultan descended from Osman, had been named for the wise ruler of Judea, King Solomon. It was said that in greatness, he had surpassed his namesake. He wore an enormous cloak secured with a gleaming diamond and a sprawling white turban fashioned with a green feather atop his head. He was not a handsome man, with his withered stature, beady eyes and hooknose, yet José knew, he was the single most powerful man on earth.
“Rise,” he instructed José, who promptly came to his feet. “My physician has informed me that you are concerned over the well-being of your aunt. You needn’t be. I have secured her release and I assure you, you will be reunited shortly. Here, and in all the territories throughout my empire, your people are welcome to live freely as Jews.”
José raised his gaze towards the Sultan and understood that he was in the presence of greatness. From the Persian Gulf to the furthest reaches of Hungary, from the Mamluk state of Egypt to the mountains of the Caucasus, the Sultan did not pass laws that he did not believe were just. He ruled his lands by his beliefs and conquered territories with the resolve that he would better the lives of their inhabitants. He was the first sultan to sleep and live with just one woman. A Polish slave by the name of Roxelana, she was his one true love and only wife. Suleiman governed by day and wrote poetry by night. He ate foods that inspired his senses and was a great patron of the arts: A man who sought to be inspired, he inspired all within his domain.
Before him, his great-grandfather Mehmet the Conqueror had proclaimed, “Listen sons of the Hebrews who live in my country...May all those who desire come to Constantinople. May the rest of your people find here a shelter."
His Grandfather, Sultan Bayezid II, had sent his fleets to collect thousands of stranded Jews who sought to flee Spain and Portugal during the Edict of Expulsion. Trapped between sea and land, they faced death whichever way they turned. If they took to the seas, they could be killed by pirates waiting offshore. If they stayed on the peninsula as unrepentant Jews, they risked being burned at the stake. It was at that time that Suleiman’s grandfather, Sultan Bayezid II, sent his fleet under the command of admiral Kemal Reis to rescue the stranded Jews. His ships transported nearly sixty thousand refugees, who came and settled throughout the empire, free to practice their faith in peace.
Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent was intent on continuing the work of his predecessors. He welcomed the Jews into his empire with open arms. For those that could not get there, he sent his fleets and helped arrange their escape.
They came by the thousands, penniless and empty-handed. They entered Istanbul as a convoy of promise, rich with the education and experience that Ferdinand and Isabella could never confiscate. “How can anyone call Ferdinand wise when he is impoverishing his kingdom and enriching mine?” the Sultan proclaimed. With them, they brought their professional trades, knowledge of science and medicine, even the printing press. They would also bring the religion of their forefathers.
5
The hull bobbed gently upon the ebbing tide and against the easterly winds as the ship moored by the harbor. José looked around. Ambassadors and dignitaries came to greet the caravan of Doña Antonia the Widow. Reyna and José stood side by side, a slab of tension evident between them. They did not speak to one another, and soon this silence took on a degree of effervescence, like the sound of water just before it begins to boil. Her eyes turned and met his briefly. A sudden jolt of pain, (or was it pleasure?) sliced through his core with the force of a swinging machete. She turned away, leaving him in that state of frozen agony.
A low murmur rose from the crowd, and José looked towards the docked vessel. Doña Antonia appeared, moving slowly with the aid of two young Janissaries sent by the Sultan to assist her.
Reyna gasped. “It isn’t?” She squinted towards the vessel. José examined the hunched creature that emerged. She was nothing more than a sack of bones. Her skin hung over her withered frame like damp linen laid out on wooden beams to dry.
“Mother!” she cried out. Reyna gathered the corners of her dress in her fists and ran until she was standing beside Doña Antonia at the dock.
José followed after her. As he neared, he found a splinter of a woman. The fingers that clasped the tip of her walking stick were gnarled and broken. Her cheek shone with all the bruised shades of sunset.
“José.” Her raspy voice grated his ears. She held out her trembling, withered arms. “My Boy. My Son.” The word stirred something within him. He d
ove gently into her embrace, careful not to crush whatever was not yet broken. For a long while, he could not let go.
In this moment, nothing else mattered.
“I was afraid I’d never see you again,” Reyna confessed to her mother that evening in the parlor.
With trembling lips, Doña Antonia offered up the weakest of smiles. “Even the longest day has its end.”
Reyna brought her kerchief to her eyes. “I’m ashamed I haven’t matched you in courage.”
Doña Antonia extended a bony hand. “You and I, we’re cut from the same cloth.” She weaved her fingers through Reyna’s. “And as long as you remember that, it shall always be true.”
With tears in her eyes and a tremor in her voice, Reyna lowered her head and whispered, “What did they do to you, Mother?”
She began in a tone not much louder than a whisper. “By my wrists.” She held out palms branded with purple rope burns. “They took me up by my wrists, hoisted me above a pit of fire. It wasn’t long before my shoulders dislodged and I did confess my sin. ‘Hear Oh Israel, Adonai is our G-d, Adonai is One.’ It had been a silent prayer I’d recited every night. For the first and only time in my life, I screamed these words aloud.”
This was the only time she would ever mention her torture or imprisonment. Never again would it be referred to by any member of the household.
They settled in the Galata region of Istanbul, in a stone country home, surrounded by lush gardens and vineyards. The neighborhood boasted vast, sun-drenched piazzas and orderly, parallel streets. Diplomats and Ottoman officials frequented coffee-shops in the area to play backgammon and discuss the politics of the day. It was in this neighborhood that foreigners and diplomats came to live and so the area possessed all the qualities of a well-manicured, European village, rather than the oriental cacophony of jumbled, byzantine dwellings beyond.
Together, the family agreed the time had come to revert to the surname of their ancestors, Nissim. It was a name meaning “Miracle.”
José waited several months for his aunt’s wounds to heal. He watched as she put on some weight and her spirits were revived before bringing up what he could no longer bear to keep hidden.
“I want to be with Reyna,” José confessed one evening.
Doña Antonia frowned. “You’re not serious are you?” She tried to stand but could not muster the strength to rise out her tufted chair. She took a moment to catch her breath. “G-d knows it’s just the affection of children for one another.” She spoke slowly. Her words were splintered and stretched like an old thread frayed along the edges and pulled too tight.
“G-d knows we’re no longer children. I want to marry her. I know she wants it too.”
Doña Antonia shook her head limply.
“You haven’t even heard me out.”
“You’re practically brother and sister.”
“You know very well we are not brother and sister.”
“She’s been promised to another.”
“Promises can be broken.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t give my word!”
“And I won’t be here if you don’t take it back.”
Doña Antonia dropped her head to her palms.
“Not long ago, you told me that I was the Señor of the house,” José continued. “If that’s still true, summon Doctor Hamon. Call off the wedding.”
“I can’t do that.”
José looked through the window into the courtyard where Reyna sat waiting. “If you won’t, I will.”
Doña Antonia stood slowly from her place and made her way to the window. The sun was low in the fire-colored sky. “We’ll have no more unpleasantness today.”
“But, Tia—”
“The Sabbath is coming.” She kept her eyes on the horizon. “Bring me my candlesticks.”
Begrudgingly, José made his way to a large armoire, withdrew a pair of candlesticks and brought them over to the windowsill where his aunt stood.
Doña Antonia lit her candles, one by one. Then, she closed her eyes and said a blessing to welcome the Sabbath into her home. “Better hurry and wash up.” She turned to José. “They’ll be expecting you at the synagogue.”
José stormed out of the room. Hastily, he washed his face and hands, changed into a fresh tunic, then placed his Sabbath turban squarely on his head.
Looking in the mirror, he barely recognized himself. No longer did he possess the boyish charm of his youth. His skin was rugged and aged. His eyes were glazed over with the sheen of too much worry. A trim beard covered the lower half of his face. His expression was stern and his heart was heavy. He had finally made it to this great land, where he could practice his religion freely. The chains that had shackled his spirit were finally broken only to be replaced by the chains that were now shackling his heart.
He left the house and made his way down the torch-lit path away from the villa. He had to fight the urge to turn around, head back to the house and blow out the candles. Hiding his Judaism had become a natural instinct and he was not yet accustomed to living in a city tolerant of his faith. Glancing back, his eyes rested on the flickering glow of the Sabbath candles in the dark window. It was a simple moment, one he would never forget.
As he made his way through the narrow, winding streets of Istanbul, he passed German Jews and Romaniote Jews, Spanish and Portuguese too. He was greeted at least a half dozen times by the faithful on their way to synagogue. They would tip their brightly-colored turbans, bend forward in their wide-sleeved cloaks, and utter as they passed, “Shabbat Shalom.” Then they would go their separate ways, the German to the German synagogue, the Ashkenazi to the Ashkenaz synagogue, and José, to the Spanish- Portuguese synagogue that his aunt, along with Doctor Hamon, had helped to establish.
As he made his way through the dark alleyway leading towards the synagogue, the melodic song of the cantor could be heard through sealed, wooden doors. Upon entering, he greeted acquaintances and neighbors with a quiet nod or a smile before picking up a prayer book and heading for an empty seat on one of the long wooden benches throughout the vast sanctuary. From the bimmah, the Rabbi addressed the congregants in both Spanish and Portuguese and led the evening prayer beneath the steady glow of an enormous, oil-lit chandelier.
The room was packed with men, young and old, some hailing from the old country, others the children of Inquisition refugees born on Ottoman soil. José did not know them well but they had all suffered from the same fate. There was camaraderie among these men.
The congregants partook in the spirited liturgy with fervent enthusiasm. Anyone passing by could have easily mistaken the service for that of a Catholic church gathering. Having been forced to attend mass for the better part of their lives, the congregants adopted much of the chorus-like tempo of the churches they’d left behind. Of prayer, it was all they knew.
At the end of the service, José spotted Doctor Hamon in conversation with a few of the community’s elders. He was standing tall with hands locked, nodding in his measured, gentle way as they spoke to him. They bid the doctor farewell and wished him good Sabbath just as he was approaching.
“José. So good to see you.” Doctor Hamon’s smile was warm and welcoming. “Is everything all right? You look unwell.”
“No, I’m all right. There is a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Is it La Señora? Has she fallen ill?”
“No, she’s fine. It’s just that, well…”
“José! Have you met my son?” The doctor turned to a tall boy that was approaching the two of them.
The young man bowed slightly. “My father has told me much about you. I am glad you and your family have made it safely to Istanbul.”
“Yes.” José tried to keep his voice steady. “Well, thank you.”
“Tell me,” the doctor cut in. “What’s troubling you, José? Was there something you wanted to discuss?”
José looked over the doctor’s son. He was extremely tall, a head taller than José, w
ith powerful shoulders and sparkling hazel eyes set off by the dim glow of his Arabian complexion. This then, was the man that Reyna was betrothed to.
“I’d prefer to discuss the matter with you in private.” His voice was low.
“Of course, José.”
“Can you come by tomorrow?”
“I’ll be by after sundown.”
The next evening, Doctor Hamon arrived at their villa and came in gently, with quiet footsteps and a tinge of sadness in his eyes. José, in a bronze caftan and low turban, made his way down a few shallow stone steps, through the airy corridor towards the low divan on which Doctor Hamon was seated.
“Doctor Hamon, thank you so much for coming by on such short notice. You must be wondering why I’ve asked you here.”
“I’m not wondering, José.”
“You’re not?”
“I know why I’m here. You are going to ply me with cheese and dates and cakes, maybe offer me a handsome sum of money, then ask that I release Reyna from the betrothal.”
Stunned, José said nothing.
“Does that sound right?”
“Well—”
At that moment, a servant appeared carrying a tray of cheese and a bowl of olives.
Doctor Hamon took one look at the tray then laughed, low and hard.
“How did you know? How could you possibly?” José’s voice trailed off.
He waved his hands and smiled. “Let me save you the time. I don’t want your cheese and I don’t want your money.” He leaned back.
José felt a knot tighten in his chest. If the doctor would not release Reyna, he’d take his chances and marry her anyway. But at what cost? To break a promise made to the Sultan’s most trusted physician would have dire consequences for the entire family. “Is there something you would like, then?” José asked lamely.
“Maybe some wine?”
“Wine?”
“Sure. We are men. We are brothers. Let us drink wine together. It is, after all, the only worldly pleasure in all the empire that we, as Jews, are permitted, while our Muslim neighbors are banned from even the smallest drop.”
The Debt of Tamar Page 4
