The Mapmaker's Daughter

by Laurel Corona

  While the rest of us walk like the dead among the ruins of our lives, the newly baptized live as they always have, gritting their teeth and reminding themselves they will not have to endure our cold shoulders much longer. One neighborhood shrew has scoured the aljama since her baptism, offering to take goods off her friends’ hands, but not for a penny more than a Christian would offer.

  She doesn’t contribute to our fund either, and we don’t know which is worse. The Jews of Alcalá have pledged that no one will be left behind, forced to convert for lack of money. This fund adds to our burden, as does the order to pay two years of taxes in advance, so the crown won’t suffer any loss of revenue from our departure.

  One sweet and impoverished widow was baptized at her grown children’s insistence. Afterward she came to our house, and when she saw we had not packed a pair of Shabbat candlesticks, she offered us a fair price for them.

  “What will you use them for?” Samra asked.

  “I’ll light candles on Shabbat,” she said, “so I can remember you.”

  When we reminded her that following Jewish practices after being baptized will bring the Inquisition down on her head, she looked stunned and took to bed with such a deep sickness we thought for a while she might have taken poison. She stays inside now, except when her son comes to take her to mass.

  Isaac and Judah will not leave Spain until the last moment, so we wait, suspended in time. Some shred of hope lingers that Ferdinand and Isabella will renege when they see Jews, including the wealthiest and most influential, choosing to leave rather than abandon their faith. Eighty-year-old Abraham Seneor and his even wealthier son-in-law are packing, and with the Abravanels going into exile too, the crown will suffer a palpable loss, not just of scholarship and expertise, but of ready sources of loans for their adventures. Isaac and Judah wait here to press the moment if their majesties waver. No one expects it, not with Torquemada daily spewing his poison.

  The neighborhood is half-deserted now. The border of Spain is far away, and time is running out. No one stops by to fill our house with gossip and laughter. No one needs flour, or a poultice, or help with a difficult spouse or a laboring daughter. No one knocks on the door asking if we have anything to sell, for we have made the decision to keep our house as it is for as long as we can and then to walk away.

  We are luckier than most. Isaac and Judah have arranged for some debts to be paid to them after we arrive in Valencia, and we have enough money for the bribes we are sure to need at the border. We are sewing everything we can into our clothing and will hide other valuables among the items we pack, but other than that, we try to maintain a normal life for the children while we wait.

  One afternoon, I bring out the atlas from a box of books Isaac plans to give to a Christian friend in Guadalajara. “Would you like to look at this one last time?” I ask one of my grandchildren, Aya, who is playing with baby Isaac on the floor. No books are going except the religious tomes Isaac needs for his writing. Those have no beautiful lettering and illustrations in gold and lapis lazuli, and they will be unimpressive to greedy soldiers on the docks at Valencia or bandits on the road. One way or another, I am told, the atlas will not make it to the boat.

  “Why take it, in that case?” Eliana asks. She loves it as much as I do, but she has gotten fiercely practical. The atlas takes space that should go to a warm cloak to wear at sea or extra shoes to replace those that may wear out before we get to Valencia.

  I bring it to the table, and Aya sits next to me on the bench, holding baby Isaac in her lap. He gives me a happy smile. “Mermer!” he says.

  I know what he means. I turn to the page with the mermaid, and he laughs that beautiful, full chortle that comes from somewhere deep in the heart of innocence. I give his hair a tousle because I no longer bend well enough to kiss his cheek.

  “Do you wish you were her?” I ask Aya. “I did when I was a child.”

  “She’s very pretty,” she says, “but I’d rather be on land.” She burrows in next to me. “With my family.”

  My eyes burn at the thought of how little time we have left for moments like this. “Do you know where we are now?” Of course she does. She has seen the atlas countless times since she was baby Isaac’s size.

  She points to Alcalá de Henares, in the heart of Spain. “And here is where we’re going.” She draws her finger down to Valencia, on the coast, then looks up with a shrug. For her, it is an adventure, much like mine to Sagres when I was her age.

  She doesn’t understand that Valencia is where the journey truly starts, a voyage that will take us so far from home that we would have to turn the atlas page to see the first possible resting point. I know that even what is around the next corner may be menacing, but maps give comfort, especially to the young, making us think the world is known, familiar, safe.

  As she points to this and that and baby Isaac listens solemnly, the realization comes to me as surely as my next breath that I will not leave such a thing behind. I must keep it for them, for the future, and though it might be lost along the way, I must do my part to preserve it.

  Samra is calling her niece to help with something. The baby fusses at the sound of his mother’s voice, and Aya holds his hand as they walk into the kitchen. I bring the atlas to the one small trunk I am taking, and pulling away the top layers of clothing, I whisper a prayer to the Holy One to keep this treasure safe, to keep us safe, so that someday I will be able to pull it out and say to my daughter, “Look! It isn’t lost to us after all!” and see her weep with happiness.

  I lay the book down and put a hamsa on top of it, hoping the silver charm will protect this and everything I love. I replace the clothes on top and hold my breath as I press the lid down hard, sighing with relief when it latches.

  ***

  The fragile peace of our dwindling hours in Alcalá ends in mid-June with two staggering pieces of news. The first is that Abraham Seneor has been baptized by Cardinal Mendoza in a ceremony attended by Ferdinand and Isabella. We hear that Isabella told the court rabbi that if he did not convert, the retaliation against the remaining Jews in Spain would be swift and brutal.

  Perhaps Seneor is just being practical about not wanting to lose everything at his advanced age. Still, I wonder what went through his mind as Torquemada and the others watched to make sure he finished his bowl of pork stew, which is served after many baptisms to complete the humiliation. I wonder what he thought when forced to answer to his new Christian name, Fernando Nuñez Colonel.

  Fernando. He will be called for the rest of his life by the name of the man who fashioned his disgrace. Angry as I am, I can’t help but pity him.

  Seneor has a new name among the Jews as well. Abraham Sone-or, many call him now—Abraham, the Hater of Light. Out of loyalty, Isaac doesn’t call him that, nor does he ask his friend for an explanation of his decision. “He must at least pretend to be sincere,” he says, “and that lie would break both of our hearts.”

  Isaac has endured the same kind of pressure to which Seneor succumbed. Isabella even offered to let our family stay in Spain as the only Jews in the country. “Who are we without our people?” Isaac says. “And who will my grandchildren meet under the huppah on their wedding day if all the Jews are gone?”

  The second piece of news is so horrifying that Seneor vanishes from our minds. One afternoon, Judah receives in his study a nervous and agitated visitor. When he comes out, his face is drained of blood as he slumps at the table. “They plan to kidnap my son,” he says. “Ferdinand and Isabella are going to baptize our Isaac and hold him for ransom.”

  “My baby?” Samra’s voice is small and vague, as if she doesn’t understand. Then she gasps. “My baby!” she shrieks, sagging into Eliana’s arms.

  “No!” I say in a voice as hoarse and raw as a threatened animal.

  “Ransom?” Eliana asks. “They’ll get everything we own when we leave Spain. Can’t they wait?”

  “They don’t want money,” Judah says. “They mean to force us
to stay. It’s illegal to take a Christian child out of Spain, so once Isaac is baptized, anyone who wanted to remain here with him would have to convert. We would get him back at the church after we let them put their water on us.”

  I remember the story of a desperate mother hiding Moses in the bulrushes, and my mind runs wild as I imagine living with Isaac in a cave, riding madly across the border with him in my arms, throwing myself over him and being torn apart rather than let him loose from my embrace.

  Wordlessly, we all move toward the bedroom where Isaac has been napping in his parents’ bed. His beautiful long lashes flutter over shut eyes, and his soft lips make sucking motions as he sleeps. Someone lets out a muffled sob, and he opens his eyes. “Mama?” he says, sitting up to look around.

  “Pick up,” he says, holding his arms out to his father. Judah holds his only child tight and nuzzles his tiny neck. Samra comes to his side and strokes the baby’s back as tears roll silently down their stricken faces.

  ***

  We confer with Lev and Yehudit, two of our neighbors still in Alcalá, and we decide to leave together after nightfall the following day. They are going to Portugal and will take Isaac with them, pretending he is their own baby’s twin. We will send for him when we reach our new home.

  We need as much secrecy as we can manage, for the kidnappers may be close and waiting their chance. We talk casually with our remaining neighbors about all the work left to do and point to our few paltry boxes as just the beginning of our belated packing.

  That night, we steal from our homes, leaving one lit candle, as if we have gone to bed by its light. As we pass down the dark and deserted streets of the aljama, Samra holds the baby so tightly that he wakens, and she covers his mouth to muffle his wails of apprehension.

  The stablehands Isaac and Judah have bribed for their silence receive part of their payment for packing our belongings onto a cart and finding the donkeys that will pull it. The rest of the money will come only if we are not tracked down for several days. There is no time to think, no time for regrets, no time to look back in the night. The animals plod their way along a trail unfamiliar in the dark, as we begin the first steps of our exile.

  We travel until midmorning over flat, undulating fields of wheat as lush as pale-green velvet in the hazy light of early summer. The women have been riding in the cart with baby Isaac, taking turns holding him. Hadassah clings tight to her own infant son, torn between relief she will not be the one facing such a loss and the knowledge that no one, ever, is safe from the lurking gaze of the Evil Eye.

  Samra sits beside me, wearing the key to her house around her neck, as are all the women of Alcalá who have left homes behind. We won’t be returning, but wherever we are, the key will keep alive the claim of the heart to what was once ours. None of the women have spoken at all, and the few exchanges between the men walking alongside are as jarring as noises heard while drifting off to sleep. We are hovering outside of life, outside of time, in a world where we still have what we know we have already lost.

  “Cry?” Isaac asks as he reaches up to examine my face with his perfect little fingers.

  “Yes, my love,” I tell him. “Nonna is sad today.”

  “I love you,” he tells me, wiggling up in my arms to plant a kiss on my cheek.

  We reach the road where our friends will turn west for Portugal and we go east to Valencia. Judah comes to the cart and holds out his hands. Samra shrieks, thinking he intends to tear her baby from her, but for now, he simply wants to help us all get down.

  I see pastures with grazing sheep and cattle, the purple-gray hills beyond, the cloudless sky darkened with huge flocks of birds that whirl across the fields. But it is not the same in both directions, because our Isaac will go one way and we another. We will not be like Joshua at Jericho, stopping the course of the sun to battle our way back from defeat.

  “We will take good care of him,” Yehudit, our neighbor, says, jiggling her baby on her hip. “I’ll have enough milk for him and my own, I’m sure of it.” Her husband, Lev, shifts from foot to foot. He is a quiet man, shy even among friends, but now there is truly nothing to say. We know they will keep our beloved child as safe as they can, but it is in the hands of the Holy One whether that will be enough.

  Baby Isaac will not let his mother keep him close any longer, squirming to get down to examine something lying in the road. She puts him down, and the inevitable sinks upon her as her arms lie useless at her sides.

  The child is making lines in the dust with his finger. I crouch down next to him as much as my old bones allow. “Go bye-bye now,” he says, and I wonder how he knows.

  “Yes,” I say, choking on my tears. “Isaac is going bye-bye now, but only for a little while.”

  “Bye-bye with Nonna.”

  My heart rips from my chest at the betrayal to come. “Yes, my love,” I say. “You will always be with me.” In my heart, I whisper too softly to be heard. In my heart.

  Lev is helping Yehudit into their cart, and he hands baby Isaac up to her. We are standing nearby with our faces locked into smiles so he will not think anything is wrong. Samra is working so hard not to let tears break through that her breath is coming out in shallow pants.

  Nita is with us. Nearly thirteen, she is the only grandchild who knows what is happening. We have sent the others to run after butterflies and fight mock battles with stalks of wheat. We could not bear to deal with their misery as well as our own before the deed was done.

  Now that baby Isaac is in the cart, they must sense something is wrong, because they all come running. Lev gives the reins a shake to get the horse moving. Isaac stops smiling. “Mama come too!” he says, his face crumpling. He is screaming now, and as the cart moves father down the road, we succumb to our own grief with wails and sobs.

  My grandchildren run after the cart, but Lev sees them, and he picks up the pace to keep them from catching up and prolonging the agony. Nita picks up a wailing cousin to comfort her. The children turn around and run back toward us, horror written on their dirt-streaked faces. We watch together as the cart grows smaller and disappears from view.

  I have never seen the senior Isaac look broken, even on the road back from Madrigal, when he nursed his defeat at the hands of Torquemada. Now his shoulders are slumped, and the corners of his eyes are shriveled with grief. He is fifty-five, and from this day forward, he will be an old man.

  He clears his throat, and to my surprise, he begins to chant one of the Psalms, exhorting us all to join in. Only Samra is silent. Her eyes are like dead coals in her impassive face. Samra—the steady one, the one who exhorts us all to rise up and be strong—is gone into a world of pain.

  Tears wet the top of Judah’s beard. “We must trust in the Holy One and know that His will is always done.” He shuts his eyes, and I see his jaw tremble as he tries to compose himself. “We must remember that even now, God deals bountifully with us, and we will…” He looks up toward the heavens, and I see his astonishing strength breaking through his grief. “We will rejoice that he will never abandon us. Or our son,” he says, gently shaking Samra’s limp body as if to restore her to life. “Or our son.”

  ***

  We keep our heads pointed down the road, trying to think of nothing but the next hill, the next patch of shade, the next endless hour. By nightfall the following day, we reach a camp where about sixty Jews are resting for Shabbat. Yesterday and today, I have been looking behind us for a cloud of dust rising from soldiers in pursuit, because I cannot imagine that Ferdinand and Isabella would give up so easily.

  I haven’t said aloud what I fear most—that Isaac has six more grandchildren, including Nita, whom he loves equally well. Jews are all the same to Ferdinand and Isabella, and one kidnapping would be scarcely different from another. I am relieved that we have other families to travel with now. Fellow exiles will offer not just companionship but a measure of safety. Already my four oldest great-grandchildren have disappeared with others their age to explore their s
urroundings. How would anyone pick those few out as ours?

  “They assume baby Isaac is still with us, and whoever comes to take him will not want to go back empty-handed,” I tell Eliana when I can hold in my fear no longer.

  “I know,” she says, shaking out a blanket. “We should tell the children if anyone comes looking for us, they should mingle with the other families rather than standing with us.” She smiles faintly. “Christians think we all look alike. Perhaps this time, their ignorance will work in our favor.”

  By the time we settle in to sleep, all the children and grandchildren know what to do if we are caught by royal emissaries on the road. Hadassah and her baby will disappear into the crowd, and the children will stand with the temporary families to whom they have been assigned.

  None too soon, for the day after Shabbat, two men in the colors of a local lord ride along the road calling out for Isaac and Judah. “You are to come with us,” one of the men says.

  Judah shakes his head. “Any business you have is with my whole family. You will say what you have to say to all of us or be on your way.”

  Having lost as much as we have makes it easier to be fearless. What punishment is left except death, and who, I wonder, other than the young hasn’t thought that would be preferable?

  “It is their majesties’ decree that we be gone from this country,” Isaac adds in his ponderous voice. “Surely they will not wish us to be delayed.”

  The men exchange glances. It is obvious they expected this to be simple, and they have no instructions if it is not. “Very well,” the leader shrugs. “We’ll be back.” By the time they are specks in the distance, we are breathing again.

  That afternoon, a well-dressed nobleman rides alongside us on a beautiful mount caparisoned with a richly patterned saddle blanket and a polished and bejeweled harness and bit. The two soldiers from this morning point out Isaac, and the man dismounts. “I am Juan Enrique Montevera, the Count of Tarancón,” he says. “Their majesties have asked that I come see how you are faring.” He looks around our group. “Where are your children? Are they all well?”