by Howard Fast
“You named it before—the Inquisition.”
“Oh.” Van Sitten studied Alvero thoughtfully for a long moment before he said, “Your Jews should have remained Jewish. They became Spanish noblemen here. In Holland they remained Jews and we live well with them. Here they are God’s own temptation.”
“You think God deals in temptation?”
“You Spaniards brood too much about God, Alvero. Too much about God and too much about Jews.”
“Both are our particular problem,” Alvero said. “You see, old friend, as you pointed out there isn’t a nobleman in this cursed country who isn’t Jewish – all Jewish, half Jewish, one-quarter Jewish, one-eighth Jewish. We all call ourselves Christians now but only dig the surface a little—” His voice died away and he found himself staring at Julio, who was holding Van Sitten’s horse a few paces from them.
“And you trust no one,” Van Sitten said. Suddenly Alvero thrust out his hand at Van Sitten, took the Dutchman’s hand and held it tightly. “Make this your last visit to Spain,” he said softly.
“Then come to us,” Van Sitten said.
Alvero stared at him without replying. Van Sitten mounted. Alvero took his reins and waved Julio away. Slowly, with great formality, Alvero walked the horse to the gate. Alvero said nothing more and, a moment later, Van Sitten rode off.
5
AS VAN SITTEN RODE AWAY, STANDING BY THE HORSE gate, Alvero saw a man approaching his house. The man walked with slow dignity and around him there circled half a dozen ragged children, who pelted him with clods of dry dirt. For a moment Alvero did not recognize the Rabbi Mendoza and it occurred to him that he apparently lacked the ability to see the rabbi immediately as he was – as a rabbi and a Jew. But this time AlVero did not go to his aid; instead Alvero drew back behind the post of the horse gate and watched Mendoza approach the house. He remained hidden there in silence while Mendoza walked through the garden toward the front entrance – and then Alvero went quickly around the stables, approaching the house from the other direction. He stood at the edge of the gallery, outside and invisible to those within as Julio opened the door for Mendoza. Julio stared at the rabbi with astonishment – at first simply stood and stared while Mendoza faced him, and then somehow found his wits and moved aside and nodded for the Jew to enter.
Now, for a few steps, Mendoza’s progress was invisible to Alvero. Catherine and Maria were at the other end of the gallery. Maria had cut some fabric that Alvero had brought back with him from Seville into a pattern for an overdress, and Catherine was helping her join the seams and pin them together. Both women were intent upon their work and therefore they did not see Mendoza as he entered the long gallery. He took a few paces which brought him into Alvero’s area of vision and then he stopped. There he stood, his hands pressed together, his wide-brimmed hat on his head. It was evident to Alvero that Mendoza was unable to speak, unable to announce himself or to command the attention of the women – or afraid to, which would amount to the same thing. Now Julio joined him, looking at the Jew peculiarly and wondering, certainly, what his own role was to be in this affair. Alvero asked himself why he didn’t go inside and put things at ease; yet, like Mendoza, he was frozen where he was, unable to move, unable to speak. Julio was only a servant. He finally shuffled down the gallery and stood in front of the women. Still they did not look up.
“Señora,” Julio said.
Catherine was sitting to face the rabbi. Maria looked up at Julio, who pointed in the other direction and then Maria turned slowly. Both women then stared at Mendoza, both of them silent and unmoving as if gripped with enormous astonishment that was not unmixed with fear and repulsion.
To Alvero it was like witnessing a play, a scene on stage. He felt detached and strangely objective about his wife and daughter. Their astonishment angered him; their fear annoyed him and to a degree disgusted him; yet he too was unable to move or speak.
Now, with the women watching him, Mendoza took a few steps toward them and bowed slightly. He was without courtliness or grace in a land that set high esteem by them. He kept his hat upon his head. His voice, however, was rich and his Spanish strangely beautiful as he said, “I am the Rabbi Benjamin Mendoza. I took the liberty to come here. I know that this was a great liberty to take with you two noble ladies and I mean no annoyance – no pain to you – I mean no difficulties for you—”
Maria found her voice. She sounded shrill and defensive. “What do you want here?”
“Only to see Don Alvero, noble lady. Only to see him and to speak with him.”
As if aware of the shrillness of her voice, Maria controlled it and turned it cold and flat as she asked, “Have you an appointment with him?”
“No, I am afraid not. You see, how could I make an appointment with him – unless I came here myself? I could not send another Jew here – you understand that. Who would I send here? I know that I am an intruder, but I had to come myself.”
“Then I am sure Don Alvero will be unable to see you,” Maria said.
“I can understand that. I mean I can understand that he would not want to see me. I am trying to say to you, noble lady – I know you to be his wife – that I am not wholly a fool. There are many things implicit in my coming here, but more important than that is the fact that Don Alvero de Rafel saved my life. He has a vested interest in me, so to speak, and we are a people peculiar about such things.”
Now Maria rose and turned to her daughter and asked her to leave the room. Something was happening in Catherine that Alvero could almost feel physically. She tried not to look at her mother, who said, “I asked you to leave, Catherine, please.”
“I want to stay.”
“I don’t care what you want. I asked you to leave, Catherine. Please leave.”
Catherine shook her head, then suddenly her resistance collapsed. She got up and ran into the house. Maria was white and shaking with controlled anger, and now she turned to the rabbi and demanded of him,
“Who saved your life? Are you trying to tell me that my husband saved your life? What do you mean?”
“Only that he saved my life,” the rabbi said.
“I heard you before. I heard you say that before. Who sent you here? Why did you come here?”
The rabbi shook his head and spread his hands. He was bewildered and amazed and unable to cope with the situation and he pleaded with her as he said, “If you came to my house, Doña Maria, I would welcome you but I would not ask you why you had come.”
Maria took another step towards him. “That I should come to your house, Jew, is inconceivable, inconceivable. It is more likely, to my way of thinking, that the sun will not rise in the morning. Inconceivable, do you understand me?”
Alvero could stand no more of this. He ran into the room, crying out, as in pain, “Maria!”
Perhaps the agony in his cry brought Catherine back. She stood at the far end of the gallery, half in the room, half hiding. Julio too could not pull himself away and stood watching – as if the outcome of all this were so unpredictable that life and death might depend on his being there.
Maria stared at her husband, then said to him with great calm, “This Jew asked to see you. He claims you saved his life. I told him that for him to have any reason to be here is inconceivable.”
“This Jew,” Alvero whispered. He went to Mendoza but could find no words for what he wanted to say. Then he walked over to his wife and whispered to her, “Maria – Maria – why don’t you put a knife into my heart? A man comes into our house. The man is the Devil. He comes into our house. Then I say he is a guest. He is under our roof. Do we whip him? Do we insult him? Do we make him a thing of contempt?”
“You were listening,” Maria said.
“I heard you from outside.”
“You were listening,” Maria said. “How could you? How could you stand out there and listen?”
“Is that all you can think about, that I listened to you?”
For a long moment Maria stared at her husban
d. Then she turned and walked the length of the gallery to the door where her daughter stood, walked past her and out. Catherine came into the room. She was crying now. She came a few more paces into the room and stood there. The old servant, Julio, came over and touched Alvero’s velvet doublet.
“I am an old man,” Julio said, “and I would rather die, Don Alvero, than to have you look at me the way you look at me.”
“I trust you,” Alvero whispered hoarsely.
“Say that in truth,” Julio said, “or I will walk out to the stable and put a knife in my belly.”
“In truth,” Alvero whispered.
During this, Catherine had walked firmly to the table where a carafe of wine and glasses stood. She poured a glass of wine and, with great deliberation, her face set and intent, brought it to Mendoza and held out the glass to him. When, at first, he made no movement to accept it, Catherine said,
“Drink the wine of our household, Don Mendoza.”
Alvero watched them. Mendoza took the wine and Catherine drew a chair from the table, nodding for him to sit down.
“Shall I drink alone?” Mendoza asked.
“Pour me a glass,” Alvero told his daughter and then he said to Julio, “Bring us bread, Julio.”
“The wine is enough,” Mendoza said.
“It is my house,” Alvero said almost bitterly. “If you drink wine here, you will break bread with me.” Alvero went over to his daughter, kissed her and whispered for her to leave. She nodded and went out of the room. Like two men in a tableau, Mendoza and Alvero stood silently, holding their wine glasses until Julio returned with the bread. Then Alvero broke the bread and offered some to the Jew, who chewed it thoughtfully as if he savoured the taste of it.
“Please sit down,” Alvero said to the rabbi.
Mendoza seated himself at the table and Alvero sat down facing him. Mendoza then spoke of Alvero’s daughter. It seemed to Alvero that he quoted or paraphrased some words from the Bible but Alvero was not sure. He did not know the Bible very well. “You are blessed,” Mendoza said, “you have a remarkable daughter.”
“I suppose that is true, but remember that a blessing can be a curse. I love my daughter more than anything on earth.”
“Love is never a curse.”
Julio, who had stood there until now, suddenly turned and walked out of the room, and Mendoza said to Alvero,
“The man loves you. Why are you afraid of him, Don Alvero?”
“We are in Spain, Rabbi. Therefore we must learn to live with fear.”
“There you have a curious proposition indeed, Don Alvero, for all Spaniards are not Jews.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I mean that the art of living with fear is a peculiarly Jewish art. Nevertheless, one must not be afraid. If you live with fear and you are afraid, then you are right, Don Alvero – love will become a curse, but you can live with fear and be without fear, and then any love is a blessing. Why am I talking like this? I did not come here to discuss philosophy with you. In fact, I am sorry that I came here. It was the thoughtlessness and the greed of desperation that drove me here.”
“I have nothing to forgive you for,” Alvero said.
“Not even for saving my life?” Mendoza asked.
“Must I forgive you for that? I don’t understand you. You were in danger and I did for you what I would do for any human being. It is not deserving of gratitude, nor is it worthy of discussion. It is a small thing.”
“Not for me,” Mendoza said softly.
“No, I did not mean that, no. Now you must forgive me.”
“You are a strange man, Don Alvero, but it may be that all Spanish dons are very strange men. You, all of you, share a courtliness and a grace which is like a benediction. I think that is why it hurts so much when I see you afraid.”
“Then I tell you that I am not afraid. God help me, I cringe in fear because a Jew enters my house! Are you a man of God, Rabbi?”
“You have your own men of God, Don Alvero.”
“Then you offer me no comfort.”
“I guess not,” Mendoza agreed. “I came here to find comfort and not to bring comfort and I think for that I am sorry – and, if I have your leave, I will go and ask no further favours from you.”
“What favours, Rabbi? What can I do for you?”
“You have done enough for me. Does it makes you forever my debtor because you helped me once?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then I have endangered you enough, simply by coming here, and thus all debts are paid,” Mendoza said.
“Why did you come here?”
“Must I tell you?”
“I think so.” Alvero nodded. “I sleep poorly as it is. Shall I sleep less poorly?”
“Very well,” the Jew said, “you are a friend of Torquemada.”
“How do you know that?” Alvero asked. “Because I was with him?”
“All of Segovia has known it for years.”
“Then I am his friend.” Alvero shrugged. “He is human, he feels, he suffers and he too sleeps poorly – whether or not you believe that.”
“I believe it.”
“He is a man and he needs friends. You are right, we have been friends many years.”
“Then you know that he has decided to destroy our synagogue – to burn it to the ground.”
“No! That is nonsense. Why should he?”
“Aren’t there reasons enough, Don Alvero? Couldn’t you itemize them, Don Alvero? He hates Jews. All right, you will reply to me that many people hate Jews. But he is also the Grand Inquisitor now – the head of the Holy Inquisition in all of Spain.”
“That gives him no right to act against Jews,” Alvero said, “or to destroy the synagogue. You know that. The Inquisition can take action against heretics, backsliders, blasphemers, but not against Jews.”
“Rights, wrongs, you have a desperate need to think legalistically, haven’t you, Don Alvero? But it is power that counts. He talks, he preaches. He calls for a punishment upon a pestilence. He is a righteous man, your Torquemada, and out of his righteousness he states what God wills. That is the curse of all righteous men. They talk with God’s voice and Torquemada convinces too many people that it is God’s will that the synagogue be burned to the ground.”
Alvero stared at Mendoza – regarded him morosely and uneasily but said nothing. Mendoza sat for a little while, and then began to rise, asking Alvero, “Shall I leave you, Don Alvero?”
“Only if you wish.” Alvero shrugged.
Mendoza was standing now. He shook his head and appeared to shiver. He stood there in silence for a moment or two and then he said to Alvero, “If you feel that on my part I should be aware of how small a thing a building is, compared to a human life, then I suppose you are right. I invest my synagogue with qualities it does not have. It is a very old synagogue, and we tend to confuse that with holiness, so we say that it is a holy place, a place that God remembers. It has stood here in Segovia for two thousand years. The Carthaginians built it. There were a great many Jews among the Carthaginians. Many reputable scholars believe that the Hamilcar family was Jewish and I once saw an old shred of parchment which said things that proved, in effect, that Hannibal himself had worshipped in our sanctuary. There is an inscription in the stone which says, in the old Aramaic, ‘Here sacrificed Hannibal to the God of his fathers, to the God of Isaac, Abraham and Jacob’, but you never know whether such inscriptions are true or simply the result of legends that build up until someone believes them and feels that they must be inscribed in stone—”
Alvero rose now, facing the rabbi, and, speaking hoarsely, argued that a synagogue was a building, no more and no less. “Houses are built and houses are destroyed!” Alvero cried.
“I know, I know.”
“The devil you do!” Alvero shouted. “I can’t help you. Do you understand that? I don’t think you understand what you are asking me. Do you know what you are asking me? Do you actually know what you are asking
me to do?”
“Yes, I know,” whispered the rabbi.
“Why did you come to me? Why me, out of the whole city? Suppose we talk to each other frankly and forth-rightly. I have done business with Jews. There isn’t a merchant in Spain who hasn’t and I know how your people work. You buy and you sell and you bribe. You have bribed the City Council of Segovia a hundred times. You have bribed the priests. You have bribed bishops. Why come to me? Take up a collection of the money you need and your synagogue will stand. But why come to me? Why pick me out of all Segovia? Because I saved your life?”
“No, not because you saved my life.”
“Of course because I saved your life. This makes me your slave, doesn’t it? Your willing servant. Unwittingly and unknowingly I saved the life of one Jew – and now I must save the lives of a thousand Jews or of a synagogue or of anything else your fancy directs you to—”
“Only give me leave to go, Don Alvero,” the rabbi begged him.
Alvero grabbed the rabbi’s arm and swung him around to face him. Close to him, Alvero said, “Why me? Out of all Segovia, why me? Not because I saved your life. There is another reason.”
“Must you have another reason?”
“I must,” Alvero whispered.
“Very well, then” – Mendoza nodded, his voice soft, so soft that Alvero had to strain towards him to hear it – “I will give you the reason. In Barcelona I knew your father. I knew who he was and what he was. I loved him and I trusted him and I said that what he was must live on in his son.”
6
AFTER MENDOZA LEFT, ALVERO CHANGED HIS CLOTHES, put on riding boots and his sword, and sent word to the stables for his horse to be saddled. As he came down from his room, having seen nothing of his wife, Maria, since Mendoza’s departure, he found Catherine waiting for him. She asked where he was going and he parried her questions. She took his arm and walked with him and Alvero said to her.
“You grow more beautiful each day.”
“And you become more handsome each day,” she countered. “Shall we go on praising each other? I would rather we didn’t have to. It hurts when you quarrel with my mother.”
