Papá’s eyes were closed, as if he were making a prayer of his own. How could his father remain so calm? As Miguel stared at him, Papá’s eyes blinked open and he nodded at Miguel. The peddler’s strange words hung in the air, and Miguel wished he could chase them from the house.
“What about our blessing?” he prompted.
“Of course,” Papá said quickly, as if he had been jolted awake. With hands folded, he bowed his head and mumbled a blessing over the food they were about to eat.
“Amen,” Miguel said firmly and made the sign of the cross. His parents and brothers followed.
“So now we toast!” Doc Meyer declared, breaking the solemn mood. He lifted his glass of wine and waved it in the direction of the others, as they, too, lifted their glasses. “Here’s to the future state of Arizona and all her new citizens!” Miguel held up his glass of lemonade, but didn’t take as much as a sip. If new citizens included people like the Jewish peddler with his heathen prayers, Miguel hoped that Arizona wouldn’t be quite so welcoming.
“And now the bread,” Papá said eagerly. “My favorite.” He reached for the shiny, braided loaf that replaced the flat flour tortillas the family usually ate each night. “Elena bakes this herself. It’s my mother’s recipe, also handed down for generations.” As Carmella came in carrying a covered casserole, Papá winked and said in a fake whisper, “The secret is that it’s made with eggs, but we don’t even share this with Carmella!”
“Bien, Don Mateo,” Carmella teased. “Doña Elena gives me enough work. She can make this bread whenever she wishes.” She set the dish in the center of the table. Hot steam from the food formed beads of water that slipped down onto the clay platter beneath the serving bowl.
The yeasty smell of the warm loaf softened Miguel’s concerns. He looked around the table at his family. They were together as they were each Friday night, sharing a festive meal. It was like a holiday. Although he often complained about how strict his mother was, allowing no excuses for missing this dinner each week, Miguel felt a secret pleasure in the tradition. He took a bite of the sweet bread. In spite of the stranger at their table, nothing had really changed.
But tonight Miguel would try to change one thing—Papá’s rule about riding alone. He stared into the light of the candle flames and felt a glimmer of hope. His father was enjoying the meal and the company. He was in a jovial mood. It was the perfect time to ask.
Jacob Franck’s eyes grew wide as Mamá lifted the casserole lid to reveal plump chicken pieces nestled on a bed of rice laced with tomatoes, onions, and peppers.
“I thank you for your generous hospitality,” he declared. “Outside my village in Germany, no Jews are velcome. That is why I come to America. Not everyone treats a stranger like me kindly, but even alone in the desert, it feels safer . . .”
“Being alone is not as dangerous as people around here think,” Miguel said. “Don’t you agree, Señor Franck?”
“I have never been frightened,” the peddler said, cutting into his chicken. “A little nervous sometimes, I confess, but I just keep the eyes open and go about my business. So far, all is safe.”
“Exactamente!” Miguel exclaimed. He cleared his throat. “Papá,” he began, “you know what a good rider I am, so . . .”
“Speaking of riders,” Ruben interrupted, “some are not so safe.” Miguel glared at his brother. He had been ready to ask his father about riding into town on his own, and now Ruben had spoiled the perfect opportunity. Ruben kept talking, ignoring Miguel. “In town, you’re in danger if someone thinks you cheated at cards. In the desert, a bandit could steal your horse and shoot you without a second thought.”
Esteban winked at his brother mischievously. “Now we hear it’s not even safe to walk along Main Street. Seems some people race their buggies through town.”
Doc Meyer held his fork and knife over the plate, and responded with a laugh. “I admit it! The apothecary was speeding wit’ the buggy. So I bring myself to court and give myself a fair trial.”
“But you’re the justice of the peace too!” Ruben snorted. “How could it be a fair trial?” Jacob Franck chuckled at the revelation, his string tie bobbing against his collar.
“Sure it was fair,” Doc Meyer insisted. “I declare myself guilty and fine myself five dollars.”
“You truly have brought law and order to Tucson,” Papá said with a sly smile.
Miguel didn’t laugh. His brother had ruined the chance to change his father’s mind about riding alone. He ate glumly as the men started talking about politics. They expressed their anger at the United States government refusing to make Arizona Territory a state, and then joked and laughed as the peddler shared stories of his adventures.
Mamá lit the oil lamps in the parlor after dinner, and the group settled into the soft leather chairs arranged around the fireplace. The grate was black and empty since there was no need for a fire in the warmth that still lingered in the evening air.
Just as Miguel found another opportunity to spring his question, Papá addressed the peddler. “Can you read Hebrew, Señor Franck?”
“Yah, sure,” he said. “I learned for my bar mitzvah. A prayer book I have, and I am reading when I am alone in my travels. It keeps me company and keeps me from forgetting.”
Papá looked questioningly toward Mamá, and Miguel caught her almost imperceptible nod of approval.
“In that case, I have something I’d like to share with you,” Papá said hesitantly. “And it involves a small favor.” Taking a key from the pocket of his embroidered vest, Papá unlocked a drawer in the sideboard and removed a cracked, leather-bound book that Miguel had never seen before. Why was it hidden?
Chapter 4
A Startling Revelation
“This diary was written by the first Abrano who arrived here from Spain,” Papá said solemnly. “Some bits of our background have been passed down, but there is so much we don’t know.”
“Before Don Mateo and I married,” Mamá said, “he told me what he had heard from his father. We discovered that we share a similar history.” She nodded to the book. “No one has ever been able to read this diary, and Mateo has always wished to hear his ancestor’s words.”
Papá took a deep breath. “You see, although we knew fragments of our background, we never discussed it outside our own family. We weren’t sure how our neighbors—and even our friends—would feel about us if they knew. People in the territory speak often of accepting all settlers, but they don’t always act accordingly.”
Like Berto’s stories about Israelites with horns, Miguel mused. And the sign on the door of his family’s café.
Papá rested his hand on Doc Meyer’s shoulder. “I trust that anything you hear tonight will find an open heart.”
“Between goot friends, there should always be honesty,” Doc Meyer said. “Nothing can change our friendship.”
Papá addressed Señor Franck. “You can help us hear the family story if you can read this diary,” he said.
Miguel didn’t understand. “Why didn’t you read the book yourself, Papá?” Why was his father bringing the book out now?
“There is more to know than the fact that the first Abrano came from Spain with the conquistadors,” Papá answered. He addressed the peddler. “The difficulty for us is that the diary is written in Hebrew. Do you think you can help?”
“Why isn’t it written in Spanish?” Miguel asked uncertainly.
Papá cleared his throat and looked steadily at Miguel. “The answer isn’t so simple, mijo, but if you will be patient, you will begin to understand. Tonight, you begin your real education as an Abrano.” His father emphasized the family name, speaking it with a fierce pride.
“We shared the little that we know with Esteban and Ruben when they were just your age,” Mamá said. “Your father was waiting for the right time to explain it to you too.”
Papá hesitated, then said, “You are about to turn thirteen, Miguel, and it is time for us to usher you into manhood. T
hat is one more tradition that has been handed down for generations. If Señor Franck can read this diary, we will all learn more than we ever knew. Once we hear it, perhaps you will realize why I have told you that becoming a priest might not be the right path for you.”
Jacob Franck wiped his hands against his black pants and reached for the book. For a moment, it seemed suspended between the two men. Miguel thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in his father’s eyes before he released his hold. The peddler opened the back cover with reverence, and a ragged bit of dried leather fell from the cracked binding onto the floor.
Miguel leaned down to pick it up, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of a page of neatly written markings. The black ink was still dark and shiny against the yellowed page. The strange writing was unlike anything Miguel had ever seen. How could these lines form words? He suspected that Señor Franck couldn’t read them either, since he had opened the book backwards, starting with the last page.
The peddler moved closer to the circle of light formed by the oil lamp and squinted. His lips moved silently. Gingerly, he turned the page and scanned it. His dark eyes widened. “I heard of this writing, but never did I see it,” he murmured. “This is the code.” He looked searchingly at Papá.
“The code?” Papá echoed. “What do you mean?”
“Hundreds of years ago,” the visitor said, “the Catholic Church forbade all the Jews of Spain from practicing their religion. Thousands left to make new lives in other lands, but many stayed in their homes by pretending to convert. This they were forced to do or risk torture and death at the hands of the Inquisition, dreaded judges of the church. Even in the face of such danger, many secretly kept their Jewish traditions.” He sat straighter in the chair. “Such courage they showed!”
Pretending to be Catholic isn’t an act of courage, Miguel thought dismissively. Father Ignacio despaired of the Papagos who kept their heathen practices even after accepting the church. Were there also Israelites who only pretended to believe?
The peddler pointed to the open page. “These secret Jews, they make a code that no outsider can figure out. Like their Bible, the pages go from back to front, and the vords they read from right to left. The letters are from the Hebrew alphabet, but if you know how to pronounce each word out loud, the language you hear is Spanish! If enemies discover any of these writings, how can they guess what it says?” He smiled his crooked smile. “Smart, yah?” The group murmured its agreement, waiting to hear more.
“Maybe those Israelites had a clever code,” Miguel said impatiently, “but what does it have to do with us?”
“Listen,” Papá admonished him with a stern look. “You have asked to be treated like a man and not a child. You think that having a birthday means that you should ride wherever you please on your own.” Papá’s voice rose. “To be a man has nothing to do with privileges. To be an Abrano—you must understand where you came from.”
“If only my family had such a book,” Mamá said. “It is a milagro—a miracle—to hear the voice of your ancestor.”
Jacob Franck glanced from Miguel’s parents and brothers to Miguel. “This ancestor of yours had a powerful name—Aharon ben Avraham. The man who wrote this diary, in English he has the biblical name Aaron, son of Abraham.”
Now Miguel was certain that the diary had nothing to do with his family. The person who wrote it wasn’t even an Abrano. So why did Papá want to hear the secret words in this crumbling book?
Ruben sat straighter in his chair. “Señor Franck, can you read it for us?”
“My Spanish is not so goot,” he apologized. “Maybe a little we can read tonight. Then tomorrow your Papá and I, together ve figure this out.”
“There is so much more I wish to ask you,” Papá said. “There are so many family traditions, like our Friday night meal and baking the braided bread, which we learned from our parents and our grandparents. But like the blessing over the candles that none remembered, there is so much that has been lost. When you recited the blessing over the candles tonight, it was the first time we had ever heard it.”
The peddler nodded, and then settled back and began to read aloud in a halting voice. His finger pointed to each word on the brittle page, and he stopped occasionally to let Papá correct or explain an unfamiliar Spanish word. The room was hushed, except for the raspy breathing of Jacob Franck as he stumbled through the lines of mysterious writing.
To all who follow in my sad footsteps, this is the true account of Aharon ben Avraham, begun this fifteenth day of September in the year 1546. Although my family was forced to be baptized in the Catholic Church more than fifty years ago, and our names changed to hide our background, we were among those who kept our Jewish beliefs hidden. Called conversos, we never escaped the suspicions of the Inquisition, and lived in constant fear for our very lives.
Papá sat with his chin resting in his hand, concentrating on the halting words.
After I had a family of my own, I decided that we must free ourselves from our secret life. With a melancholy heart, I gathered my loving wife, Joya, and our seven children, along with a few of our most precious belongings. We turned our backs on the city of our ancestors.
Miguel tapped his fingers impatiently against the arm of his chair. Why must he listen to this strange tale? Mamá scowled at him, and he folded his hands to keep them still.
The peddler kept reading, stopping and starting again with Papá’s help.
After one full day of travel, when our escape was at hand, soldiers of the Inquisition overtook us. With only a small dagger to protect my dearest ones, I was quickly captured. The soldiers bound me hand and foot, and as I struggled against my bonds, they mercilessly killed my beloved Joya and each of my adored children. The soldiers shouted, Traitors! Heathens! As for me, I wept and cried, Murderers!
I was beaten senseless while my family’s blood soaked the earth of their homeland. When I next opened my bruised and swollen eyes to the horror of what I had lost, I was shackled on a musty ship heading to the far shores of New Spain, conscripted into the service of the king’s conquistadors. I could not fight my captors but, instead, would be forced to fight for them in an uncivilized land.
Even with no fire burning in the grate and the air turning chill, Miguel felt as if he were suffocating. He couldn’t bear to hear another word, but the peddler kept translating haltingly, and somehow Miguel felt as if he were a captive of each horrifying word. Everyone in the room seemed gripped by the spell cast by the flowery and emotional words of Aharon ben Avraham.
The only possessions left were my wife’s silver candlesticks, tucked clumsily into my tall leather boots. The memory of Joya’s face as she lit the Sabbath candles became my strength. I grasped for the image of the flickering light and made it my will to live. I vowed to continue our traditions in the barren land around me, to honor the memory of my family.
Miguel felt a sudden jolt of recognition. Were the candlesticks in the diary the same ones that stood on his family’s table each Friday night? Surely, that couldn’t be! There was no time to sort out the thoughts that crowded his head as he was drawn to the peddler’s voice like a moth caught in a flickering lantern.
I continued to use the name Alejandro Abrano and learned to be a soldier. I despised every waking hour, forced to fight against the native people who were so like me in too many ways. The Inquisition robbed them of their religion, their land, and their lives, just as I had lost my homeland and my family. The survivors were compelled to accept the church’s teachings and abandon or hide their true beliefs. Many days I prayed for death to end my hateful life, but God did not answer my prayers. In time, my talents in navigation allowed me to lay my sword aside. Instead of fighting as a soldier, I was named mapmaker. Within these pages, I will record how I earned honor in the service of the very king who destroyed my life. In time, God blessed me with a new wife and healthy children. Together, we have preserved some few traditions. May my children and grandchildren, and every generation of Abrano
s, know this story and honor the remnants of our past.
Abrano! The mapmaker’s name had been changed by his own ancestors! Miguel’s ears burned with shame. How could Papá have betrayed the family in front of strangers? He glared at his father. Surely, this was all a misunderstanding. Abranos had always been faithful Catholics—hadn’t they?
Esteban and Ruben looked steadily at Miguel, and he felt that his brothers had betrayed him too. “Has everyone in the family heard this story before?” he demanded. “Everyone except me?” Miguel stood uncertainly, his legs feeling as if they might buckle beneath him. “It’s not true,” he snapped, waiting—hoping—for someone to erase this moment.
“I’ve upset you,” Papá said quickly, his voice soft. “That wasn’t what I wanted.” He held Miguel with a disappointed look. “I had planned to tell you the story next week when you turned thirteen, but this opportunity came up suddenly. I couldn’t let it pass.” He placed his hand over Miguel’s, and every muscle in Miguel’s body froze. “This book truly is written by the first of our family to come to New Spain,” Papá said evenly, “a secret Jew. He was given this land in return for his service to the king. We owe him our lives, and we must listen to his voice.”
Miguel pulled his hand away, his breath coming in quick gasps. “I am Catholic,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Father Ignacio said I might have a calling to the priesthood.” Miguel had hoped for a sign from God to tell him if that was the path he was meant to follow. He shivered. Is this the sign?
“We were baptized Catholics, mijo,” Papá reassured him, “but we cannot let our heritage die. We wish to reclaim it, if only to honor those who came before us. Our heritage is part of us—part of you.”
Walk Till You Disappear Page 3
