in a town to the South.
There was him and his sister
and no food for their mouths.
The Queen advised mercy
on account of his age.
But this boy was a Jew.
Before she could stop it
he was strung up by men
of the sheriff’s. All who passed through
the gate of St. James would see him there.
Beside him, the motto:
et justum es.
It is just.
When I hear about this
I remember that hand
creeping under my bed.
And sleep isn’t easy,
for once. I lie in the dawn
and count sheep instead.
Confession
Most Jews left this place
ten years ago.
The Queen made it law:
every Jew in al-Andalus
must be baptized a Christian
or leave. Then followed those
four little words, favorites of queens:
on pain of death.
The few who defy her
hide in cellars and shadows
and caves underground.
I’m not really here. They have
less substance than ghosts.
The priests say the Jews
don’t think Christ is God,
so they are our foes.
They’re left on this Earth
to remind us why Christians are better.
We must shun them the way
we would shrink from the Plague.
Mama tells me all souls are equal,
at least in God’s eyes.
Then says it’s heresy
to argue with priests.
Do you doubt I’m confused?
I only know this:
we used to be Jews.
Baptisms
When a new bell is cast
and raised to its belfry,
it is baptized like a child.
The bishop anoints it with salt
and with oil. Then he pours
holy water over its metal head.
My great-great-grandparents
were baptized too.
They had as much choice
as one of those bells.
The riots those days, so I’m told,
were worse—far, far worse—
than the ones I’ve lived through.
The Black Plague was raging.
A third of all Europe died
from the sickness.
Fingers were pointed.
The Jews, it was said,
had poisoned the wells.
Not all were killed. Many Jews chose
to be baptized, to save themselves.
Others were held down by crowds
and given the rite no matter
their will.
So Mama’s ancestors became Christians.
Even their surnames were changed.
And Papa’s? My papa will speak
only of good—or should I say great.
How my great-great-grandfather
was a great, great scribe.
How he spoke and wrote Hebrew and Arabic
with more than just ease—with finesse.
By the end of his life he had served
a caliph and a king.
That end came too soon.
Mama told me.
Instead of baptism, my great-great-grandfather
chose death.
He took his own life, and the life
of his wife.
So which of these great ancestors
made the best choice?
Landlord
Señor Ortiz
is home for a spell.
I can tell by those stomps
on the ceiling, all day
and night.
He acts, says Mama,
like he’s guilty of something.
As if he’s afraid to take off his boots
in case he must run.
What from? I ask her.
But Papa says, “Raquel, shush.
How do we like it
when people talk rubbish
of us?”
Dinner Guest
Once a week—when he’s here—
Señor Ortiz deigns to come down
and dine. Our table is humble,
but he doesn’t mind.
He eats his plate clean every time.
I crave talk of adventures, and ships,
and exotic lands. Señor Ortiz
plies the coast of the Kingdom,
selling rich silks from the East.
But our landlord dislikes
my constant questions.
He’s one of those people
who thinks children’s voices
are irksome to God.
Whenever he’s here, we have to eat pork.
I hate the stuff.
But it’s the menu of choice
when company comes.
Eating pork is a sign.
It says you have left
being Jewish behind.
So good Christians must show—
whether they like pork or no—
that they can’t get enough.
Edict of Faith
Today after Mass
we were required to swear
our allegiance once more.
That’s the third time this year.
A huge crucifix was held
in the air by two priests.
We crossed ourselves, raised our
right hands. Swore to support and uphold
the Holy Office—as well as its agents on Earth.
The Inquisitors.
How, you might ask, does a peon like me
“uphold” the Office?
It’s easy. It’s all outlined
in the Edict of Faith.
They read it to us
every chance they get.
It goes on forever.
It speaks of transgressions that might
cost your life. Yet men fall asleep!
I can sum up the Edict
in one word: observe.
Neighbor, watch neighbor.
Friend, spy on friend.
If one of us errs,
we all suffer.
What to do then?
Tell Mother Church.
Don’t worry your poor
little head about proof.
We’ll believe you.
Heresy is a plague
and it spreads through people’s souls
like fire through straw.
Don’t let the small things escape you.
Does brother change to clean clothes
near the end of the week? That’s a sign.
He’s observing the Saturday Sabbath:
the day of the Jews.
Does sister refuse to eat pork?
That’s a sign. She’s following
old Jewish laws about food.
Does cousin cross his fingers behind him
while praising God? Spit on the ground during
Mass? Seem to smile when the Holy Virgin—
her statue—goes past?
Sign, sign, sign.
These people’s souls are crying in need.
You must save them.
Better to burn here on Earth
than be lost to the hellfire forever.
Commission
Pigs’ feet this time.
I never thought supper
would end!
Plates finally empty,
the table is cleared.
Papa brings out one book
we do own outright—the record
of all our accounts in the shop.
“Why so much credit?” whines Señor Ortiz.
You see, besides owning the house,
he is now partner in the shop.
So he says what he likes.
He thinks we’ve no talen
t for money.
And I must say, he’s right.
If someone can’t pay,
we’ll copy for pies, or for paper,
or for some future favor.
Papa says good comes around
in the end. But there aren’t
enough turns left in the Earth
for people to pay back what they owe us.
By the time the señor stands to go,
Papa’s brow is down near his nose.
There’s good news: our landlord sails
for Lisbon tomorrow.
And he’s left us a job.
“One that pays,” Papa says with a smile.
Or is that a grimace?
It’s a stupid how-to for ladies at court.
How to dress. How many cloves
will cure rancid breath. How—
I’m not joking—to hold in your farts.
The patron needs fifty copies. By week’s end!
So you see what’s become of my art.
House Break
I’ve done nothing but copy
for days.
(Well, yes, on Sunday, we did break
for church.)
Each night when light fails
we must cease our labors.
Parchment’s too precious to risk candle flame.
Our work at an end, I want to escape.
But since they hanged that young boy,
Mama and Papa prefer I stay in.
I’ve nothing to hide.
We are good Christians.
We keep all the fasts.
Who in this world would waste time
to hurt me?
One night, I can’t stand it.
It’s a feast day. Curfew is lifted—
for all but Ramon! I can hear the fiesta
from here. The streets sound alive
with people and song.
An ear to the door—
they’re asleep. It’s not hard to tell.
Both Mama and Papa snore like wild boars.
Free!
No thought to direction. I run.
All roads lead to the river: the Guadalquivir.
I’m there before long.
The water wheel’s idle, but still I can hear
soft patters of splash. And then,
a girl’s giggle. A boy’s coaxing voice.
Are such moments for me?
Or will I go to my grave
having held in my hands
nothing softer than pages
made from cowhides and sheepskins?
Sabbath
Sundays, I am allowed out of doors for,
as my parents put it,
“a few hours of play.”
You’d think I was five, not fifteen!
And even this freedom—a product
of fear.
If, on Sundays, you stay in your house,
the friars will think
you have something to hide.
Are you working in there?
Perhaps eating meat?
Both are forbidden on the Sabbath.
They’re for secret Jews, and heretics.
Such monsters must burn.
So Sundays, it’s safer outside than in.
Next Easter, there is to be
a royal joust. Though it’s many months off,
the boys in the quarter think of
nothing else.
We practice with great concentration,
as if there’s a chance we’ll be knighted
tomorrow and asked to compete.
Our lances are branches
we’ve stripped from a tree.
But with my pumice stone
I sharpen their tips, just a bit.
Lope is taking things too much
to heart. Manuel has him down
and shouts, “Die, Jewish dog!”
Lope springs up as if scorpion-stung.
“Don’t you dare call me that, you—
Marrano pig! Your mouth stinks of garlic,
the food of the Jews!”
“Well, you just plain stink!”
And that does it. The retort is so feeble
we all three start laughing.
But later that day I remember their faces
and long for sunrise.
To get back to work,
where words are safe.
Dinner Guests
They don’t always leave
the spying to us.
One Friday, three men
storm in as we sup.
Fridays are fast days:
no Christian eats meat.
They peer into the pot
with such somber scowls,
I swallow a laugh.
It’s only fish.
You can see they’re upset
it’s not adafina—Jewish meat stew.
Or—better yet—the head
of a bishop or two.
Then they leave.
No Goodnight or God Save You or even
a grunt.
Sliding
I’ve heard whispers.
Some New Christians err.
“Backsliding,” it’s called.
They may hide Jewish objects—
menorahs or prayer shawls, perhaps—
in their homes.
Or maybe they light candles on Fridays,
to prepare for a Saturday Sabbath—the choice
of the Jews.
And they might say, “Dio,” not “Dios,” meaning:
only one God.
That’s Jewish too.
My parents don’t do
any of this.
They are good Catholics.
Mama prays to the Virgin
even when no one is there
to take note.
But—
In the tiny, dark room
where both of them sleep,
there’s a hole. You can’t see it
unless
you know where to look.
I know.
I went past one night.
I heard a faint scrape.
Looked through the keyhole.
I wish I had not.
Papa was crouching down near his bed,
replacing a stone in the wall.
he were sliding a delicate loaf
of fine bread into an oven.
Perhaps the stone had come loose.
He was just mending it.
It is, after all, a very old house.
But my heart tells me no.
There is something inside
the recess in the wall.
The scariest part?
Because of that Edict of Faith
we pledged to at Mass,
I’m under oath
to find out just what.
Shoes
Father Cuesta, our priest,
is gone from the church!
A new man, Father Perez,
preaches the sermon.
He’s stiff as a shirt
that’s been dried in the sun.
The rumors are flying.
They say Father Cuesta,
a converso, you see,
was praying with Jews.
And not only that:
he wore, so they say, the communion host—
the incarnate body of Christ—in his shoes!
The new Father listed
the tortures of hell.
I peeked at Papa.
I know hellfire and demons
aren’t things he believes.
I heard they pulled off his shoes in the square.
Father Cuesta’s, that is.
Two bloody circles, red on white, were in there.
He swore they weren’t hosts.
He’d given his life up to God:
why would he want to torture his son?
The circles of white were just
morsels of cotton to ease his sore feet.
So they said he was blistered
from going barefoot on Pesach,
the Passover fast of the Jews.
Poor Father Cuesta.
(He’s sentenced to burn.)
The moral is this:
you’re doomed if they start
to think of your shoes.
Guilds
I’m not your best guide
to how these things work.
All I know is you sure can’t avoid them.
There are guilds for every Cordoban trade—
or just about. Guilds for breadmakers.
Guilds for blacksmiths. Guilds, even,
for cleaning latrines
where men shit.
From what I can tell,
these guilds are like clubs.
They have meetings and rules.
There are fees.
What’s most important,
at least so it seems: each guild
has its own robes for processions.
We haven’t had a guild in a while.
But things are changing. There is talk
of a printing press coming to Spain.
Scribes will lose work. They must organize.
That’s all well and good.
I like fancy clothes.
Yet that’s not all there is to the rumor.
Guilds are known for prizing pure blood.
There’ll be no parades
for conversos like us.
Sure Enough
The guild of the parchmenters
is well established.
Its members have heard
of this new guild of scribes.
And been persuaded the guilds
must work together.
Business is business.
The short of it is, they’ve been told
not to sell us their wares.
Parchment must be saved
for true Christian scribes.
And we’re not true Christians?
Do they think we mix our
“Jewish blood” with the ink
in order to write invisible lies?
Papa is livid.
What will we write on, our foreheads?
A scribe without parchment, he says,
is just like a voice
in a world with no ears.
Baptisms (2)
Here’s what I don’t get.
They once were obsessed
with baptizing Jews.
My ancestors did what they wanted.
Those of us who remain
are all Christians now.
There is barely a Jew left in al-Andalus.
Why do they hate us so,
still?
Auto-da-fé
I dream that flames kiss
my kneecaps.
Or a man strangles me
while a crowd shouts for blood.
Peace be with you, Benveniste!
But most often I dream of the man with the eye.