Journey of Strangers

by Elizabeth Zelvin

  While Spain sought new wealth across the Ocean Sea, Portuguese navigators had also been seeking a trade route to the Indies, not by sailing west as Admiral Columbus had, but by exploring the coast of Africa, sailing ever farther south in the hope of finding a way around it to the east. So far, the chief riches they had found consisted of African slaves, who were proving more robust in enduring the European climate than the Taino the Admiral had taken captive.

  “Whether we go by land or sea,” Rachel said, “we will undoubtedly face dangers. Yet we must go, and I say the sooner the better. Summer will not last forever.”

  “I wish it would,” Javier muttered.

  One day, Javier invited Hutia to accompany him on an expedition to shoot birds in a wood at some distance from the farm, saying the local fletcher needed feathers for the substantial number of arrows we had ordered. I said nothing but followed them at a distance. I did not think Javier intended serious harm to Hutia, but I could not rid myself of unease. When I came upon them, Hutia had tripped in a rabbit hole and lay sprawled on the bumpy ground, which was thick with an uneven cover of grass and wildflowers dry enough to smell like fresh hay. His bow and arrows lay out of reach of his hand, and he had reached out to Javier to help him rise. He was laughing. Javier stood looking down at him, making no move to assist him. He held his right arm behind his back, his fist clenched around a sizable rock.

  I put my arm around him in a comradely fashion, effectively immobilizing him, while I extended my other arm, pulling Hutia up. With an exclamation of thanks, Hutia bent and began retrieving his scattered arrows. Javier had dropped the rock the moment I touched him. His face and neck burned bright red with shame as much as anger. I drew him away so Hutia could not hear.

  “Whatever you were thinking of doing,” I murmured, “think no more of it. It will solve nothing and can only cause you harm.”

  “It is not fair!” Javier burst out. “If she can marry a savage, why not a soldier?”

  “My friend,” I said, “you cannot imagine the sacrifices he has made for love of her. Nor is it certain that my father will bestow her hand on him, even provided we find my family without any of us getting killed.”

  I was tempted to say more. Would you deny your Lord Jesus Christ to win her? Would you submit yourself to circumcision? For Hutia was determined to embrace Judaism, knowing that my parents were unlikely to consent to the marriage on any other condition. But it would be folly to reveal as much to Javier. A spiteful word to the Inquisition would part Rachel and Hutia forever. Jealousy had turned Javier from a simple, loyal youth to a man whose rashness meant we could not trust him.

  Later, when I could speak to Hutia alone, I advised him to watch his back.

  To Rachel, I said only, “We must leave soon.”

  “That is what I said,” Rachel said. “We have only to find a ship. Or will it be a caravan?”

  “Whichever offers itself first,” I said, “since both land and sea seem to hold their share of perils. Either must be headed in the right direction: toward Firenze, but not in the direct path of a French or indeed any other army.”

  Having crossed the Ocean Sea, I found it hard to view the Mediterranean with apprehension as far as natural dangers went. But as I roamed the Barcelona docks, seeking information as well as possible passage, I found that the sea captains and sailors I met had great respect for the Middle Sea, especially in the fall and winter.

  “The Turk,” one old salt told me, “he’ll keep a-goin’ through November. So make sure you pick a ship with cannon mounted on it to give ’em the greeting they deserve, and them damned pirates out of Rhodes too, that’ll board a Christian ship and plunder the cargo same as any heathen. But come All Saints Day, you’ll find me snug at me own fireside, feet up on the hearth and a flagon in me hand.”

  As for the overland route, not many merchants wanted to plunge into the heart of a continent at war.

  “Ye’ll find many folk, whole villages and towns, that fear sack or have survived it,” a weathered muleteer who had crossed France many times told me, “running away from Italy with this latest madness going on, but few willing to travel toward it, not a-purpose.”

  “Is it possible to cross the Alps by accident?” I asked, signaling the tavern keeper to bring my informant more wine.

  “Nay, but if an army in search of food and livestock accosts your caravan, no matter how well guarded, you’ll flee in whatever direction leads away from it. Don’t count on finding a well-guarded caravan, neither. Most of the fellows who love a fight joined up last year on one side or t’other. They’ll live to regret it, so they will.”

  Much of our time at Doña Marina’s was devoted to the study of languages. We all knew the importance of being able to communicate, no matter where we went. Indeed, Papa had taught us that wherever our home, Jews were ever citizens of the world. He had made sure we knew a serviceable amount of German, French, and Italian as well as Latin and Byzantine Greek. Our skills, however, had grown rusty, and all the European languages save Spanish were new to Hutia. In the afternoons, when it was too hot for weapons practice and the servants drowsed, we would sit in the cool, tiled courtyard and pretend we were travelers already, met at some wayside inn, and challenge each other to maintain a suitable conversation in all these languages.

  Occasionally, Doña Marina, who was well versed in these tongues as well, would sacrifice her siesta to join us, putting us all on our mettle. She soon realized that Hutia was quicker at languages even than Rachel. This increased her respect for him and allowed them to talk more easily and relax in each other’s company. More often, she summoned her man of business, Señor Ortega, to tutor us. Since he had to look after Doña Marina’s interests all over Europe, not only was he fluent, but he also had practical suggestions about the journey.

  “You might consider learning Turkish as well,” he said one day, as we sat sipping wine after a lively lesson. “Even if Venice keeps the Ottomans confined to the Balkans, encroaching no further on Europe, their empire is ever more important to European trade. It is a useful skill. I am not fluent myself, but I can send you a young man from Edirne, the city the Byzantines called Adrianople, who can teach you the basics and help you with pronunciation.”

  “It has already been suggested,” I said drily, “that we are most likely to find ourselves needing to speak Turkish by being boarded by corsairs,”

  “We must hope it does not come to that,” Señor Ortega said. It would have comforted me more if he had assured us this was unlikely to happen. On the other hand, if he had, we might have been less inclined to trust his judgment about everything else he told us.

  The more we delayed, the more difficult it might be to catch up with the family, even if we knew where they had gone. I did not want to think of the dangers, not only to Papa and Mama, but also to my sisters Elvira and Susanna, young women dependent on others to protect them. I doubted any other Jewish girl in Europe, or any Christian girl either, could match Rachel’s ability to defend herself or her skills to survive in any imaginable circumstances.

  Summer was waning, with crops ripening in the fields, pigs and chickens growing fat, and the leaves of even the lushest trees heavy with dust, before I found the opportunity I sought. I burst into the shaded courtyard behind Doña Marina’s house, where my aunt and Rachel, dressed demurely in a gown for once, sat plying their needles. Hutia sat at Rachel’s feet, disentangling the colored skeins of yarn she was using in her embroidery. A new footman, very young and nervous, was pouring wine with fruit floating in it from a pitcher that had been left to cool in the well, a refreshing drink on such a hot and airless day.

  “I have found us a ship!” I said.

  The Fourth Letter

  September 1493

  Dearest children,

  We have had no further word of you and no way to know whether our letters reach you, though we miss no opportunity to send one on its way. Last time Papa inquired, the gentleman he spoke with, an agent of the Medici, was not
only discreet but remarkably distant. Papa concludes that your Aunt Marina has removed her affairs from Medici hands as he suggested. So that letter, at least, must have arrived at its destination. Papa says his sister is wise enough not to invest her wealth in one place but spread it about so that whatever happens, a portion of it, at least, will always be safe. And you may be sure he has taken a leaf from the same book with regard to our girls’ dowries and whatever else we could salvage from the wreck of our fortunes in Spain. But these Italian states especially are so quarrelsome that it is hard to know where we, much less our money, will be safe.

  You will rejoice to hear that Elvira and Akiva Davila are betrothed! The Davilas are fine people, and we like them very much. Indeed, I grew up with my cousin Chaim, Akiva’s papa, and I know he and Miriam already love Elvira like a daughter. Family is more important than ever in these troubled times. We and the elder Davilas spend much time discussing the latest news and rumors so we can make a wise decision about what to do if it should become necessary to leave Firenze. There! I have said it! We hoped this beautiful city with its love for art and learning would be our permanent home. But to be Jewish in these times is always to have one bag packed and one foot out the door.

  It is said that King Ferrante of Naples is most hospitable to the Jews. He is said to value the artisans among us, especially the dyers and weavers, and has even stated publicly that we must be protected. The Davilas have been urging us to consider moving to Naples while Italy is relatively calm and safe travel possible. They point out that Naples, being farther south than Firenze, has milder winters and the region more abundant harvests, since the growing season is longer. But King Ferrante’s reputation is not uniformly good, in spite of his kindness to the Jews. Rumor has it that he not only imprisons and executes his enemies, but has them embalmed and clothed as they were in life, so he may display them to his guests in a sort of museum. Papa does not believe this tale, but who could possibly invent such a thing?

  We have heard that King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella have commissioned Admiral Columbus to mount another expedition to the Indies. Diego, if you accompany him, you must contrive a way to send us word before you go. Above all, let us know your dispositions for Rachel! We ask Adonai to keep you both safe, my darlings, and bring you home to us.

  All my love, Mama

  Chapter 9: Joanna

  Joanna stayed on the alert for another opportunity to sneak up on deck unobserved, but Imaculada, finally recovering from her seasickness along with the other degradados, kept a sharp eye on her. Cranky and demanding, she would not allow Joanna even to empty the slop bucket over the rail without supervision. Joanna took a free breath only when Imaculada and Felicidade had a fancy to take the air, as they called it. This consisted of promenading up and down the deck with skirts hiked up and bosoms well in evidence, exchanging provocative glances and bawdy quips with any man they encountered, whether soldier, sailor, or gentleman of Captain Caminha’s entourage.

  Joanna still slept poorly on straw thinly spread over heaving planks, with the patter of rats’ feet and the desolate wails and whimpers of the younger children as lullabies. Once recovered from the nausea of sea travel, all of them were subject to gnawing hunger as well as aches and fevers, runny noses, and in some cases welts and bruises from beatings by the degradados. Through slit eyes, she would watch Imaculada slip out at night past the snoring Belmiro and climb the ladder to the creaking hatch. If she held her head at a certain angle, Joanna could see a bit of starlight or the warmer light of a lantern falling on Imaculada’s upturned face or on the hand that helped her up and then slowly lowered the hatch cover. She would wake again to hear Imaculada return, hours later, a faint jingle about her person revealing that she had recently added coins to her purse.

  The children were allowed on deck for brief periods of religious instruction, since the priests charged with educating them to be good Christians flatly refused to descend into the stinking hold. Lessons consisted of many repetitions of something called the Credo and something else called the Pater Noster, both in Latin, which Joanna recognized as prayers only because they ended with “Amen.”

  “But what does it mean?” Joanna ground out through her teeth at some point during every lesson. This usually earned her a slap on the cheek or a clout on the ear, though once, an exasperated priest swung his heavy crucifix at her head, laying open her cheek with a sharp corner of the silver cross.

  To her surprise, Imaculada made much of this mishap. She insisted on sewing up the split cheek, having unraveled an old shawl for thread and acquired a precious steel needle by barter of an unspecified nature.

  “You’ll never be a beauty,” she said, while Joanna bit down on a rag so that she would not scream and squeezed Simon’s hand tight enough to make him wiggle and moan in protest. “But you can be pleasing to the eye, and so I’ll keep you. A badly scarred face is in neither of our interests. If they take you in disgust, it will be a poor return indeed on my investment.”

  Joanna listened to this speech with dread. Simon was too young to confide in, and Natan, when she mentioned her fears, dismissed them.

  “You must do whatever they tell you to,” Natan said. “If we strive always to please them, eventually we will gain their trust. By that, and by showing ourselves good Christians, we will prosper. Then, once we are grown, we can become people of means in this new land. You are lucky that your Christian mother cares for your appearance. She is no doubt thinking ahead to the time when you may be given in marriage.”

  “You do not understand!” Joanna said. “You are a boy.” And a pompous fool, she added silently. “Have you not realized they plan to breed us with the African slaves to create a populous colony? They may call it marriage, as they call the degradados our parents and ourselves Christians, but it is no such thing.”

  One night, instead of slipping out as usual, Imaculada made her way over to where Joanna lay, feigning sleep. Imaculada stooped and shook her shoulder.

  “Girl! Get up! I know you’re not asleep, so stop pretending. Don’t you want to come out on the deck? The air is cooler there, and I’ve a mind to share it.”

  Joanna’s eyes flew open. Slowly, she sat up.

  “Why are you being kind?” she asked warily.

  “Aren’t you my adopted daughter?” Imaculada twisted her face into a simulacrum of sweetness. “We could be companions, you and I. I need not treat you as a child anymore. Are you not pleased? Girls always want to grow up to be women as fast as possible. Come.”

  She drew Joanna up and linked arms with her, chattering gaily, though in hushed tones, about the beauty of the night and how she had always wanted a sister. Her grip was too tight for Joanna to pull away. When they reached the ladder, Imaculada pushed Joanna ahead of her, putting an intrusive hand beneath her rump to force her to climb. Joanna’s heart pounded, and her breath came in short gasps. Imaculada followed so close behind that she felt smothered, as if the woman were an enveloping feather bed. At the top of the ladder, Joanna stopped. Imaculada reached past her and knocked on the underside of the hatch cover in a complicated pattern. She braced Joanna with her other arm, so she could neither fall nor get away, not even by flinging herself off the ladder.

  The hatch creaked open, and a bearded face peered down.

  “Have you got my prize?” the man demanded eagerly. “I won it fair and square, and so Belmiro knows.”

  Imaculada gave a lazy, seductive laugh at odds with the brisk shove she gave Joanna, sending her stumbling onto the deck. Imaculada held out a hand for the man to help her onto the deck like a court lady.

  “I warned Belmiro not to play at dice with you,” she said. “But if our little arrangement works out as I hope, I’ll say nothing to him of how you won.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come now, soldier, let us understand each other. I am a keen observer of human nature, and I have played at dice since earliest childhood.”

  Joanna, staring at the ground
and trying not to think, cast a quick glance upward. The man was indeed a soldier, not wearing a steel helmet or a leather corselet, but shod in boots and with a short sword at his waist that looked as if it had been blooded in battle.

  Imaculada grasped Joanna firmly by the forearm and pulled her toward the soldier, more as if inviting him to arrest her than to present them to each other.

  “Here is your prize,” she said. “And you have a small gift for me, do you not?”

  Grinning, the soldier tossed a coin to Imaculada, who caught it deftly.

  “Joanna, this is Duarte,” Imaculada said calmly. “He has won you for the night, and you will be a biddable young woman and do whatever he tells you to. I will have none of your lip or whining, and you will speak of this to no one. If you disobey me on any count, I will know.”

  “You said she was a frisky one,” Duarte said, eyeing the trembling Joanna with some skepticism.

  “She does not know your ways yet,” Imaculada said. “But she will learn. And remember why you had to risk so much to gain this night’s particular prize. Now I will be gone, for I have business of my own to attend to. Return her in good condition, soldier, and before first light, or you will get no more of her.”

  Joanna’s pulse pounded in her ears. She felt near to fainting. A sensation of terror invaded her trembling legs, her arms, and the mysterious region between her thighs.

  “Come along then, girl,” Duarte said, not unkindly. “I know a quiet corner where none will disturb us. Let’s get that ugly gown off you and have a look.”

  There was no escape. The moon was new, so the night was too dark for her to see him well, or he her. He led her to an even darker corner of the deck, beneath a tented triangle of canvas to shade them from stray lantern light. It seemed that his idea of having a look consisted of stripping off her gown, mercifully not ripping it, and running his fingers up and down her whole body both inside and outside her shift. As he touched her in places that until now only she had owned, she twitched, writhed, and shivered, bewildered by the variety of sensations that she could not name or understand. It was as if her own body betrayed her.