Journey of Strangers

by Elizabeth Zelvin

  I felt a lively interest in what Amir would say. Whenever the Moor’s path crossed mine, something unexpected happened. After months of behaving exactly as a dutiful young Jewish man ought—barring my failure to marry or commit myself wholeheartedly to my father’s business—I was ready for a touch of the unexpected.

  Chapter 28: Rachel

  “I do not understand, Mama,” Rachel said, “how you can be so incurious about all that happens in Istanbul outside these few streets that surround the Seville congregation.” She pushed a strand of hair back from her forehead with a floury hand, for she and Mama were making bread.

  “I do not think that I am incurious,” Mama said. “I am interested in what your brother tells us of the dockside and the palace. And only today, Papa visited a carpet warehouse, for he thinks of investing in a trading venture. He examined carpets that will travel far, to be trodden on by strangers in Antwerp and London.”

  “But do you never wish to see these places for yourself?” Rachel demanded. “Not only the warehouse and the docks, but Antwerp and London?”

  “I cannot say I do,” Mama said. “If I did not stay home to manage the household, your father would wear torn shirts and eat crusts, and that would never do. Besides, our own travels were exhausting, uncomfortable, and frightening. I am content to stay home.”

  “Well, I am not,” Rachel declared. “I am glad to be home and grateful for my family.” She flung her arms around her mother’s neck, spraying a fine mist of flour on them both. “But I cannot say that I am content.”

  “I do not see,” Mama said, “how you can say that I never leave the neighborhood, when only yesterday we spent hours in the Bedestan.”

  “Yes, but that is the only place you ever go. Do you never wish to see the janissaries play cereed?”

  “I understand that it seems strange to you, but no, dear, I do not.”

  “Then why can’t I accompany Diego next time he visits the palace?”

  Rachel knew well enough that Hutia, not Diego, continued to visit the palace. I am not really trying to deceive Mama, she thought. Nothing I said is untrue.

  “It would not be seemly, dear,” Mama said. “We must never forget that we are here on sufferance. For now, the sultan allows our women to go about with uncovered faces. But that could change. If you visited the palace with Diego, I am afraid you would not be treated with respect.”

  “It’s not fair,” Rachel said, knowing she sounded sulky and feeling ashamed of it. Now that I am under my parents’ roof again, she thought, I behave like a spoiled silly girl instead of a woman. “I am sorry to complain, Mama. When I had a job to do, such as being the Admiral’s scribe, it made me happy. And I enjoyed pounding yuca and making hutia stew in the yucayeque. I do not know why kneading dough and peeling onions in Istanbul should not feel equally satisfying.”

  “In different circumstances,” Mama said, “you might make candles or embroider linens and sell them in the Grand Bazaar.”

  She means if I were married, Rachel thought. We tiptoe around each other these days. It is unbearable.

  “Darling Mama,” she said, “I did not mean for it to be like this. I am sorry to make things more difficult for you and Papa.”

  “Nonsense.” Mama gave Rachel a quick kiss on the cheek. Her lips were slightly sticky, and she smelled of honey and raisins. “Our distress is for you. We only want you to be happy.”

  “You would think those rabbis had never been young,” Rachel said. “They confuse stubbornness with wisdom, at least when it is their stubbornness and not that of someone who merely wants to live the life she chooses.”

  “Oh, Rachel, think of all that they have sacrificed, how much all of us have suffered, that the Jews might not die out as Hutia's people have. How can we not wish you to bear your part in the survival of our community? We do respect Hutia.”

  “It is not enough!”

  “Please, darling, try to understand.”

  “I wish Akiva respected Hutia,” Rachel said. “He called Hutia a savage the other day when he thought no one but Elvira could hear him.”

  “Akiva is too easily swayed by what the neighbors think,” Mama said.

  “I do not know which is the more pigheaded,” Rachel said, “an old rabbi or a young rabbi.”

  “I promise such concerns will play no part in our final decision,” Mama said. “In the meantime, try to be grateful that you have more freedom than the Muslim women who spend their whole lives sealed off from the world. And I promise I will try to think of something to add savor to your days.”

  A few days later, Rachel returned from the Davilas’ house next door to find Mama sitting in their own tiny courtyard eating dates and oranges with a woman Rachel had never seen before. Rachel was not eager to make polite conversation with a stranger. Elvira had complained of the heat all morning and needed frequent rubbing of her aching back, for she was very near her time, with a belly big enough to carry a calf. Susanna had chattered on and on about her wedding, making plans so extravagant they would have suited a queen, had half of them been carried out. But Mama called out to her, so she summoned up a welcoming smile and joined them in the courtyard.

  Mama extended a hand to Rachel and drew her close so she could give her a kiss and brush a wayward strand of hair back from her forehead.

  “Kira, this is my daughter, Rachel, about whom I have been telling you. Rachel, this is Kira Chana. We met in the Bedestan this morning, and she was kind enough to come and take refreshment with us. As we have been talking about what occupation a Jewish woman might follow in Istanbul, if she finds that keeping her home is not activity enough, I think you will be interested to hear what she does.”

  The lady was small and plump, with shining dark hair coiled up under her cap. She had twinkling brown eyes, looked to be a few years younger than Mama, and was beautifully dressed in silk with a pale blue brocaded overrobe.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Doña Kira,” Rachel said.

  The visitor laughed.

  “Kira is not my name, but the title I am known by,” she said. “Kira is a Greek word for ‘lady.’ My name is Chana.”

  “My apologies, Kira Chana,” Rachel said, returning the lady’s friendly smile. “You are not from Spain, then?”

  “No,” she said, “my family lived in Turkey for three generations before the Byzantines were overthrown. I was born in Edirne, where my father managed the family business, but we were relocated in ’54. Do you know about the sürgün? Sultan Mehmet wanted to rebuild Istanbul, which had been badly damaged by the time the war ended. He moved people around like so many chess pieces, not only Jewish families but many others. It was not meant as a punishment. He was convinced that the presence of Jews with our abilities would help his new capital prosper. Our family has always thrived by cooperating with the current ruler, so I grew up in Istanbul and have raised my own family here.”

  “May I ask what the family business is,” Rachel asked, “if it is not rude of me?”

  “Not at all,” Kira Chana said. “We are merchants.”

  “Mama said that you engage in business yourself,” Rachel said. “Do you have a trunk in the Bedestan?”

  “No,” she said. “I am a purveyor to the sultan’s harem in the palace.”

  "The harem!"

  “I said you would find it interesting!” Mama said with satisfaction.

  “So I do!” Rachel said. “How did you have the luck to obtain such a position? Are you the only one, or are there others? What do you purvey? And I long to hear as much as you are willing to tell me about what the harem is like!”

  “There are two or three of us at any given time,” Kira Chana said. “They refer to all of us as kira, whatever our origins. My aunt was a kira before me. She trained me by allowing me to visit the harem with her from the time I was old enough to keep my mouth shut and my eyes open, not only so I would learn, but because discretion is a key requirement for the job. If I had proved to be a chatterbox, she would have sent me
home and taken on one of my cousins instead. By the time she retired, I was ready to take over.”

  “Does that mean you cannot tell me anything about your work?” Rachel tried to suppress her disappointment.

  Kira Chana laughed.

  “Not at all. As you have probably guessed, since the sultan’s ladies cannot go to the Bedestan, I bring the Bedestan to them. They are always eager for the latest bauble or plaything. They are given many luxuries in the palace, but some things must be sought in the bazaar. I act as their banker if they wish to exchange a jewel for gold, and I carry out whatever commissions they wish, such as buying medicines and cosmetics on their behalf or summoning just the right poet or instructor—they must be women, of course—to the palace. But some of the ladies also wish me to purvey information, and that is where the discretion comes in. I am their eyes and ears on the world, and I would not last long if they ceased to trust me.”

  “It sounds very exciting!” Rachel said. “And I am glad the harem women are not so confined that they cannot have any dealings with the outside world, as I imagined. I have pictured them as sad and lonely prisoners, no matter how many of them there are.”

  “They are anything but sad and lonely,” Kira Chana said. “Of course there are always some who are not there by their own choice and remain unhappy, even when the sultan favors them. But most have been brought up to consider it a great honor. Do not forget that most of them are Muslims, so they would spend their lives in some man’s harem, if not the sultan’s. It is a comfortable life. There is a lot of laughter in the harem.”

  “Oh, please, tell me more,” Rachel said.

  “I can do better,” Kira Chana said. “Would you like to accompany me to the palace?”

  “Oh, kira!” Rachel cried. “I would love to! Mama, I may go, may I not?”

  “Of course, dear,” Mama said. “I am delighted for you. Kira Chana, thank you so much for giving Rachel this opportunity. Please put her to work as you will. Rachel is a doer, not a spectator. I know she will not disappoint you in any way.”

  Chapter 29: Diego

  Like other public buildings in Istanbul, the hammam was a massive stone edifice of lofty vaulted ceilings and arched doorways, slender pillars and lacy grillwork. Lanterns and thin shafts of daylight slanting in from high up on the walls lit the reception area. When Amir and I entered the outer hall, we were invited to exchange our clothes for peştamal, sheets of thin silken cloth big enough to wind around our whole bodies, and nalin, wooden sandals elevated several inches off the slippery floor by pegs protruding from the soles. The attendant greeted Amir by name and offered him a more elaborate pair of elevated clogs inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  “I come here frequently,” Amir said, “so it is convenient for me to leave my own bath shoes with the attendants. You might consider doing the same. The sultan himself endowed this hammam, and it is the best in Istanbul, at least outside the palace. Let us go immediately to the hot room. Once we have been bathed and massaged, we can take refreshment in the cold room.”

  The hot room was a spacious atrium under a dome, its central feature a series of fountains surrounding a vast marble stone so big that eight or ten men might lie upon it. It was untenanted when we entered the room, and Amir indicated that we were to do exactly that.

  “Be careful,” he cautioned me. “The göbek taşı is hot. You will find it very relaxing once you get used to it, but first lay a fold of your peştamal on the stone, then lower your belly cautiously onto it.”

  I did as he suggested. Within a short time, I felt my muscles relax. It occurred to me that I had been tense for many months, ever since we left the Indies, even, perhaps, since 1492. When I closed my eyes, the stone under my belly, comfortably warm, evoked a vivid memory of Quisqueya: lying on a rock in the sun with Tanama below the waterfall where we had first made love. For a moment, the low murmur of men’s voices speaking Turkish and the hiss of steam that filled the air and released a cleansing sweat on our skin became the cries of parrots and other tropical birds, the chitter of small creatures high in the forest canopy, and the rushing descent of the waterfall.

  I was almost asleep when I heard a soft voice inquire in Turkish whether I was ready to be bathed. I opened my eyes just long enough to see that the attendant was young, no more than a boy, and let my eyelids droop again. Amir answered for me, evidently ordering the full range of services for both of us. Then skillful hands took charge of my body, soaping, scrubbing, and kneading until I felt boneless and inert. I wondered if I would ever move again and decided that I would not mind it if I never did.

  It might have been an hour before Amir’s voice roused me. With his amused encouragement, I gathered myself together and followed him to the cold room, where we were given clean robes and shown to couches where we could talk while we ate fruit and pastries rich with honey and crushed nuts and drank cool sherbet that tasted of roses and aromatic spices.

  Amir insisted that I recount all our adventures after his leaving us in Toulon. In turn, I asked what had happened to our unfortunate shipmates after we parted. He much relieved my mind by telling me that the French girls had been ransomed and returned to their kin undamaged except for memories of their terror when they had been captured and uncertain of their fate.

  “I understand that men must be ruthless in war,” I said, “but I do not like the idea of children being enslaved and torn away from their familiar surroundings and all who love them. Do you scorn such softness?”

  “On the contrary,” Amir said, “I am deeply thankful that you hold that opinion, or I would still be a miserable slave in Seville. In the Quran, it is written: ‘Neither kill nor destroy yourselves, for surely Allah has been to you most merciful.’ He who attempts or commits suicide is trying to do God’s job. But in the time between the fall of Granada and when you and Rachel rescued me, I thought often of ending my life. I did not think that Allah had been merciful. Yet, as it turned out, my life had barely begun.”

  “I too,” I said, “have had glimpses of wisdom when I believe that whenever we think it is the end, it is simply another bend in the road. Speaking of rescue, did you complete your mission to Spain?”

  “We did,” he said. “We found a number of wretched Jewish men and women hiding in sea caves on a rocky stretch of coast. Some of them were so close to starvation and others so feverish with untended wounds that they died before we reached Istanbul. These folk had fled from Spain to Lisbon and other Portuguese cities. When the Portuguese king pronounced that they must convert or die, they could think of nothing to do other than to return to Spain and hope for a miracle.”

  “It would seem that you and your crew were that miracle,” I said.

  “Too little and too late, I fear,” he said. “Except for a couple of boys of fourteen or fifteen, there were no children among them.”

  “I am not surprised,” I said “I have heard this story before.”

  “You have heard of the lost children of São Tomé?” Amir said. “It is not common knowledge.”

  “São Tomé? Is that the island’s name? I have only heard it called the Isle of Crocodiles. But the story is well known among the Iberian Jewish parents who endured it and those who must witness their despair. The Portuguese tore their children from their arms, two thousand of them, and sent them to be slaves on an uninhabitable isle, where all of them perished. I have met a father driven mad with grief, and my mother shows what kindness she can to a poor soul who is a mother no more. Among ourselves, we say such children were sent to the lizards. Some say the island harbors dragons that belch smoke and that, from time to time, rivers of liquid flame pour from the monsters’ mouths. They say that all who step ashore fall dead within a year.”

  “It is a terrible tale,” Amir said. “From what I can ascertain, the Portuguese certainly stole away a host of Jewish children and sent them to a fever-ridden isle near the Guinea Coast. Whether or not the isle is uninhabitable, it was uninhabited when Portuguese navigators first discovered
it a matter of twenty-five years ago. That is why the king conceived his scheme of planting sugar and importing slaves to work it, expecting an easy success, since it required no war of conquest.”

  “Someday,” I said, “I must tell you of my time in the Indies with Admiral Columbus. ‘War’ is too inflated a word for how Christians armed with steel and mounted on horses deal with folk who have never seen either before, especially if they are trusting by nature and generous by conviction. My father says that dragons are a myth. I am inclined to agree, since we sailed to the edges of the known world, beyond the compass of any map, and saw none. Papa thinks the smoke and fire might be a volcano like those in Italy—Etna and Vesuvius.”

  “Turkey has its share of volcanoes, including Ararat, but none has erupted within men’s memory. Did you know that we consider your Noah a prophet? In the Quran, we call him Nuh. Istanbul, or rather, Constantinople, once had an earthquake and could have another, they say.”

  “Earthquakes do not trouble me as those children do,” I said, draining my cup of sherbet. “Rumor has a way of gaining conviction as it is repeated, until it is hard to know what to believe.”

  “You have a good heart,” Amir said. “But you can do nothing. The children are all dead.”

  “So everyone says,” I said. “That is precisely what bothers me. How can anyone know for certain?”

  Chapter 30: Rachel

  Three days after her visit, Kira Chana returned to take Rachel with her to the palace. She was accompanied by a boy who led two mules yoked to a wooden cart, its wheels creaking with the weight of a trunk as big as those in which the vendors in the Bedestan stored their goods.

  “This is my youngest son, Solomon,” the kira said. “He will not be allowed anywhere near the harem, of course. In fact, he will leave us at the outermost gate of the palace, the Imperial Gate. The courtyard within it is open to the public, but the mules would not be welcome. The janissaries on guard will send someone to inform the Kizlar Agha, the chief eunuch of the harem, that we have arrived. He will send a eunuch to escort us and slaves to carry the trunk, first through the Gate of Salutation and through the middle court, then through the Gate of Felicity to the inner court, which is the sultan’s private residence. There will be a delay when they see that I have brought a stranger with me. You will be asked some questions, but you have only to answer respectfully and honestly, and there should be no problem.”