Journey of Strangers

by Elizabeth Zelvin

  “Except for Natan,” Joanna said, “I do not believe any Jewish child who knew me and still lives will prove a threat to me. Certain Portuguese are the folk I must avoid.”

  “Those who would recognize you as a fugitive, you mean,” Diego said.

  Joanna’s knife flashed in her hand as she turned on him a baleful smile that brought the words “the wrath of God” to his mind.

  “Those whom I would be hard put to forbear from killing should I encounter them again,” she said.

  Diego’s look of compassion brought a scowl to her face.

  “Do not dare to pity me!” she snapped.

  He hastily rearranged his expression.

  “I would not so presume,” he said. “You may accompany me or not as you choose, but the Africans must go as soon as possible.”

  “I will stay,” Joanna said. She beckoned to the others. “Nunke, Kwaku, when I escaped, I walked a long distance along the beach. None followed me, because I left when the fever was at its height, but that route would leave you too exposed today. Have you a better one?”

  “Brou and I struck south through the forest,” Nunke said, “which gave us ample cover. More land has been cleared since then, but if we go silently and skirt the new plantations, I believe we can remain hidden.”

  “Go quickly, then,” Joanna said. “We will follow you as soon as we can.”

  Miguel, no longer sobbing but dazed and trembling, still knelt in the dirt as the Africans prepared to depart.

  “Miguel,” Diego said, “you must go with them. I will join you shortly.”

  “I should try to speak with him again,” Miguel said. “He is still my son and a child of God.”

  “You must leave him to God,” Diego said, “for there is nothing you can do. If you approach him, you endanger us all.”

  That argument struck home as an appeal to seek his own safety would not have. Miguel allowed Kwaku to take his arm and lead him away, the whole band crouched and hunched close together as they moved off. Diego and Joanna watched them out of sight.

  “How shall we proceed?” Diego asked. “I defer to your experience of the settlement.”

  “The children and degradados who arrived with the governor,” Joanna said, “lived in compounds near the heart of the settlement,” Joanna said. “If those huts still exist, we may find the children who did not die there. If they have moved on, it will most likely be to the earliest cleared plantations. I suggest we start at the Povoação and search outward from the center.”

  “Would not the eldest of the children be the most likely both to remember you,” Diego asked, “and to have been married, freed, and given land of their own?”

  “Natan and I were the eldest,” Joanna said. “But you are right. There were boys of nine or ten who would be bar mitzvah by now if they had not converted and might conceivably have fathered children if they were given wives among the older slave women. Even though the Portuguese thought Jews fit to be slaves, they would value metiço offspring as improving the breed of the blacks.”

  “The very thought of human beings being bred like cattle is repulsive,” Diego said. “It is hard to believe not one would choose a different life if it were offered.”

  “You would be surprised to know how completely one can accept the intolerable,” Joanna said. “After a time, it is but a trick of the mind to convince oneself at one and the same time that it is normal and that it is not happening or is happening to someone else.”

  “You speak as one who has been obliged to perform this mental feat,” Diego said, “and I am sorry for it.”

  “You need not be,” Joanna said. “I am no longer obliged to live daily with the intolerable, and I have locked those memories away.”

  “I wonder,” Diego said, “if such a lock can hold indefinitely. At the least, the memories must come back to you in dreams. But I do not mean to press you. If you ever wish to talk of it, I would be honored by your confidence.”

  “I will not,” Joanna said. “The other girls were too young to be treated as I was. But at the age of twelve, they would have been considered women even had they remained at home, although my father considered that age too young for a betrothal.”

  “As did mine,” Diego said. “My sister is seventeen, and she is but newly betrothed. However, I must tell you that most Jews in Istanbul are marrying their children younger and younger in an effort to rebuild the Jewish people.”

  “So the rabbis themselves,” Joanna said with a sardonic twist of the lip, “consider us breeding stock?”

  “It is not the same!” Diego said. “Well, in a sense, perhaps it is, but I can understand it, can’t you?”

  “Having lost my freedom completely,” Joanna said, “I will allow no one to trifle with it again. The day that we were taken, rabbis performed some hasty marriages on the spot, as if to bind the children to Judaism and prevent them being forcibly married to Africans or Christians later on. But the priests did not consider those marriages binding, so they did no good. And girls of twelve today were eight at the time of the abduction, young enough to have forgotten they were ever Jewish by now. The priests did their best to make sure of that.”

  “In Spain, as you know,” Diego said, “though many of us converted, in every city there were some who went through the motions but secretly never forsook our faith. My family were among those they called marranos.”

  “Mine fled to Portugal,” Joanna said, “in order to avoid having to do just that. In the end, it did us no good.”

  By late that afternoon, they had found only a handful of children and none with whom they thought it safe to speak. Joanna had recognized three boys tilling garden plots of their own, all three with pregnant young African women working alongside them and toddlers playing at their feet.

  “They look happy,” Joanna said reluctantly. “Look, the biggest child is white. Perhaps this boy was allowed to marry a Jewish girl who then died in childbirth, being too young to bear safely, and whom he then replaced with this black girl. From the king of Portugal’s point of view, I would say his plan to populate the island is succeeding.”

  The rough huts Joanna remembered were gone. The settlement had grown populous enough that they found a graveyard behind the church, with neat rows of wooden crosses and ample room for more within a mud-brick enclosure.

  Joanna walked up and down along the rows, reading the inscriptions.

  “Ha! So Imaculada and Belmiro did not survive,” she exclaimed. “I am glad of it!”

  “Who were they?” Diego asked.

  “The degradados to whom I was given,” Joanna said, scowling. “I was told the king intended them to be my Christian parents, but their own intent was to profit from degrading me. May they rot in hell, if such a place exists!”

  “Come away,” Diego urged. “They are gone and cannot hurt you now.”

  “No, I cannot go yet. I must see—oh, no!” Joanna dropped to her knees, her face a mask of pain. “The villains! See what they have done!”

  Diego knelt and peered over her shoulder. Three names were burned into a single cross. The inscription read: “Simon, Samuel, Benjamin—of the household of Belmiro Furtado.”

  “Who are they?” he asked.

  “My brothers,” she said through gritted teeth, clenching and unclenching her fists. “They buried them as Christians in a single grave, to be remembered by a single name, like animals. See how they say ‘of the household,’ designating them as slaves rather than as sons? At least they got Belmiro’s name right: Belmiro the Bastard!”

  “I am truly sorry, Joanna,” Diego said.

  “Simon was my full brother and such a dear, conscientious boy,” she said. “Shmuel and Benji were my stepmother’s children. When I had to mind them at home, I considered them a nuisance, but I came to love them dearly here, where all we had was each other. Shmuel was the reckless one, Benji the sweet one. He was just a baby! Shmuel is not actually buried here. A crocodile ate him in the swamp. The other two died of fever.
It was after that that I left.”

  “Would you like me to say Kaddish for them?”

  “At least it is a prayer that Adonai is likely to hear,” Joanna said. “I prayed so many that were disregarded, prayers for my brothers’ safety. Do I shock you?”

  “My father,” Diego said, “who is the wisest person I know, says that all anger, from whatever cause, is to some extent anger at God.”

  “And what are we supposed to do about it,” Joanna asked, “when God does nothing?”

  “Exactly what we are doing now,” Diego said. “Tikkun olam. Whatever we ourselves can do to repair the world. Let me say Kaddish for your brothers, Joanna.”

  Joanna shrugged.

  Taking that as assent, Diego closed his eyes and spoke the familiar words in an undertone.

  “Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash . . .”

  Afterward, Joanna insisted on reading the inscription on every cross in the graveyard.

  “Many whom I know to be dead are not buried here,” she said. “Their names have already been forgotten. I suppose you will say that Adonai remembers them.”

  “I believe He does,” Diego said, “but I neither can nor wish to compel you to believe the same.”

  “That is refreshing,” Joanna said, “in a world in which it sometimes seems that the powerful have nothing better to do with their power than compel others to believe as they do.”

  As the afternoon waned, they made their way toward the outskirts of the settlement.

  “We had better find the others before dark,” Diego said. “I hope they have found a spot where we can lie concealed and get a few hours’ sleep.”

  “We must hurry, then,” Joanna said. “Sunset never varies here. The sky is ablaze for a few minutes, then night falls like a curtain coming down. There is no winter when the days get shorter or summer with a lingering period of twilight.”

  The workers in the fields had laid down their tools and were moving in the other direction, toward their dwellings and cooking fires.

  “At least we need not worry about being discovered,” Diego said.

  At that moment, Joanna, pushing through the cane, came face to face with a Jewish boy and girl of eleven or twelve who were walking hand in hand. The boy had wiry brown hair much like Diego’s own, but the girl’s thin face was framed in a mop of coppery curls. Joanna and the children uttered simultaneous exclamations of surprise. The girl dropped the boy’s hand and looked apprehensive, as if detected in committing an infraction, while the boy squared his narrow shoulders and looked belligerent.

  “Mira!” Joanna said. “Do you not remember me? I am Joanna. We lived together in the children’s hut when we first came to São Tomé.”

  “I do not remember you,” the girl said. She took the boy’s hand again as if he lent her courage to speak to this stranger. “And my name is Maria. I live on a fazenda. My parents will be worried if I do not return by sunset.”

  Joanna and Diego exchanged glances, both noting that she had said “worried” rather than “angry.”

  “You are happy, then?” Joanna said.

  “What do you mean?” the girl said. “Of course I am. And if I am good and pray hard to the Blessed Virgin, Cristiano and I will soon be betrothed.”

  “You do not have to tell them all that!” the boy said. “Who are you to question us? I have not seen you before. Where do you come from?”

  “Hush, Cristiano,” the girl said. “You will not tell anyone you saw us, will you? We are not supposed to slip away alone like this.”

  Diego suddenly spoke to them in Hebrew. Both the boy and the girl looked blank and shook their heads.

  “I am someone who used to know Maria,” Joanna said. “We mean you no harm, and we will not tell anyone we saw you if you will promise the same. Do you not remember the ship? Or that you once had another name?”

  “We do not know what you are talking about,” the boy said. “Come on, Maria, we must run.”

  He tugged at her hand. Giggling and looking over her shoulder, she allowed him to pull her along until they vanished into the concealment of the dense green forest of cane.

  “We had better do the same,” Diego said. “They were probably lying under a tree and kissing. They were more concerned about whether anyone would tattle about their misbehavior than about who we were.”

  “She would have been seven when we arrived here,” Joanna said. “Her name was Mira. I did not know the boy, but I am very certain that his name was not Cristiano! So the king of Portugal’s purpose is fulfilled. They have forgotten that they were ever Jewish.”

  Chapter 47: Diego

  We returned to the encampment at dusk three days later to find that Amir had insisted that a watch be kept in our absence, on the chance that our visit to the settlement might bring the Portuguese down on us. The whole community, my crew along with the Africans, quickly gathered, eager to hear our story.

  “I see no children with you,” Amir said. “Are they all dead after all?”

  “The few who remain are dead to us,” I said. “The younger ones have forgotten who they were, and the elder have thrown in their lot with the Christians and aspire to nothing more than to be planters rich in slaves and land.”

  “What about the rebellion?” Fafale asked.

  “It will not be the work of a day to rouse the captives from their stupor,” Kwaku said.

  “All we spoke to,” Nunke said, “were either fearful or apathetic.”

  “They will never rise,” Shanda said.

  “Do not say never!” Mishambo glared at Shanda. “We must have leaders from among ourselves who are not fools, thinking only of their bellies instead of our mission. We must build our store of weapons, making some and stealing others. We must recruit the captives by helping them escape, speaking of an attack on the town only when they are strong and confident again. In short, we must have a plan.”

  “Where is Miguel?” Amir asked. “Did he find his son? You have not lost him, I trust.”

  “Miguel is safe,” I said, “but things went badly with his son. He went down to the beach, for he did not wish to be questioned or hear it spoken of. Who is on watch on Esperanza?” I scanned the familiar faces of my crew. “Kemal? Miguel will relieve him.”

  Our safe return brought new energy to the encampment, although the Africans were still divided between those who wished to leave the island and those who wished to build a permanent community. Those who dreamed of rebellion allied themselves with the latter.

  “Let us build something for our enslaved brethren to run to,” Mishambo said, “rather than merely instigating a bloodbath with no notion of what comes after.”

  “He takes charge as if he had been here all along,” Joanna grumbled.

  “What does it matter?” I asked. “You will come with us when we leave, will you not?”

  “I suppose so,” Joanna said. “Yes. Of course. I will be glad to leave this cursed island behind me. Since I have no place in the world and no people to call kin, I might as well try Istanbul as anywhere.”

  “It seems to me,” I said, “that you have the very dilemma Mishambo has stated. You know what you are running from, but not what you are running toward. Please do not think you will have no kin in Istanbul. My parents will welcome you with open arms, and my sister will stand your friend. You will like Rachel, I think. Like you, she has been tempered and honed by experiences far beyond the lot of an ordinary Jewish girl.”

  “So I have been tempered and honed, have I?” Joanna said. “I feel bone weary, as if I am a blade that has been beaten into submission too many times.”

  “You strike me as anything but submissive,” I said, smiling. “And I am sure you will regain your edge once you no longer have to fight for each day’s bare existence and come to believe that you once more have a future.”

  “What makes you think your Rachel will like me?” she asked. “I have been consumed by anger for so long that I have no kindness or sweetness in me to offer a friend.”
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br />   “I do not believe that,” I said. “Your sweetness has simply gone into hiding. Perhaps having a sister will encourage it to venture forth.”

  “Are you to be my brother, then?” she asked.

  Tanama, my lost Taino love, would have said it with a sidelong glance and a teasing lilt to her voice, her body engaged in a silent conversation with mine beneath the light exchange of words. Joanna seemed to be oblivious to me as a man. I found I wanted to change that. That she had a capacity for passion, I knew, for I had seen her angry. I believed she had known love, for I had seen her face when she beheld her brothers’ grave and heard the tenderness and yearning in her infrequent mentions of her mother. But with respect to men, on the few occasions when her guard had slipped, only fury, fear, and bitterness peeked through. I did not know if I could win her. It would take patience and compassion. But I wished to try.

  “I am to be your friend,” I said gently. “If you ever call on me for help or understanding, I promise never to let you down.”

  “I have learned to need no help,” she said, “and as for understanding, I fear that it is I who would disappoint you if you truly knew me.”

  “Only by failing to trust me,” I said. “Nothing you could tell me would disgust or shock me. I have seen much cruelty in the world, Joanna, and myself experienced the ugly feelings anyone must feel on witnessing it without having the power to stop it. I saw my first auto da fé when I was ten years old. My best friend is a man without a country, a man more stripped of kin than you, for we saw Admiral Columbus’s Spaniards slaughter and enslave his entire people.” I hesitated, then decided that I could elicit frankness in her only by demonstrating it myself. “I saw my lover raped and murdered before my eyes, and I could do nothing. That is, I killed the soldier who assaulted her, but I could not save her.”

  “You have killed,” she said. “I have wished to, many times, but lacked either the power or the opportunity at those moments.”