The Convert

by Stefan Hertmans

  Over the next few days, it becomes obvious how troubled Hamoutal’s mind is. She sees her late husband’s cousin, Yom Tov, and calls him David. She laughs and says her name is Vigdis, Vigdis the Viking, and bursts into loud, devilish laughter. Her parents-in-law are worried; they ask her not to travel on to Rouen and put her life at risk to no good end. Instead, they propose, Richard Todros will ask his contacts at the Rouen yeshiva to mediate with her parents in the matter of the children. But two weeks later, the rabbi learns that all his contacts there died in the great pogrom of 1096. No one would dare to approach a Norman knight as things stand now, and certainly not to request the return of children to Jews.

  Old Rabbi Todros realises that Hamoutal cannot be brought to her senses. With each passing day, she seems more confused and obsessed. And every day, she is more insistent: she wants to go to Rouen. The rabbi tries to make her see reason; he tells her the land route is no longer possible and she’ll have to go from Narbonne to the Atlantic, taking the road to Santiago de Compostela. Along the way, she must be very careful and pose as a Christian woman, because that road is crawling with Norman knights. From Santiago she can go on to the Bay of Santander and take a ship up the coast to Rouen. Hamoutal bursts into carefree laughter, her eyes blank. Yes, Papa, she says, yes, and she moves to embrace her former father-in-law, who dodges her arms. She seems to have seized on the feverish hope of finding her children alive and being reconciled with her parents. Rabbi Todros strokes his beard in thought as she speaks of her plans. One thing is clear: she must no longer travel alone. Yom Tov and Joshuah Obadiah will escort her, for company and protection.

  VIII

  Nájera

  1

  They cannot put off the journey for long; autumn has begun. The ships will soon stop plying the coastal routes for the winter. A few days later, they set off in a small covered wagon. Hamoutal does what she’d promised she wouldn’t do again, snatching little Avram out of his bed at the last moment, taking him in her arms, and hiding him in a basket between the bags and sacks in the little wagon. The two men don’t discover her deceit until a couple of hours later, when the child starts crying. The road is dangerous; now she sees why her father-in-law didn’t have them take the southern Compostela route when she fled Narbonne with David, but instead sent them north-east by sea. Wherever they go, they run into packs of excited young men off to join the campaign in the East, wandering farmers whose huts have been burned down, and homeless children. Fleeing Muslims warn them of murderous fanatics who are just as merciless to Jews. Sometimes bands of robbers turn up, who profit from the confusion and take cruel advantage of careless travellers. The small Jewish communities they pass are wary and fearful. No one knows what the next day will bring. Now and then they are stopped and interrogated by suspicious soldiers at checkpoints.

  Having a baby with them makes the journey much harder. When Yom Tov first found out about the boy, he threatened to take them straight back, but old Obadiah’s cooler head prevailed: You can’t take a child away from his mother, they’ll understand back in Narbonne. Besides, they have no time to lose. So they travel on, over bumpy roads in dust and driving rain, with Hamoutal and Avram inside the juddering wagon.

  After three wearying weeks on the road, they decide to rest for a couple of days in the small town of Nájera, a little less than a hundred kilometres from Burgos, before going on to the northern coast. The two men search for an inn, ask for accommodation for two nights, and take Hamoutal and her child to one of the rooms. There she tends to Avram, cuddling him and rocking him, but she calls him a Norman name, the name of one of her brothers. Arvid, she says, Arvid. The child laughs; she tickles him, making him squeal with delight. Arvid, how good it feels to say the name, Arvid, I’m your mother Vigdis. As they are eating together that evening in the gathering darkness, Yom Tov of the Todros family and Joshuah Obadiah hear her call the child by that name. Confused and a little nervous, they smile at her. I am Vigdis, she shouts, the mother of Arvid the Norman, and she screeches with laughter. A man at a nearby table nudges his comrade and points at her.

  Did you hear that? the knight mutters. He takes a closer look at the woman. You won’t believe this, he says, but the Devil take me if that’s not the runaway daughter of old man Gudbrandr in Rouen. You heard her too, right? I am Vigdis, she said.

  The other man stares in astonishment. Could a woman who’s been missing for years be sitting here at the table, simple as that? His eyes betray his scepticism.

  The first man says, It must be her, I’m certain. She looks like that brother of hers we ran into last month on his way to Sicily. Those same pale eyes, that thin nose and that high forehead. Arvid. She’s saying his name, did you hear that?

  He rises to his feet, goes to the commander of his garrison, which is stationed in the town, and reports what he has heard. The commander recalls the substantial reward for the capture of the wealthy dignitary’s daughter. The instructions were to send a messenger as soon as she was found and deliver her to her father in Rouen. If he means to claim the bounty, he must bring her to her father alive and well.

  As Hamoutal falls asleep with her child, laughing and cooing, humming Arvid, son of Vigdis, you are Arvid, son of Vigdis, two sentries are placed at the door to the inn and a courier is sent to Rouen by way of Bordeaux. Another one leaves at dawn for the port of San Sebastián; when he arrives there, two days later, he will instruct the next ship to Rouen to wait for two envoys with a special and unexpected guest, Gudbrandr’s daughter, Vigdis Adelaïs by name.

  That morning, Hamoutal feels well rested but extremely tense. She is glad to be on her way to Rouen at last, where she can see her parents and explain everything – after all, she has Arvid with her, the Viking child, no idea who the father is, the thought sends her into helpless giggles. Arvid, son of Nobody! she cries, and doubles up with laughter. The sentries are given the sign to enter the inn. Two of them grab the woman in the dining hall by the arms; another wrests the child from her. Yom Tov and Joshuah Obadiah rush over to stop them but are shoved away. The old rabbi falls over and hurts his back.

  Jewish dogs, hisses one of the knights as he draws his sword, try anything else and you’re dead. Hamoutal cries out, I am Vigdis Hamoutal, I am Vigdis Hamoutal Adelaïs Gudbrandr, leave me alone, give me my boy back, he is Arvid Todros, he is my child, the child of my father, he made it. She spits and rants and screeches and tries to pull herself loose. The dining hall fills with commotion; men stand up as they see the woman lash out in all directions, swiping and kicking and spitting.

  My father sired him! she shouts, with a haggard grimace.

  She is dragged outside by her legs, thrashing and writhing from the waist up like a cat in a bag.

  My child, she cries, Arvid, son of Gudbrandr, he fucked me, slept, ha ha, fucked by the Devil!

  The men tighten their grip.

  Shit sacks, all fucked by the Devil!

  She swings her head, her eyes wheel, there’s foam at her mouth. A priest runs in, aghast at what he’s just heard this woman shouting. He makes the sign of the cross, three times, and mutters with staring eyes, Vade retro Satana.

  The woman shrieks, Ha ha ha, fucked by Satan!

  She swings her head back and forth fiercely, her dingy curls coming loose and flopping around her head.

  The priest steps up to one of the men and asks them to tie her up.

  They do so, with brute force.

  My child! Arvid, son of Shmuel, Hamoutal cries, watch out for the demonic crocodile! He’ll bite you, oh, oh, oh, no, don’t sink, my baby!

  She twists and tugs and bites like a mad dog. One of the knights punches her in the face, and she drops to the ground with a bloody nose.

  There you go, witch, he says, we’ll drive the Devil out of you, sure enough.

  The priest crosses himself; Yom Tov shouts that they must let her go, that she’s a Jewish woman and not to be tried by Christians.

  She’s no Jewess, the garrison commander growls, that
’s a Christian woman, damn it, named Vigdis Adelaïs. Her father Gudbrandr is a personal acquaintance of mine. You filthy dogs have no business here, run off or you’ll pay with your lives. May the Devil take you!

  Meanwhile, Hamoutal, still stunned by the blow, is trying to scramble to her feet. She falls flat, and one of the knights kicks her. Devil’s whore, he cries. The pointed toe of his armoured foot stabs into the small of her back, and she passes out. Blood gushes from her nose. The scene has drawn a crowd of excited onlookers. As the soldiers discuss how to load the woman onto a wagon as fast as possible and take her to the coast, the priest cries out that she is possessed by the Devil and will be impossible to transport because the Devil will sink the ship.

  A wave of horror sweeps through the growing crowd.

  Burn her at the stake! comes the cry.

  At once, others echo it.

  Burn the witch at the stake!

  Hamoutal returns to vague consciousness; the commander struts over to her.

  Are you Vigdis Adelaïs, the daughter of Gudbrandr the Norman? Can you confirm that?

  She spits at him.

  I am Hamoutal, daughter of the Devil, she hisses, stay away from me with your dirty Christian paws.

  Possessed, the priest crows, possessed by the Subtle Serpent! In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti! She must be burned as soon as possible, before the Devil plays more tricks on her and on us.

  Burn her at the stake, the crowd roars, burn her, burn her!

  The garrison commander can just picture his reward going up in smoke if this high-born woman is lynched here and now. He hesitates, tries to change the priest’s mind, but it’s too late. The swelling crowd tows the woman along with it, tearing the clothes from her body. Half naked and covered with blood, she is dragged through the sand to the red cliffs, where men start to gather dried brushwood. Hamoutal, now bound hand and foot and half unconscious, is propped up against the cliff face in the fast-rising sun. The blood on her face is black and stringy now, mixed with dust. It trails down her neck as far as her partly bared breasts.

  Sign of the Devil, one man shouts, her nose is running with pitch! The Devil is in her, sending pitch out of her devilish body! Don’t touch her!

  Hamoutal rolls her eyes; the pain in her back makes her grunt.

  The crowd grows nervous; someone throws a stone at her, hitting her smack in the forehead. Her head slams into the rock face behind her. She slumps to one side.

  Men bring bundles of wood, and the pyre grows rapidly. One thicker log is sharpened into a stake, driven into the ground, and lashed into place. The stacks of brushwood are now almost a metre high. The priest strides up to Hamoutal and asks one last time, Are you Vigdis Adelaïs from Rouen, the daughter of Gudbrandr the Norman?

  I am Hamoutal Todros, she cries, Hamoutal Todros of Fustat! I am a Jew, a Jew, to the Devil with you!

  The onlookers draw back with a gasp. Jewish and possessed by the Devil, a Jewish she-devil, the words go from mouth to mouth and their eyes widen. Some cross themselves and pray; soon, the whole crowd is praying as one. They fall to their knees and beg God for assistance as the woman rambles on under the sun.

  Someone begins a sacred song. From one moment to the next, the mood has turned solemn.

  A man approaches with a lit torch. A second man winds a shawl around Hamoutal’s neck and tucks twigs inside it, so that she’ll catch fire faster. They pull and yank at her. She dangles, half unconscious, between the two men, who drag her towards the pyre. Bruised and bloodied, with that wreath of twigs in front of her face, she looks like a witch, a demon, a monster from the underworld.

  All at once, she lifts her head and starts squirming, trying to resist.

  Where is Arvid, son of Hamoutal? she screams. Where is Arvid the Jew’s son from Fustat?

  The terrified onlookers cannot stop crossing themselves. Hamoutal lets out harsh cries; they shrink back. The Devil is tormenting her, the priest says. Don’t dawdle, or he’ll show himself.

  The thought drives the crowd into a panic.

  Hamoutal is pushed onto the pyre, her arms wrapped around the stake and tied in place. The man with the torch steps forward.

  At that moment, Yom Tov dashes out of the crowd.

  Stop, he cries, no more, this is a mistake! I am known as Yom Tov of Narbonne, and I take this woman under my protection on the authority of the venerable Rabbi Todros.

  He is shoved aside.

  Then old Joshuah Obadiah comes forward, trembling. He raises his hands in an imploring gesture.

  Good people, he says, listen for a moment before you burn this woman. I have a story to tell you.

  Noise from the mob, but the garrison commander tells them to settle down.

  The old rabbi tells the story of Vigdis the proselyte and the man she loved, who died in a pogrom.

  Good riddance! shouts a man in the crowd. Burn all the Jew-dogs!

  But seeing shaky old Obadiah’s fragile form, people are moved to let him go on speaking. He seizes this shred of opportunity. As the fire rises in the kindling, he says, I will give thirty-five denarii to redeem this woman from the pyre, and for the right to accompany her to Rouen. It’s a modest sum, I admit: thirty-five denarii for your community. But it’s all we have. This woman’s mind is sick with grief and suffering. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s not possessed, believe me. Give me charge of her, and I will take her home. He looks around the circle of faces.

  The fear of this woman possessed by the Devil runs deep among the onlookers, including even the garrison commander. But fear hasn’t robbed him of his wits.

  What’s this, you sly old Jew? he asks. So you’ve set your sights on my reward?

  He draws his sword again.

  I will sign a statement, Obadiah says, that you may deliver the woman to her father in Rouen. Since I am a Jew, your devil has no hold on me. Entrust this woman to my care. I will board the ship with her and take her to her father. I’m familiar with Rouen; I spent time at the old Jewish school there in my youth. If you’ve been to Rouen, you know where that was. I even know the way to the street where her father lives. You can trust me.

  The commander understands this is his last chance to claim his reward. He calls to the soldiers to put out the fire and untie the woman from the stake. Hamoutal, hanging limp as a doll from the pole, doesn’t understand what’s happening to her. Yom Tov and Obadiah carefully drag her away from the pyre. She hacks and coughs and blinks her eyes. Her head lolls back. Obadiah asks for water for the redeemed woman and sprinkles it on her face. Holding her upright, the two men take her back to the inn. There, the garrison commander sees to it that her child is returned to her. She still seems not to realise what has happened; she’s in a kind of trance. She mumbles to herself, babbles nonsense at her child, coughs and wheezes. Her hand, of its own accord, strokes the baby’s head.

  She says to Yom Tov, Dearest David, kiss me.

  She puckers her lips, an unbearable sight with her soot-streaked face, swollen mouth and caked blood. Obadiah lays a cape over her bare, soiled shoulders. The two men bring her up to the room and ask for water so that she can wash herself.

  Obadiah plans to set off with her for the coast the next morning – another few days’ journey, in Yom Tov’s company. They’ll have an escort of a few soldiers and the garrison commander, who in his absence will relinquish command of his men in Nájera to a deputy.

  2

  Now that Hamoutal is alone in the room, she seems to have calmed down a little. Obadiah comes to see her and tells her it’s really Yom Tov who will advance most of the money for her redemption. He only has five denarii to contribute. The sum must be paid by sunrise tomorrow. Obadiah asks her how many silver pieces she has with her.

  Hamoutal waves him off and slowly shakes her head no.

  What’s got into this woman? Obadiah demands that she tell him where she’s hidden the wallet. He knows old Todros gave her money. Hamoutal curls up like a sick animal, shakes her hea
d no again, seems to fall asleep.

  I will deal with this matter tomorrow, the old man thinks. She is too shaken to talk now.

  And although he is right – Hamoutal has been shaken to the core by what happened to her – she comes to her senses as the night goes on. She no longer wants to be delivered to her father in Rouen. It’s madness to think he’ll forgive her; her heresy, becoming a Jewess, is punishable by death. The Rouen to which she would return is no longer the peaceful place where she grew up; her head echoes with the stories of the great pogrom at the yeshiva and in the city streets. What would become of her child there? Won’t they just lash her to the stake again? She found out today what that’s like. No, going back to Rouen would mean certain death. She has to flee. What else can she do but flee, as she always has? How could she ever repay Yom Tov, anyway? She has no more than a handful of coins, which she wants to save for when she’ll need them most. She sits up, the silent darkness all around her. The waning moon hangs low and yellow over distant hills. She can hear the child breathing. She groans with the pain she feels throughout her body. She dresses slowly and carefully and wraps her child in a shawl again, as she did in Moniou, Narbonne and Fustat. She creeps down the stairs, pausing a moment after the creak of each step, and finds herself outside in the cool night air. A warm wind is blowing; she hears wild animals far away in the darkness; stars twinkle over the hills. She takes a deep breath and something in her seems to return to life. She knows what she wants. Her first steps down the road are painful and hesitant, but she soon settles into a smoother pace; the movement eases the pain a little; her child’s asleep in the shawl on her back; she is on her way. She knows where she’s going.