“Ah, dance. We have many famous dancers in Portugal, men and women. Did you know that, Harper?”
Harper shrugged her shoulders but also cracked what could be called a smile, and Paulo deftly moved on.
A part-time history professor at the university, he gave small, specialized history tours during school breaks, this latest having coincided with Harper’s.
Harper took a sip of water from the glass Tilda had pushed her way, eyes downcast. She looked up and directed her gaze at the square in front of her. Suddenly she came to life and, pointing at the square, said loudly enough for the group to hear, and probably the next few tables, too, “Look at this. You can’t tell anything about all the people who died right in front of us, right here, right, Paulo?” Paulo looked stunned. “And the droughts and famines and earthquake and the inquisition. I’m sort of not hungry.” She folded her arms on the table and rested her head.
Apparently, the morning walk and Paulo’s instruction had struck a chord, and Harper was responding with empathy and despair for the generations before her who had suffered unfathomable horror. It was true. The morning had been dedicated to calamity, a history of fire, drought, and famine. It was a tragic history, to be sure, with more to it than adventure on the high seas and the glorious age of the discoverers, but who could have predicted Harper’s reaction? Tilda hadn’t thought this historic tour might not be much fun for a teenager, and she wondered what was triggering this reaction. She was about to suggest they go back to the hotel for a rest when Paulo intervened.
“Okay, Harper. So the history so far is troubling you?” She nodded yes and slid down in her chair.
“I’m sorry, but actually, I think it’s a good thing,” said Paulo. “It means you are paying attention. And it’s true, Portugal’s history, like that of other countries, has many terrible things. You can’t escape it, you know?”
Harper apologized and looked around as though she wanted to flag down a waiter, but actually it seemed to Tilda what she wanted was to deflect attention from herself.
“Drink some water, Harper. It will make you feel better,” she said.
Harper grabbed the glass and began to drink earnestly. Everyone was looking at her and smiling, except Louisa, who was checking emails, apparently.
“I wish I could tell you the afternoon will be better, but there is more injustice ahead. Oh, but then tomorrow the river and the explorers and Portugal’s Golden Age.”
Harper smiled a little.
“Ah, that’s better,” said Paulo.
The afternoon city walking tour, though, included strolling down the memory lane of more drought and famine, adding plague and war. But Harper seemed to be adjusting as long as there were pastry and ice cream breaks along the way. Then they came to São Domingos Church in the Largo de São Domingos, and the group learned about the New Christians, or converted Jews, and about the 1506 massacre there, and they saw the monument. They listened to Paulo explain the history about how Jews had been forced to leave Spain in the late fourteenth century and how many had fled to Portugal, where under King Manuel they had been able to stay.
But Paulo’s talk was about to take a particularly dark turn, and Tilda worried about the effect his words might have on Harper. On the other hand, she couldn’t help but be moved by the passion with which he spoke and by the bleak picture he was painting.
Even as the climate for Jews in Portugal was far more favorable than in Spain, he explained, by 1497 they were forced to convert. And many did, but their conversion was viewed suspiciously, apparently, because on April 19, 1506, while the devout in São Domingos were praying for the end of the latest drought, famine, and plague, one assembled there—as the story goes—who was perhaps a little carried away in his worship, said he saw Christ on the altar. His fervor spread among the assembled as quickly as the fire following the earthquake that would ravage the city in 1755. But one who remained seated and calm on that fateful day was a New Christian, who said no, it was just a reflection of a candle shining on the crucifix. There was then an audible gasp. A disbeliever in our midst. A heretic. A Jew.
Here Paulo paused, as though to regain his composure, as though no matter how many times he told it, this story had the power to touch him anew.
The poor man was lifted out of his seat, dragged onto the street, and beaten to death. That not being enough, his body was dragged to the Rossio, where it was burned to ashes.
Tilda wished Paulo’s telling weren’t quite so dramatic, though, because Harper was listening intently and, from the look on her face, was becoming distraught.
But that was just the beginning. Paulo continued in his retelling of the massacre: more deaths in Rossio Square, a massacre of two thousand, maybe more, men, women, and children, brutally beaten and burned to death, newly converted Jews, all heretics to the frenzied mob. The killing continued through the following Tuesday, until word reached the king, who sent the Royal Guard to put an end to it.
Harper took her place by the stone monument that looked like half an egg balancing on a platform. It was massive yet vulnerable. Tilda stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder. On the face of the monument, a large blue Jewish star was set into the stone with an inscription:
1506–2006
In memory of the thousands of Jewish victims of intolerance and of religious fanaticism murdered in the massacre begun on 19 April 1506 in this square.
“Why did it take them so long?” Harper whispered to her grandmother. “Grandpa’s ancestors may have been here. They may have died in this terrible way.” Harper wrapped her arms around her.
So that’s it, thought Tilda, as she realized what was at the heart of Harper’s dismay. It’s about Harold, and his family.
“Ask Paulo,” said Tilda. “Go on, he can help you with your question.” And she gave her granddaughter a little push.
“A good question, Harper,” Paulo replied. “Nations apologizing, it’s rare, you know. When did Germany apologize for the Holocaust? Some say it began without a word, when chancellor Willy Brandt fell to his knees at the Warsaw Ghetto, the kniefall, or genuflection, it is called. Officially, it came later, with reparations.
“Look,” he continued. “Countries don’t like to revisit their ugly pasts. Besides, it’s expensive. A real apology comes at a price, but maybe true healing happens only then. It has taken us centuries for this monument, but it is a good thing, isn’t it, Harper?”
“Yes,” said Harper. “But still, it took too long. Too much suffering,” she said, shaking her head.
“Well, yes, but tomorrow, the Age of Discovery. That will cheer you up.”
Paulo smiled at Tilda, who was surprised at her granddaughter’s newfound need for answers.
The following day would be devoted to Portugal’s Golden Age, when the Portuguese had dominion over the seas. To learn about this glorious period in history, that had been the purpose of this trip, and Tilda was curious to see her granddaughter’s reaction, given her persistent questioning on their first day of touring.
Back in their room after dinner, Harper, in the hotel’s white bathrobe, sat on the bed rubbing a towel through her wet hair. She seemed renewed, adjusting to the time difference, but still keeping to herself, Tilda thought.
“Are you feeling better?” she asked.
Putting the towel aside, Harper shook her head vigorously. Tilda was afraid her granddaughter was about to launch into a tirade about the day, but no, Harper was simply shaking away any drops of water remaining from her shower and shampoo. She edged back on the bed, leaning against the pillows.
“Much,” she answered.
“Good. I hope we sleep better tonight.”
“You know you snore, Grandma.”
“Yes, I know. Sorry. Maybe you should wear your earphones to bed. Fortunately, Grandpa was a sound sleeper.”
No response.
“You had a lot of questions today. That was good, I thought.”
“I guess.”
Tilda, hoping to
draw her out, decided on the direct approach. “Why?” she asked.
“Why?”
“Why did you ask so many questions?”
“I don’t know.”
Tilda was about to give up.
“I mean, I never thought much about it before, you know, history—and real people.” She sat up and pulled one of the pillows out from behind her, hugging it to her.
“It’s pretty awful, what happened,” she said. “And to the Jews. Grandpa used to say, ‘It’s always the Jews.’ I’m beginning to understand what he meant—and maybe why Mom converted, like she was doing it for Grandpa and his ancestors—who had to be Christian or die.”
Harold’s storytelling. He used to tell tales about the conversos, the Jews forced to convert, and he had always told it as though those ancient Jews had been recent relatives, grandparents, aunts and uncles.
The Carrs had traced their family going back centuries, to someplace near Lisbon, the exact location lost to history. How much of this was lore and how much was true was impossible to sort out, but in the retelling of events, the Carr family could be counted among the lucky, who, having survived after forced conversion years earlier, fled to Amsterdam just before the start of Portugal’s inquisition.
Centuries later, Harold’s father, Ben, met Harold’s mother, Gladys, in New York. They were with their parents at a Sephardic temple on the Upper West Side, attending a memorial service for a friend of both families. Later, after the burial, the families discovered they shared a similar past. Both claimed their families had come to New York from Amsterdam by way of Portugal, and had, thank God, left Amsterdam long before the German occupation of World War II.
Harold often quoted the poet Marge Piercy: “We Jews are all born of wanderers, with shoes under our pillows.” Once, when she was too young to understand, Harper had asked why, and Harold had responded with another question: “If you have to get dressed really fast and leave your home very quickly, don’t you always want to know where your shoes are?”
Harold and his family never stopped considering themselves Portuguese, pointing proudly to the name Carr as proof of their heritage. It had been changed along the way, they said, from Carvalho, an old Portuguese name for a type of oak tree, one that does not bear fruit. That name was chosen when the family had been forced to convert. The name to them signified the curse of having to renounce their faith or die. They did not believe there would truly be a future for the family until the day they were free to reclaim their rightful name and their rightful heritage as Jews. The irony, of course, was that the family’s once-true name was lost to history, and the future generations, all of whom remained Jewish, gratefully claimed the name Carr.
“Your grandpa and I used to laugh about our family names. Mine was Marrone . . .”
“I remember, Grandma, your nickname was Bony for ‘Bony Moronie.’”
“Yes, but also interesting to note is that Marrone in Italian is chestnut. Both our names are types of trees.”
When the lights were off and they settled into bed under the covers, Tilda heard the rhythmic pattern of Harper’s breathing. Then she too drifted off to sleep.
The little tour group looked fresher in the morning. John and Sandra were wearing matching safari-looking outfits with matching soft-brimmed sun hats substituting for pith helmets. They reminded Tilda of the ads she’d seen in the old J. Peterman catalogs. And they were wearing the same cushioned shoes that had enabled their tireless walking the day before. Both were short and lean, with severely cropped salt-and-pepper hair. They were remarkably fit. Yesterday’s activities were not enough for them, and when the others had opted out, they had taken Paulo up on his offer of additional exploring, which began with a tour of several old and rare shops, including Bertrand Bookstore, “the oldest bookstore in the world,” it is said. While this other tour was in progress, grandmother and granddaughter chose instead a café near the elevator for hot chocolate and yet another pastry, this time pastel de nata, a custard tart much to Harper’s taste.
The add-on tour apparently ended with a ride to the top of the Santa Justa elevator and a quick look around the square, Largo do Carmo. “Charming,” was their appraisal the next morning.
Even Mitch and Connie seemed brighter in the morning, all smiles. Louisa, however, lingered over breakfast and her second cup of coffee and said she had some work to catch up on and would meet everyone later.
The group assembled in the lobby and waited for Paulo, who would lead them down the Rua da Prata to the Arco Triunfal da Rua Augusta. Passing through the tall stone arch, Harper tilted her head back to take it in.
“Wow,” she said.
“It is impressive,” said Tilda.
They stopped to take pictures while Paulo led the group farther on to the Praça do Comércio, the grand commercial square leading to the waterfront on the edge of the Tagus River.
They caught up as Paulo was wrapping up his description of the statue of King José I, the massive bronze standing in the middle of the square.
“Everything here is large in scale. The arch, the square, and the statue were all part of the rebuilding that took place after the earthquake and terrible fire. They pay homage to Lisbon’s importance in the world of commerce.”
Paulo directed the group back to the massive arch, explaining its history and pointing out the statues atop it, representing Glory, Valor, and Genius.
“The statues over the columns on the right,” he said, “are the great general, Nuno Álvares Pereira, and the Marquis of Pombal, responsible for rebuilding Lisbon after the earthquake; his full name is Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo.”
At this, Harper turned sharply toward Paulo. “Did you say Carvalho?”
“Ah, Harper, yes. I wondered when we would hear from you. Yes, why do you ask?”
“Was he Jewish?”
Paulo shook his head at first, but then he added, “There is some speculation that he was. But even if he wasn’t, one could say he was a friend of the Jews. People don’t usually ask about the Marquis. You are proving to be a future historian, Harper.”
Tilda grabbed Harper’s hand and squeezed before letting it drop. She, too, was eager to hear more about the Marquis with the old family name.
There were, according to Paulo, documents in the Marquis de Pompal archives, in his own writing, drawing up the laws that would end the carnage of the inquisition aimed at the conversos.
Harper, still not satisfied, asked, “Why did he do it, help so much, I mean, if he wasn’t Jewish?”
Paulo shrugged. “Well, we don’t know for sure if he was or wasn’t, but the best answer, I think, is he was practical, and he knew the inquisition was bad for business. He was, you must remember, above all else interested in the future of Lisbon, its rebuilding and its strength in commerce. The Jews, he knew, could help. It may be as simple and as complicated as that.”
Harper leaned over and whispered to Tilda, “I think he was Jewish. Do you think we might be related?”
Tilda laughed, a little too loudly. Paulo and the group looked on.
“Sorry,” she said.
Then she whispered back to Harper, “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
In the afternoon, they took the number fifteen tram to Belém. The day, which had started sunny and warm, began to grow cloudy and windy. Leaving the tram, Tilda pulled Harper’s windbreaker out of her backpack and helped her on with it before putting on her own. They both put on their hoods and zipped up before walking to the Monument to the Discoveries.
Approaching the monument from the large square on which it sat, Tilda could not imagine this massive simulated ship of concrete and stone ever doing anything but sinking quickly to the bottom of the sea, victim of its size and weight. But then her perspective and sense of it changed as she and Harper drew nearer. With its prow pointing over the Tagus River, framed by gathering clouds, its sails, she thought, might just catch the wind after all. The stone statues on the prow, more than a dozen on her side,
seemed eager to follow the leader depicted at the top.
“Grandma, come look over here,” said Harper, who had wandered off. “It’s Henry the Navigator, and Paulo said the third one on this side—after that one behind Henry—is Vasco da Gama. This is right where he set sail, this very spot. Oh, I wish Grandpa could see this.”
Tilda’s heart took an extra beat. The wind picked up yet more, blowing her hood back. She stood watching as Harper disappeared to the other side before coming back, beaming. “I counted. There are thirty-three of them altogether, the statues. Isn’t it amazing?”
Tilda smiled. “Yes it is.” Truly amazing, she thought. And yes, if only Harold were here to share in Harper’s discoveries.
And so, as their journey continued, Harper remained engaged and excited over each new fragment of history she learned. The group of seven, led by their increasingly esteemed guide, Paulo, forged on. First, they traveled northwest to Sintra for one day; then, continuing north, they headed to Porto for a visit of the old and historically rich harbor and city; and then, going south, they took a riverboat down the Douro. The vineyards they passed were dormant this time of year, but in the late afternoon sun, still it was the river of gold. Over these days, Harper continued asking questions, and Tilda continued admiring her granddaughter’s curiosity and drive to learn all she could about the land of her grandfather’s family.
And then on Friday they came to Évora, the last city they would visit before returning to Lisbon and their Sunday-morning flight home. Paulo explained that in the morning, another guide, Maria, would join them for the day and travel with them to see the ancient menhirs, or standing stones of the Almendres Cromlech. Tilda and Harper rose early to begin their journey to the small village of Guadalupe, where nearby the stones would be found. They climbed into the van before dawn and took their seats with the rest of their group, except for Louisa, who wanted to sleep in.
Harper, by the window, sat next to her grandmother. They looked at each other when they saw and passed the sign for the village, but not long after, Maria turned onto a narrow dusty road in the midst of a vast grove of olive and cork trees, which included occasional cows, searching for edibles, heads lowered.
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