Against the Inquisition

by Aguinis, Marcos

  Don Diego’s mouth contorted. “What I’m trying to say, my son, is that not all the help you need comes from outside of you, like the healing powder, the quinine, or the infusions. You can also get relief from inside, from your spirit.”

  Was that the intimate subject he wanted to broach? Francisquito felt disappointed. But young Diego nodded again.

  “I don’t think you fully understand me,” his father insisted. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief; noon was a burning oven.

  Was there something else, then? Francisco came closer, curled up like a cat. He couldn’t bear to miss a single word.

  “The most important cure, the definitive one, comes from the spirit. You should take strength from that cure.”

  Diego dared to confess his confusion. “I think I understand,” he said, “and I think there’s something I don’t understand—”

  “Yes.” His father smiled. “It’s simple, and it’s not. It sounds familiar, obvious, like something you’ve heard before. But there’s another resonance, a profound one, that can’t be known without some preparation.”

  He searched the table for the bottle of blackberry water and took a long drink. Then he dried his lips and settled back into the creaky chair.

  “I’ll explain. We doctors use healing products drawn from nature. And although nature is the work of God, God has not consecrated it as the absolute resource, but rather has provided human beings, His beloved creatures, with mechanisms that allow them to make contact with Him. An edge of His infinite greatness lives always in our hearts. If we open to it, we can recognize His presence in our minds, in our spirits. No medicine is as effective as that presence.”

  He dried the sweat from his neck and nose with a cotton handkerchief.

  “You wonder why I say this. And why I say it with a certain”—he snapped his fingers, in search of the right word—“solemnity. Well—because it’s a matter that concerns my medical practice but—but you are not the same as other patients.”

  “I’m your son.”

  “Of course. And this means something special, almost secret. It means something to God, and to our particular relationship with Him.”

  Francisquito needed to scratch the back of his neck. He itched with confusion and impatience. His father wasn’t undoing the knot.

  “I should take communion?” Diego guessed, in an effort to unravel this enigma.

  His father moved his shoulders to loosen his back. He was tense, but wanted to appear relaxed.

  “Communion? No. That’s not what I’m trying to express to you. The host slides from your mouth to your stomach, from the stomach to the intestine, from there to your blood, to the rest of your body. But I’m not talking about the host, or about communion, or about rites, or about anything that comes into you from the outside. I’m talking about the uninterrupted presence of God inside of you. I’m talking about God, the One.”

  Diego frowned. Francisco did, too. What new or secret thing was he trying to suggest?

  “Don’t you understand me? I’m talking about God, the one who heals, consoles, gives light, gives life.”

  “Christ is the light and the life,” the boy recited. “Is that what you’re saying to me, Papá?”

  “I’m talking about the One, Diego. Think. Look within. Connect with what has lived inside you since before you were born. The One—do you understand, now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “God, the One, the Omnipotent, the Omniscient, the Creator. The One, the One,” he repeated emphatically.

  Diego’s face was turning red. He was prone in his bed, his father seated. Both were very tense. The father’s figure seemed gigantic, not only because his body was higher, but because he was forcing his son toward an arduous line of reasoning.

  Don Diego smoothed his mustache and his trimmed beard, freeing his lips to speak as he gathered himself like a person about to recite. In a slow and stately voice, he spoke. His words were incomprehensible: “Shema Israel, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.”

  Francisco shivered. The only word he recognized was Israel. Was it a magical incantation? Did it have something to do with witchcraft?

  Don Diego translated, in a tone of devotion. “Hear, O Israel, the Lord, our God, the Lord is one.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Its meaning is already inscribed in your heart.”

  The mystery had yet to be revealed. The swollen purple cloud that hid the sun was about to burst. A few of its drops already pearled Diego’s forehead.

  “For many centuries, this brief phrase has sustained the courage of our ancestors, my son. It synthesizes history, morality, and hope. This phrase has been repeated under persecution and amid murders. It has sung out between flames. It connects us to God like an unbreakable gold chain.”

  “I’ve never heard it before.”

  “You have heard it, of course you’ve heard it.”

  “In church?”

  “Inside your own being. In your spirit.” He extended both index fingers to mark the rhythm. “Listen, Diego. ‘Hear, O Israel’ . . . Listen, my son: ‘Hear, O Israel.’” His voice fell to a whisper. “Listen, my son. Listen, son of Israel, listen.”

  Diego sat up, stunned.

  His father placed his hands on Diego’s chest and gently made him lie back down. “You’re starting to understand.” He sighed. His voice became more intimate. “I’m revealing a great secret to you, my son. Our ancestors lived and died as Jews. We belong to the lineage of Israel. We are the fruits of a very old tree.”

  “We’re Jews?” A grimace deformed young Diego’s face.

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t want to be—I don’t want to be that.”

  “Can an orange tree not be an orange tree? Can a lion be other than a lion?”

  “But we’re Christians. And,” his voice faltered, “Jews are traitors.”

  “Are we traitors, then?”

  “The Jews killed Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “Did I kill him?”

  “No.” He forced a smile. “Of course not. But the Jews—”

  “I am Jewish.”

  “The Jews killed him. They crucified him.”

  “Did you kill him? You are a Jew.”

  “God and the Sacred Virgin protect me! No!” Diego crossed himself in horror.

  “If it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t me, then it’s clear that ‘the Jews,’ that ‘all of the Jews,’ are not guilty. Also, Jesus was as Jewish as we are. Let me correct myself, Diego: He was perhaps even more Jewish than we are. He grew up, studied, and preached in cities that were manifestly Jewish. Many of those who worship him in fact abhor his blood, they abhor Jesus’s Jewish blood. Their thoughts are filled with horse droppings: they hate what they love. They can’t see how close to Jesus every Jew actually is, for the simple reason that they belong to the same lineage, the same history plagued with suffering.”

  “So then, Papá, we . . . I mean, the Jews, they—we—didn’t kill him?”

  “I did not participate in his arrest, or in his trial, or in his crucifixion. Did you? Or my father? Or my grandfather?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Do you realize what an atrocious lie has been spread? Not even the Gospel claims it. The Gospel says that ‘some’ Jews called for the execution, but not ‘all.’ Because otherwise, my son, they’d have to include the apostles, as well as his mother, Mary Magdalene, Joseph of Arimathea, and the first community of Christians. Are they also irredeemable criminals? Absurd! Right? Jesus, the Jewish Jesus, was arrested by the powers of Rome, which had conquered Judea. It was the Romans who tortured him in their dungeons, in the same dungeons where they’d tortured hundreds of other Jews like him, and like us. The Romans invented the crown of thorns to mock the Jew who tried to become a king and liberate his brothers. Death by crucifixion was also invented by them, and it wasn’t just Jesus and a couple of thieves who died on the cross, but also thousands of Jews in a time that started before
Jesus was born and lasted long after his death. A Roman speared his right side and Roman soldiers drew straws over who would get his clothes. Meanwhile, it was Jews who faithfully brought him down from the cross and buried him with care and grace. It was Jews who remembered and shared his teachings. And still, Diego, and still . . .” Here he paused for a long time. “Nobody harps on what the Romans did, that the Romans and not the Jews mocked and killed Our Lord Jesus Christ. The Romans are not persecuted. And no one insists on blood free of Roman stains.”

  “Why so much rage against Jews, then?”

  “Because they can’t stand our refusal to submit.”

  “Jews don’t accept Our Lord and Savior.”

  “The real conflict isn’t a religious one. They don’t long for our conversion. No. That would be easy. They’ve already converted whole communities of Jews. In truth, Diego, they’re battling to make us disappear. That’s what they want, for better or for worse. Your great-great-grandfather was dragged by horses to the baptismal waters and then they tormented him because he changed his shirt on Saturdays. He was forced to leave Spain. But he didn’t give up. He brought the key with him, the key to his old home, and he had it engraved with a little three-pointed flame.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s a letter from the Hebrew alphabet: shin.”

  “Why that letter?”

  “Because it’s the beginning of many words: shema, listen; shalom, peace. But, above all, it’s the first letter of the word shem, which means “name.” That is to say, the ineffable Name of God. Shem, the Name, has infinite power. Many Kabbalists have studied the matter.”

  “Who?”

  “Kabbalists. I’ll explain it to you one day, Diego. The essential thing right now is that you understand the profound decision that many Jews have taken. The decision to keep existing, even if only through the conservation of a few rites and traditions.”

  Diego was confused. He could not absorb this flood of facts and arguments; he could only be astonished. Francisco, still in the shadows, didn’t understand either. Both of them were disconcerted, shot through with an unfamiliar fear. Diego in bed, and Francisco in his hiding place, both of them breathing hard. Their father’s words were an earthquake that fractured them into contradictory pieces.

  “But we’re Catholic.” Diego couldn’t let this go. “We’re baptized. I’ve had my confirmation. We go to church, we confess. We’re Catholic, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, but by force. Saint Augustine himself said something like, ‘If we are dragged to Christ, we believe without wanting to believe; and one can only believe when one arrives to Christ through the path of freedom, not of violence.’ We have had violence used against us, and it continues to this day. The effect is tragic. We appear Catholic on the outside in order to survive in the flesh, and we’re Jewish on the inside in order to survive in spirit.”

  “It’s terrible, Papá.”

  “It is. And it was for your great-grandfather, and your grandfather, too. As it is for me. What do we want? Simply, for them to let us be what we are.”

  “What should I do to—to become a Jew?”

  His father laughed gently. “You don’t need to do anything. You’re already Jewish. Haven’t you heard it said that we’re considered ‘New Christians’? I’ll tell you our history, my son. It’s an admirable history, rich and painful. I’ll explain what’s called the Law of Moses, which God gave to our people long ago on Mount Sinai. I’ll explain many beautiful traditions that confer enormous dignity to this harsh life.”

  He leaned his hands on his knees so he could rise.

  “Now rest. And don’t tell anyone our secret. No one.”

  He looked at the bandage, touched it softly, and rearranged the pillows under his son’s leg.

  Francisco stayed on the floor, curled up in a trembling ball, until he was called for lunch. Then he snuck out without being seen.

  7

  The academy in the orange grove held class in the afternoons, after the heat of siesta time subsided. Brother Isidro would arrive punctually and take his place at the table made of carob wood. He would rub his bulging eyes and wipe a thin lock of gray hair from his face. He’d set out his materials and wait for his students to take their places. As befitted an instructor, he tried to be severe—his eyes helped with this—but he could not hide his tenderness.

  One day, in early February, he arrived in the morning, as soon as Mass was over. It was the first time he’d ever come at that hour. He was empty-handed and his face was extremely pale, giving him a harsh look. He asked to meet with the doctor. “Urgently!” he exclaimed. Francisquito took advantage of the visit to tell his teacher that he’d succeeded in translating another verse of Horace: he could show it to him right this moment. The monk forced a smile and gently pushed him aside.

  “First I must speak to your father.”

  “Yes, my father’s on his way,” the boy insisted. “I can read it to you while we wait.”

  The monk was in no mood to concentrate. Aldonza invited him into the parlor and offered him hot chocolate. He thanked her but did not drink and would not even sit. When the doctor appeared he sprang toward him with a frightening urgency. He grasped his arm and murmured into his ear. The two men left for the back courtyard. Francisquito looked questioningly at his mother, who had also turned pale.

  They saw the way the monk waved his hands with unusual nervousness, but they couldn’t hear what he was saying. The birds’ cacophony in the cheerful orange grove seemed out of tune with the old teacher’s anguish. Don Diego listened to him in shock.

  When they came back inside, Aldonza offered the hot chocolate again, but the monk excused himself with a whisper and left swiftly, head down, clutching his crucifix with both hands.

  All of a sudden, the placid morning burst into movement. The efficient and loyal Aldonza—at her husband’s laconic instruction—ordered the preparation of chests, trunks, and boxes: they were cleaned, distributed, and packed with all the possessions in the house. “Understand? Everything. Take apart the large pieces of furniture and tie them as compactly as possible.” Luis and Catalina listened, not believing their ears. Immediately, the four children and Aldonza herself joined in the tasks.

  Don Diego got dressed and went out to visit the sick, as he did every day; he returned for lunch. When they sat down at the table he passed the bread around, made sure that all were served their stew, and said that he would now share the important news.

  “We’re leaving this city.”

  There could be no other reason for the madness that had rapidly overcome the household. Why are we leaving? Why such a hurry? Their father ate slowly, as was his habit. (Or was he eating this way on purpose, now, to transmit a sense of calm?) He dipped his bread in the stew as he explained that this change would be good for the family: he’d been planning it for a long time, almost hoping for it. (Was he lying?) The opportunity had arrived: this very night, a caravan was heading south and they would take advantage of it.

  “Tonight?” Isabel and Felipa exclaimed in unison.

  “Also,” he added emphatically, determined to prevent panic, “we’ll like our new home: we’re moving to Córdoba.”

  “Córdoba?” Francisquito repeated, startled.

  “That’s right. A small and delightful settlement surrounded by gentle mountains, with a peaceful river running through it. More tranquil than this Ibatín, with its menacing jungle, its Calchaquí Indians, and all its growth. We’ll have a better life.”

  Francisquito asked whether the place would resemble the Córdoba of his ancestors. Don Diego said yes, that this was the very reason the founder had given it this name.

  Felipa wanted to know how long the journey would take.

  “About fifteen days.”

  Isabel wasn’t listening. Her chin had sunk to her chest and she was shaking with rhythmic intensity. Her mother embraced her. Between hiccups and tears she coughed out, “Why? Why are we leaving? We’re fleeing somethin
g.”

  Aldonza dried her cheeks, sweetly, and closed her daughter’s lips. Francisquito was irritated by his sister’s lack of sense. And her lack of interest in the legendary city of their ancestors. But then, in a flash, he understood that she was right. They were leaving Ibatín forever and they were doing it fast, too fast. A lump rose in his throat.

  Felipa also started to cry. The only one who stayed calm was young Diego. What did Diego know? Since his accident he’d started having long talks with his father, accompanying him on his medical rounds; at night, they read together in the private room. So, then, what did Diego know?

  “Why don’t we leave with a different caravan?” Francisquito tried to offer a proposal that would relieve everyone.

  His father did not answer him and called for more stew. During the entire lunch Aldonza did not say a word. She was carrying out her husband’s will with her usual submissiveness. She had difficult questions, but she kept them buried in her chest. She loved her husband and her family, and, in addition, she’d been raised to be a good woman: sweet and obedient.

  The siesta that afternoon was brief and uncomfortable. Chaos had invaded every corner. The events of the day brought anxiety; they hurt. Francisquito learned, at that tender age, that in the course of a single day a family and its essential possessions can be moved, a neighborhood parted with, explanations offered to satisfy the infinite curiosity of acquaintances, an executor hired to handle business affairs. This precocious experience, lived through as an innocent, would serve him many years later.

  The wagon arrived in the evening, parking in front of the door. It had gigantic wheels and a colossal body, which was covered in leather. The two yoked oxen blared. Several laborers carried out the trunks and furniture. Aldonza, with undisguisable tension, begged for that desk to be lifted with care, and for this chest to be set down gently, for the curved edges of the armoire not to be banged, and for the armrests of chairs to be well secured by rope. An assortment of tables, pots, pillows, keepsakes, blankets, pans, beds, straw mattresses, clothes, candelabras, rugs, tears, sighs, chamber pots, suitcases, and urns made their way rapidly from inside the house to the wagon.