Against the Inquisition

by Aguinis, Marcos

  “I cannot reprimand Antonio,” López mused bitterly during his talks with Francisco. “He takes my choice of rootlessness further than anyone; he won’t allow himself to be called ‘López,’ much less ‘de Lisboa.’ He wants to stop being Jewish. He repudiates my heritage and, paradoxically, received it, because the main thing in the inheritance I have to offer is to be finished with the burden of Judaism. He goes so far as to invent a story of his own birth. He declares that he came into the light in Valladolid, even though he’s never been there. Why should I reproach him? He’ll be freer and safer than I have been, because I, sadly, am infected with a Jewish core that will only die when I’m buried. The same thing is true for Diego Núñez da Silva. His Jewish core was detected by the inquisitors and now he’s imprisoned in Lima.

  “Did I already tell you that we met in Lisbon? We were young, and we could run faster than our pursuers. We shared horrors. Then we learned to share, too, the uncertainty caused by the changing behavior of monarchs; at times the authorities became benevolent and raised hopes of coexistence, and at other times they were torn through by storms of hate.

  “When the king of Spain signed the Edict of Expulsion in 1492, one hundred Jews emigrated to Portugal, as almost all of them dreamed of soon returning to their Spanish homes. But those dreams would not come true. With their places of permanence destroyed, many had to embark and suffer new misfortunes. A few were even sold as slaves. When the Inquisition succeeded in reaching Portugal it became clear that peace would not return. Thousands of people tried to flee the country that, at some moments, had seemed to hold some affection for them.

  “Diego and I agreed to flee to Brazil after my parents were burned in an Act of Faith. We could not stay in that city. He helped me endure days and nights of fever, of madness. I tried to stab myself with a dagger because I could not get the images of charred bodies out of my mind. I stopped eating and drinking, until I lost all sensation. After a few months of insomnia and terror we traveled to the New World, where many of the persecuted were settling. The distance from central power allowed for the founding of free communities, and we hoped we’d be able to forget. And be reborn. But our information was incomplete; liberty had already provoked Inquisitorial visits, and the repression began here as well. We did not find a peaceful Brazil. No. Diego, after weighing his options, chose to risk a journey to the west, toward legendary Potosí. I, on the other hand, thought I would be safer in the recently founded Buenos Aires, as it was farther away from Inquisitorial powers than any other city.

  “It was paradoxical: He, the doctor, without any economic ambitions, went toward the most frenzied center of wealth in the New World. And I, a merchant who knew the value of money, headed to flat Buenos Aires. He arrived in Potosí and then relocated to Ibatín to practice medicine. I took trips to Córdoba to initiate commerce in local fruits. In Córdoba, around the year 1600, my old friend appeared with his family, hounded by misfortune. I found out that he was not well, that he was fleeing the Inquisition. You were there, Francisco.

  “I, on the other hand, was doing well. I had bought a small boat, San Benito. I exported flour to San Salvador de Bahía, Brazil, and there I took in cargo of olives, paper, and wine. The secret Jewish community of San Salvador was a trustworthy partner. I made money. And to evade the Inquisition’s blows, I began to seek someone who could sell me a certificate of pure blood. In Córdoba, false titles abound. There are true artists of falsification and I have great respect for their skill. To combat the skepticism that sometimes assaulted me I was able to obtain a certificate that was so beautiful, it resembled an heirloom. Despite the coat of arms signified by that parchment loaded with wax seals and the signatures of dignitaries, I’d considered it risky to keep my main home in Buenos Aires—the young city was filling with Jews from Brazil. And so I moved to Córdoba, where, thanks to my loquacity, money, and initiative, I was quickly named a councilman in the local government. I then arrived at the painful conclusion that there was no use in cultivating my convictions in secret but that I should abandon them forever. Holding on to them would neither resurrect my parents nor give my children happiness. On the outside, I’m Catholic; a silver chain hangs from my neck with a thick cross, I attend religious functions, and I confess. I have to correct my inside, not my outside. My image is the right one. But I’m tired of fleeing. If I could, I’d study theology and become a priest like Pablo de Santamaría, who was a rabbi and became one of the most zealous advocates of the church. There’s no point to Jewish martyrdom anymore; it’s none of men’s business and it doesn’t move God. Why continue it?”

  45

  Sevilla, on the other hand, continued to tell the excited Francisco the history of Spanish Jews. The harsh Christian kingdoms of northern Spain decided to favor Jews when the Muslim states in southern Spain began to persecute them. However, this reception did not forge a cordial bond between the synagogue and the church. The church still needed to consolidate, and the presence of those who had been the chosen people raised questions about the solidity of some traditions. At that time a very dangerous kind of tournament began to grow in popularity—namely, the theological argument. Christians had no interest, deep down, in convincing Jews—they could always convert them forcibly en masse; rather, it was the Christians themselves who needed convincing. For this reason, theologians from both religions were summoned for public discussions that could help clarify the truth. In practice, if the Christians did not win the debate, a storm would erupt that included assaults on the Jews.

  One of the famed polemicists on the Jewish side came from the south. He claimed to be descended from the legendary Prince Hasdai, the magnificent Samuel Hanaguid, and other Cordoban families brimming with artists and wise men. His name was Elías Haséfer, which means Elías “the book.” The book, obviously, was the sacred writings. (It’s possible that Séfer ultimately became Silva, as the Jews of this surname like to claim.) The tournament took place in Castile, in great pomp. Princes, noblemen, and gentlemen attended. On the church’s side the bishop attended, along with superiors from the religious orders, doctors of theology, and scholars. Elías Haséfer had the right to consult a thick Bible that was placed at his disposal, but he startled the audience with long streams of verses recited from memory. The philosophies of the church and the synagogue clashed like swords. Each side excelled, and the first round ended in a tie. The second and third rounds gave the Christian theologians an advantage, as they overwhelmed Elías with unexpected arguments. The gentlemen began to strike their shields to express their joy. In the fourth session, Elías Haséfer, seeming weakened, relaunched each of his arguments as if from a catapult and turned his adversaries into ridiculous half-wits. The gentlemen no longer wanted to strike their shields, but rather longed to wield their swords. In the fifth session there was a close tie, and in the sixth session Elías Haséfer triumphed again. The king consulted with the bishop in a low voice. A seventh session was convened, but the monarch did not authorize debate. He clarified that this was an entertainment, not a trial; the truth of the church was not subject to doubt and did not require the defeat of a Jewish sophist. The king then offered gifts to all the participants. As he gave an exquisite chest to Elías Haséfer, he exclaimed, “What a shame you’re not an advocate for Christ!” This outburst was obviously another gift, perhaps the most valuable one. But the next day the Jews of Castile had to mourn Elías Haséfer, who was murdered a few steps from his house.

  Despite these tragedies, the Jewish ghettos still gave rise to astronomers, translators, mathematicians, poets, and doctors as brilliant as those formerly produced in the Islamic kingdoms, Sevilla explained to Francisco. Many luminous ascents, however, ended in falls. One example was that of Samuel Abulafia, who became as great a prince as Hasdai. He served as minister to Pedro the Cruel, King of Spain. His exceptional life is an example that exalts and terrifies, which is why Jews continue to remember him with ambivalence. They would have preferred to forget. Or, even better, that he might n
ever have existed. Abulafia resolved the kingdom’s financial ailments and gained favor among the powerful. He built the famous synagogue of El Tránsito, which still exists in Toledo, with beautiful Hebrew inscriptions around the Holy Ark. His residence was known as “the Jew’s palace.” He was weakened by political intrigues. His loyalty to the king stirred both admiration and hatred. His rivals sought revenge through attacks on the Jewish neighborhood. In one of those furious assaults, about 1,200 people died, including children. Finally, they wore down the monarch’s trust. Pedro the Cruel succumbed to their slanders and ordered the imprisonment and torture of his formerly beloved minister. The torturers gloated over the prince’s corpse after he died during their torments.

  In this pathetic history, even this fact was defining. Just as in the distant era of the Visigoths, the people had more capacity for tolerance than for disdain. The Spanish took longer than the rest of Europe to assimilate their hatred. So much so that the ghettoes enjoyed autonomy, and the manuscripts of that period revealed a certain optimism. Philosophical and moral thought produced notable works; in the thirteenth century, in Christian Spain, a book was published that would become one of the most disconcerting to many men, Zohar or The Book of Splendor. It forms the core of the Kabbala.

  “Have you ever heard speak of the Kabbalists, Francisco?”

  The word was not unfamiliar to Francisco; he had first heard it when his brother was lying in bed with a wounded ankle, and his father had unveiled his profound secret. On the handle of the old Spanish key there was an engraving. They were not three petals, or three small flames; it was the first letter of the word shem, meaning “name.” The Kabbalists attributed an infinite power to the Name, and, by manipulating letters, gained access to the depths of the mysteries.

  Only in the fourteenth century—“Very recently,” Sevilla emphasized, “considering the long history of Spanish Jews”—did intolerance clearly prevail. The fanatics gained territory with their cruelty. When epidemics broke out, they blamed the Jews. Sometimes it wasn’t even necessary to speak the accusation—the masses ran right to the Jewish ghetto to kill and steal. Monks began to urge the extermination of infidels from within; at the head of excited mobs they broke into synagogues, profaned the altars, and enthroned an image there. Conversion was borne by Jews as a further offense. But a few converts, in their terror, mutated into extremist Christians as a way of erasing the stains of their own origins. One notable case was that of Pablo de Santamaría, the former rabbi whom Diego López de Lisboa admired, whose scandalously Hebrew name had been Solomon ha-Levi. The Levis descended from a Biblical tribe devoted to priesthood. The convert dove into theological studies and achieved the titles of archdeacon and canon of the Cathedral of Seville. Still not satisfied, he ascended to the roles of Bishop of Cartagena and Archbishop of Burgos. In this city, he composed an incendiary work: Scrutinium Scripturarum. He began to be called “the Burgosian,” and his manual was used to pulverize Jewish arguments during debates.

  “There are copies of the Scrutinium—in Buenos Aires, in Córdoba, in Santiago. And of course, there are several copies in Potosí, Cuzco, and Lima,” López said. “For the Inquisition’s officers and commissioners the book is a sword.” He cleared his throat, as he did every time he was assailed by sadness. “And, without a doubt, it is a sharp sword.”

  In that year of mass conversions, 1391, the mob invaded the ghetto of Seville and killed four thousand men, women, and children. The synagogues were knocked down or transformed into churches. Months later the Jewish quarters of Córdoba were set on fire and approximately a thousand corpses were strewn on its streets. The murders spread immediately to beautiful Toledo and, from there, to seventy towns in Castile. Then crimes sparked up in Valencia, Barcelona, Gaona, and Lérida.

  Francisco listened and absorbed, shaken.

  46

  The travelers admired lovely Salta, built on swampy terrain, as if it were a kind of squat castle. Hernando de Lerma had founded it on water like the Aztecs of Mexico. It had been his dream to build such a metropolis. Around the city stood the vast corrals where more mules were brought together than in any other part of the world.

  The caravan reached the end of its journey. The wagons could not continue northward; the heavy oxen could only walk flat paths, from the pampas around Buenos Aires to remote Salta, at the foot of the plateaus.

  López de Lisboa would remain in Salta at the home of a merchant friend and focus on his business transactions. Then he would return to Córdoba. He called Francisco over.

  “I want to say goodbye.” His upturned nose was red. “Perhaps you’ll meet my son Antonio, if you return to Córdoba.”

  “Or if he goes to Lima.”

  “You’re staying in Lima?”

  “I’m going to study medicine. Then—God will provide.”

  “I sense that Antonio will also go to Lima.” He sat down on a bundle. “When you embrace your father,” he suggested, as he wiped his neck and forehead with a cloth, “you’ll tell him that we’ve talked a lot, and that I agree with him.”

  Francisco’s face turned into a question.

  “Yes. I agree with him,” he said. “I’ve received news that he has renounced Judaism. Permanently. He did the right thing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The Inquisition gave him a light sentence. That only happens for those who truly repent.” He sighed. “You see? So much suffering, for nothing. It’s not history anymore, just butchery.”

  “Can history ever have an ending?”

  “Theologians have demonstrated that the Jewish people existed, and were chosen, to announce and prepare for the arrival of Christ. Once that mission was accomplished their history was over. Their survival offends the divine plan.”

  “But the reality is that—”

  “Reality must submit to theology, which is the truth.” López de Lisboa wiped his face again, then folded the handkerchief and put it in his pocket. “I can’t justify the stubbornness of José Ignacio, for example, who prefers an impossible path.”

  “It’s not stubbornness.” Sevilla appeared beside them, gazing at them with pity. “It’s not stubbornness, my dear friend—it’s conviction.”

  “Were you listening?” López de Lisboa said, annoyed.

  “Only at the end, don’t worry. Besides, I don’t think you’ve said anything new. Only, perhaps, it seems to me, you’ve said it more emphatically.”

  “Because I no longer have any doubts.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you. You’ll keep on doubting—that’s why you needed the extra emphasis.”

  López de Lisboa just sat there and said nothing.

  “We live in trying times,” Sevilla said to console him.

  47

  Francisco noticed that in Salta some people wore kerchiefs around their necks, in what seemed to be a local form of coquetry. He felt disappointed at their lack of glamour. Lorenzo, on the other hand, burst into laughter because the goiter so endemic to these people struck him as funny. Francisco did not like him making fun of an illness. Lorenzo didn’t think about illness. In his eyes those people were monstrous, and some monsters existed simply to entertain those who were not. In any case, he wasn’t interested in the goiter wearers, but in the women of Salta, whose beauty excited him. Some wore their hair loose and thick, while others wore shining braids; their skin was soft, their gaze confident.

  He found the brothel where he could put his fingers in the forest-like hair and take delight in the beautiful skin. That’s how he told it. But, in reality, he bedded a mestiza who worked for a mean old woman and who almost stole his money pouch as he rolled around on a dirty straw mattress. With that urgency satisfied, Lorenzo brought his focus back to his next objective: to obtain free mules. “Spoils of war cost sweat and courage, not money.” He told Francisco that he only needed one night to get half a dozen. The next morning they’d be able to embark on their journey toward Jujuy. Francisco didn’t want to take the risk so Lorenzo agreed
to meet him on the road. “You’ve spent too much time with monks to know how to steal,” he said, punching Francisco’s shoulder amicably.

  In wide Lerma Valley, corrals full of animals stood ready for auction. They were built out of tree trunks and thick branches from nearby copses. Some unruly mules dug holes to get past the fences and had to be moved to reinforced corrals, while others were tricky and agitated their neighbors. Mounted on his blond horse Lorenzo resembled a rich merchant prepared to make honest transactions. He rode around the edges of various corrals, lingered to listen to the negotiations of sellers, asked the distracted mule drivers questions, mingled with other riders, examined shortcuts, and waited for the cloak of night. A fine drizzle, presaging the season’s rains to come, helped facilitate his task.

  The Sevillas and Francisco left at dawn. They hoped to arrive in Jujuy that same afternoon. It was best to plan the legs of their journey with precision, so as not to be stuck out in the open air; bad weather was coming. Sevilla had contracted a pack of mules from several traders, and the Indian José Yaru continued with him as a helper. It rained for half an hour when they were already far from Salta. Their baggage was covered with tarp, and the travelers pulled their ponchos up over their heads. The barefoot Indians tugged at the animals’ harnesses. It was essential to keep advancing no matter what. These rainstorms would be frequent visitors from now on. When the rain ceased, the shimmering path seemed covered in broken glass, and an intense scent rose to the clouds, through whose tangled fleece the blue sky began to reappear.

  Then they spied Lorenzo, descending laboriously from a mountain, dragging three mules. He had not obtained such abundant spoils.

  48

  So much loose rock abounded that the mules and Lorenzo’s horse could no longer trot. Altitude sickness brought on dizzying stomach pains and fatigue. Every once in a while, they drank water or sipped a bit of broth with garlic. Sometimes they walked beside their animals so as not to overwhelm them.