As the bells chime Sext I see the White Cross—pieces of which will be used on the pyres—being carried at the head of a long procession that winds slowly towards us. Behind the cross are the clergy; behind them, the prisoners who walk barefoot and carry extinguished candles.
The crowd becomes restless. Obscenities are hurled, like spears, as the prisoners pass. A woman spits at one of the barefooted figures, but her spittle falls short and lands on a little boy instead. Two rotten eggs hit the first prisoner in the face. Several more land on the others.
There are three prisoners today, and I know each one, though not well. They wear tall pointed caps, and over their clothes, sanbenitos—large tunics resembling a scapula which covers most of their bodies, and bears their name.
Two—both women—wear black sanbenitos with pictures of red flames licking upward; a reminder to all heretics of hell’s awaiting agonies. Their red caps and sanbenitos tell us the women will be “relaxed” to the secular arm.
The third prisoner, a man who has been “reconciled,” wears a yellow sanbenito with a picture of two red crosses and upside down flames, indicating he has been spared burning at the stake. The man will wear his sanbenito until his sentence is served, removing it only in his house. And when his sentence is finally completed his sanbenito will hang in the church, next to the other sanbenitos of those “relaxed” and “reconciled” so that all can remember his sins.
Now, Fray Alonso takes his place on the platform near the veiled Green Cross. He is followed by the second inquisitor. Then come the canons, municipal authorities, nobility—of which Don Sebastian and his father are numbered—and last of all, the clergy—robed and looking like a flock of blackbirds.
As the priest delivers his sermon extolling the faith and denouncing heresy, both Señor Villarreal and Don Sebastian appear greatly agitated. From this distance it is difficult to discern the reason, though it is clear Señor Villarreal clutches his son by the arm. More than one head has turned to stare.
The priest exhorts the two condemned prisoners to repent and receive the Eucharist before it is too late. If confession and repentance come, they will not be burned alive, but garroted first by a metal collar.
Suddenly, one of the women screams “I want to confess! I want to confess!” She is Constanza Gomez, a seamstress. She once made Beatriz a gold velvet gown for Purim. “I repent!” she cries. “I desire only to be a true daughter of Holy Mother Church.” She is at once removed and taken beneath the platform where her confession will be recorded.
This takes some time, and while we wait I notice that Mama, who is next to me, has suddenly whitened. “May the Merciful One seal his mouth!”
I look and see Don Sebastian, more agitated than ever, pointing to Fray Alonso. Whatever his words, they cause a stir because Señor Villarreal tries to pull his son off the platform. The other nobles and some of the clergy put their heads together and whisper. And Fray Alonso suddenly looks fierce.
My heart lurches, for I finally understand. Yesterday, after the burial meal, Papa took Don Sebastian and Señor Villarreal into his study, and told all. Don Sebastian is rash, even more so than I, and wild. I fear for his safety, for if he loses control of his mouth and accuses Fray Alonso in public, even his exalted status may not be enough to save him.
Constanza Gomez finally returns to the platform, and a momentary calm descends as her statement is read. She has confessed to Judaizing. Her sins are eating unleavened bread and observing the Sabbath by cleaning her house, lighting Sabbath candles, eating Sabbath stews and wearing clean clothes. In her statement she repents and announces her desire to become a sincere Christian. Then Constanza’s candle is lit, and the monks chant the Veni Creator while a priest removes the black veil in order to expose the glory and triumph of the Green Cross. All around us people clap and cheer.
When it is finally quiet, each prisoner is made to step forward while his sentence is read. The woman who has refused to confess is old, with a small stooped body that seems to list, like a leaking ship, to one side. Her charges of Judaizing consist of possessing a Jewish prayer book, never making the sign of the cross as other good Christians do, burying her husband in one day as is the Jewish manner, sitting on the floor during the burial meal, purging her meat, and finally, when baking bread, pinching off a piece of dough to throw into the fire as a tithe.
She straightens, as much as she seems able, while the charges are read. There is a defiant tilt of her head as she stands silent, neither recanting nor begging for mercy, and I think of all the prophets of Israel who stood up to kings and tyrants through the ages. And I am proud. But I am also sad, for she will go to her death not knowing her loving Messiah and Savior. And for the first time I wonder at the Catholic Kings. I have long viewed the Inquisition as evil but was it . . . could it be possible that true zeal, and not a quest for more power and wealth, as many have charged, is what stirred the hearts of our Kings to create this terrible tribunal? Could it be, at least in part, that they, too, were saddened when faced with the prospect that some of their people would die without knowing Jesus? And could their stated fear that Judaizers, if not stopped, would lead many down the path to hell, be actually sincere?
I hear Fray Alonso’s voice declare the old woman a heretic, and to have incurred the sentence of anathema, that all her goods would be confiscated dating to the time her heresies began, and that her descendants, now and ever more, would be excluded from public honors and office, and I find the declaration a pale substitute for true zealousness for God.
Next, the man steps forward and is charged with Judaizing for refusing to eat pork which he claimed, in a previous declaration, upset his bodily humors. He is also charged with swaying back and forth in the Jewish manner while praying. He loudly recants his heresy, then ends with an oath to never repeat his sins. Everyone bursts into the Miserere Mei, then prayers are said, followed by more singing. And finally, Fray Alonso grants the “reconciled” man absolution, and hands the two women over to the civil executioner.
The plaza empties as most of the crowd follows the prisoners and police. Fray Alonso, as befitting his rank, has left his platform first, followed by the second inquisitor who is of equal rank though never appears so. And now the remaining assortment of dignitaries begins to thin. Mama indicates her desire to leave by tugging at my arm, but I do not move. I am watching Señor Villarreal and another nobleman half drag, half pull Don Sebastian off the platform as he points to Fray Alonso’s back and, in a loud voice, shouts, “Murderer! Murderer!”
For two days I have been allowed my solitude, staying mostly in my room while Mama runs the house and I stitch myself together. And since my fragile emotions appear no better for my solitude, I have decided to show Mama the same kindness. I will see to the house for the next several days and allow her to keep to her bed. I am on my way to tell Mama this when I hear her and Papa and Señor Villarreal talking in Papa’s study. It would be the most natural thing for me to join them. But nothing seems natural now. And of late I have not been welcome in their circle or confidant to their secrets. So I tiptoe rather than walk to the door.
“And you have placed him under guard, your own son?” Mama’s voice indicates she is horrified.
“What was I to do? He behaves like a madman, drinking all day and shouting Fray Alonso’s name. I had to lock him away when I discovered he was conspiring, along with some of our knights, to assassinate Fray Alonso.”
“He cannot be serious.” Again Mama sounds horrified.
“He babbles about how twenty years ago the conversos of Seville secretly recruited a militia when they thought the Old Christians were plotting to attack them. He says the conversos were feared then, and he will make them feared again. He wants to raise an army not only to kill the inquisitors but to destroy the Inquisition.”
“If this gets out it will be disastrous,” Papa says.
“It may already be too late. He spoke rashly at the auto de fe, and some of our enemies heard.”
> “What can be done?” Papa again.
“I have ordered my son be given no more wine in hopes of restoring his wits. He is sick with grief over the loss of Beatriz, and that, coupled with the wine has made him foolish. Also, I have sent spies to see what damage has been done, and if it is repairable.”
I tiptoe away, burdened by the news. Was Don Sebastian so anxious to join Beatriz he would actually try to assassinate Fray Alonso? It was unthinkable. Even if he succeeded he would be no better off than a wild boar, hunted down without mercy. I return to the solitude and safety of my room. Aunt Leonora, may her memory be for blessing, always said trouble was like a grape. It came in clusters. If that was so, what else would happen?
It is not long before the answer comes. Just as the bells chime Sext and we—Mama, Papa, Señor Villarreal and I—sit down to our noon meal, there is a knock on the door. Since I have the keys, I rise to open it. My mouth goes dry when I see the policeman holding a summons. And without reading it I know I have been called to the Holy House.
I sit on a small bench facing a long wooden table that is several feet away. My bench is in the center of the room. It has no backrest. Already, I grow weary from sitting erect but try not to show it. Instead, I calmly rest my hands on my lap. On the wall behind the large table hangs a crucifix as tall as a ship’s mast. It gives me comfort. Not like the rest of the room with its walls covered in dark heavy wood, overlaid by large wooden archways and columns. The size of the room and the great vaulted ceiling makes me feel small and insignificant. The effect, no doubt, is calculated.
Fray Alonso sits in a tufted high-back chair at the end of the long table. He does not face me directly. His fingers, which look like fat spider-legs, crawl over the open parchment before him. His other hand, looking soft as lard, lies idly next to a well-seasoned quill. He is wide of girth and flabby of face. Mama always said Seville’s inquisitors grew fat on conversos. After all, did not inquisitors receive seventy-five pounds of sugar every major festival? And who paid for that if not the conversos whose property was confiscated by the Inquisition? And what of those appetites too shameful to mention? Did not the daughters of conversos satisfy those as well?
For some reason, Fray Alonso’s fingers absorb my interest. They are ink stained beneath the nails and around the cuticles, and I cannot stop thinking that these dirty, insect-like fingers have touched my beautiful Beatriz. The thought gnaws me until, God forgive me, I envision myself cutting them off, one by one. And at once I understand two things: Don Sebastian’s need to do physical harm, and the low estate to which revenge can bring a person.
“Your sister claimed that both she and you were schooled in the classics. That you know how to read and write not only our language, but Latin and Hebrew as well.”
The question puzzles me, for I cannot see its reason. And my answer, “Yes,” does not please him, but makes his brow turn down and his double chin quiver.
“And your mother is so educated?” His voice is harsher now.
I nod, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, for I begin to see where he is headed. Jewish women were more learned than the average Castilian woman. And this has been the cause of much jealousy in the past.
“History proves your race to be an arrogant one.” Fray Alonso taps his fingers on the table. “After the great riots years ago, Queen Catherine wanted to confine your people to ghettos and force them to wear a red circle on their clothing.” He chuckles. “A good way to mark all defectives. Pity she did not follow through. It would have kept your people in their place. Kept you from thinking too highly of yourselves.”
I sit quietly, not knowing what to say, and not wishing to antagonize him by saying something rash, all the while hoping I look small and frail in his eyes. And for once, my contrary nature shrivels like a beaten dog and slinks somewhere deep inside me.
Fray Alonso folds his filthy fingers beneath his chin and looks at me so brazenly that if the secretary—who sits at the other end of the table taking notes on his writing board—were not in the room, I would be exceedingly afraid.
“So . . . with all this ability, I assume you have studied and read many Jewish writings. Perhaps even studied the rabbis?”
“I read the Psalms, Your Excellency.”
“And?”
“And Cardinal Juan de Torquemada’s book, Meditation.”
Fray Alonso squints at me so long I fear he does not believe me, or worse, that he thinks I mock him. “It would be better if you read nothing at all,” he finally says.
“God has given me a brain. Is it sinful to use it?”
“Yes . . . if that brain is used for the destruction of the gospel. If it is used to Judaize and lead others astray. If it is used to destroy Holy Mother Church.”
I am stunned by his vehemence. “I have no such intent. I am a sincere Christian. Besides, how can a mere woman like me destroy the Church? How can one person destroy what God has built?”
My questions seem to please him, for he settles back in his chair. Fingering his parchment, he stares at me for what seems an eternity, and when I finally blush, he reaches over to a nearby trencher on which sit two plump poached quinces, and plucks off the fattest.
Quinces from Toledo are the most prized, and though I cannot be sure the quince—which is now between Fray Alonso’s teeth—is from that locale, I suspect it is, for Fray Alonso does not appear to be a man who denies himself anything or settles for less than what he can have.
“Do you believe Jews should be punished for killing Christ?” he finally says, after bolting down the fruit.
The question is a pit into which he hopes I fall. But gathering my courage like a gleaner gathers scattered grain, I answer, “Christ said no man takes his life from him. He said he lays it down himself.” Never before have I seen such hatred. It smolders and boils and flames his eyes.
“You are a handsome woman, though not as beautiful as your sister.” The eyes have become slits through which pulsates a heat I can almost feel. “It would be a pity if you, with your soft, lovely flesh, would have to be burned at the stake.” And then he signals his secretary—who is calmly dipping a quill into an ox-horn inkwell—that the interrogation is over.
I leave the Castle of Triana, now called the Holy House, the headquarters of Seville’s Inquisitional Tribunal, and exit the gate. No charges have been made. I need only to appear again for questioning next week. Though I well know the danger ahead, I feel strangely calm and hurry home to share the news.
When Mama opens the door, she enfolds me in her arms without saying a word, and holds me fast as she weeps at my neck. Afterward, she pulls me down the hall, telling me with her eyes, and by pressing a finger to her lips, to remain silent until we reach Papa’s study, where he sits, looking shorter than usual, behind his table.
She makes me take the best chair, then asks what happened. I relay the events of the morning, leaving out my feelings of fear and revenge. They listen, without saying a word, until I finish.
“May the Lord smite that evil man!” Mama presses her palms together as though praying.
Papa’s face is ashen as he rests his elbows on his table. “Mama said it was cruel to keep you at a distance and not let you know what was going on. But it was needful, Isabel. We have learned much from our spies, and it is not good news. We have kept it, and our plans, from you because you cannot confess what you do not know. Fray Alonso appears bent on harming you. Perhaps he wishes to harm us all. Whatever his intent, we must keep you in the dark a while longer for your safety. But trust us, Isabel, we think only of your good.”
Mama’s red, puffy eyes tell me she has been crying far longer than when she greeted me at the door, and Papa’s strained appearance makes him look like an old man. How could I have misunderstood? How could I have been so childish that all I saw was my own pain? Their silence, their sending me away to the house by the groves, their not observing Shavuot or Tisha B’Av, Papa burning his tefillin, the butchered pig, our going to the auto de fe, were al
l for my benefit, so that I might be kept safe. How could I have been so resentful? Whatever they know, whatever their spies have told them, frightens them, and they have born it alone and without my help or even my gratitude.
And I feel so ashamed.
Fray Alonso looks especially sour today, and his acid appearance makes me squirm on the small bench. At one end of the long table the secretary busily scrapes his vellum parchment with a razor, and I wonder why he does not use the new, cheaper rag paper for his notes. But the secretary is quickly forgotten when Fray Alonso snaps, “Tell me about your great grandparents.”
Of what interest can this be to him? “They died in Tunisia, at least my great-grandparents on Mama’s side.”
“Ah, Tunisia. And why were they there?”
My heart beats faster as I begin to see what he is after. “Because they left Castile, Your Excellency.”
The Fray leans over the table. “You mean they left rather than convert during the riot and great conversion?”
“Yes,” I say softly. Mama has often told me that many of her relatives perished during those pogroms and how others, including her great-grandparents, left Spain rather than convert. But what did that have to do with me?
“So your family spurned the Church when they were given the opportunity to come into its fold?”
“They were beaten and robbed and told they would be killed if they did not submit to baptism. Because of this, they chose to leave Spain. I would call it a tragedy rather than an opportunity.” I know I have answered foolishly, but revulsion, not fear, overwhelms me.
Fray Alonso’s eyes narrow. “If that is your view, why did you and your parents not leave during the last riot or during the more recent Expulsion?”
I swallow what feels like a rock in my throat. I know why Mama and Papa stayed; it was because they wished to keep their vast fortune intact. A portion of Papa’s money went to support relatives who had fallen on hard times since the Expulsion, and another portion went to the scattered Jewish communities at large. Jews in Seville and Cordoba were expelled nine years before the other Jews of Spain. Vineyards were sold for cloth, a home for a mule. Those who had wealth were forbidden to take it out of the country in the form of gold or silver. Only bills of exchange, negotiated with bankers, were permissible. And on the way to Portugal, Turkey, or other lands, many Jews were killed along highways, and gutted by thieves who believed they had swallowed gems or gold. Oh, yes, I understand why they stayed. But can I tell Fray Alonso? No. Not if I wanted my family to remain alive.
The Salt Covenants Page 7