was crucified, died, and was buried.
He descended into hell
The third day He arose again from the dead.
He ascended into heaven
and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty,
whence He shall come to judge the living and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and life everlasting.
Amen.
Her tone irritated the nun, who was unwavering in her insistence that conversion was Esther’s best — indeed her only — option.
“You obviously have no commitment to your own faith, since you ran away from it,” she snapped in frustration one day, “so why are you so resistant to the One True Church?”
“I didn’t run away from my faith, Mother Claude,” Esther objected. “I ran away from the limitations that faith subjected me to.”
“Can you explain the distinction?”
“If you let me tell you a story.”
“As I have told you before, I am not interested in hearing any of your stories unless they are true.”
“This one is.”
“Very well, then.”
So Esther began. For once she did not close her eyes, but met the nun’s candid gaze steadily.
***
I GREW UP IN Saint Esprit, a suburb of Bayonne, amidst the community of Portuguese Jews. You may not know that area, Mother Claude; it’s in the Bordeaux region where the best wine comes from. We were tolerated because of our usefulness to His Majesty; given our origins as refugees from the Inquisition, we were able to facilitate maritime trade down the coast because we spoke the Iberian languages. My father was the manager of a warehouse holding the wealth of the Atlantic trade, a busy and a prosperous man and therefore able to pay the heavy taxes the King was pleased to inflict upon him, as upon all Jews.
As is typical of that community, I received a good education, learning to read and write at a young age despite the prospect of doing nothing more with my knowledge than raising a family. Indeed, there is a proverb among our people: “La ija del Djudio, no keda sin kazar,” which means, “No daughter of a Jew remains unmarried.” We have no tradition of nuns as you do, Mother Claude, being bound instead by the commandment to go forth and multiply.
In accordance with this commandment, my father and mother decided to send me to Amsterdam, where my mother’s sister had arranged a marriage for me with a much older man, a widower, most of whose children were older than me. I went weeping and wailing, but went nonetheless, being a girl and therefore having no control whatsoever over my own life.
The boat I sailed on was Dutch, captained by a man named Geoffrey. Almost as soon as we sailed out of port a storm blew up, and we ran aground on the sandbanks of Bayonne. I don’t know what happened to the others on board that ship, but I was saved from drowning and brought to shore by one of the seamen, who lodged me with a widow named Catherine Churriau in Biarritz. I stayed with her for fifteen days, recovering from my injuries. When I confided to this kind woman that I dared not return home because I was to be married against my will, she lent me some of her son’s clothes. In this capacity and under the name of Pierre Mausiette — “Pierre” because it was a rock-solid Christian name, if you will forgive the pun, and “Mausiette” because I was taken out of the water like a female Moses — I went to Bordeaux, where I engaged as a cabin boy on a ship destined for Nantes.
For a long time I travelled up and down the west coast of France, sometimes finding employment as a sailor, sometimes as a tailor or a baker. Although most of my jobs were tedious and my life was lonely, I was free. I no longer had to stay hidden indoors as other girls did, away from hostile eyes, subservient to men. Nor was I restricted to certain trades and certain places merely by virtue of being a Jew. You cannot imagine how big the world suddenly seemed to me, how unlimited the possibilities! All my life I’d longed to live free from the prejudice of others and to travel. Now, because of a lucky accident or the hand of God — you may decide which as you like, Mother Claude — both of my heart’s desires had been fulfilled at once.
And then I was arrested, being mistaken for another lad with the same name. Although I was released as soon as my accuser saw my face and realized that I was the wrong person, my masquerade had come very close to being exposed. For this reason I changed my name again, this time to Jacques Lafargue — “Jacques” because it was a joke, and “La Fargue”bbecause I was a female smith, reforging my identity — and determined to travel to New France, where I thought there would be less chance of discovery and more scope for meaningful employment.
***
ESTHER LOOKED UP AT Mother Claude expectantly. “So here I am.”
“Far from supporting your claim that you were not running away from your faith, Esther, this tale makes it clear that you have never been a very good Jew.”
“You are right,” Esther replied sadly. “I have never been very good.”
“Oh my dear child, it sounds like you are finally ready for the sacrament of confession. You will find it a great relief to unburden your soul.” Mother Claude’s homely face was vivid with joy.
“I am sorry, Mother Claude. I didn’t intend to mislead you,” said Esther.
“What do you mean?”
“I was only conceding that I have done some bad things. For example, eating pork. When I was sick, Madame Churriau gave me bacon without my knowing it; I thought it was delicious until I knew what it was. I tried to spit it up, but it was too late.”
“Why do I keep wasting my time with you, Esther?” Mother Claude asked, slamming her prayer book shut in a rare display of vexation. “You would be wise to consider the situation realistically.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You keep saying you do not want to go home. Well, why would you, if your only prospect is rejoining a nation that bears the curse of having murdered Our Lord?”
Esther protested, “But Mother Claude, the Bible says it was the Romans who killed Jesus, the same way they killed the other martyrs, like Saint Lawrence, later.”
The nun was dumbfounded. In all her years of saving souls no one had ever argued scripture against her, not even the most cunning of the Indians entrusted to her care. Clearly something more drastic was needed to bring out this girl’s fears and vulnerabilities — something that would reduce her to such helplessness that she would gladly take refuge in the Church.
“You say you wish for meaningful employment, Esther? Very well. From now on, you will assist in the lunatic ward of the hospital. I imagine you will feel quite at home there.”
Esther stared at the floor. She had drawn out the verbal battle with Mother Claude as long as she could, but had clearly overestimated the woman’s patience. But she couldn’t help it; she was able neither to avow a faith she didn’t hold nor reject her own tradition on the basis of ignorant lies. Too many of her people had been murdered, or subjected to unspeakable torture, by Mother Claude’s beloved Church. The year before Esther set sail for New France, twelve Marranos had been burned at the stake in Lisbon, the city the Brandãos had originally come from. The city where some of their relatives probably still lived in hiding, fearful every day of fueling a similar auto de fé themselves. If she were to convert to Christianity it would make a mockery of the sufferings of all those other Jews.
She could have explained this conviction to Mother Claude if she tried, but she doubted it was worth the effort. The woman had not become Mother Superior by conceding the rights of others to practise different faiths. But there was something else Esther Brandeau knew she would never be able to make Mother Claude understand, as much as she admired the woman and wished for her approval: if she converted, it would make her own life meaningless. It would mean that instead of gaining freedom she had lost it. And freedom was the only thing she had; freedom was her true religion
, and she was not prepared to give it up. So she remained silent, and resolved to take whatever punishment awaited her.
ELEVEN
“Cuando ganéden está accerado, guehinam está siempre abierto.”
(The Garden of Eden may be closed, but Hell is always open.)
ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a scholarly Jew who was well versed in every art but magic. Hearing that all the greatest magicians in the world lived in Egypt, he decided to travel there to study with them. On the first night of his journey he arrived at a small roadside inn. The innkeeper showed him to a comfortable room with a soft featherbed and asked him how long he would be staying. The traveller said that he would have to leave early in the morning as he was going all the way to Egypt to study magic.
The innkeeper immediately announced that he himself was a famous magician and could teach the scholar everything he wanted to know. But the scholar thought that the innkeeper, who was old and bent and bald as an egg, could not be as powerful as he claimed. The scholar mocked him, suggesting that he use his magic to make the bill disappear.
It is never a good idea to make fun of a magician, as the scholar learned soon after. The innkeeper left him to unpack his few belongings and returned with a large bowl of water, inviting him to clean up before dinner was served. As soon as the scholar bent over the bowl to wash his face, he lost his balance and fell in. The bowl had been transformed into a vast ocean and he found himself swimming frantically for shore, though there was no land anywhere in sight. The next thing he knew a terrible storm blew up, with clamorous thunder, lightning brighter than the sun, and waves hundreds of feet high. As they swept over the scholar he was convinced that he was about to drown, so he recited his final prayers.
How long he floated, salt tears mingling with salt water, he did not know. But eventually he heard something. He flipped over onto his belly and saw faintly, in the distance, a dark shape moving towards him. It was a ship! The sailors on deck heard his cries, threw him a rope, and hauled him aboard. They gave him dry clothes and a big glass of rum to drink, and, after they had talked with him for a time, confessed amazement at his vast knowledge and his fluency in many languages. They invited him to come home with them to their native land, where scholars were revered above all other men.
So he went to their homeland, where he was received with great respect. He became the governor over that distant country and ruled wisely for many years. He married and had six children, three boys and three girls, and forgot all about his intention to go to Egypt to study magic.
One day, the scholar’s adopted country was conquered by the army of an evil sultan and he was captured and taken into slavery. This sultan was very cruel; it amused him to watch his foreign prisoners working day after day in the blazing sun, building a huge wall around his kingdom to keep themselves in and everybody else out. When a slave died — as they often did, for the work was hard and they were fed nothing but dry bread and water — his bones were mixed into the clay to make the bricks stronger. An armed guard stood watch over the slaves while they worked during the day and while they slept at night. No one had ever escaped captivity, so the poor scholar despaired of ever seeing his beloved wife and children again.
After years of this misery, and long after he had given up all hope of rescue, fortune suddenly favoured him. He was left unsupervised for a few minutes and ran off into the desert. The soldiers of the king chose not to pursue him, certain that he would soon become lost in that endless wasteland and die of hunger and thirst. And indeed, after wandering for hours with no idea at all of where he was going, the scholar grew weary and took shelter in a cave, where he fell into a deep sleep.
He had no idea how long he had been sleeping when a strange sound awakened him. A marvellous golden bird stood in the entrance of the cave, singing, “Come away, come away.” Convinced that the creature was talking to him, the scholar followed it out of the cave. The bird stayed out of his reach, fluttering from rock to rock, eventually arriving at a lush oasis surrounded by tall date palms heavy with ripe fruit. Kneeling down to drink, the scholar saw, in the unmoving water, the reflection of someone behind him. It was the bald old innkeeper with whom he had spent a night many years ago on his way to Egypt.
“Monsieur,” said the innkeeper, “You’ve been washing your face in this bowl for a very long time. Your dinner is growing cold. Won’t you come downstairs to eat now?”
And so, realizing his error, the scholar decided to stay with the innkeeper and learn the art of magic from him.
***
WHEN ESTHER BROKE OFF her story with satisfaction, proud of having provided some entertainment to the lunatic ward, she was disconcerted at the near riot that broke out around her. Instead of being soothed by her tale-telling as she had assumed they would be, the inmates were more agitated than ever.
“Come away, come away,” shrieked one as she swooped around the room, flapping her arms like a demented bird. A toothless woman with a face like an old boot and a mane of luxurious red hair, she had suffocated her eighteenth child at birth. Her other children missed her dreadfully but the hospital would not allow her to go home, and she had grown more and more frantic as the weeks went by.
“Come away, come away,” several other patients chimed in, imitating her. The more timid ones started to cry at the commotion around them, and one old man howled on all fours like a dog.
“You wicked girl,” shouted Sister Agnes, who was trying, unsuccessfully, to catch the flapping woman. “It will take all afternoon to settle them down again.”
It was lucky that Doctor Lévesque was in residence that day. Being one of the few local doctors to have been trained in France, he ordinarily worked at the Hôtel-Dieu where respectable people were sent when they fell ill. However, he insisted on visiting the Hôpital Général once a week to supervise the ministrations of the nursing sisters to the dregs of society: the poor, the disabled, the criminal, the insane. As she got to know the man better, Esther had become more and more impressed by both his expertise and his compassion.
Doctor Lévesque scolded Esther, gently, for telling the inmates stories, reminding her how much trouble they had distinguishing reality and fantasy. He tied the howling man to a chair with soft restraints, wiped the spittle from his face tenderly, and continued his rounds of the ward. He comforted a sobbing girl, examined the throat of a rigid man who claimed to be unable to swallow food, gave a sugar pill here and a pat on the back there until all the patients were satisfied that something, however inadequate, had been done for them. As soon as he moved on to the next inmate, the ones he left behind dissolved into tears or started ranting incoherently; however, for the brief moment they had his attention they became calmer and more articulate, and it became possible to see the suffering individual under the mask of madness.
“How do you manage to keep your temper?” Esther inquired, after one patient, a stunted deaf-mute of indeterminate age and gender, tried to bite him.
“Gratitude.”
“For what?”
“For not being them.”
In all her months of discussing the virtues of submission with Madame Duplessis or the possibility of redemption after death with Mother Claude, Esther had not felt as moved as she did upon hearing this. As much as she respected both women, she was not drawn to the kind of mysticism demanded by their version of religion. Esther wanted to see the effects of her actions in this world, not the next. She had no interest in the afterworld and believed neither in angels nor demons; she only wanted for her life to mean something. The doctor’s practical philanthropy appealed to her in a way that sermons about sin and redemption did not.
“You are a very good man,” she said.
“No,” he replied. “Just a very good doctor.”
“I would like to learn from you to be of use. If I make myself indispensable, Monsieur Hocquart may not send me away.”
“I doubt it. The law states that only Catholics may live in New France.” The bitterness in his tone was
unmistakable, and it took Esther by surprise.
“Do you think the law is unfair, Doctor?” she blurted out.
“It doesn’t matter what I think, does it?”
Inadvertently Esther found herself looking around to make sure none of the nursing sisters were in the vicinity and had overheard them. Luckily they were alone; perhaps that was why the doctor had felt free to say such a thing to her. Or maybe it was because she was a Jew, an outsider, and therefore could not get him into trouble for his free thinking.
Regardless of the reason, she was grateful. It had been rare, in her experience, to meet anyone else who saw life the way she did. She determined at once to become the best possible assistant to Doctor Lévesque, and worked twice as hard as she had before: carrying his medical supplies from room to room, consoling patients in his absence, feeding the catatonic, bathing the incontinent. It was ironic that having fled a life of domestic labour back home she should be consigned to one on the other side of the ocean, but she hoped that at least in this place her work might be valued.
It was not all tedious. She was allowed to play marbles with the younger patients and chess with the older ones, and she heard a number of wild tales — some wilder than those she herself was accustomed to telling, but which she no longer dared indulge in. This was her favourite part of the job: she was rapt with wonder as a young boy recounted with absolute conviction and considerable descriptive power how he flew around the silent countryside at night when others slept, grazing the treetops; as a wizened man with a matted beard explained that he was the illegitimate son of the King, exiled because his mother had fallen out of favour at court. There seemed to be an extraordinary number of aristocrats in hiding among the lunatics, and an equal quantity of prophets and holy men. And they all liked Esther, because she alone among the nursing staff not only listened patiently to their complicated histories but also solicited further details.
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