The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  Beatriz’s knuckles turned hard and white at her sides. “We aren’t supposed to go calling on Jews anymore. Constanza said so.”

  Papá looked exasperated. “Some towns are adhering to those ridiculous laws, but no one is enforcing them in Trujillo.” He took Beatriz by the arm, dragging her behind him. “Come. Let’s not draw more attention to ourselves than needed.”

  As they entered through the gates, Beatriz covered her nose with a gloved hand.

  The streets were dirtier here, not like those in Isabel’s neighborhood, which were swept by brown-shirted peasants once a week for a coin. The smells were different inside the quarter, too—not bad, just unfamiliar. Roasted meats and cinnamon and a strong citrus scent.

  “I smell pomegranate,” said Mamá, smiling.

  Street signs in painted Hebrew letters hovered above merchants’ shops. Abuela would know their meaning. Some had crudely drawn pictures next to the foreign words: a shoe, a ring with a jewel inside, a spinning wheel. A woman on a corner sold geraniums, their pink and red petals standing out as strongly as a dash of lip paint on a powdered face. Young men scurried by, heading home for the holiday, wearing the traditional cone-shaped hats Jewish males wore outside the judería. When Isabel was small, she thought the hats looked like upside-down cooking funnels.

  A group of older men stood a few feet from the wall, a coffin on the ground in front of them.

  Beatriz pointed to the wooden box. “The stench is coming from over there.”

  “Don’t point,” said Papá. “They’re guarding the body, may he or she rest in peace.”

  “Why aren’t they putting the corpse in the ground?” asked Isabel.

  “They’re waiting until sundown. So as not to be easily seen and draw attention to their burial customs. The Crown isn’t happy about ceding good land to Jews for a cemetery.”

  Mamá looked up at the sky. “Thanks be to God that we were able to bury Ruy in the Christian cemetery the morning he died.” Every Saturday, Mamá put a rock on little Rodrigo’s grave, returning home with red eyes. Isabel did not know if her mother was more distraught about his passing or the fact that he could not be buried with a Star of David on his marker.

  One of the men guarding the coffin tipped his head to them. “Hag Sameach.” Happy holiday.

  “Hag Sameach,” returned Papá.

  Despite the dirty streets and sense of darkness from the tall iron gates, there was a freedom in here, the happy-holiday greetings escaping off the tongue like a bird in flight.

  “How long do you think this dinner will last?” asked Beatriz. “Constanza invited me to play todas tablas.”

  “You just want to see her brother, Juan Carlos,” teased Isabel.

  “I do not!” Beatriz’s neck flushed and she reflexively scratched her scalp.

  “Don’t tell me you have lice,” said Mamá, stopping to examine Beatriz’s hair.

  She pulled away. “Stop. It’s just a scab.”

  The area she scratched, to the left of her middle part, was familiar. Once, Isabel caught her sister staring into the looking glass, sticking a peineta into her head so hard it drew blood. Isabel was astonished, but didn’t say anything, thinking she had poked herself accidentally. A week later, while braiding Beatriz’s hair, Isabel spotted the scab. But that was last spring. How could the skin still be caked in that same spot after all this time? Unless Beatriz kept picking at it?

  “Señora Herrera peeked out her curtain when we left the house,” said Beatriz, directing the attention away from herself.

  So Isabel had been right about the movement in the window.

  “She might tell someone,” warned Beatriz.

  “She has no idea where we’re going,” said Mamá. “And the fact that we left before sundown takes away all suspicion. Observant Jews would not be walking out of the house this close to the end of Sabbath.”

  “Let this be our last visit, then,” said Beatriz. “We can’t be friends with the Cohens anymore.”

  “Have you no loyalty at all, Beatriz?” admonished Isabel. “You took care of the twins when they were born! Even taught Rachel to stitch a sampler! Or have you erased that from your stingy memory?”

  Beatriz fell silent.

  “This must be it,” said Mamá, looking up at a narrow wooden building. Some of the wood slats stuck out, uneven with the rest of the facade. The whole house, in fact the entire block of houses, tilted to the left, like dominoes stacked against one another ready to fall. Remembering the Cohens’ old house, a few streets away from their own, Isabel felt sad and shocked at the sight in front of her. Their previous home was built of river stone on the lower half, and strong wood on the upper half. Inside, there had been a sala bigger than the Perezes’, with the most beautiful ultramarine damask drapes covering the front window openings.

  Mamá knocked on the unpainted wooden door and Beatriz’s lips began to move. Isabel recognized the Latin of the Paternoster, as if there were some evil influence she needed protection from.

  A smiling Señora Cohen opened the door. “Hag Sameach.” She wore a gown of plain beige sackcloth, with a red badge sewn on the upper left corner, identifying her as a Jew.

  Isabel knew Jews were now required to don the gowns, but she had not yet seen someone so dear to her wearing one. What a terrible irony that the tailor’s wife could not even put on her husband’s fine cloth.

  Beatriz whispered to Isabel. “She looks wretched in that dress.”

  “Is that all you can say about their situation?” hissed Isabel. “Have some compassion.”

  Beatriz dug her elbow into Isabel’s stomach. It didn’t hurt but made Isabel want to jab her back. Isabel withheld her ire and did nothing.

  David Cohen stood next to his wife, a pince-nez tilted on his nose, his mouth in a thin, grim line. Though he was one of the leading textile sellers in the Kingdom of Castile and León, today he looked distraught.

  Mamá assessed the main room of the apartment. Three cots in the corner, a table in the center, and a hearth against the wall. “It’s not so very different from your old place, Hannah,” she lied.

  “Minus two rooms.” Señora Cohen smiled wearily. “But David works directly downstairs and the butcher is only a three-minute walk.” She brushed off some dust from a royal-blue enameled vase. Isabel remembered it from their old sala, the way it sat so prominently on a polished cedar pedestal, its color matching the drapes perfectly.

  Mamá handed Señora Cohen the cake she had baked. “It’s honey, the way you like it.”

  “The children are outside. Come.”

  On the Cohens’ balcony, a makeshift booth, or suca, had been erected. The roof tiles that ordinarily would extend over the balcony had been temporarily removed so that only the skeleton of rough wooden beams remained. Leafy tree branches lay across the beams, covering the top just enough so everyone sitting under it could still see the stars. Straw mats suspended from the roof on three sides enclosed them in the cozy space. The fresh smell of myrtle and willow, mixed with the hanging apples, grapes, and pomegranates, made Isabel feel like she was in the middle of a fruity forest. The only furniture inside the suca was a chestnut-wood table. A long bench ran along one side and five chairs sat opposite.

  Rachel, eleven years old, was devouring a plate of sweet baked biscochos all by herself at one end of the table.

  “I’m eating dessert before dinner even begins!” said Rachel.

  “That’s enough of that.” Señora Cohen grabbed the plate of cookies from the table and headed into the house.

  Isabel looked around. “Where’s Yuçe?”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “In the workroom, as always.”

  “Let’s go see the new fabrics,” said Beatriz, yanking her sister’s hand.

  They walked through the apartment, past the adults, who were standing, drinking glasses of the vino tinto Papá brought.

  “The girls want to choose some new fabric,” Isabel heard Mamá say.

  “Of course,” said
Señor Cohen. “But you’ll have to come back tomorrow to pay for them.”

  “Monday is better for us,” said Papá. “I’ll send Isabel over.”

  Señor Cohen leaned back on his heels. “That’s right. I nearly forgot. Sunday is church day for you people.”

  Mamá and Señora Cohen smiled uncomfortably at each other.

  “How do you stomach it?” continued Señor Cohen. “Reciting those Latin words under the watchful eye of some golden statue of Jesús? Reminds me of the time our idolater ancestors worshipped the golden calf in the Sinai desert, do you not agree?”

  Isabel hurried Beatriz out of the room before her sister could show off her Latin skills. They certainly did not need to incite Señor Cohen any further. He seemed like a different person tonight. She had never heard him so aggressive.

  Downstairs, Isabel and Beatriz found themselves in a small open-air courtyard. Dead weeds poked their heads through faded tiles on the ground. From the open window spaces of the apartment above, dishes clanked and Papá’s and Señor Cohen’s voices escalated. Hearing the two fathers argue gave Isabel an uneasy feeling.

  Beatriz pointed to an open door on their right. “That must be it.”

  Inside the small room, Yuçe, Rachel’s twin brother, stood with his back to them, pulling down a bolt of green silk damask. Bolts of fabric lay askew on shelves that threatened to collapse from the weight.

  “Hola,” said Isabel.

  He turned, his face lighting up, and promptly dropped the roll of fabric on his foot.

  Beatriz laughed.

  Yuçe stared down at the floor, then bent to pick up the material. When he stood, Isabel scrutinized him. “Have you grown since we last saw you?”

  “He’s become a giraffe, all spindly legs and arms,” said Beatriz.

  Isabel glared at her sister. “How would you know? You’ve never seen one.”

  “Pope Pious II had a menagerie greet him in Florence; among them was a giraffe. I heard it described in church.”

  Her sister missed no detail at Mass. “Well, I think you grew two centimeters at least, Yuçe,” said Isabel.

  He flushed wildly, fingering his left ear, which stuck out farther than the right. “I probably look taller in this tiny space. I miss our old workroom. Everything is so crowded together in the judería.” He replaced the fallen fabric bolt. “How long have you been here?”

  “A few minutes. The grown-ups are drinking wine and your sister is eating all the dessert, of course.”

  Beatriz went to the shelves to get a closer look at the fabrics. Yuçe cleared a corner of the crowded area and sat down on the floor, folding a cloth remnant for Isabel to sit on.

  Something black and furry scurried across the floor.

  “Madre mía!” exclaimed Isabel.

  Yuçe sprang up, striding over to a wooden box in the opposite corner. He lifted the top to reveal a stick propped up with a morsel of bread in the center. “Spiteful rat. Hopefully, he’ll find his way into this trap. I brought in some stray cats from the river thinking that would solve the problem. But they scratched all the silk with their claws. Now I’m trying this.”

  “Did those stains ever come out?” asked Isabel, a little calmer now that she knew there were actual traps in the room. Yuçe had come to their house a few months ago asking for unripe grapes.

  Yuçe grinned. “The verjuice worked like a sorcerer’s charm! Who would think something as simple as that would take out stains from rat droppings?”

  Beatriz grunted from her position by the shelves. She did not like discussing anything dirty that came from the body of an animal or human. “Any new patterns from Turkey or India?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Yuçe, turning sour. “Father hasn’t taken me to the port in Cádiz in a long time.”

  “There must be a logical reason,” said Isabel.

  “His third apprentice, Samuel, has left us. Now all I do is add padding to suits and sew linings and pockets.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “It’s much more exciting to be greeting the ships. But Papá’s eyes are going and, with Samuel gone, he can’t see the small stitches.”

  “Did Samuel fall ill?” asked Isabel.

  Yuçe shook his head. “Papá says it’s because of the anti-Jewish statutes. Samuel feared he’d be arrested if he worked for a Jew who engaged in, what was the word? Oh yes, handicraft.”

  “Honestly, if Jews are legally forbidden from hand-making anything, what are they supposed to do instead?” said Isabel. Since Papá bottled wine and affixed his own label, one could argue they manufactured something, too. But being conversos protected them. For now. It was confusing trying to figure out which restrictive laws were being enforced and which weren’t. If you took the anti-Jewish laws at their word, no Jew would be allowed to practice medicine, be a butcher, glassblower, candle-maker, or even cut his own hair for that matter. Yet there were scant aristocratic households in Castile and Aragon, including the royal family’s, who did not have a Jewish physician visit them when someone fell ill. Everyone knew this truth. “It’s plain hypocrisy if you ask me.”

  “Perhaps your new friend the alguacil can protect Samuel and convince him to return to work,” said Beatriz.

  Isabel exhaled impatiently. “He’s not my new friend.”

  “That’s not what I heard Mamá and Papá discussing.”

  “What are you two speaking about?” asked Yuçe, eyes wide. “Let me in on the secret!”

  Beatriz answered for her. “Isabel and Don Sancho, the alguacil, are betrothed.”

  “It is not an hecho consumado,” snapped Isabel. “He hasn’t asked officially yet.”

  “But I want to marry you!” proclaimed Yuçe.

  Isabel scrubbed the top of his curly hair, laughing. “That’s sweet. But you’ll find a more suitable girl who’s your own age … in about seven years.” His mouth curved down in a pout.

  She turned to the shelves where her sister was still examining every thread. “Have you found anything you like yet?”

  Beatriz carried four bolts of cloth over to them.

  “Lovely,” said Isabel. “Yuçe can cut them after dinner. Let’s head back upstairs, shall we?”

  “Business is booming,” Señora Cohen was saying as the girls and Yuçe entered the suca.

  The adults sat on one side of the table, the children on the other.

  “The countess keeps him so busy. All those dresses for so many occasions,” continued Señora Cohen. “The Altamiranos lead a very social life.”

  At least they were off the earlier topic of golden calves, Isabel thought, relieved. The battle of converso versus true Jew seemed to be over.

  Señor Cohen recited the blessing over the bread and everyone joined in. Except Beatriz, of course. She never spoke Hebrew. Every time Mamá tried to teach the girls a blessing, Beatriz complained it felt foreign on her tongue, like a hot chili pepper.

  “And thank you, God, for commanding us to dwell in the suca,” concluded Señor Cohen.

  “Can we sleep out here tonight?” begged Rachel, her smile pure and delighted.

  “We’ll see,” said her mother.

  They dipped apples in honey and ate chicken roasted with prunes.

  “Our ancestors built these cabañas so they could gather their bountiful crops and not have to walk the long distance home each night during harvest season,” said Señor Cohen.

  Papá chuckled. “You act as though we don’t know the purpose of this festival.”

  Señor Cohen demurred. “Of course you do. Forgive me. Speaking of harvest, how is your grape season coming?”

  “We’ve had a good year I’m not ashamed to say,” answered Papá.

  “No. Shame never enters your mind, does it?”

  Isabel begged silently for Papá to let the insult slide. Mercifully, he did.

  “Everything is delicious, Hannah,” said Mamá.

  “You sleep easily at night, do you not?” baited Señor Cohen. “
Knowing your wine-bottling business is safe?”

  “I don’t follow,” said Papá.

  “Let me enlighten you. Every morning we wake up, not knowing if our trade, the one we’ve worked at all our lives, become experts in, will be taken away from us by the whim of some Christian cleric’s statute.”

  “My business is feeling the strain as well,” admitted Papá. “Believe me.”

  Señor Cohen scowled.

  Isabel tried to ameliorate the situation. “Rachel, Yuçe, let’s play a game. How about truc? Where are your cards?”

  Rachel went to go find them inside, but Señor Cohen continued. “Have you lost any workers yet?”

  “I just have Pedro,” answered Papá. “He’s been with me for fifteen years.”

  Señor Cohen removed his pince-nez and rubbed the corners of his eyes. “My third apprentice has quit. And the second is about to walk out as well. Those anti-Jewish laws have put the fear of God in them.”

  “Perhaps I could give him temporary work until it’s safe for him to return.”

  “Oh yes. The big hero, Manolo Perez, to the rescue.” Señor Cohen replaced his pince-nez and looked coldly at Papá. “We won’t be needing your charity. Samuel would never work for a converso anyway. He’d choose an Old Christian over someone who abandoned his own God any day of the week.”

  “I have never abandoned God,” seethed Papá. “We are anusim, forced to convert under duress.”

  “Then why has He punished you?”

  Papá’s head tilted in question.

  Señor Cohen laughed. “Whose fault do you think it is that Soli died?”

  At the mention of Rodrigo’s Hebrew name, Mamá gave a startled cry and turned as white as the tablecloth.

  Isabel wanted to reach out her hand to comfort her, but Rachel returned just then with the playing cards. Isabel dealt quickly, concentrating on the images drawn on them—cups, batons, coins, swords—hoping Señor Cohen would stop.

  “Rodrigo had the tremors,” said Papá through clenched teeth, clearly furious that he had to explain anything at all yet doing it anyway. “His body was wracked with fever. Who understands why these things happen?”

  “No,” corrected Señor Cohen. “Your son died for your sins. Just like your new Lord, Jesúcristo, did.” He raised one finger in the air. “Soli’s death is your punishment for rejecting God!”