The Weight of Ink

by Rachel Kadish

  Her throat was too tight for speech. She shook her head mutely—a gesture he could not see.

  For an instant, memory summoned the young de Spinoza: a slim, all-observing youth, framed a fleeting moment in the doorway as he escorted the rabbi into her father’s household. Whatever heretical thoughts de Spinoza had held in those long-ago years, he’d held them in silence—only allowing his incendiary notions to be known later, after his father’s death. Had he deliberately blunted his words in his youth, loath to betray his living father as she now betrayed the rabbi? What selfishness of spirit, she wondered, reigned in her? What commanded her to set her mind free, though it must wound others?

  “Ester.” The rabbi half rose from his seat; she stood hurriedly, poised to support him should he fall. “A herem sets none free,” he said. “It separates a person from the congregation, and so bans him from all that is commanded of a Jew, and from all that consoles us together even as it consoled us at Sinai. Such isolation, Ester. What sort of life is possible—with no ground beneath one’s feet except the logic of one’s own mind?”

  His cheeks were pink with agitation. She’d never seen him so disturbed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t intend to—”

  “Baruch de Spinoza erred, may God forgive him.” The rabbi’s words fell heavily. “He suffers for it even if he fathoms not his own suffering. To live without faith is to live a death. I could not make him see.” He held to his chair with one hand for a moment, then relinquished this struggle and sank back on its cushion. “I weep for him still,” he said. “And will regret always that I failed him.”

  “Yet he lives,” she said. “He’s . . .” She hesitated. “Wheresoever he is, he must still thank you in his heart for serving as his teacher.”

  But the rabbi shook his head. His breathing was ragged; he waited until it slowed. “To us, he is dead. And even in himself he surely feels this grief. The youth we entrusted with the light of the sages’ wisdom is no more.”

  The fire crackled behind him; his breathing grew quiet. The patches of color that had flared so briefly on his cheeks were gone.

  He said, “You were the two best pupils I taught.”

  She stared.

  “Even as a child,” he said, “you showed a gift I’d perceived in only one other student. Yours was of a different flavor—your mind a straight path, his a labyrinth. But you were alike in so much. I have thought it often, Ester. It is my lot in life to share the light of learning with all who come to me, yet it has also been my fate to see the greatest gifts spilled into dust: one keen and vibrant intelligence lost on an apostate I could not call back from his errors, the other on a woman who can never make full use of such gifts. God has provided for me that I teach His words, and this must be honor enough. It is not for me to determine which of the seeds I plant will blossom, and which lie fallow, or even bear ill.”

  His face was clouded. “Ester, do not make the error of mistaking death for life.”

  She could not guess what he knew.

  “Write for me,” he said.

  19

  March 18, 2001

  London

  She set the water to boil, tidied the kitchen until the kettle sounded, and, while the tea steeped, changed out of her nightdress. Taking the first sips of steaming tea at her kitchen table, she located the new edition of Early Modern Quarterly in the small pile of bills and advertisements that had arrived in yesterday’s post. Before opening the journal she set down her tea, slowly, both hands required to steady the cup. For a moment she surveyed her kitchen: the spotless counters, the white curtains, the low glow of her shaded lamp. The geranium in its pot on the sill.

  How much longer?

  Forever, she answered. She’d live here in this flat, managing on her own, until the end. She certainly wouldn’t be making any preemptive move into one of those dreadful facilities, despite Dr. Hammond’s urging that she soon arrange for what he liked to call “eventualities.” And if the prospect of a lingering decline, alone in the grip of Parkinson’s, sometimes terrified her? Well, she could choose—couldn’t she?—not to dwell on that thought.

  At present, work occupied her days. All winter, as though adhering to a pact of silence regarding Wilton’s upcoming publication, she and Aaron had convened in the rare manuscripts room each time the Patricias released a new batch of documents. In the interludes between, when other long-deferred projects demanded the services of the conservation lab, they revisited translations and did archival research. They’d found no further evidence of Thomas Farrow, and nothing to corroborate any link between Farrow and Ester Velasquez. If Aaron hadn’t transcribed that document before ripping it, Helen would have thought they’d hallucinated it. Still, they’d labored together without either acknowledging the increasing likelihood that all was likely to be snatched from them despite their efforts.

  A satisfactory approach to life, Helen thought. Dr. Hammond ought take note.

  She set down the tea, opened the journal, and found the table of contents.

  It took a moment for her mind to register what she saw there. Publication on such short notice was practically unheard of. She’d expected to see the article in the summer at the earliest. With a pang she realized it: the editor must have held space for something by Wilton, at Jonathan Martin’s request, from the moment the Richmond papers were purchased.

  There was no justification for the anguish she felt at the sight of the words.

  Sabbatean Florence and a Female Scribe: A Startling Find Beneath a London Stair

  She tried to read, but could not force her eyes to make an orderly progression down the page. Phrases struck her eyes at random. The type seemed to enlarge in places, the over-bright letters striking her eyes—then shrink into inscrutability in others, as though the words were molten and in motion. Only after she’d turned through the pages of the article twice was she able to read from beginning to end, the text cooling into legible sentences and dreadful, orderly paragraphs.

  The existence of a female copyist shows our established understanding of Sephardic customs of the era to be incomplete. While we still lack evidence of any further violations of the dictates of the Amsterdam rabbinic authorities within the early London community, it would seem that prior to the consolidation of the authority of the Mahamad in London, there was a period when authority was sufficiently diffuse for one young woman to be permitted to scribe, for a brief time, for a rabbi. (As previously indicated, technical matters related to the conservation process have thus far precluded the examination of the last few documents; should additions or emendations prove necessary once the remaining papers have been made available, these will be presented as soon as feasible in a future paper.)

  This Jewish female scribe’s atypical employment is surely an interesting historical anomaly, one worthy of deeper research. Yet the words of the scholar whose thoughts she transcribed comprise the most significant revelation to emerge thus far in the cache of documents. The extent of the Florentine Sabbatean crisis, unearthed for the first time in these papers, is news of scholarly importance, with ramifications for the understanding of that community’s role in the larger Jewish history of the region. While the absence of prior information about such a significant Sabbatean upheaval in Florence may at first appear puzzling, that absence can be explained by several factors, which deserve brief mention here.

  Helen read the whole, scouring each argument for flaws, finding none. The reasoning was lucid, forceful. Wilton laid out the major points more clearly, she had to acknowledge, than she herself might have. He possessed a certain flair, knew how to take the dry medium of a scholarly article and shape it into story. He’d even included a humane discussion of the letter about the homosexuality and exile of a young Jewish man. Aaron Levy would take that one personally—he’d translated that letter only last week, and had foolishly hoped that Wilton’s team wouldn’t include it in their article. But no. Wilton had jumped every fence, claiming the entire course his own.

 
The brief missive from Rabbi HaCoen Mendes to Benjamin HaLevy, a prominent merchant, not only implies that HaLevy’s son Alvaro was homosexual, but argues against the harsh punitive stance taken by the father. Benjamin HaLevy, undeterred by the rabbi’s argument, chose to impress his son into service on a ship (this is the exile referred to in the rabbi’s letter—see box below for complete text—and this punishment was indeed carried through, as confirmed by the muster roll of the ship Triumph, which sailed from England in 1665 and sank with all hands in a storm off the coast of Brazil in 1667). The father’s punishment, paired with the rabbi’s plea (“It is not for us to stone the sinner . . .”), maps for us a range of Jewish responses to the looser sexual mores of Restoration London.

  The inverted document is the most obscure element thus far discovered. Although it’s tempting to hope for further enlightenment concerning its vague references, given the lack of a Jewish Pepys to map the personalities and social intrigues of this community, it seems unlikely we shall ever discover the full stories behind the individuals in question. The scribe was most likely the daughter of one Samuel Velasquez of Amsterdam, and is known, along with her brother, to have joined the rabbi’s household after the parents’ deaths (we have yet to confirm the siblings’ given names). We can assume, however, that this young woman’s own education had not prepared her for the learned discourse to which she had access in the household of Rabbi HaCoen Mendes. The pronouncements she makes in the inverted text are most likely a blend of her own thoughts and fragments overheard in the rabbi’s conversation. Given the disjointed nature of the inverted text, it also seems possible that she was merely copying out lines from a poem or other source unknown to the modern reader. Certainly a scribe might undertake such an exercise as a memorization aid, or even in order to practice penmanship. Indeed the final lines of the cross-writing invite this explanation; the scribe’s use of a quotation from Shakespeare’s Richard II implies that she was versed in popular literature and in theater, and perhaps eager to show her knowledge of a beloved verse, even in a doodle to herself between the lines of another document.

  While comparisons to the discovery of the diary of Glückel of Hameln will surely arise, this loose collection of cross-written statements offers none of the access to the details of daily life that makes Glückel’s diary such a rich source. Nonetheless, a young female scribe’s presence on the written page, while a lesser discovery, remains a compelling one. Indeed, her voice in the cross-written document—though occasionally breathless in tone, as any of us might find ourselves in a heady environment—may be seen as a touchingly human grace note to the graver matter at stake: the evidence of a determined Sabbatean faction in Florence.

  Multiple works will surely follow this first one: there is room for a biography of Rabbi HaCoen Mendes, about whom too little is currently known, and there is perhaps a dissertation to be written about his scribe, as we might glean from it something about the lives of Jewish women of this community.

  At the risk of injecting the personal into a scholarly article, I must say that it is an honor to be present at such a find, and a privilege to launch what will surely be a rich and multifaceted study of these documents.

  She ate before driving to the university. She set her place without a butter knife, put the milk back into a cabinet instead of the refrigerator before realizing what she’d done. When she sat she didn’t bother, for once, tucking a napkin about her neck, and the sandwich she’d made wavered broadly in her hand, scattering crumbs to the table and floor while she aimed her mouth at it, and she cursed her hunger and cursed her body, though she could not blame it for its mutiny. Had she but loved her life, her body, instead of warring against them—had she but loved someone, had she but allowed a different future . . . ?

  She couldn’t think.

  Her blouse was stained with tomato juice. Perhaps she wouldn’t change clothing—would simply walk into the world like this: stained, defeated. Don’t you eat? Aaron Levy had asked, during that innocent first week in Richmond, when she’d felt so certain that the documents, once acquired by the university, would be hers.

  She ate, yes. She ate in private. This was why. She’d let none but her doctor see the extent of her tremor.

  Except—the realization hit her, a tiny shock—Aaron. On that first day in Richmond, she’d deliberately shown Aaron her tremor, hadn’t she? Lifting her hand and letting it quake right in front of his face: an act of aggression, a dare. Why? Had she so wanted a friend—and so forgotten how to obtain one—that she’d bullied an underling in a play for sympathy? But it had had the opposite effect: she’d been so unsettled by the horror on Aaron Levy’s face that she’d barely been able to speak to him the remainder of the day.

  She stood, walked to her closet, changed her blouse.

  Aaron was waiting for her outside the rare manuscripts room. He looked as though he’d taken a bite of something foul and hadn’t yet decided whether to swallow. “I’ve read it,” he said.

  She mustered a nod.

  To her surprise, he reached out and, before she understood what he was doing, took her heavy bag from her. Hefting it on his own shoulder as though the weight were nothing, he breathed a long sigh. “Shall we?” He opened the door for her.

  It took her a moment to identify the sensation that came over her as she passed him. Aaron was being protective. She felt protected. It was a useless gesture, yes. But she was grateful all the same.

  Which made it all the harder, having checked in with Patricia and settled at the table to await their manuscripts, to speak. Still, she owed him this.

  “You should join Wilton’s group,” she said. She didn’t look at him as she said it.

  The silence with which he received her words was interrupted by the arrival of Patricia, who placed a document before each of them.

  When Patricia had departed, Helen spoke again, her eyes on the far wall. “I think he’d have you. You’re good.”

  He still hadn’t spoken. She looked at him.

  “See?” she said. “That’s a compliment.”

  She’d meant it as a joke, but her voice sounded stifled.

  Aaron appeared to be casting about for a wry retort. At length he said, “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be retiring soon, as you know.” The words hurt coming out. “I’ll write you a reference.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  The door of the rare manuscripts room opened, and Wilton entered with his group. They made their way down the broad aisle, deposited their things serenely in lockers. To Helen they appeared too bright to look at, beautiful and terrible angels from a painting. But Aaron was looking directly at them, and he wasn’t smiling.

  Wilton was passing their table. She forced herself to stand. She forced herself to look at him. “Congratulations,” she said. “That was a fine paper.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you. I confess, I’m gratified by the reception it’s receiving. But that’s a tribute to the significance of this find, of course, more than to anything my group has done.”

  She offered a tight smile in return. She said, “Have you met Aaron Levy?”

  Wilton stepped forward and shook Aaron’s hand. Then, instead of stepping away from their table, he lingered with one palm on its surface, and Helen saw that he needed to tip the scales a bit so he could rest comfortably in his triumph. Having vanquished her, he’d now offer her some kindness.

  Wilton’s focus had fallen, she saw, on the document Patricia had set before Aaron. “That’s the last of the Sabbatean letters, I suspect,” he said.

  “How do you know that?” Helen snapped, then regretted her defensive tone.

  “The rabbi died on July 8 of that year, in the thick of the plague,” Wilton said. “We have the death record from the parish, which is presumably correct. This letter is dated some three weeks before that.” He studied the document, an expression of sympathy on his face. “Rather sad to see him go, of course.” He glanced up at Helen. “The documents are
really quite moving,” he said, “aren’t they?”

  She saw that Wilton wanted her to like him, and she could not help liking him. “Quite,” she said faintly.

  Aaron spoke firmly. “Maybe it’s the last Sabbatean letter, and maybe it’s not.”

  Wilton gave an affable smile. “You’re right, of course. It’s important to be cautious. But feel free to check the parish records; you’ll see the rabbi’s date of death.”

  “I will,” said Aaron, in a tone that might have rung defiantly, had Wilton not responded with a resoundingly friendly smile.

  “Good man,” Wilton said. “Always double-check.”

  Wilton made his way to his table.

  After a moment Aaron sighed and worked a crick out of his neck. He mimicked quietly, “Always double-check.”

  She spoke sharply. “Don’t joust with Wilton out of spite. You’ve got to have more sense than that.”

  “Maybe I’m not being spiteful. Maybe I have other motives.”

  “What?”

  “Dunno,” he shrugged. “Maybe I like you.”

  She blinked at the light from the clerestory. “You’re a bigger fool than I’d thought,” she said.

  Aaron pushed back from the table. “Tell you what. Write me that letter recommending me to Wilton, okay? I’m not a fool. Write it and I’ll hold on to it, and if we can’t make headway in a couple more weeks then sure, I’ll jump ship. Even if it does mean working with Wilton.”

  She looked at Aaron. “Why don’t you like him? He’s”—she gestured vaguely in the direction of Wilton, his students, their hair—“he’s your sort.”

  Aaron hesitated. Then said, “I didn’t like how he wrote about her.”

  “Who?”

  “Ester.”

  She watched him pull out his notebook and set to work.

  On the table before her lay a document on its cushion—from the look of it, another household account, like most of the documents she and Aaron had read these past months. There were, according to Patricia Smith in the conservation lab, only fifteen documents remaining, ten of which would shortly be available; four being rather more challenging to prepare, for technical reasons Patricia Smith would be delighted to explain if she thought any historian had even a shred of interest. And of course, finally, the document Aaron had ripped, now relegated to the back of the queue.