By the manner in which Don Juan handled his weapon, it was immediately evident that he was a master swordsman. Don Fernando was obviously a novice. Nervous, irritable, he exhibited the awkwardness characteristic of women in any purely masculine sport. Indeed, one might have taken him for a young girl in disguise, with his white skin, his delicate neck, whose Adam’s apple was merely a dot that shivered nervously, his chest deeply indented in the center and bulging on either side, his arms rounded and hairless…
Upon three occasions in quick succession, Don Juan’s sword touched his opponent’s chest. Three times Fernando was at his mercy. One pressure, and the battle would have been ended. Don Fernando waved his sword wildly, striking always either the ground or the steel of his enemy.
Don Juan smiled faintly. He made small inconsequent movements, uncovering his chest. Was it a deliberate gesture, fatigue of life? Did he realize that he could no longer endure existence…?
Fernando waved his weapon wildly, erratically. Suddenly, unexpectedly, it touched Don Juan. With the desperation of the tyro who sees himself vanquished, the boy forced it until half of it disappeared in the body of Don Juan. Then, surprised and awed by what had happened, he unclasped his hand from the hilt and stared, his mouth open.
Don Juan, closing his eyes in agony, tottered and fell. His mouth, flushed with blood, was contracted into a diabolic grin. His eyes rolled backward and glared at us with their whites, like newly polished porcelain.
The physician proclaimed him dead, killed in a lawful duel by Don Fernando in the presence of witnesses. But I knew that I was his murderer.
LIII: I RETURN TO THE FOLD—AN ENCOUNTER IN THE GHETTO—THE RABBI’S DAUGHTER
THE gate that led Kotikokura and me to the Ghetto was of Moorish origin,—a fine piece of workmanship now almost in total ruins. From one pillar, the black mortar dripped slowly to the ground like blood from a fatal wound. The other shook under the weight of my hand. The top was garlanded by many birds’ nests from which now and then a tiny inhabitant tried his unfledged wings.
On the side of the gate, which faced Córdoba proper, were carved and pointed threats against the Jews. On the opposite side in Hebrew letters, anathemas against the Christians, prayers, and prophecies of destruction.
Small ugly huts, surrounded by yards crowded with débris, goats, cows, and now and then a horse whose ribs pressed against his skin like the taut strings of a grotesque harp. Bearded men, their hands hidden within the sleeves of their long kaftans, their backs bent as if carrying an invisible load. Women with black shawls as if in perpetual mourning. Dilapidated shops upon the threshold of which the owners sat and gossiped with neighbors. Rickety carts dragged wearily through the mud by long-horned oxen or donkeys. Children—countless children—dirty, naked, noisy, ringlets over their cheeks or long braids upon their backs knotted with bits of string.
A thick stench—the stench of ancient and hopeless penury. I stopped a young man and asked him to direct us to the home of Rabbi Sholom.
“I am going to the synagogue which is opposite our Rabbi’s dwelling. If you will allow me, I shall show you the way.”
I thanked him and bade him walk at my side.
The young man sighed from time to time. It sounded like the sighing of the Jews of Jerusalem, the sighing of hopelessness and futility. ‘Will this always be the symbol of my race?’ I thought.
“Is it true,” the young man asked, “that Don Juan was killed in a duel?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.”
“Why?”
“Rumor said that he planned to steal the daughter of our Rabbi, and kill everyone who defended her.”
“Don’t you exaggerate, señor?” I asked. “Are not your people somewhat too sensitive?”
“Sensitive?” He laughed ironically. “Is not a man whose skin has been flayed necessarily sensitive?” He threw his head back. His face uncovered from the blond curls, disclosed a head emaciated and delicate.
I forgot that I was Cartaphilus, centuries old, walking in the ghetto of Córdoba. It seemed to me that I was Isaac, a youth of Jerusalem, walking with a companion of my age, talking about the Jews and their conquerors—the Romans.
Little merchants with baskets on their arms or upon their backs called out their wares from time to time. Here and there, groups of men discussed clamorously either their business or some difficult passage of the Talmud.
A woman, a pot in her hand, ran past us. Another woman stopped her.
“Where are you running, Sarah?”
“My clumsy husband has spilt some milk into the soup. I am going over to the Rabbi’s to ask him if we may eat it, and if I can continue to use the pot for meat after this.”
“Our men too,” sighed the youth, “squabble and fight about trifles without consequence. My people have degenerated into ants seeking invisible crumbs while the feast is forgotten.”
“But they are not allowed to go to the feast– —”
“True, true,” he sighed. “They are not allowed to go to the feast.” Suddenly, however, he waved his thin, almost transparent hands. “Let them make a feast of their own! Let them show the merry-makers on the other side of the gate that they– —” He stopped short. “It is ridiculous, señor, it cannot be done.” He coughed, and sighed profoundly. “It cannot be done.”
“Is it so difficult to get beyond the gate?”
He looked at me. “Difficult? It all depends. To some to deny their faith is very easy, to others death is preferable.”
“Is denial of faith the only way?”
He nodded.
“A Jew remains a Jew, even if he accepts Christianity. Does the body,” I asked, “change because the dress is different?”
He twisted one of his curls. “Who knows? Perhaps, after all, that stupid woman running with her pot to the Rabbi is right. Meticulous observance of trifles enables the race to persist.”
We reached Rabbi Sholom’s house. The woman with the pot of soup, now covered with a heavy coat of grease, emerged, her eyes dazzling with joy.
“What a man our Rabbi is! An angel, I tell you! What a man!”
The young man was about to bid me farewell.
“Your conversation has interested me a great deal, señor,” I said to him. “It may be that I shall remain in the Ghetto…”
“Remain in the Ghetto?” he asked astonished.
I nodded. “I should like to have the pleasure of speaking to you again. May I know with whom I have the honor– —?”
He looked at me, unable to overcome his surprise and perhaps also, suspicion.
“My name, señor, is Joseph Ben Israel—a student.”
“My name is—Isaac.”
I extended my hand which he seemed reluctant to take for a moment. Then suddenly, he pressed it in his and rushed away.
Rabbi Sholom was sitting in a large armchair, underneath which the straw had gathered into a small heap. Two wooden benches on either side of him, and in a corner piled on a large table old books and manuscripts.
The Rabbi, a man of about fifty, dressed in white linen and felt shoes, rose and approached us.
“Welcome, señores.”
“Rabbi, we are strangers—travelers. We arrived only a few days ago in Córdoba.”
“Does Córdoba please you?”
“A beautiful city, indeed.”
“I have not visited it for many years.”
“Is that possible?”
“The younger generation dislikes our people. It is not prudent to irritate one’s masters.”
His voice betokened neither irony nor anger, merely resignation—resignation mingled with confidence. His eyes were deeply set and clear as a child’s.
“Is it not possible that the younger generation will realize that it is better to love than to hate their neighbors?”
Rabbi Sholom combed his beard with his fingers and shook his head. “This hatred is too young. It is still a little clumsy. It will increase and overthrow the last dik
es. Only then may we hope for a reaction, for a better understanding.”
Who was this man who could view unflinchingly misery and hatred? His features reminded me of no one, but his voice seemed familiar. Whose was it? I sought within my mind, as one seeks in a long dark attic, lighted only at intervals by the cracks in the walls.
A yellow curtain, faded and torn in a few places, was drawn aside slowly, and a young woman entered. Her hair, whose black glistened like a raven’s wing, was woven into two long braids that hung down her back.
“I am busy now, my daughter,” the Rabbi said in Hebrew. “I shall call you when I have finished.”
She looked at me, blushed, and walked out. She was evidently the girl that had attracted the eye of Don Juan. It was for her he died,—for had it not been for his desire to possess her, I should not have spoken of the things that unnerved him. Don Juan died for a Jewess!
“Is it permissible, señor,” the Rabbi asked, “to inquire from what country you come?”
“I come from many countries, including the Holy Land.”
Rabbi Sholom opened wide his eyes. “The Holy Land?”
“Yes, Rabbi. Many times did I pass by the Temple—at least, the site of it.”
He sighed. “The Temple.”
“As an aged mother awaits patiently until the long hours of the night the arrival of a straying son, so the soil of Jerusalem awaits the return of Israel.”
“You speak kindly of us and our misery, señor. We have so long been taught to fear the Gentile that– —” he smiled sadly.
“Rabbi,” I said in Hebrew, “it is not a Gentile who is speaking to you—but a Jew.”
He stood up, stared at me and breathed heavily.
“A Jew who has wandered into the enemy’s camp, but who has never in his heart accepted the enemy’s gods.”
“Adonai be praised! But is it really true what you are saying, my son?”
I raised my arm. “I am Isaac Ben Jehuda who has wandered from land to land, without renouncing in his heart the faith of his fathers.”
He approached and embraced me. “Sholom Alechim.”
“Alechim Sholom,” I answered.
“And your companion, Isaac?”
“He is neither a Jew nor a Christian, but an adherent of Ishmael.”
“A cousin…”
“A cousin and a friend.”
He extended his hand which Kotikokura raised to his lips.
“Rabbi,” I said, “I am weary of travel. I am weary of being a stranger. I yearn to return to the fold. Will you accept me?”
“Israel is like an aged father waiting into the late hours of the night for the arrival of his wandering son,” he said smiling.
“Rabbi, the wandering son has come with an impoverished heart, but not with an empty purse. May he be permitted to show his joy by helping his brothers crushed by the cruelty of the enemy?”
“Isaac, my son, had you returned as poor as a beggar, the joy of your brothers would not be less. But if you can help us in our misery, it is God Himself in His unbounded wisdom who chose the right hour.” He clapped his hands. The sexton entered.
“Rejoice, Abraham, the lost sheep has returned to the fold! Make it known to all that Rabbi Sholom is as happy as when his daughter was born unto him! Let all men and women come to his synagogue where they shall receive wine and cake in honor of their brother! Blow the shofar in praise of the Lord.”
Abraham ran out.
Rabbi Sholom drew aside the curtain and called out: “Esther, Esther, my daughter.” The girl came in, frightened a little. “What is it, father?” He kissed her forehead. “Do not fear, my dear. The Lord has led the steps of a lost son back to our house.”
She looked at me, lowered her lids, and blushed.
LIV: THE BOOK OF ESTHER—THE VENGEANCE OF DON JUAN—KOTIKOKURA THE GOLEM—THE PLAGUE—THE SUICIDE OF JOSEPH—I ABJURE ISRAEL
THE feast lasted several days. I ordered unlimited food and drink and distributed gifts to all. Tables were spread in the yards and streets. Musicians with improvised instruments—pots, pans, iron and wooden sticks, flutes, one-string harps, made a ceaseless noise to which men and women, old and young, danced, their feet raised to their chins, or waved wildly in the air, clapping their hands the while. Only the morning and evening services interrupted the merry-making. The prayers were mumbled, the words half pronounced or omitted. Years of hunger and dreariness were smothered and stamped under foot.
“Rabbi Sholom,” I said one evening, “you have received me as a son.”
“You are my son.”
“Are not the arms of woman as the ivy which winds itself about the trunk of the tree, keeping it rooted to the spot? Is not a single man like a bird always ready to fly away?”
“A single man is indeed as a bird.”
“Rabbi, be my father indeed. Give me your daughter Esther as wife. Let me be rooted to my people for all time.”
Rabbi Sholom smoothed his beard and meditated. “Isaac, my daughter is more precious to me than the apple of my eye. I tremble before I open my mouth to say: ‘Take her,’ lest– —” He closed his eyes.
“Father, she shall be no less precious to me than to you.”
Esther entered. Rabbi Sholom rose. “Approach, my daughter.”
She obeyed.
“I love you more dearly than my life. You are my comfort and my joy. But the time has come when God commands you to be a mother in Israel…”
“Father,” she said, pressing her head in his bosom.
I could not tell whether her voice denoted sorrow or joy.
“Our son Isaac—Isaac Laquedem—has asked for your hand in marriage. It is in my power to command you to take him. But he who uses his power against the will of his subordinate is a tyrant, not a father.”
He patted her hand.
“Esther, do you desire to be the wife of Isaac?”
She nodded.
Rabbi Sholom embraced me. Greater than the delight of possessing a beautiful woman was the vanity of having vanquished Don Juan. Poor Don Juan!
Esther was as gentle and as faithful as Lydia, but found passion’s rites, save those sanctioned by custom, abhorrent. The nuances of love, the subtle delicacies of the senses, she refused to learn. She clipped her beautiful hair much against my wishes, and covered her head with a black wig which seemed dusty always. Her meticulous insistence upon every trifle of the dogma palled upon me and her daily prayer that I raise a beard irritated me immensely.
Kotikokura who observed this, seemed to wait for a sign to dispose of her as he had disposed of some of my women in the Harem of a Thousand Graves.
Esther, with a woman’s intuition scented his enmity. “Isaac, Kotikokura is not one of our people. Why should he remain with us?”
“He has saved my life on several occasions when the Gentiles discovered that I was a Jew.”
“Pay him and let him go. Our people hate him. He has desecrated the synagogue by his bare head, and the Sabbath by riding on a donkey.”
“He is not a Jew. It is lawful for him.”
“Why should the daughter of Rabbi Sholom harbor one who is not a Jew, Isaac? It is for this reason, no doubt, that God refuses to give us children. We are tempting the Lord, Isaac! The women whisper that I am unfruitful… I shall soon be ashamed to face the world.”
Every day and several times a day, she found occasion to speak against Kotikokura. “Kotikokura, I have become a proverbial husband, disputing with his wife. Don Juan is avenged.”
Kotikokura grinned, tightening his fists.
“No, no, my friend. It is not necessary—not yet.”
My only friend was Joseph Ben Israel, the student I had met when I entered the Ghetto. We discussed for hours the bigotry of our people. He himself was not entirely free. Once I mentioned the beauty of images and the art of the Gentiles.
“You lived too long away from the truth,” he exclaimed, “and you have become too tolerant of blasphemy.”
I smiled sad
ly. “Joseph, it is too difficult for a man to cast off his environment. Having breathed the mouldy air of the Ghetto you cannot fully appreciate the deliciousness of fresh air…”
He stayed away for several days. One evening he returned. He pressed my hand to his lips. His face was drawn and white. “Forgive me, Isaac. I have contradicted my wise brother. I am a fool and an ingrate.”
I patted his hand. “Isaac bears no ill will.”
“I have repented for it. For three days I fasted.”
“That was quite unnecessary.”
“It was, on the contrary, very necessary.” He kissed my hand again.
“Joseph, have you no desire to go beyond the gate?”
“I desire to be with you always.” He covered his face and wept quietly. The shape of his head, his curls, reminded me of John, of Damis and of Walhallath, a boy whom I had known in Palmyra.
He looked up. “Isaac, you will leave, and I shall be forsaken…”
“Why do you say I will leave?”
“I know it. You are cramped here as a man in a tomb.”
“It does not matter. I shall remain. I shall try to break the walls of the tomb. Both my people and I shall breathe more freely…”
He sighed and shook his head. “Our people are obstinate, Isaac, and they mistrust you.”
“Have I not given them money? Have I not helped the widows and the orphans?”
“They do not understand why you are good to them. They do not know how you obtained the money. Some consider you a spy and others regard you as a magician. Your companion they fear. They think he is a golem—a creature you have made out of yellow clay who obeys you like a machine and who is strong enough to destroy the town… One saw him uproot a tree, another raise a donkey with one hand, a third one, hurl a rock against the ground, and the rock disappeared.”
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 29