Don’t worry. In a few days you will understand everything. And then you will be able to go play in the sea. How wonderful it would be if this sea were today a sea of games. Before, warships set sail from here. Pirate ships sailed the sea terrorizing us. Before, the coast was full of Jews who went seeking a new place of refuge and were sunk into the sea. Then the sea was the largest Jewish cemetery until the Germans came and changed our ashes into a source of our thoughts. But then, who knew that even being devoured by a human being could be an acceptable death? The Talmud says there are nine hundred three kinds of death. So we are not equal, not even in death. There are nine hundred three kinds of death and our people have tried all of them. We were drowned in the sea. We inhaled gas. Our heads were cut off. Our children were burned and they were eaten. What has not been done with our lives?
Here where after many, many years the Greeks fell, Babylonia fell, Syria, and Rome, and the British Empire, and France and we are world’s fifth great nuclear power. We survived, just a few Jews, carrying a certain Book, We did not renounce it. Never. Samuel, my son, never renounce the Book. Take it with you wherever you go. It matters not if you are religious or secular. Do NOT renounce the Book. It is fundamental. It will nourish you, as much if you know it or not. From it you will receive air to breathe. Not from the gentiles. It will satiate your thirst, not the faucet; from it you will eat your fill, not from the trees. Take it with you always. Also the phylacteries and the bag. It is the Book.
I’m not preaching to you, my son. Now you are young. I know that in an hour you will have forgotten my reproaches and recommendations. Young folks can’t learn from their elders until they have tried things for themselves. And now that the generations have gotten muddled. Sometimes young folks know more than the elders and rightly so. I know I am boring you. YOU would prefer to hear stories about kings and the Amazon, but I also know that one day in the country, under an olive tree in a few years, one day you will remember what I have told you today. And then you will say: Now I understand what Lucena told me.
SHABAT SHALOM
Menashé Benzimra left the synagogue angry because his son Samuel had arrived late, almost at the end of the service. The only thing he did not look forward to was arriving home. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and he didn’t want his wife after him trying to calm him down, something that made him very nervous. Another Saturday without smoking. Disgusting Saturday! What I need now is a cigarette. What an annoyance! He went to the bar next to the synagogue the “Oceano” and on entering he was greeted with “Good morning Mr. Benzimra.” The waiter, who knew him, asked him if he wanted squid tapas. “Yes, and a brandy, please.”
Right away one of the fellows who attended synagogue approached him, Yitshak Wahnish, who also ordered squid and a glass of red wine.
“You here?” said Wahnish.
“You say that like I‘m not here every Saturday. Why should I go home?”
“I thought that perhaps you would go to see “sajená.”
“She’s not in Málaga today.”
“You look worried.”
“It’s my son. He wants to be a writer. You hear? He wants to be a writer. Young folks are insane. Insane I tell you. What would he live on?”
Menashé was getting worked up and Wahnish thought he’d better do something to calm him down.
“It’s not THAT terrible. One can live on that. He could write for a newspaper, or be a published author like Julio Llamazares, or García Márquez, or like... There are a lot of guys who live writing books. Why not?”
“Seriously? Look how many crazy guys out there tried to write and made nothing. Nothing from nothing.”
Soon, the waiter told Menashé he had a telephone call.
Here, He thought.
“It’s me, Marisa. I decided not to go.”
“Are you ok?”
“I’m fine,” she sighed. “Just a little tired. I’ll be a lot better when you get here. ”
“I’ll be there right away. I really miss your hands.”
Menashé quickly said goodbye to Wahnish, who understood very well who had called and he smiled “So the sajená is back.” Menashé didn’t answer and went out onto the street with a smile on his lips. Marisa lived a few blocks from the synagogue; five minutes on foot. But that day Menashé felt tired and took a little more than ten minutes. Also he was huffing and puffing due to the cigarettes that he couldn’t smoke that Saturday.
She gave him a big hug and he hurried to remove his clothing. Without saying hardly anything he threw himself face down waiting for her to massage his back. That was one of the few worldly pleasures Menashé was disposed do anything to enjoy, including tolerating his hypocritical wife’s looks intended to calm him down. Life itself acquired meaning the moment Marisa put her hands on his back. She began by soft taps to either side of his spinal column. Menashé dreamed then of being on a tall mountain under a great tree and surrounded by a herd of goats. Then she began to press all over his body and Menashé nearly dozed. But now it was Marisa who wanted war. She turned him over and began to delicately suck his member. When she saw he did not awaken, she gave him, as usual, a light nip. He awoke at that moment and saw her, nude and lovely, and thought of the wife, in the woman she had been twenty years before, in how beautiful she had been back then, how her body had broken down until it seemed to be another, heaps of fat in strange places had filled her body. Her breasts had fallen, her grace and passion had disappeared. The same thing would happen to Marisa, he thought, in a few years, if she married and had children or, even if she didn’t have them.
“A little more massage, please,” said Menashé. Those thoughts had occupied his mind so much that they impeded his erection. In spite of the fact she was aroused, and the only thing she wanted was for him to penetrate her, she complied because she always spoiled Menashé. There was never a great love between them, it was true, but every time they met, an infinite tenderness was created between them. To her, he, a mature man, gave her the security that with him everything would be ok. And to him, she gave him the illusion that he was not yet as old as he tried to make her believe.
Sooner than usual, Marisa told him she needed to go see her friend who was ill in the hospital and Menashé again found himself on the street at one in the afternoon. It was an hour and a half until mealtime and what he didn’t want was to go home or to see his son.
On the way home, at a slow pace, with labored breathing, he stopped for another brandy in the
‘El Mancebo’. This time he ordered a tapa of potatoes with mayo. He could hear his mother telling him he was too fat, even when it was totally untrue. In a moment he found himself in conversation with a man sitting beside him, Paco.
“They say that on the thirty first of December all the computers will stop working,” mused Paco.
“And why do you care?” enquired Isaac.
Paco shrugged. “To tell the truth, it’s all the same to me I don’t even know what a computer is, but they say there won’t be any water. I don’t know when water started coming through the computers but if there isn’t going to be any water or electricity, then I do care.”
“Seriously?” said Isaac. “Waiter!” “So, tell me when water started coming through computers. Don’t they get wet? I can understand electricity, but, water?”
“Another brandy?” asked the waiter.
“That’s enough brandy for today”, said Paco. “Come on, I’ll buy you a whiskey.”
“OK. A couple of whiskeys,” conceded Isaac.
This was, in the life of Menashé, the drop off, every Saturday. After the whiskey, came two more brandies, and ten more tapas: Spanish tortilla, shrimps, squid, and sometimes, crab. Paco, who was becoming interested in the water and computer situation, even asked other men who were seated at the tables about this important topic and finally came to the conclusion that the water arrived beneath the computers in separate pipes.
“It seems logical, “said Menashé, “But at the same time, i
t could be brought in above them.”
“This is exactly what it could be. The important thing is that it couldn’t be inside them, that’s what I say.”
Thus continued the conversation and Menashé forgot about lunch until they came looking for him. Through the years Samuel had become an expert at locating the places where his father spent his time on Saturdays.
Menashé arrived home. His wife showed obvious signs of anger. He was nearly drunk. Thus he could not control his behavior.
“Who had to put you in my life?” he ranted. “Why is God punishing me? Does anyone know? And you, Samuel: Do you still want to be a writer? Still? All you do is displease me, the whole family. None of you is going to be normal.”
Menashé realized there was a guest. The daughter of his brother and friend of Muriel, Sandra. “You’re here too? Look here, this is a girl who doesn’t bring shame on her father. I’m sure she doesn’t want to be a writer, and wants to go to university.” Samuel tried several times to get into the conversation to tell him that he had decided to study physics but it was not possible.
“I came here from Tetuán so you could be good and useful to society, not to shame my father nor my grandfather, Samuel Benzimra, the greatest product of the country, a walking encyclopedia. Wife, bring me the wine for the benediction. I don’t know who up above had the idea to put my life alongside yours. Look at you. You look like a sack from the market. Like those huge potato sacks the Moor would bring to our house in Tetuán”
“In spite of his drunkenness, Menashé realized he had gone a bit too far. He saw his wife Simi, crying, but now he couldn’t stop. “Look, look at you, and you, Luisa, do you want to be a writer too? Probably you, too, Salomón, son of our old age, you, who don’t yet understand anything, and much less what family of madmen you have found yourself in, at least you don’t yet want to be anything. Bring me the wine and now, quiet, everyone, to recite the Kiddush.
Alegría
The Jews call me the Christian, the Christians, the Jew. The “Marranos’ don’t talk to me. Only the Jews support me. My surname is Gonzalez, previously Galfón, before that, Bibas, before that, Benzimra. I sell kosher meat, a business passed down for twenty generations. They couldn’t do away with the business or with my family. It has always been known that only the Gonzalez family can sell kosher meat in Sevilla. Meat without blood. Without the blood of Jesus who is in heaven, meat with the dry blood of dead Jews or those at the point of death. I still have a Jewish cousin; one who always says he is from Lucena. He pities me and my Christian life. I have another cousin who converted just before his house was burned with his wife in it. He says she is a saint because she died for her faith. But what kind of faith leads someone to death? I am a Christian, but I am alive. That is Judaism. It is preferable to be a live Christian than a dead Jew. God has put us here to honor the life He has given us. When we all arrive up yonder we will learn who was right, and who was not. It could even be possible that the priest was right. Maybe in heaven there are only Christians. The only thing that has remained of my religion is the Kaddish which my father taught me because he didn’t have any sons and he asked me to say Kaddish at his tomb. I don’t even eat the meat we sell. Here everyone knows we are good Christians. Just like we were good Jews.
A LETTER
A SHORT STORY BY SAMUEL MURCIANO
You ask about my situation in Jerusalem. I thank you for that because perhaps, drafting my letter will help me to illustrate what is happening. It is easy to understand the confusion you have, due to the distorted news that comes to us daily. People are afraid to leave the city as though at any moment something shocking could occur but I have already gone several times to Tel-Aviv and nothing has changed. There are people who are simply afraid to go out. Everyone says something different. It looks like the so-called Jerusalem syndrome has infected the population. There are those who are absolutely non-religious such as Menashé Har, who came to see me yesterday and said he had seen the Temple intact. Others say that the old city of Jerusalem is destroyed except for the Cupula of the Rock. Others say there is a giant on the Mount of the Temple who wears the Cupula of the rock on his head. From my house I can only see trees. In fact, it is very dangerous to pass by Yafo’s door but I have done it once and when I got to the Mount of the Temple I did not see any Temple. What I saw was part of the Wailing Wall destroyed. There was just a lot of smoke. There are those who say in the supermarkets there is no food but when I went shopping there was plenty. You don’t know whom to believe. The radio stations, (television is without sound although sometimes we see prayers of the Muslims) they announce different happenings. For example, yesterday there was a mass attack where five hundred people died. It occurred beside my house but I didn’t see anything. Although I can’t say the attack didn’t happen because I am a bit deaf.
The phrase “That’s incredible” is now a daily occurrence. I assure you that a week ago I saw a Scud rocket over Jerusalem for two hours. Then it simply disappeared. Was it a nightmare? I don’t know how to explain it. There are people who become religiously observant and spend the day praying to distance themselves from the fatalities. Others are convinced they have seen the Messiah several times and are satisfied they have offered a Paschal sacrifice at the Temple. Other religious persons cease to believe and say that the Messiah is not coming and that this is the end, and that we are starting another two thousand years, which is to say, an eternity.
The leftists, which are growing significantly, say that it is a punishment for not having ceded enough to the Palestinians in the last Oslo Accord: Oslo 12. It seems to me we should have ceded the Qátamon neighborhood. And there are those who say Jerusalem has got to the point that one can see what’s inside; that is, inside if there is war, war, and if there is peace, peace. I don’t know if this is so apparent because for my whole life I have seen the Temple inside and now I do not see it. But neither do I see any war. Evidently they will give me explanations which will not convince me much. Nevertheless, I see there is an abundance of products while others, among them friends of mine who I know well, and whose honesty I do not doubt, they tell me there is a scarcity of everything.
At any rate, that is the situation. Yom Kippur is approaching, the Day of Forgiveness. I hope they will sacrifice a red cow to expiate our sins. I don’t know if my letter will be of any use to you but that is all I can say. Jatimá tová and Happy New Year.
MAMA, ARE WE JEWS, OR CHRISTIANS?
“We are what we are.”
“Why do the kids call me “Jew”?
“Because you are the most handsome and the most intelligent.”
“Why is it bad to be a Jew?”
“Human beings have an infinite degree of hate. The hate is a bottomless pit.”
“That means my grandmother was a Jew.”
“Your grandmother was a saint. She died in a fire. Fire is our best friend. Sometimes I think fire is God.”
“Do you suffer, mama?”
“Like a bird that sees its nest fly away. Life makes me suffer like death.”
“And is there an end to this?”
“You will see. Of course there is. You will see.”
SAMUEL
The news which came was very bad. The Spaniards had entered Orán. Those damned ones threw us out of Spain and now they are coming after us on the coast. They claim they are chasing pirates but we all know very well how this ends up. It hasn’t been even twenty years since they prohibited us from living in our country and now we have them on us again. I’m really afraid that they will get to Tetuán in a few weeks. They tried to separate us from our religion. And when they got us converted they spied on us to see if we would eat pork or if we would light a fire on Saturday so they can say we aren’t good Christians. Just like in Sevilla, it wasn’t enough to go to mass. Damn it to God we had to also eat pork and light fires on Saturday. One time I said to the priest: “Where the devil does it say we have to eat pork every day and light fires on Saturday? Can’t one b
e a good Christian without doing that?”
Before I die I want to tell you that in my life I went through a lot and there wasn’t much heroism. I wanted to be a good Christian, and there were days when I really believed the bastard but it was impossible to convince them that I was sufficiently Christian. It was hard for me to light fire on Saturday but I didn’t even light candles and I didn’t like pork. But today I curse the day my father didn’t leave Sefarad and decided to convert. Damn the day he preferred his land over his faith and his God. I even came here and saw my wife and son die on a ship. And here I again formed a new family. If my father had known that one of his sons, and his grandson would become priests, I doubt he would have converted to Christianity. Here they won’t tell you anything about that. Everyone will say they fled from the Christians but many of them, many, and good ones, tried to be good Christians before returning to Judaism, and before arriving here.
The cousin from Orán has written to me again with the same scribbles as usual: that the Spaniards have changed. That they aren’t coming to Orán to convince us to be Christians; that they need the Muslims and the Jews so nothing is going to happen to either group. Do you realize? Not even a generation has passed and we keep believing what they tell us. In every generation they tell us the same lies. Sometimes in fifty years, sometimes in a hundred years but the story always ends badly. Tell your descendants. Tell them they should not live with Christians. Tell them to be very careful with Christians. Tell them to live with the Moors and not to go to Christian countries. Now, tell the rabbi to come in and say the Shemá Israel.
HOW MANY EYES DO YOU HAVE?
“Four. One for each son that is gone.”
“Where did they go?”
“One became a Muslim, another a Christian and two died on the way.”
“What color is solitude?”
Ways to Lucena Page 11