Two Sides of Me

by Nora Sarel

  He quickly opened his book and read aloud, “The Corcovado mountain is about twenty-three hundred feet tall. At its top is the statue of Jesus Christ. The statue has become Rio’s symbol and can be seen from every corner and window in the city. The mountain is lit every night, making the statue stand out even more.”

  “I’m speechless,” Omri expressed his admiration, “I’ve never seen or climbed anything like it. How tall is the statue?”

  “About ninety-eight feet tall, like an eight-story building. It was made out of fourteen hundred and fifty tons of cement and granite,” Gadi happily shared the information.

  The taxi went into a long tunnel. The darkness prevented Gadi from reading in his guide book.

  “Never mind,” Ido told him, “we have plenty of time in Rio, and we’ll have time to trek up the Corcovado.”

  “No, no more trekking, we’re on vacation, freedom.” Omri laughed.

  When the taxi exited the tunnel, they saw at once the mountains, the sea and the city between them – Rio de Janeiro.

  “Wow, what a city! The Brazilians have an amazing city,” Omri said excitedly.

  “First we need to get to the hostel,” Idodeclared, “what was it called?”

  “It’s in the Peixoto quarter,” Gadi replied, and turned to the driver, “Bairro Peixoto, alberji Topazio.”

  “Si, senhor,” the driver nodded.

  “What did you say to him?” Ido asked.

  “Come on, stop being so worried. I told him to take us to the Topazio hostel at the Peixoto quarter.”

  The Israeli they met at the hostel’s entrance, showered them, as most Israelis do, with a lot of information and directed them to a different hostel, “a better one, where people speak Hebrew.”

  He spiced up his stories with names of nightclubs they should visit and added, “It’s fun here! There are tons of parties in Rio, not to mention the girls.” He recommended they stay during the carnival in Salvador-Bahia or Olinda, “Just not in Rio, and if you want you can come back to the Winners’ Parade.”

  “What’s he blabbing about?” Gadi said, “he’s talking as if it’s just around the corner. To leave and return to Rio from Bahia we would need a lot of time and money.”

  In the next few days they would find out that the information about the hostel the Israeli referred them to, was false. He worked there and for every tourist he brought he would get a fee. That is why he ‘forgot’ to tell them that everyone spoke Hebrew in the hostels in that area because of the number of Israeli tourists in Brazil and Rio especially.

  In Rio de Janeiro they started their preparations for the Natal – New Years Eve. The streets and shopping centers were decorated and lit. Father Christmas – Papai Noel, smiled at them from every corner. It was the first time in their lives that they could see and experience the Christian atmosphere of the holiday. “Brazil is the largest Catholic country in the world,” Gadi explained. He was already an expert on everything Brazilian.

  Despite the Christmas trees and red-petal plants which could be seen in every window along with fake snow and sleighs, Rio de Janeiro was extremely hot and a tropical rain washed the streets.

  Wet and happy from their newfound freedom, they walked down the sidewalks. Everyone around them were either on their way to beach or coming back from it. Dark-skinned girls, with the tiniest bikinis they had ever seen, smiled at them while the golden crosses on their necks shined.

  “You would think this is summer camp,” Gadi was now as happy as Omri, encouraging Ido to join them too, “look, even the beggars on Santa Clara street look happy here.”

  “It’s just a shame my mom didn’t send me to this summer camp sooner, except for bonfires and smores, there’s everything here,” Omri answered jokingly.

  One week after they landed in Rio, Gadi met Angela on the Copacabana beach, under a palm tree that barely shaded the coconut stand beneath it. They both stood there, her with her tiny thong, and him with his shorts, sipping with pleasure their coconut juice through a straw sticking out of the coconut fruit. Gadi examined her body. Full round hips, tight tummy, small breasts, her neck long and smooth, she was extremely tan.

  “De onde – where from?” She asked in Portuguese and when he didn’t answer she switched to English.

  “Israel,” he replied, “and you?”

  “I am Brasiliera,” she used both languages, “I am so happy to meet an Israeli. Jewish, right?”

  He nodded but could not hide his suspicion when hearing her question. They were warned many times before their trip, they were told not to speak with strangers nor say they were Jewish. Yet, here he was, perhaps falling into this foreign beautiful girl’s honey trap.

  Without hesitating she interrupted his thoughts, “I live in Ipanema; would you like to come over?” Instead of answering he just kept looking at her, contemplating whether he should take the risk.

  “Are you afraid?” she asked, as if reading his thoughts.

  “Not at all,” he mumbled with embarrassment, “do you live alone?”

  “No,” she replied, “with my parents and sister. I’m not married yet.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Here, we live with our parents until we get married,” she explained.

  “And do you usually invite over people you meet on the street?”

  “It’s important, please come. My parents would be happy to meet someone from Terra Santa.”

  Gadi walked behind her, enchanted by her. He put his worries aside and began humming to himself the lyrics he could remember from ‘Girl from Ipanema’:

  “But I watch her so sadly,

  how can I tell her I love her?

  Yes, I would give my heart gladly,

  But each day, when she walks to the sea

  She looks straight ahead, not at me......”

  He tried to remember who sang this song, which was translated from Portuguese, and thought to himself how these lyrics were appropriate for this moment.

  “Do you know the tune?” he asked her and kept humming.

  “Of course,” she said, “it’s a well-known song in Brazil. The famous Brazilian singer, Carlos Jobim, the bossa nova king, sings it. I love this song.”

  “I’ll sing in English and then you sing in Portuguese,” he requested and she consented. This is how they both walked all the way from Copacabana to Ipanema, until they reached a large and luxurious apartment building on Joana street. The doorman, who was dressed in a military uniform, opened the door for them and asked how she was. He told her that her parents were away and only the empregada – housekeeper, was there. Angela thanked him and with Gadi by her side she kept walking to the elevator, then straight to the well-lit apartment.

  When they stood at the doorway Angela pointed at a thick book placed on a tall stand, as if waiting to be read.

  “I’m sure you know what this is, look,” she said to Gadi, “it’s the Old Testament.” Gadi suddenly thought he understood why Angela had invited him over. He approached the stand, flipped through it and noticed a lot of its pages were ripped out. When he looked closer, he observed some were written in Hebrew and decorated with flowers, unlike the Bibles used in Israel.

  “What book is this?” he asked, “drawing on the Bible is forbidden.”

  “This is a very ancient book that has been secretly passed down through many generations of our family. We sometimes read from it,” Angela explained, “see, it’s written in two languages, Portuguese and Hebrew.”

  “And why were pages ripped out of it?” he inquired.

  “I think the pages ripped out belonged to the New Testament.”

  “Since when are the Bible and the New Testament paired together?”

  “The Hebrew Bible is called the Old Testament and many Christians believe it is sacred,” she insisted on explaining things.
/>   “So? You’re Christians who also believe in the Old Testament?”

  “No, we are Jewish.”

  “You’re Jewish.” Gadi repeated her words and sighed with relief. However, Angela did not give him time to process this and kept on, “my parents explained to me that in the past people would add the New Testament in order to hide the Bible, as a form of protection against the Inquisition. So, if, God forbid, should one of their neighbors see them reading the book, they would not suspect it was a Jew reading the Old Testament. because, the reader could immediately flip over to the New Testament.”

  “I still don’t get it, are you Christians or Jews?”

  “We’re called New Christians, but we are descendants of Jews who feared the Inquisition and converted to Christianity five hundred years ago,” Angela tried explaining once again.

  “Inquisition, converting to Christianity, persecution, New Christians,” Gadi repeated these words aloud. He remembered all these words were related to The Coerced (in Hebrew they were called Anusim) which he had learned about in his history class. But how would he explain it to Angela when he didn’t know how to say the word “Anusim” in English? That is why, instead, he started explaining what he had learned in elementary school.

  “Yes, yes,” Angela yelled with excitement, “exactly, we are the descendants of the Coerced -Anusim.” Her kind eyes sparkled.

  “Weird, I was sure there were Coerced only in history books. I didn’t think there were still such people around the world. Tell me, are there a lot of Coerced families in Brazil?”

  “Yes, it appears there are a lot of them.”

  “Sounds completely fictional,” Gadi mumbled.

  “Bom dia – good day, I see you have a guest,” Angela’s mother, who had just arrived, interrupted their conversation. Angela introduced Gadi to her. Senhora Pereira was happy to meet an Israeli guest and although she could not speak English and partake in their conversation, she started showing Gadi more Jewish artifacts in their possession.

  In the center of the guest room stood a glass cabinet with precious objects. She opened its doors carefully and with fluent Portuguese presented every artifact she took out, one after the other. Angela translated, “Look, in this cristaleira we have our religious artifacts. These are oil lamps,” she proudly presented the item, “and we light them every Friday evening in a special ceremony. None of our neighbors do it, just us. When I was a little girl, we would light them only after closing the shades, but now we allow ourselves to use them even with the windows wide open.”

  “Why? Were you scared or ashamed?”

  “At home we were Jewish but outside we behaved like Christians.”

  “And everyone knew you were different?”

  “Everyone knew and called us Cristãos Novos – New Christians, or used the pejorative, marranos. We were considered Christians but led a double life.”

  “How did you know you were descendants of the Anusim?”

  “Firstly, we kept some of our Jewish traditions, and second, thanks to our last name.”

  “What do you mean? What is your last name?” Gadi kept investigating Angela.

  “The last name of a tree or an animal is a descendant of the Coerced, as they had to change their last names. They chose these names so that they could recognize one another generations later. Pereira, for example, is a pear tree, Oliveira is an olive tree, Pinheiro is a Pine, and there are many other such names in Brazil. However, most of the families have already assimilated among the Christians, and don’t keep any traditions or are aware of their roots.”

  “Wait, wait, I’m from the Oliveira family!” Gadi recalled.

  “Then maybe you are also a descendant of the Coerced people, when my dad returns you can ask him as much as you want, he’s an expert. He knows a lot about the subject.”

  And indeed, when her father came back home, he found all three looking at the family heirlooms removed from the glass cabinet.

  “We have a guest from Jerusalem,” Senhora Pereira introduced Gadi, as if it were she who had found him.

  “Welcome,” senior Pereira hugged Gadi, who in turn thanked him for their warm hospitality.

  “Gadi was born in Brazil, he’s from the Oliveira family.”

  “I understood you know a lot about families of Jewish descent,” Gadi spoke to senior Pereira.

  “Certainly,” he replied, “but first, let’s sit and eat.”

  Sitting around the table, Senhor Orlando Pereira provided extensive explanations about the descendants of the Anusim, theAnusim and the sons former Jewish families, who escaped during the Inquisition from Portugal to Brazil, where they could live as Jews. In Brazil they were once again confronted with the Portuguese rulers who coerced them to convert, which is why they kept their forefathers’ traditions a secret. Over the years, some abandoned their traditions while others continued.

  Senhor Pereira was a hefty man, dressed to the nines, his shirt buttons barely closed on his large belly. In Gadi’s company he was comfortable enough to undo his tie and teach him about an important chapter in Jewish history, as if they were old friends.

  “Our family, throughout many generations, would secretly light oil lamps every Friday, we were unsure why. Suddenly people who studied the subject began visiting us and explained who we were. That is how we found out we were lost Jews and decided to return to our people. Now, after a book documenting the story of thousands of Jewish families who fled Portugal, there is a great wave of Jews visiting Brazil, in search of their roots,” Senhor Orlando passionately explained. “They say that about seventypercent of the Portuguese people have Jewish blood. There’s a village in Portugal where most of its residents secretly practice Jewish traditions. For instance, they clean their house on Friday and rest on Saturday, on Passover they eat matza and pray a special prayer by the river where they hit the water with an olive branch giving thanks for the parting of the Red Sea.”

  “I’m astounded,” Gadi said.

  They sat around the table for almost three hours. The empragada, who wore a black dress, served them one dish after another like a skilled waitress. With a white muslin apron and a small headband placed like a tiara on her head, she served the diners, without any assistance from the household’s residents.

  First, she placed by the table a heavy black casserole, in which chunks of meat floated in a thick dark bubbling sauce. Then, she stood by the casserole and scooped out portions while serving each of the diners, Gadi first and Angela last.

  The dish’s steams spread around the room and its smell reminded Gadi how hungry he was.

  “What are these dishes called?” he asked curiously and remembered that night, when Tamara told him about the Brazilian food, then slept with him and left. His stomach cringed.

  Angela’s mother began explaining about the dishes in great detail and emphasized they were kosher. “The feijoada is usually made with black beans and pork, but we make it with kosher meat. If you want, I could give you the recipe so that your mother can make it for you in Israel. We put the feijoada on the arroz – rice and top it with ‘farofa de mandioca.’”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Farofa’ is a grated mandioca root flour.”

  “I have never heard of such a root, maybe we have a different name for it. Perhaps we don’t even grow them in Israel.”

  “We make the sobremesa, that is, dessert, from a local Brazilian fruit. It’s called maracuja, the fruit of love,” Angela’s mom went on and explained, it seemed she knew how to make the dishes, although it wasn’t she who made them.

  “And where can I get this love fruit?” he asked.

  “You must have it in Israel.”

  For a split second he remembered Tamara’s sensual stories of Brazil’s tropical fruits. A tinge of longing hit him.

  “How strange, you’re looking for your Jewish roots and I�
�m looking for my Brazilian ones,” Gadi shared his intimate adoption story.

  “If you know so many Coerced families,” he addressed Senhor Pereira, “then, maybe, you know mine? Have you, by any chance, heard of a man named Francisco Oliveira of Curitiba?”

  Senhor Pereira began laughing, the rest joined him – even Angela’s mom, who could not understand a word of what was being said.

  “Do you know how many Oliveiras there are in Brazil? Millions! It’s a very popular name, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack – Como uma agulha na um monte de palheira.”

  Gadi couldn’t hide his disappointment. For a moment he thought he could cut his long journey short. The embarrassed Ferrera family smiled at him. They tried uplifting his spirits but were unsuccessful.

  CHAPTER 9

  They increasingly became homesick. Every night they would gather with Israeli mochileiros at the clean Copacabana beach, well-lit by large projectors. Their light confirmed there weren’t any people left of the thousands who were at the beach that day. They sat there and the wind was pleasant. Each one, in turn, told of what they did that day and what they had planned for the next. On one of these evenings, when they were just the three of them, Gadi told of Angela’s family and the”Anusim,” the Coerced in Brazil. He didn’t leave out his biological father’s name and shared his speculation that he, too, might belonged to the Coerced. “It’s the first time I’m talking about this and using the words father and biological in the same sentence,” he said, “perhaps Brazil has this influence on me.”

  “How do you know your biological father’s name?” Omri asked.

  “It’s in my adoption diary,” Gadi replied naturally. “I would like to let the both of you read it. It’s personal, but we’re close enough for me to let you in. Besides, you’ll learn something extra about Brazil. When we arrive at the hostel, I’ll give it to you, and then to Ido,” Gadi assigned a reading order.

  That night Omri began reading the diary and would not put it down until he finished.

  Monday, March 22nd, 1982

  Everyday that Dana didn’t leave the hospital, felt like a never-ending nightmare, bordering on torture. Every morning Dona Arlete would tell us we couldn’t visit her at the hospital, but we would get her the day after. The next day she would delay once more and apologize. This went on for five nerve-wrecking days. This morning we were woken up by the phone. It was Sebastião on the line, his voice sounded repressed, and we couldn’t understand why. He promised he would come soon to pick us up. We dressed quickly and waited for him at the entrance of the hotel. On our way to the hospital Sebastião told us the baby was sick. I could not believe it. Dafne insisted Dana seemed completely healthy and I asked him if he was sure of what he was saying. Sebastião insisted he was right and that the doctor would explain everything at the hospital. I held Dafne’s hand firmly.