He opened a Bible.
“We have no Haggadah. We will replace it with excerpts from Exodus.”
His voice vaulted, shimmering with emotion, tracing those heroic times back into being. The known sequence of events became palpable, and we shivered at hearing the tale of the pharaoh’s harshness, the terrifying plagues, the sacrifice of the lamb, and, finally, the departure of multitudes.
He sipped wine and sent the cup around again. Then he raised up another piece of matzo, broke it, and passed it around. The solemn part was coming to an end.
“We have shared bread and wine,” he explained. “This is what our ancestors did in the land of Israel, and what all Jewish communities do on this night, all over the world. This is what Jesus and his disciples did during their Seder, as we do now. The Last Supper was an intimate Seder, just like ours. Jesus presided over a table transformed into an altar, just as I am doing. Just like me, he passed wine to drink, and unleavened bread to eat. But this cannot be said, or even insinuated, before the new pharaohs.”
He stood up.
“I invite you to stand. Let us taste the lamb in the same way our ancestors did in the desert: on our feet.”
“At some point they sat,” joked Juan Bautista Ureta.
“And at some point they also obtained yeast for their bread,” the rabbi replied. “But we use symbolism to recall significant moments.”
“Forgive me, Rabbi,” Ureta apologized.
“Judaism accepts joking—don’t worry. Insolence is part of our dynamic.”
The atmosphere aligned with the description Papá had given me. The tone was not overly ceremonious. There were no ornaments, and the senses weren’t bewildered by a spectacle of colors, sounds, and smells. Instead, there was the atmosphere of a warm home, human contact, conversation, a feast. The person presiding over the traditions was no fearsome pontiff hurling lightning bolts from the heights, but, rather, an affectionate father, or perhaps an older brother, someone whose knowledge transformed into a generous fountain. The charm of this celebration resided in its potent simplicity.
“I never would have suspected that you are Jewish,” I said to Ureta as I chewed the roasted meat. “I was frightened to see you.”
“Being a disagreeable monk lets me hide all the better. Also, I can enjoy reading the Bible without generating any suspicion.”
“It must be difficult to be a monk and a Jew, eh?”
His large, jet-black eyes became clear.
“My status as a monk gives me no burden, but rather advantages.”
“But—to be a minister of a religion in which you don’t believe.”
“I’m not the only one. You are forced to disguise yourself, just like I am. Some Jews managed to join the order of Santo Domingo, which is like joining a branch of the Inquisition. And they became bishops.”
Marcos placed his hand on my shoulder, becoming part of the exchange, saying, “I owe you an apology for the surprise.”
“And what a surprise it was!”
“You know what? You can never be too cautious. When you attended to my mother, I didn’t know whether you were the Catholic you seemed to be or the Jew I now see before me. I called Juan Bautista, a severe ecclesiastical inspector, so that my lateness in calling for last rites wouldn’t get me in trouble. And so the neighbors would see that I was not depriving her of the sacred oils. Later, Juan Bautista put you under pressure to test your integrity, even, I believe”—he smiled—“going too far! After you visited me on the day of the Jewish fast and did not eat, we recited a psalm and you did not seal it with the words Gloria patri. These elements would have been enough for me to invite you to participate in the study sessions we occasionally hold in this cellar. But we’ve learned to be cautious. The Holy Office doesn’t only work with visible functionaries—anyone can submit a denunciation. I decided to wait a few more months, and now, with frank joy, we welcome you to our miniscule community.”
“An ecclesiastic inspector like Juan Bautista serves as the screen,” I said ironically. “But, please, it’s too much!”
“As a Mercedarian monk,” Ureta said, “I have vast experience. My order has been responsible for getting hostages back from Moors by good, bad, or bribery. Today, though, that task is useless. The most important wars are not being waged against Muslims, but against heretics. And here, in the New World, our order seems drunk, unsure of how to distinguish itself. My work as an inspector comforts it, because I help support conversions. Meanwhile, I help Jews.”
“Admirable.”
Rabbi Gonzalo de Rivas raised his staff.
“I’m not going to hit you with this,” he laughed. “Only remind you that now, after dinner, we are to read a few psalms and sing songs. This is a party!”
We returned to our places. Dolores handed out nuts and raisins. Marcos refreshed the candles and gave out palm fronds.
Exhaustion wears at de Almeida’s patience. This prisoner has turned out to be harder than quartz. The rebukes have not pierced him, neither have pleas moved him. His mouth is dry and sour at the thought of his unbelievable failure. He stares at the prisoner one last time with pity and rancor. He thinks that only very deep suffering will succeed in clearing his soul.
He beats on the door, for the soldiers to open it. Then he drags himself, aggrieved, toward the fulfillment of his duty: to inform the inquisitors of the atrocities he has heard during this long hour, word for word.
103
I accompanied Isabel to the Holy Week services. I had to participate visibly, as there was methodical vigilance in the atriums, naves, and pulpits. The few Marranos in the city had impeccable attendance. This was one of the most ruthless tests to which we were subjected. We had to carry out the farce of a false devotion, which gnawed at the soul like an acid, and to endure accusations of having killed Jesus.
Every time a priest referred to the Passion and death during Holy Week, my heart raced.
Palm Sunday celebrates the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem and his welcome with olive, laurel, and palm fronds. Who gave him such a warm, affectionate welcome? I waited for it to be said: “Jews!” Because they were women, children, and men of his own blood, of his own people, who embraced him joyfully and with love. But Jews were never associated with positive events, never with anything good.
On Holy Thursday I waited to hear the sermon of the divine mandate. I recalled the faraway Santiago de La Cruz and his moving words on the teaching to “love each other.” But the kindness of Christ did not inspire as much as his physical pain. They spoke of the Last Supper without mentioning—not even with the slightest allusion—its link to the Seder and to “Jewish Easter.” They repeated ad nauseam that Jesus had passed around the wine and said, “This is my blood,” and that he had passed around the bread, saying, “This is my body.” He gave his chalice to drink from just as Rabbi Gonzalo had done with his cup, and shared bread that was none other than matzo. On Holy Thursday, they also gloated over the betrayal of Judas Iscariot. How they gloated! They told the story, filling it with unparalleled foulness. He was the most disgusting person in creation, the recipient of torrential hatred. This was not only about a single individual who sold out his teacher for thirty coins, but, rather, about “the Jew.” His disloyalty was that of a Jew. His greed was Jewish. His hypocrisy, Jewish. To say “Judas” was to say “Jewish.” Even the first three letters of “Judas” and “judío” were the same. The connection was unstoppable. Each time a priest giving a sermon uttered the syllable “jud,” my ear filled with the ending “ío.” The fact that, instead of “ío,” we sometimes heard “as,” did nothing to lessen the pain.
Friday was an even more crushing day. From “cursed race” to “murderers,” all manner of disdain was heard. And this was taught for generation after generation, like an incessant hail—centuries long—that penetrated people to the marrow. The Jews are the judges, torturers, slanderers, and tormentors of God. They are a lawless people, without light or mercy. They preferred a murderer like
Barabbas and ordered the crucifixion of Jesus because they like to watch suffering. If the Romans were the ones who carried out the torture and cut his divine forehead with a crown of thorns, it was because the Jews made them do it. “The Jews killed Christ!” Not Veronica, not the three Marias, not little John, not the two thieves, not kind Joseph of Arimathea—none of them were mentioned as Jews. And neither Holy Saturday nor Easter Sunday offer any mercy. Except for a few occasions, the priests pontificated in such a manner that Jesus did not seem to have sacrificed himself for men’s salvation, but due to the imposition of those vultures, the Jews. And his resurrection was no triumph over death, but a triumph over Jews. The more blows struck against that breed of snakes, the more glory one offered the throne of God.
And to think that Jesus was as Jewish as I am. What am I saying? Much more Jewish than me! Son of a Jewish mother, descendant of dozens of generations of pure Jewish lineage, circumcised as a Jew, educated as a Jew, living among Jews, preaching to Jews, and choosing only Jews for his apostles. Even in the gallows he was elevated to the highest level that a true Jew can reach, no less than King of the Jews. Only this much evidence can generate so much blindness.
104
My sisters finally arrived in Santiago. Isabel brought her little daughter, Ana, and Felipa wore the habit of the Society of Jesus. They were accompanied by Catalina, whose curly hair had gone completely gray.
They were very tired when they arrived at our house, and I noticed that their baggage was scant. I assumed that Isabel had kept the proceeds from her sales in the form of cash.
I had used the adobe and stones behind my house to build an additional room. So I was able to offer them a comfortable bedroom, in which I placed beds, rugs, a desk with many small drawers, trunks, and chairs. My wife helped enthusiastically, because she’d lost her family as a child, in far-off Spain, and it gave her intimate joy to partake in this reunion. It also made her happy to see me so elated.
Felipa had transformed into a placid nun. Her teenage insolence had been diluted under the black tunics of the Society. She told me that, on the day she took her vows, she was accompanied by Brother Santiago de La Cruz. The ceremony was unforgettable, with music, flowers, and a moving procession. There were many guests, because the Society had grown throughout the Viceroyalty of Peru and included many neighbors. The captain of the Lancers, Toribio Valdés, was in attendance, as was a generous Portuguese councilman, Diego López de Lisboa.
I listened without comment. I would not say a word about López de Lisboa until my sisters proved their ability to keep a secret. Her reference to that man stirred dread in me, and in them it must have set off an earthquake of suspicion about what I might know.
Isabel had sweetened. Now a mother and a premature widow, she revived the tenderness of our own mother. Her eyes—which also resembled those of my wife—were damp and seemed to caress with their gaze. Little Ana clung continuously to her mother.
“I’ll present myself to the local branch of the Society,” Felipa declared. “It’s the correct thing to do.”
“You can stay with us,” my wife offered.
“Thank you. You are truly generous. But I belong there.”
My wife nodded.
A loud noise interrupted our conversation: the falling of tin pitchers and the shattering of ceramic plates crashed in from the kitchen. Two cats had sidled in among the vessels, climbed a barrel, leapt onto the stove, been scalded, and were twisting around on a table laden with dinnerware.
My wife was concerned by the copious amount of salt that had spilled onto the floor.
“This bodes misfortune!”
My sister started and stared at me with her large, tender eyes.
The testimonies gathered in Concepción and Santiago are quite damning to the prisoner. The meticulous Inquisitorial process, nevertheless, demands that there be no hasty actions, no skipping of bureaucratic steps. All that material, along with the confiscated assets and the prisoner himself, are to be dispatched as soon as possible to Lima, where the High Tribunal will carry out its inexorable sentence.
Almeida hears the decision and begins to carry it out.
105
The loud knocks penetrated my sleep, like bells. Isabel shook me by the shoulder.
“Francisco, Francisco, someone’s calling.”
“Calling, yes—” I got up and wrapped myself in a cloak I’d left over a chair. The knocks did not stop.
“Coming!” I felt for a match, grabbed a candle, and lit it.
“Quickly,” a voice implored from the other side of the door.
I opened to find a hooded, impatient figure.
“The bishop—” he began.
“Another hemorrhage?”
I raised the candle and revealed the monk’s anguished face. He blinked and grasped my arm.
“Come immediately, please. He’s dying!”
I dressed in a flash.
“What’s happening?” Isabel asked, sitting up.
“The bishop is hemorrhaging again.”
Little Alba Elena began to cry.
“We startled her, poor thing!”
Isabel picked up our daughter and tenderly sang a lullaby. I kissed Alba Elena, caressed my wife’s soft cheek, and shot out to the street.
“When did the bleeding begin?” I asked without slowing my pace.
“Just now. He’d been complaining of stomach pains all night.”
“Why did you wait so long to get me?”
He didn’t answer, short of breath as he was.
“What were you waiting for?” I reproached him again.
“He didn’t want to—”
“He never wants to! And then he calls for me after the fire.”
When we arrived, a pair of lanterns trembled at the ancient gate. I strode fast through the familiar halls. In the bedroom, a small candelabra burned. I caught the smell of diarrhea between the medicinal vapors rising from a metal bowl.
“More light,” I ordered.
I dragged a chair to the edge of the bed. The prelate was massaging his stomach and emitting weak moans.
“Good evening.”
He didn’t hear me.
“Good evening,” I repeated.
He startled. “Oh, it’s you.”
I took his pulse; he’d lost too much blood. When more candelabras were brought into the room I was able to verify the acute anemia in his skin.
“The heavens have sent me sanctifying pain,” he insinuated with an ironic smile.
“Bring me a cup of warm milk,” I ordered the assistant.
“Milk? That will make me vomit. I do not want it, absolutely not. Soon I’ll be reunited with the Lord. I am purging my sins with His help. The enemas of heaven are more effective than those you doctors give.” He laughed maliciously, but he broke off suddenly and his hands flew to his abdomen. “Ay!”
“I’ll put cold cloths on you.”
“There’s no need,” he moaned, twisting back and forth.
The assistant extended a small copper tray toward me, bearing the cup of milk.
“Drink this.”
“Yuck!”
He was pressing at his stomach. We helped him sit up. He took two sips, with great repugnance. The third sip he spat out on my shoes.
“I want to receive the last rites again.”
He lay back down in defeat and his assistant began to sob.
“Quickly,” he muttered, feeling with his right hand until it reached my knee.
I offered him my hand.
“You, don’t go,” he said. “You have the privilege of watching the transit to the next world of a sinner who did not want to sin.”
“A sad privilege.”
“Sad? Transit is sad? Only for sinners. The virtuous, they enjoy this moment. I’ve already lived enough, now I can enjoy the arrival of death.”
The wavering candlelight emphasized the vertical crease on his brow. This man still exuded authority. Not long ago he’d made the faithful s
hiver with another sermon. “What had he been like years ago,” I wondered, “when he worked as an inquisitor at the tribunal in Cartagena?” My thoughts mysteriously connected with his. A chill ran down my spine. I told him that I admired his courage. And he sank into a horrific memory.
“Sinners, the more they sin, the more they suffer—how they cried, the Marranos of Cartagena!”
I could not believe my ears. This man had a demonic perception.
“Ay!” He sighed, and massaged his abdomen again. “How those cursed people wept!”
“How many did you send to their deaths?” I heard myself ask, despite the danger of approaching the subject.
He opened his blind eyes, then slowly moved his head.
“I don’t remember. Did I send any?”
I felt his pulse again. It was still thin, perilously weak.
He grasped my hand.
“Did I send any to their deaths?” he asked anxiously.
“Please be calm, Your Eminence.”
“I was weak with the Jews—” He was becoming agitated. “That’s where my sin lies. I was weak.”
“Merciful?”
He shook his head.
“Mercy is sometimes betrayal, in matters of faith. I recall that a Jew was weeping. Abjure, then! I implored him. But the poor wretch could not abjure because his sobs were too intense—”
Drops began to roll down my forehead.
“I was a bad inquisitor. I condemned very little. Ay!”
The assistant entered with the bishop’s confessor. I rose.
“Don’t go!” he said, still gripping my hand.
I nodded and backed against the wall of the ample bedroom.
The priest kissed the crosses embroidered on his stole and hung it around his neck. He mumbled a few words and kneeled beside his superior, kissing his ecclesiastical ring. For a few minutes, my ears were privy to the murmur of swelling waves plagued with monsters. This man, aggressive, dissatisfied with his long-ago task of inquisitor and with his pastoral actions, was asking for forgiveness before God, like a warrior before his captain. There was no reckoning with gestures of love, only with the lack of cruelty. The terrible destiny of a man who had chosen the wrong career. He would have liked to be a Moor killer and an Indian killer; instead, he was a mediocre Jew killer.
Against the Inquisition Page 40