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 dikes. 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.”