Read Online By Fire, By Water by Mitchell James Kaplan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mitchell James Kaplan
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aloud. Each letter, with all its extensions, was a holy, living being. If a scribe erred, the rabbis taught, an entire world would be destroyed. Precisely what this meant, no one knew.
When thoughts of his conversation with the chancellor intruded, he pronounced the Hebrew word a second time. This technique, he found, did not dispel the perturbing thoughts. He wiped his quill and closed the inkpot.
We live in two different worlds, he told himself. One world honors tradition. The other tramples upon it. Serero doubted he or anyone else could build a bridge between them. And yet, the survival of the Jewish community in Zaragoza required that such bridges be built, rebuilt, and maintained.
Two weeks later, Santángel again visited the Hebrew scribe. He handed Serero the leather pouch Cristóbal Colón had placed in his trunk. “An acquaintance of mine, a ship’s captain—I hardly know him, mind you—but he placed this in my possession. I have no use for it. Nor do I have any idea what it represents. According to this gentleman, its contents are of some value. Especially to a Jew like you, one would imagine.”
Abram Serero studied the documents, sliding his fingers under certain phrases, sometimes reading them aloud. Finally, he looked up. “Where did you say you obtained these?”
“A sailor. He placed them in my trunk even though I had no use for them and, indeed, refused them.”
Serero nodded slowly. “Did he tell you where he acquired them?”
“He mentioned Lisbon. A mapmaker, I believe. A Jew.”
The scribe lowered his expert eyes and allowed them once again to wander across the fragments and pamphlets until they stopped on the most aged of them, the stained and ragged parchment.
The chancellor, leaning over the parchment next to the scribe, scrutinized the characters as if facing natives on a foreign shore. “What is it? What does it say?”
In a slight shifting of Serero’s eyes, he perceived a tinge of concern, perhaps dread.
“I would need to spend more time with them,” said the scribe.
“Do you want to keep them, then?”
“Some of them, perhaps. Others,” he rolled up the ancient parchment, “no one would want lying around.” He tried to hand it back to Santángel.
“Please. Consider it yours.”
“This particular document, I could never consider mine.”
“Nevertheless, it’s surely safer in your care.”
Serero relented, placing the parchment back on the table. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” His face eased into a smile.
“There is one more thing.”
Serero waited.
“Señor Serero,” Santángel began again. “Suppose I wished to learn more about … about the faith of my grandparents.”
“Why?”
“Not in the interest of conversion, mind you, but so I can understand what it is I’m rejecting.”
“You’re asking whether I would teach you? I would not,” said Serero.
“And why not?”
“You said your objective would be to find fault with the tradition. What teacher would want such a student?”
“Suppose we were to make a financial arrangement. Not between you and me, but between the kingdom and the Jewish community of Zaragoza. I understand what a burden these war taxes represent. Perhaps we can find a way to offset them.”
An ember crackled in the fireplace. Serero knelt and pushed the logs with an iron poker.
The First Meetings
W ITH A BRAM S ERERO , Luis de Santángel explored ideas that had intrigued him all his life. He argued about the nature of truth, God’s role in history, justice, love. He came to feel an intellectual enfranchisement he had never felt before, invigorating and empowering. The freedom to navigate between the great ideas and sentiments of his own faith and that of his grandfather was a rare privilege.
Late at night, sometimes once a month, sometimes more frequently, the two men entered a concealed, arbored passageway behind the castle and walked to a private entrance that defied surveillance.
When thoughts of his conversation with the chancellor intruded, he pronounced the Hebrew word a second time. This technique, he found, did not dispel the perturbing thoughts. He wiped his quill and closed the inkpot.
We live in two different worlds, he told himself. One world honors tradition. The other tramples upon it. Serero doubted he or anyone else could build a bridge between them. And yet, the survival of the Jewish community in Zaragoza required that such bridges be built, rebuilt, and maintained.
Two weeks later, Santángel again visited the Hebrew scribe. He handed Serero the leather pouch Cristóbal Colón had placed in his trunk. “An acquaintance of mine, a ship’s captain—I hardly know him, mind you—but he placed this in my possession. I have no use for it. Nor do I have any idea what it represents. According to this gentleman, its contents are of some value. Especially to a Jew like you, one would imagine.”
Abram Serero studied the documents, sliding his fingers under certain phrases, sometimes reading them aloud. Finally, he looked up. “Where did you say you obtained these?”
“A sailor. He placed them in my trunk even though I had no use for them and, indeed, refused them.”
Serero nodded slowly. “Did he tell you where he acquired them?”
“He mentioned Lisbon. A mapmaker, I believe. A Jew.”
The scribe lowered his expert eyes and allowed them once again to wander across the fragments and pamphlets until they stopped on the most aged of them, the stained and ragged parchment.
The chancellor, leaning over the parchment next to the scribe, scrutinized the characters as if facing natives on a foreign shore. “What is it? What does it say?”
In a slight shifting of Serero’s eyes, he perceived a tinge of concern, perhaps dread.
“I would need to spend more time with them,” said the scribe.
“Do you want to keep them, then?”
“Some of them, perhaps. Others,” he rolled up the ancient parchment, “no one would want lying around.” He tried to hand it back to Santángel.
“Please. Consider it yours.”
“This particular document, I could never consider mine.”
“Nevertheless, it’s surely safer in your care.”
Serero relented, placing the parchment back on the table. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” His face eased into a smile.
“There is one more thing.”
Serero waited.
“Señor Serero,” Santángel began again. “Suppose I wished to learn more about … about the faith of my grandparents.”
“Why?”
“Not in the interest of conversion, mind you, but so I can understand what it is I’m rejecting.”
“You’re asking whether I would teach you? I would not,” said Serero.
“And why not?”
“You said your objective would be to find fault with the tradition. What teacher would want such a student?”
“Suppose we were to make a financial arrangement. Not between you and me, but between the kingdom and the Jewish community of Zaragoza. I understand what a burden these war taxes represent. Perhaps we can find a way to offset them.”
An ember crackled in the fireplace. Serero knelt and pushed the logs with an iron poker.
The First Meetings
W ITH A BRAM S ERERO , Luis de Santángel explored ideas that had intrigued him all his life. He argued about the nature of truth, God’s role in history, justice, love. He came to feel an intellectual enfranchisement he had never felt before, invigorating and empowering. The freedom to navigate between the great ideas and sentiments of his own faith and that of his grandfather was a rare privilege.
Late at night, sometimes once a month, sometimes more frequently, the two men entered a concealed, arbored passageway behind the castle and walked to a private entrance that defied surveillance.
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