Read Online The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon by Richard Zimler - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Zimler
Tags: Religión, Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Romance, Historical, Talking books, Detective and Mystery Stories, Jewish, Jewish fiction, Judaism, Jews, Lisbon (Portugal), Jews - Portugal - Lisbon, Cabala, Kabbalah & Mysticism
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temple in the desert.
It was Uncle then, acting as our leader, who opened the initial, most-sacred gate of holiday by intoning a blessing over the first of four cups of wine we traditionally drink. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, creator of the fruit of the vine.” Uncle sang in Hebrew, his gentle voice a tender echo of the trumpet call with which he used to begin our service in the days before Old Christian informants might eavesdrop. After repeating this and the following verses in Portuguese so that Judah—whose Hebrew lessons had fallen behind—would understand, the voices of all those assembled wove together into a single ply of promise and solidarity: “ Quem tem fome que venha e coma. Todo necessitado que venha e festeje Pessá. Este ano aqui, no próximo em Israel. Este ano escravos, no próximo homens livres. Let all who are hungry come and eat. Let all who are needy come celebrate thePassover with us. This year we are here; next year may we be in the land of Israel. This year we are in bondage; next year may we be free.”
A bit later, as Uncle began to cut steaming pieces of lamb atop our matzahs, he commented that each letter of the Hebrew alphabet is ruled by an angel and that it is the angels, assembled in our written and spoken words, who work the wonders at which ordinary men are amazed.
Surely, our prayers and stories had a winged grace that night.
Yet how fragile angels are; their magic was dispelled in a single moment. Cinfa had gone to open the courtyard door for Elijah, the prophet, whose spirit is said to enter each home during Passover. Ragged shouts from far off came in with the rush of cool air. My master jumped up; the words were in Hebrew. Again, there was a long-journeying shriek. Then silence.
“What could it be?” my mother asked.
Uncle was pale. “Nothing,” he said absently, as if he were entranced by a vision. And for the rest of the meal he wouldn’t utter a sound except to conclude the ceremony. “Next year in Jerusalem,” were the words of eternal homecoming with which we concluded, but they fell hollow between us.
The next day, at cockcrow, a scroll was left mysteriously at our courtyard door giving us the answer to my mother’s question. In New Christian code, it read: Sixteen swallows failed to mark their nests last night and were taken by Pharaoh. Your bird, Reza, was amongst them.
As it turned out, my cousin Reza, along with all the other guests at her clandestine seder, had been arrested the evening before and carted off to the municipal prison. Someone must have informed on them. Had Uncle witnessed this through a mystical window or only guessed that something terrible was happening?
As I read the note that dawn, my mother said, “Esther and Uncle have gone to call on the New Christian aristocrats who serve at court. They’re hoping that one of them will see fit to help.”
It was the Sabbath, the day before the second holy night of Passover, and I was terribly pious in those days, so I resolved to do my part in hastening Reza’s release by chanting all morning and afternoon. Yet it was to no effect; just before sunset, my aunt and uncle returned home dusty and disheartened. “One of the court Jews will try to intervene ,” my master said without conviction, scratching his scalp angrily.“All the others…they drip tears and mouth false words.”
The next evening, totally disheartened by Reza’s continued imprisonment , Uncle came to me in our cellar and mentioned for the first time the possibility of our leaving Portugal. “If I asked you to leave this country forever, would you go?” he asked.
“Yes, if I had to,” I replied.
“Good. But your mother…could she leave?”
“She’s frightened. An enemy one knows is often easier to bear than one who is unknown.”
“True. And if your mother doesn’t leave, I doubt Esther would. Nor Reza, now that she’s married and trying to start a family. If we can just get
It was Uncle then, acting as our leader, who opened the initial, most-sacred gate of holiday by intoning a blessing over the first of four cups of wine we traditionally drink. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, creator of the fruit of the vine.” Uncle sang in Hebrew, his gentle voice a tender echo of the trumpet call with which he used to begin our service in the days before Old Christian informants might eavesdrop. After repeating this and the following verses in Portuguese so that Judah—whose Hebrew lessons had fallen behind—would understand, the voices of all those assembled wove together into a single ply of promise and solidarity: “ Quem tem fome que venha e coma. Todo necessitado que venha e festeje Pessá. Este ano aqui, no próximo em Israel. Este ano escravos, no próximo homens livres. Let all who are hungry come and eat. Let all who are needy come celebrate thePassover with us. This year we are here; next year may we be in the land of Israel. This year we are in bondage; next year may we be free.”
A bit later, as Uncle began to cut steaming pieces of lamb atop our matzahs, he commented that each letter of the Hebrew alphabet is ruled by an angel and that it is the angels, assembled in our written and spoken words, who work the wonders at which ordinary men are amazed.
Surely, our prayers and stories had a winged grace that night.
Yet how fragile angels are; their magic was dispelled in a single moment. Cinfa had gone to open the courtyard door for Elijah, the prophet, whose spirit is said to enter each home during Passover. Ragged shouts from far off came in with the rush of cool air. My master jumped up; the words were in Hebrew. Again, there was a long-journeying shriek. Then silence.
“What could it be?” my mother asked.
Uncle was pale. “Nothing,” he said absently, as if he were entranced by a vision. And for the rest of the meal he wouldn’t utter a sound except to conclude the ceremony. “Next year in Jerusalem,” were the words of eternal homecoming with which we concluded, but they fell hollow between us.
The next day, at cockcrow, a scroll was left mysteriously at our courtyard door giving us the answer to my mother’s question. In New Christian code, it read: Sixteen swallows failed to mark their nests last night and were taken by Pharaoh. Your bird, Reza, was amongst them.
As it turned out, my cousin Reza, along with all the other guests at her clandestine seder, had been arrested the evening before and carted off to the municipal prison. Someone must have informed on them. Had Uncle witnessed this through a mystical window or only guessed that something terrible was happening?
As I read the note that dawn, my mother said, “Esther and Uncle have gone to call on the New Christian aristocrats who serve at court. They’re hoping that one of them will see fit to help.”
It was the Sabbath, the day before the second holy night of Passover, and I was terribly pious in those days, so I resolved to do my part in hastening Reza’s release by chanting all morning and afternoon. Yet it was to no effect; just before sunset, my aunt and uncle returned home dusty and disheartened. “One of the court Jews will try to intervene ,” my master said without conviction, scratching his scalp angrily.“All the others…they drip tears and mouth false words.”
The next evening, totally disheartened by Reza’s continued imprisonment , Uncle came to me in our cellar and mentioned for the first time the possibility of our leaving Portugal. “If I asked you to leave this country forever, would you go?” he asked.
“Yes, if I had to,” I replied.
“Good. But your mother…could she leave?”
“She’s frightened. An enemy one knows is often easier to bear than one who is unknown.”
“True. And if your mother doesn’t leave, I doubt Esther would. Nor Reza, now that she’s married and trying to start a family. If we can just get
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