Across So Many Seas: Chapters 1-7

“Don’t dawdle. We don’t want to miss any announcements.”

As we join the hundreds of townspeople gathered in the Plaza Mayor, we watch the solemn procession approach.

“On this day, the thirty-first of March of the year 1492, we order all Jews and Jewesses, regardless of age, who live in our kingdoms and lordships... that by the end of the month of July of the present year, they depart from all of these our realms and lordships . . . And whoever disobeys us and does not leave within this time and is to be found in any place in our kingdom will be sentenced to death by hanging . . ."

“But they will only let us stay if we convert to Catholicism.”

I pitied them for turning against their own religion and forsaking our traditions.

In the shadow of your wings will I make my refuge until these calamities shall be overcome.

Now we sit together with my aunts at the kitchen table, and Mother serves the almond marzipan sweets she makes with honey gathered from the hives around Toledo and warm cups of anise brewed with lemon and yet more honey.

“Samuelico, listen to us. Convert now for the sake of your wife and children. Isn’t that wiser than losing everything and taking to the road like a vagabond?”

His sisters whisper, “But haven’t you heard that even the great rabbi, Abraham Senior, has converted at the age of eighty? You know you can practice Judaism secretly, like so many do. We still light the candles on Friday night, just for a fleeting moment, to remember we were Jews.”

“La vida, life, is everything. I cannot bear the thought of leaving our home here in Toledo, but I also cannot bear the thought of staying and no longer being allowed to keep my faith. That is death to me. I have worn the torn robe of my grief since this day dawned, when I heard the edict of expulsion of the Jews.”

Then King Alfonso conquered the Muslims and built churches on top of the mosques.

We both settle back into our writing, the light of the afternoon illuminating our words.

They want to buy the house for a pittance, and Father refuses to accept their miserable offers.

Isaac, who never sheds a tear, cries as he tells us about how the mob ripped the jewel-encrusted velvet covering off our temple’s Torah and tossed the holy scroll into the street.

Now Father is determined to make the journey carrying the Torah in his arms.

The kosher butchers have all left town already, so now we eat eggplant with honey and are glad for a taste of sweetness as life grows bitter.

Miriam looks at me earnestly.

“When I am in church, reciting the rosary, I still hear the Hebrew prayers in my ears. I hear the blast of the shofar. Then I look above and see angels and the spirits of Mother and Father weeping.”

Tailors, leather workers, cobblers, tanners, weavers, spice dealers, peddlers, merchants, silversmiths, goldsmiths—a whole wonderful community that lived and worked together and flourished—are being forced to leave.

Some Christians—old and new—with whom we once shared the town gawk at us.

Why don’t you sing, elegant girl?

I am wearing my lightest muslin dress and robe, but all clothing feels heavy in the summer heat.

By midday, the heat is unbearable.

The afternoon sun is intense, and I slip into a daze, dreaming of cool water in which to bathe.

A man with ruddy cheeks approaches our group and says, “We thought all the Jews had left by now. We have seen many take this road.”