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: “
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:
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 her home.”
“Is that why you’ve been doubly upset? You want to leave? But if you demanded that…”
Uncle waved away my questions, began to chant Queen Esther’s prayer, verses of special meaning to us because she, too, had been forced to hide her Judaism: “Help me who has no helper except the Lord. For I am taking my life in my hands…”
His own hands had formed white-knuckled fists and his lips were trembling. Jumping up, I reached for his shoulders. His eyes gushed with tears. Poor Uncle, I thought, Portugal is driving him to the limits of his body’s tolerance. “The Jewish courtiers will effect Reza’s release,” I said. “Then, if you want to, we will make plans to leave. Somehow, we’ll convince everyone. But now you must rest. Come, I’ll take you upstairs. You may lean on me until we are out of the wilderness.”
“Let us stay here,” he said. “Please.” Nodding his acceptance of my aid, he said, “Lead me to the mat. The atmosphere of prayer helps me.”
We sat together in silence as he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. When he laid his hand on my head, he said in a breaking voice, “Where is the vellum ribbon with both our names on it which I gave you?”
“I put it in my chest for safe keeping.”
“Good.” He smiled sweetly. “It is a great comfort to know that you have it.”
I gripped his arm. “Look, Uncle, whatever it is that’s…”
He silenced me by pressing his hand to my forehead. “You are a worthy heir,” he said. “In spite of what I may shout at you in anger, I have never regretted you being my apprentice. Never. Once you have lived more and put more of your prayer into deed, you will be a great illuminator. Your father once told me, ‘There is a lion of kabbalah dwelling in my Beri’s heart.’ And he was right. Of course, it is a blessing to carry such a lion around with you. But a wild beast, even one born of kabbalah, may become inconvenient at times. Now listen closely. Up until now, it has been of little concern, because you have lived a life of study. But when you go out into the world, when action in the Lower Realms takes its rightful place beside prayer, you may have difficulties. Because you will never be able to wear masks like the rest of us. Every time you try to slip one on, you will hear the growling of the lion inside you. That was why you were in such deep despair at the time of the conversion—why, perhaps, God granted you a vision. You will not have it easy. You may have to live apart from people for a time. Or suffer their earthly judgments. But hold fast and embrace the lion inside you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
When I nodded, he continued: “Then that is enough talk. Woe be the spiritual guide who fills his apprentice with pride. We are being threatened on all sides, and if we are to survive, we must work hard. That is more important than natural talent or inclination. Your lion needs to work!”
Uncle and I sat at our desks. As he painted his panel of Haman and Mordecai, he began to study me with tender eyes. I sensed that he was caressing my form with his gaze to remind himself that—despite Reza’s imprisonment—the world was still good and beautiful.
The next day, Sunday, just after the cathedral clocktower had struck sext, there was a knock on the outside door to my mothers room. She shrieked for me. I ran up from the cellar armed absurdly with an ermine brush. In her room stood a black slave, as handsome as midnight. He wore a jacket of fine blue silk, yellow leggings. He was holding a note sealed with thick red wax. “From Dom Joao,” he said in halting Portuguese, meaning one of the Court Jews we’d petitioned for help.
Esther came running in, understood immediately. She nodded for me to take the message, covered her mouth with clasped hands, began mumbling in Persian. I took the note and ripped it open. “We have seduced Pharaoh with gold,” it read. “Swallows will be home before nightfall.”
While I pushed raisins left over from my morning deliveries of fruit on the reticent slave, Esther left to tell Uncle. When I got to the kitchen, they were hugging. “I’d like to be there when she gets out of prison,” my master was saying.
Esther caressed his cheek. “I’ll heat some lamb for her.” She glared at him suddenly and waved a judgmental finger. “But when you get home, you sleep!”
Uncle closed his eyes, nodded like a little boy. To me, he said, “Beri, there are two errands I need you to do.” He took a manuscript from his pouch, handed it to me. “First, deliver this Book of Psalms. Do you know where the nobleman lives who ordered it?” When I nodded, he said, “There’s a note inside.” He fixed me with a grave look. “Give it only to the master of the house. Only him! And make sure he reads it in front of you.” In a more casual tone, he added, “Then get some kosher wine from Samson Tijolo.” He handed me a scroll tied with a red ribbon. “This letter is for him.”
Uncle and I left the house together, but he turned north, toward the prison, while I headed west. We exchanged kisses. Nothing more. Had I understood that after the events of the next few hours I would never again
