As to why my mother attended Mass nearly every Sunday and had had me baptized, she explained that these were formalities meant to still the viperous tongues of those who were spying on us. “In Portugal, my son, everyone is always watching with both eyes wide open. There are people to whom you have never spoken a word — such as that murderous preacher — who know when you were born and the names of your grandparents.” She paused, then said, “I think I ought to have Senhor Benjamin talk to you about all this.”
“Why him?”
“He understands our beliefs and knows our ceremonies. All I know is how to light the candles before supper on Friday evening.”
“So Senhor Benjamin is Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
My mother’s face grew solemn. “John, this is important.” She stood up and began to pace. “There are many people in Porto whose ancestors are Jewish. Most have forgotten everything but a few words of prayer, for we have not been permitted to practice our religion openly for many centuries. If I tell you the names of some people who share our faith, then you must never speak of them to anyone.” She fixed me with a dark look. “John, these people could be killed. You must swear to me that you will never reveal any of their names — not even should the Church throw you in the darkest dungeon. Otherwise I cannot tell you.”
I was thrilled by the need to keep a dangerous secret. Perhaps being Jewish was not such a curse, after all. “I swear,” I said.
“Very well. It may even be a good thing that you know. In case … in case anything bad should happen to Papa or myself, these are the people to whom you must go for assistance. Never forget that.” Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she said, “I have already mentioned Senhor Benjamin. Then there is Senhora Beatriz. And …”
She proceeded to name a score of individuals that I knew either as family friends, neighbors, local artisans, or shopkeepers. It would be rash of me to name them even now, since Portugal is a land of shifting political fortunes. Indeed, I have taken the liberty of changing the names of Senhor Benjamin, Senhora Beatriz, and several others in my story, to protect them and their children.
As Mama entrusted me with this information, I recognized that I was being granted entry into a secret and ancient clan. What’s more, Daniel, too, had been a member, as Senhora Beatriz, his grandmother, had been named.
It was only later that I realized that the thrashing Senhora Beatriz suffered years earlier was inspired by the hateful preachings of Lourenco Reis.
Once Mama had finished her list, she said, “John, if you have more questions, ask Senhor Benjamin. You may visit him tonight with your father.”
After she hugged me again, I rushed to my room to consider my being half-Jewish. The more I reflected upon these halves and wholes, the less sense they made. Aside from a few rather confused religious beliefs expressed to me by Mother and a piece of skin evidently robbed from me at knifepoint when I was too young to defend myself, it was not at all clear wherein Jewishness resided or if even there was such a thing.
I decided to do my utmost to proceed through logic. I made a list of my mother’s traits that were wholly absent in neighbor women who had not been mentioned and who were therefore, most likely, fully Christian. These, I presumed, would be the core attributes of Jewishness.
Knowing so few women well, I could come up with only seven characteristics: an uncompromising abhorrence of dirt in our home and on her person; a delight in hearing books read aloud; musical interest and aptitude; contempt for all forms of hunting; marked tendency to agitation in the presence of her own mother; timidity in public; and an overwhelming fear of standing apart. I had a wholly laissez-faire attitude toward dirt, so I reasoned that this was probably due to my being only half-Jewish. The same explanation held true for my lack of interest in playing the pianoforte; my joy in watching Midnight hunt; my occasional bursts of mischievous boldness; and my general ease in her presence. Subtracting these from my original list of traits, I concluded that my Jewishness resided in my delight in reading and my nervous nature. I concluded that I might therefore make every effort to keep these characteristics out of general view.
I then analyzed my father’s Scottishness. Comparing him with Portuguese men, I decided it was centered in his outstanding height; his industriousness; his hotheaded sense of honor; his gallantry; his willingness to poke fun at himself; his dislike of the English; his partiality for whiskey and tea; his stories of elves, witches, and monsters of the lochs; and his odd Portuguese pronunciation.
Being only half-Scottish, I could not be expected to be tall, enjoy poking fun at myself, dislike the English, or appreciate whiskey, which I had sipped several times and already disliked. I was born in Porto, so it was wholly illogical to suppose that I might have a faulty pronunciation of my native tongue. I deduced that my Scottish half resided in my industriousness, my aggressive sense of honor, and my love of frightening stories.
This reasoning seemed sound to me. Yet I soon began to see that my conclusions were lopsided. For my father played the fiddle with great skill and had an even deeper love of poetry than my mother. And my mother was nothing if not industrious, utilizing all her free time to embroider towels, curtains, and sheets for any person who might pay her a fair wage.
And so my reflections reached a dead end, and I went bounding off to discuss my confusion with Midnight, who I found weeding in our garden and looking extremely troubled.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. He ignored me and continued digging with his trowel. “Will you not answer me?”
“John, I am not sure that you and I ought to be friends,” he replied.
My heart stopped. “What do you mean?”
“There is so much I do not understand. So much that I cannot help you with. I sometimes think I ought not to have come here.”
The thought of him leaving was unbearable to me. “You cannot go!”
He wiped the dirt from his hands on his breeches. “Then if you wish for me to stay you must help me. You must tell me the meaning of what took place today.”
I realized then that I had been neglectful of his concern for the safety of my family. That he had seen preachers like Lourenco Reis in his native country — inciting Europeans to murder
We sat together and I repeated what Mother had told me about being a Jew, adding that I’d love for him to come with us when Father and I sought more satisfactory answers from Senhor Benjamin.
He was greatly relieved by my invitation. I’d have liked to ask him where he thought Senhor Policarpo’s
XVII
Papa came home from work looking angry and haggard. He had already been informed of Senhor Policarpo’s murder, so he asked no questions of me or Mother. Instead, he lifted me up and embraced me, then went straight to Midnight and hugged him as well. Then he and Mama retreated to their bedroom.
When he returned downstairs, he asked us to sit with him. “Worry not, dear May,” he told Mama, kissing her cheek. “The world is steadily advancing toward a better age, and that hateful preacher will never succeed in tugging us back into the past.” Turning to me, he said, “If the truth be told, laddie, I should have liked to tell you about this Jewish heritage of yours when you were but a wee thing. And I say this to you with no hesitation whatsoever — I think you are all the more fortunate to be an alloy of different metals. Would that I had your inheritance, my son.”
This cheered me greatly, but I still wanted to ask a few questions of Senhor Benjamin. When I said so, Papa gulped down the rest of his wine and gestured toward the door. “Then let’s not dawdle, laddie. It is still St. John’s Eve and we’ve too much merriment planned to let conversations wait. I shall not let any preacher ruin our celebrations!”
