The Eternal Jew’s Tale, #177, Abarbanel 6

In this episode, after denial and rage comes bargaining…

The Eternal Jew’s Tale
Twenty First Era, Part 1, 1492 C.E., Iberia
The Abarbanel Cycle, 6

Then comes bargaining. Valencia. Early June and Shavuot arrives, and rejoicing in the gift of the Law from God. But the only people rejoicin’ this year been Christians buyin’ up Jewish homes, buyin’ our shops and all our goods, our workshops and forges, ovens, our tools, our private treasures and valuables, our pots and pans and plates and cups, our bric-a-brac and furniture, our goats and chickens and everything else at a tenth of its worth, or a hundredth, or less.

Sure, we bargain. We plead and shout, stamp our feet, turn our backs. The more we fuss, the less we get. If we insist, they walk away and over their shoulder, with a shrug or a sneer, say,
‘You can’t take it with you, Jew, so when you’re gone we’ll come back here and take it for free. Don’t be a fool. I’m bein’ generous to offer you even a dinero for a real. Take it or leave it. I don’t care.’
As they expel us, they plunder us, too.

And ‘ain’t it too bad.’ And ‘what a shame.’ And ‘you’re such a good friend; oh, are you sellin’ that?’ And yes, there are tears and genuine shame and honest outrage. But what to do?
‘The crown declares and we’re caught in its snares.’

Of course, there be other bargains struck: some with neighbors, some with priests, some with the devil, some with the king, some with ourselves, some with God. Bargains proposed, all null and void.

Finally, we can’t avoid the truth – disgrace and ruin or abandon our faith. And them that choose this latter course*, New Christians as they be called, the Inquisition bears down on them. Body and soul they be put on the rack. New terrors and new disgrace, further plunders, continued hate. Yea, many of them curse their choice, to think they wouldn’t be seen as Jews; to think Iberia still wanted them.
* others say, ‘curse’

Lookin’ back it’s easy to see the church already been racked with doubts. Them gears already been grindin’ folk, but present demons obscure the facts, and many of them demons have a human face.

June rushes by and the end days approaches. The roads west to Portugal, and south to Cadiz and Malaga, and east to other Middle Sea ports, all be hazy with refugee dust stirred up by wagon and hoof of beast and the draggin’ feet of mother and child, by men harnessed like donkeys to carts. All of them, man, woman, and child laden with heavy packs and hearts.

Somewheres on a road to Malaga a middle aged man squats by the road. His aged mother, she can’t go on. She weeps,
‘Leave me. I’m old. My days been spent; you must survive.’
But he won’t leave her, come what may.

Somewheres on the Barcelona road a woman is sitting under a tree, rivulets of sweat run down her cheeks. Beside her an elderly man is slumped among the gnarled, ancient roots as dusk comes on and the air clears. The road empties. Only they remain. Briggands approach. The sun sets.

Somewheres on another lonely road a matriarch and her two sons, their wives and children, five of them, plus two babes in arms and some hand-pulled carts. They seem to have taken a wrong turn and prepare for night by a gurgling brook. Morning, the clouds, crimsons streaked, birds chirping, bees a-buzz, ten people in the dewy grass, crimson streaked. Their throats cut. As for the babes, no sign of them.

Or any direction on any road… a trail of debris, like wrecked ships, like a hurricane has blown a fleet to bits, the cargo washed up on a rocky beach, the contents strewn haphazardly… Stools, pillows, blankets, rugs, shattered boxes of dishes and cups, shirts, pants, jackets, hats, dresses, scarves, capes, shoes, neat little piles of precious books like shrines marking a pilgrimage. And soon enough the scavengers come, pickin’ over the vast array like market goers inspectin’ fruit, like beggars behind a king’s entourage, like looters behind an army in rout, like vultures fightin’ for a dead horse.

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In the next episode… is there any safe way out?