The Eternal Jew’s Tale, #182, Survivors

In this episode, a new found friend.

The Eternal Jew’s Tale
Twenty Second Era, Part 1, 1492 C.E., Constantinople

Morning. Passin’ Sicily’s coast. Far behind us and off to the south we see a ship be followin’ us, keepin’ its distance all the day, but ever there. Our captain surmises,

“Maybe Venetians eye on us. Zey have many fear on us.”

Then he calls his first mate, a lanky lad and tireless, with hardly a mustache above his lip, but fearless climbin’ the riggings and mast, and daggers strapped on both his hips.

“Orekh, you be a help this folk.”

Just that single word that the captain says and that lad becomes a father to us. He knows our tongue and knows our tam.*
* Hebrew: taste, essence

“I livz on Jew Street in Lesbos, ya know. By zeh time I been ten I knowed how to bless challah and wine and Sabbat light.”

And before three stars in the evening appear our fears begin to wash away like a frightful dream at the break of day.

Passin’ Kythira, roundin’ the coast of the Peloponnese, still bein’ trailed by them Venetians, brainless or bold to enter these waters in the fist of the Turks. Noddin’ towards them, Orekh scoffs,

“Some of our boys will sink zem soon. Zey won’t get much more furder now.”

Behold! The Turkish fleet is pertectin’ that narrow inlet, the Hellespont, keyhole in a locked door. On the other side, a new life. And can it be just seven days since we been lost out at sea? It seems like seven years ago. All our fear, all our grief, all our stunned confusions ago. First mate Orekh has been preparin’ us — where to go, who to see, what to do when we step ashore on our new earth in our new day.

We come to the docks in Eminonu. “Kallaballek” is the term they use for confusion, chaos, cacophony, and crowds. Sudden, our fears swell back on us confronting the maze of alleys and paths all tented over to block the sun, and a thousand hawkers, con men, and thieves shoutin’, pokin’, grabbin’, and pinchin’, in and out, here and gone, like bees swarmin’ a tree in full bloom. And now there’s two hundred people and more cloggin’ the piers and afeared to go forth.

Then out comes Orekh. He leaps from a rail and bellows above the din and the crowd,

“Saadia, Batkol, gadder zese folk; harness zem or tie zem up, or snap zem with a leathern whip. And when zay packed togedder tight, I lead zem tu zaer promise land.”

Who knows how many will get lost in the crowd, but a flock of us are baa-ing like sheep and kickin’ and buttin’ and driftin’ astray in the wonders of Constantinia. We follow our shepherd. Our first stop:

“Balek ekmek you mus try. It zeh bes food you ever eats.”

It’s crispy fry-fish on a huge hunk of bread.

All of a sudden after weeks on the sea we realize we’re hungry as Leviathan. Pushin’, shovin’, crush and curse, a couple of kids almost shoved in the drink as we surge en masse back to the wharf where skiffs are all lined up sellin’ their fish, each with an oven stoked with wood, and wide pots on top, all sizzle and pop with boilin’ oil and whole battered fish. And next to that, a basket of loaves, all long and thick as a blacksmith’s forearm.

There’s Raphael shoutin’ ‘gimme four,’ over and over til he finally sees that the fish seller don’t understand a word. So he points at himself sayin’ ‘me, me me’ and then holds up four fingers, ‘four, four, four.’ With a big grin the balek* man shouts back, “evet!**” There’s two fish already fryin’ away so he grabs two more from the floor of his skiff, drags them thru a bowl of meal (which looks like a slurry you’d feed to swine), then lays them, tender-like, into the oil, splutter and splatter, fizzle and hiss. Then he pulls out a knife, flash and slash, four cut loaves ready for fish. Not a minute later them first two fish look gold and crispy; we can hardly wait. The man then pulls out this big wide spoon drilled with holes, and scoops a fish and plenty of oil onto a loaf. He hands it to Raphy and says loud and clear, “sijjuk!” Raphy returns his thanks and takes a big bite and spits it right out. “That’s hot as fire!” And there’s the fishman repeatin’ “sijjuk***” again and again. And that’s how Raphy and his wife and kids learned their first Turkish word that day.
* fish; ** yes; *** Turkish spelling is ‘sicak’

It’s like that all up and down the pier. Meanwhile, all them fish fryin’ men suddenly realize they need more fish — there’s windfall profits to be had that day. This one is shoutin’ to raise the dead,

“*Bawlek, bawlek, tuzzay ve neffees,*”
*-* ‘fish, fish, fresh and delicious’

and that one frantic wavin’ his fist at his helper,

“I need more fish. Run to Hasson and buy every fish he’s got left, and bring them back as fast as you can, and then go back and find any monger that still has fish and tell them we’ll pay before evening prayers, ‘cause there’s a mob of infidels who want fry-fish.”

By late afternoon there isn’t a crumb of bread remainin’, or a crisp of fish along Eminonu’s waterfront. And lickin’ their fingers and smackin’ their lips a crowd of Sephardim find a new home. (Well, I guess I’m exaggeratin’ a bit. First impressions can mean a lot, but it took about a decade for that to sink in.)

Hubbub and laughter, wonder and amaze, meanderin’ thru shuks on the waterfront. Orekh as goatherd leadin’ the flock (tho more than one wolf dressed in fleece snatches a goat out of our midst), up to Balat where the Jews live. For one person, a short walk; for all of us, half a day. But word spreads fast ahead of us and Balat’s tiny kehillah,* half our size, is already arrangin’ to billet us. And like a wedding in the open square frontin’ the local synagogue (the Ahrida — such a strange name for a Jewish house of study and prayer), tables covered with a king’s repast:
* community

grilled eggplant and eggplant stews; white beans in oil, large and small, and many salads to mix with them; grilled kebabs, goat and lamb, drippin’ their juices on snowy rice spiced with sumac or cardamum; red lentil soup — like Jacob’s; two kinds of borek, one like braids made with noodles in a large pan, the other made of flaky dough in little triangles, most heavenly. And sweets like nothin’ in Iberia — layers and layers of papery dough drenched in honey and full of nuts.

We give many blessings and many toasts to Orekh, our savior from across the sea, and with many promises to come back soon, and many daughters fawnin’ on him, we never seen our savior again.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the next episode, life at the Ahrida synagogue.