CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE PRISONER

Yonah had been raised a youth of the town. He was familiar with the farms of Toledo and on occasion he had milked his uncle Aron’s dairy goats, fed and tended the herd, harvested hay, and helped to butcher or make cheese. He was strong, large for his age and almost fully grown. But he had never before lived through the harsh daily cycles of unremitting labor that define an agricultural life, and in his first weeks on the Carnero de Palma farm his limbs stiffened and protested fiercely. The younger men were worked like oxen, given jobs too hard for those with bodies used up by years of similar toil. Soon his muscles hardened and swelled, and as his face darkened in the sun his appearance became more like that of the other laborers.

He was suspicious of everyone, afraid of everything, aware that he was vulnerable, fearful that someone would steal his burro. During the day he tethered the burro where he could watch it as he worked. At night both he and the animal slept in a corner of the great barn, and he had an odd sense that the burro was guarding him like a watchdog.

The peóns seemed content with their hard days of labor. They included youths of Yonah’s age, mature stalwarts, and old men using up their last strength. Yonah was a stranger. He spoke to no one and no one spoke to him, except to tell him where to work. In the fields, he became accustomed to strange sounds, the thuds of hoes biting the earth, the clicking of blades that struck stones, grunts of exertion. If he was called to another part of the field he went promptly; if he needed a tool he asked for it politely but without wasted words. He was aware that some of the others watched him with inquisitive animosity, and he knew sooner or later someone would pick a fight. He let them observe him sharpening a discarded hoe until it had a wicked edge. The handle was broken short and he kept it by his side at night, his battle ax.

The farm wasn’t a comfortable haven. The brutal work paid only a few miserable sueldos and filled every moment of daylight. But there were bread and onions, and sometimes the gruel or a thin soup. At night he dreamed occasionally of Lucía Martín but more often of the meats he had eaten without thought in his father’s house, roasted mutton and kid, a potted fowl every Sabbath eve. His body signaled for fat, screamed for fat.

As the weather turned cooler the farm slaughtered and butchered hogs, and the leavings and coarser cuts of meat were fed to the workers, who fell upon them with great relish. Yonah knew it was necessary for him to eat the pork; not to do so would be his doom. But to his great horror he found that the pink scraps were a delight and a pleasure. He said a silent blessing for meat over the pork, wondering what he was doing, knowing that God was watching.

It emphasized his isolation and increased his despair. He yearned to hear any human voice speaking Ladino or Hebrew. Each morning and evening, in his mind he recited the mourner’s Kaddish, lingering over the prayer. Sometimes as he worked he desperately chanted soundless portions of Scripture, or the blessings and prayers that lately made up his life.

He had been at the farm seven weeks when the soldiers returned. He had heard others speaking of them and knew they were part of the Santa Hermandad, the Holy Brotherhood, an organization of local militias united by the Spanish throne to form a national police force.

He was cutting brush in the early afternoon when he looked up and saw Capitán Astruells.

“What! You are still here?” the capitán asked, and Yonah could but nod.

A short time later he saw Astruells engaged in earnest conversation with the farm steward, José Galindo, while both of them studied Yonah.

It chilled his blood. If the officer began making inquiries, Yonah knew what would follow.

He finished the day in a miasma of apprehension. When night fell he led the burro away into the darkness. He was owed a few coins for his labor but he forsook them, taking the broken hoe instead.

As soon as it was safe, he mounted the ass and rode away.

*   *   *

On a diet of grass the burro’s digestion was greatly improved. The beast moved so steadily, so willingly, that affection for him welled in Yonah.

“You must have a name,” he said, patting the animal’s neck.

After contemplation that covered a great deal of trotted ground, Yonah arrived at two names.

In his own mind and in the dark of night he would call the good and faithful beast Moise. It was the finest name he could think of, in honor of two men, his ancestor who led the Hebrew slaves forth from Egypt, and Moise ben Maimon, the great philosopher-physician.

“And in the presence of others, I will call you Pedro,” he confided to the burro.

They were fitting names for the companion of a maestro who also had several names.

*   *   *

Reverting to his earlier caution, for two nights he traveled in darkness and found secure daylight sleeping places for Moise and himself. The grapes in the roadside vineyards were ripe and each night he ate several bunches that were very good, except now it was he instead of the burro who developed wind. His guts growled for food.

On the third morning, a signpost at a crossroads pointed the way west to Guadalupe and south to Ciudad Real. Since he had announced to Capitán Astruells that Guadalupe was his destination, he dared not go there, and he turned the burro onto the southern fork.

It was market day and Ciudad Real was bustling. Enough people were there so that no one would question the presence of a stranger, Yonah thought, although several people who saw him grinned at the sight of such a lanky young man riding a burro, his feet so low they could almost have walked.

Passing a cheese maker’s booth in the Plaza Mayor, Yonah couldn’t resist, and he spent a precious coin for a small cheese that he downed hungrily, though it wasn’t as good as the cheeses Uncle Aron had made.

“I am seeking employment, señor,” he said hopefully.

But the cheese maker shook his head. “So? I can employ no one.” But he called out meaningfully to a nearby man, “Bailiff, here is a young soul seeking labor.”

The man who swaggered over was short, with a very large stomach. What little hair he had on his head was plastered greasily across his scalp.

“I am Isidoro Alvarez, the alguacil of this city.”

“I am Tomás Martín. I am seeking work, señor.”

“Oh, I have work.… Yes, I do. What sort of work have you done?”

“I have been a peón on a farm near Toledo.”

“What did they raise on that farm?”

“Onions and grain. They kept a herd of milch goats, also.”

“My crop is different. I raise criminals and earn my bread by keeping them out of the sun and the rain,” the alguacil said, and the cheese maker guffawed.

“I need someone to clean the jail, empty my miscreants’ slop buckets of their sweet-smelling shit, and throw them a little food to keep them alive while they are my responsibility. Can you do that, young peón?”

It was hardly an inviting prospect, but the alguacil’s small brown eyes were dangerous as well as merry. Nearby, someone snickered. Yonah sensed they were waiting for an amusement to commence, and he knew he would not be allowed to refuse politely and ride away.

“Yes, señor. I can do that.”

“Well, then you must come with me to the jail so you will start doing it at once,” the alguacil said.

As he followed the man from the plaza the hair on the back of Yonah’s neck prickled, for he had heard the smiling cheese maker tell a companion that Isidoro had found someone to tend the Jews.

*   *   *

The jail was a long and narrow stone building. On one end of the structure was the office of the alguacil, and on the other end was an interrogation room. There were tiny cells on both sides of the corridor connecting the two rooms. Most of the cells had an occupant lying curled up on the stone floor of that limited space, or sitting against the wall.

Isidoro Alvarez told Yonah that among his prisoners were three thieves, a murderer, a drunkard, two footpads, and eleven New Christians charged with being secret Jews.

A guard armed with sword and club sat sleepily on a chair in the corridor. The alguacil told Yonah, “He is Paco,” and muttered to the guard, “This one is Tomás.” Then he went into his office and closed the door against the powerful stink.

Yonah knew with resignation that any attempt at cleanliness in that place would have to begin with the slop buckets, filled to overflowing, so he asked Paco to unlock the first cell, in which a vacant-eyed female watched listlessly as he took her bucket.

When he tethered Moise behind the jail he had noticed a spade hung against the wall, and now he took it and found a sandy place where he dug a deep hole. He emptied the odorous contents into the hole and then twice filled the bucket with sand and emptied it. There was a tree nearby with very large heart-shaped leaves that he used to wipe out the sand, then he rinsed the bucket in the trickle of water in a nearby ditch before returning it to the cell.

Thus he cleansed the buckets in five cells, his pity growing as he witnessed the poor condition of their occupants. When the door to the sixth cell was opened, he went inside and paused for a moment before picking up the bucket. The prisoner was a slender man. Like the other males, his hair and beard had been allowed to grow long and untended, but there was something in the face that Yonah seemed to know.

The guard grunted, irritated to be kept standing by the open door, and Yonah picked up the slop bucket and carried it outside.

It was only when he reentered the cell to return the bucket, trying to see the prisoner’s face as it may have been with barbered hair and a neatly tended beard, that he received a blow of memory. It was a picture of his dying mother, and the man who had come every day for long weeks to bend over Esther Toledano and spoon medicines into her.

The prisoner was Bernado Espina, the former physician of Toledo.