Charles Reznikoff

Torquemada. Now that Castile and Aragon in holy wedlock are Spain, and the last city of the Moors in Spain is Spanish except for Moor and Jew— about every crucifix in every market-place and in the court itself the Jews!— as seven centuries of Christian valor, Christian piety triumph stay not your hand; Spain of the knights, one in fealty to your majesties, become one in faith, Spain of the saints! Like the sun, rising as our Savior from His tomb into the brilliant sky blaze until the clouds that still obscure the light are drawn into His brightness and earth is brilliant as the sky is bright. Spain newly united still divided— as the season of cold is the season of darkness in the spring of our rejoicing that the Moor is gone from Spain, the Jew go too! But if the Spaniard speaks, I speak no less a Christian: throw away the curse, you Jews, of fifteen hundred years; stay and prosper and Church and Heaven prosper, in our nets a goodly catch. Think not that we want aught of you but your souls; your money and your jewels— all your trash— keep if you stay and are Christian, take if you are Jews and go; we ask of you nothing but your Judaism which has brought you so much misery and will bring each of you— the youngest and the gentlest— to the flames of Hell and the worm that dies not. We give you, miserable sinners, the waters of Paradise; we give you the blessings of the saints, the blessings of Mary, the blessed mother of Christ, and the blessings of our Lord Jesus. Isabella. There is a sweet reasonableness in the words of our prior; it is Saint Dominic who speaks to us through his Dominican or Saint James himself. Abrabanel. No noble in your court, your majesties, proud of his forefather, conquering Goth or Visigoth or Vandal, is of an older Spanish line than we— Jews in Iberia before the Romans came. No noble boasting his service boasts of more than that Jew who through a thousand shoals and reefs piloted Aragon to Castile—your marriage and Spain’s glory. The rest of us, many tens of thousands, serve you humbly in smithy, field or vineyard, soldiers or physicians, as we have served in Spain two thousand years, Spaniards, true to your majesties as we are to the God of Israel—and of Spain, unlike the others only in our faith for which, if we must answer, we shall answer to our God. Torquemada. Since all we do, and each word spoken, if only in our hearts, must be in worship— not a leaf falls slowly but in His service— to be unlike us in our faith is to be unlike in everything. True, you Jews must answer to your God, and in the flames and burning ice of Hell forever you shall answer; but we too, priests, bishops, queen and king, must answer for you: farmer or captain answers; shall we be less answerable for souls? Abrabanel. You do not honor your God by bringing Him captives, like a mere emperor who must have retainers and retinue, serfs and forced labor; the loadstone without visible motion draws to itself every particle of iron; the sword—even though a winged angel swings it— served only to drive Adam from his paradise. Your fingers stiff with rings and jewels, you dishonor your faith, your majesties, by cruelty, give it whatever noble name you will as princes make a rogue knight or lord. Will thieves and pirates be gentler with us than your constables and soldiers?— your majesties will hear of many ripped up for the jewels it will be said they swallowed; many left by sailors to die on reefs and sandbars for a smock or a pair of hose; many dead of plague or found like birds in winter dead in the fields about towns or like fish upon a beach; many will die as slaves at work beasts would be fitter for but costlier, who have written a page of Castilian or handled a Toledo blade with the best. And yet the weak has each his strength, Spain of Spaniard, Basque, and Catalonian, Moor and Gypsy, else all beasts were tigers, all fish sharks, and only giants left; the stricken remember— as wounds and scars last longer than the blow— and if drops of water wear channels in the rock on which the earth itself is, in the action of centuries how powerful are tears. Would you have our religion like our clothes—for comfort and the eyes of men, put off at night, and we left lying naked in the darkness? The body is like roots stretching down into the earth— forcing still a way over stones and under rock, through sand, sucking nourishment in darkness, bearing the tread of man and beast, and of the earth forever; but the spirit— twigs and leaves spreading through sunshine or the luminous darkness of twilight, evening, night, and dawn, moving in every wind of heaven and turning to whatever corner of the sky is brightest, compelled by nothing stronger than the light; the body is like earth, the spirit like water without which earth is sand and which must be free or stagnant; or if the body is as water, the spirit is like air that must have doors and windows or else is stuffy and unbreathable— or like the fire of which sun and stars have been compounded, which Joshua could command but for an hour. Isabella. If our eye offends us, pluck it out! Even so, we will sweep away the Jews from every town and hamlet, field and corner of our dominion, though they are the sands for number. Go and begone—but stay as Christians; come and be dear to us, as the Prodigal! Abrabanel. We Jews have been accused of love of wealth, but not for all our wealth in Spain, fields and vineyards, houses of timber and houses of stone that we must leave, and all the wealth that will be stolen from us, will we stay; we Jews have been accused of arrogance, but not for all the dignities that we must leave, our offices and honors in this, the proudest court of Christendom, will we stay; we Jews have been accused of love of life, delighting in the flesh, but though we shall die along a thousand roads we will not stay— striking roots somewhere to flourish as we flourished, giving shade and fruit.

When he was four years old, he stood at the window during a thunderstorm. His father, a tailor, sat on the table sewing. He came up to his father and said, “I know what makes thunder: two clouds knock together.” When he was older, he recited well-known rants at parties. They all said that he would be a lawyer. At law school he won a prize for an essay. Afterwards, he became the chum of an only son of rich people. They were said to think the world of the young lawyer. The Appellate Division considered the matter of his disbarment. His relatives heard rumours of embezzlement. When a boy, to keep himself at school, he had worked in a drug store. Now he turned to this half-forgotten work, among perfumes and pungent drugs, quiet after the hubble-bubble of the courts and the search in law books. He had just enough money to buy a drug store in a side street. Influenza broke out. The old tailor was still keeping his shop and sitting cross-legged on the table sewing, but he was half-blind. He, too, was taken sick. As he lay in bed he thought, “What a lot of money doctors and druggists must be making; now is my son’s chance.” They did not tell him that his son was dead of influenza.

To begin with, the slaves had to wash themselves well, and the men who had beards had to shave them off; the men were then given a new suit each, cheap but clean, and a hat, shirt, and shoes; and the women were each given a frock of calico and a handkerchief to tie about their heads. They were then led by the man selling them into a large room; the men placed on one side, the women at the other; the tallest at the head of each row and then the next in size and so on to the shortest. Many called to look at the slaves for sale and the seller kept talking about their qualities; made them hold up their heads and walk about briskly; and those who might buy had them open their mouths to look at their teeth, and felt their arms and bodies, just as they might a horse for sale; and asked each what they could do. Sometimes a man or woman would be taken to a small house in the yard, to be stripped and looked at carefully: if they had the scars of whips on their backs that would show they had been troublesome. During the day a number of sales were made; and a planter from Baton Rouge bought Eliza’s little son. Before that the boy had to jump and run across the floor to show his activity. But all the time the trade was going on, his mother was crying and wringing her hands and kept begging the man who was thinking of buying the boy not to buy him unless he bought her, too, and her little daughter: and Eliza kept saying that if he did she would be “the most faithful slave that ever lived.” But the man from Baton Rouge said he could not afford to buy her, and then she began to cry aloud in her grief. The man selling the slaves turned on her, his whip lifted, and told her to stop her noise: if she would not stop her “sniveling” he would take her into the yard and give her a hundred lashes. She tried to wipe away her tears but could not and said she wanted to be with her children and kept begging the man selling the slaves and the man from Baton Rouge— who by that time had bought her son— not to separate the three of them, mother, son, and daughter; and over and over again kept saying how faithful and obedient she would be and how hard she would work day and night. But the man from Baton Rouge said again he could not buy mother and son, let alone the three, and that only the boy must go with him. Then Eliza ran to her son, hugged him and kissed him again and again and her tears kept falling on his face. The man selling the slaves kept cursing her and called her a blubbering, howling wench and ordered her back to her place in line and to behave herself or he would give her something really to cry about.

XI A hundred generations, yes, a hundred and twenty-five, had the strength each day not to eat this and that (unclean!) not to say this and that, not to do this and that (unjust!), and with all this and all that to go about as men and Jews among their enemies (these are the Pharisees you mocked at, Jesus). Whatever my grandfathers did or said for all of their brief lives still was theirs, as all of it drops at a moment make the fountain and all of its leaves a palm. Each word they spoke and every thought was heard, each step and every gesture seen, by God; their past was still the present and the present a dread future’s. But I am private as an animal. I have eaten whatever I liked, I have slept as long as I wished, I have left the highway like a dog to run into every alley; now I must learn to fast and to watch. I shall walk better in these heavy boots than barefoot. I will fast for you, Judah, and be silent for you and wake in the night because of you; I will speak for you in psalms, and feast because of you on unleavened bread and herbs.

Passing the shop after school, he would look up at the sign and go on, glad that his own life had to do with books. Now at night when he saw the grey in his parents’ hair and heard their talk of that day’s worries and the next: lack of orders, if orders, lack of workers, if workers, lack of goods, if there were workers and goods, lack of orders again, for the tenth time he said, “I’m going in with you: there’s more money in business.” His father answered, “Since when do you care about money? You don’t know what kind of a life you’re going into— but you have always had your own way.” He went out selling: in the morning he read the Arrival of Buyers

I saw within the shadows of the yard the shed and saw the snow upon its roof— an oblong glowing in the moonlit night. I could not rest or close my eyes, although I knew that I must rise early next morning and begin my work again, and begin my work again. That day was lost—that month as well; and year and year for all that I can tell.

I Land of Refuge A mountain of white ice standing still in the water here forty fathoms deep and flowing swiftly from the north; grampuses and whales going by in companies, spouting up water in streams (these wonders of the Lord, I, Francis Higginson, saw on the way to Salem); a fair morning, and still many leagues from land, but the air warm and spiced— yellow flowers on the sea, sometimes singly, sometimes in sheets; high trees on every hill and in every dale, on every island, and even on the stony cliffs; banks of earth on which are groves of trees, and no undergrowth of bush or brambles; the sandy shore overrun with vines of melons and of grapes which the beat and surging of the sea overflows (this I, Arthur Barlowe, saw); trees of sweet-smelling wood with rind and leaves sweet-smelling as the bark of cinnamon and leaves of bay; soil dark and soft, strawberries everywhere, hickory nuts and sassafras; here are grapes white and red, very sweet and strong, and plums, black and red, and single roses, white and red and damask; we have eaten venison with the Indians, and drunk water with spice in it— Indian corn, even the coarsest, makes as pleasant a meat as rice. (Without any show of anger the Iroquois crunched our fingers in their mouths, and with their teeth tore off the nails; then hacked our fingers off, joint by joint, with stone hatchets, or with a shell too dull to cut the sinews; and in the stumps of our thumbs drove up spikes until the elbow; but so great the help of Jesus, with this maimed hand I, Isaac Jogues, Jesuit and priest, baptised an Indian among the captives, using the raindrops on a long leaf of corn.) Let others cry, “New lands! where Indians shall bring kernels of gold, wagons full of gold; whatever spills upon the way we shall tread carelessly, for we shall have so much of gold— so many pearls to sew upon our clothes; away, unthrifty gentlemen, to the forests of Virginia! There are lands to feed all the poor of England, trees to build each a home; give us but axes, shovels, and ploughshares, and away then to America, all you poor!” In England a watch is set about us and we are clapt in jails, and Holland is a dear place, for there they live by trading— but we are a plain country people whose trade is husbandry, and we would worship God as simply as the shepherds and Galilean fishermen, live as plainly; away, dissenters, to New England! A great wind is blowing, heavy rain— thick darkness; the sailors running here and there, shouting at one another to pull at this and at that rope, and the waves pouring over the ship; landing in the rain— the cold rain falling steadily; the ground wet, all the leaves dripping, and the rocks running with water; the sky is cloud on cloud in which the brief sun barely shines, the ground snow on snow, the cold air wind and blast; we have followed our God into this wilderness of trees heavy with snow, rocks seamed with ice, that in the freezing blasts the remnant of this remnant kindle so bright, so lasting a fire on this continent, prisoners of ice and darkness everywhere will turn and come to it to warm their hands and hearts. II Brief History Glaciers pushing so far and surely thaw and withdraw; even the deep, while the explosion of its waves dynamites the cliffs, leaves new lands, new groves and habitations beside the glittering currents flowing quickly into the silver waters of the sun. Here are men who find a comfortable bed among the rocks, who wrap themselves in their coats to sleep upon the ground while their horse feeds in the grass beside the lake; who catch trout in the brook and roast them on the ashes; eat the flesh of bear for meat, the white meat of turkeys for their bread, and whose salt is brought in an iron pot across the mountains; who live where two hundred acres may be had for a calf and a wool hat; or walk where there is no road nor any man, except the savage. All the bells of Boston are tolling a solemn peal; the market men will take no more paper money— hard money only; soldiers with bare feet showing through their shoes in the snow, the smoke of the camp-fires blowing into their eyes; for food a bowl of beef soup full of burnt leaves; no house or hut, and even the sick in tents. The rays of your light, like the sun’s, Republic of France, shone first in the west; the eater shall give meat, and out of the strong sweetness— out of the bones of the French monarchy the honey of freedom; the bells of Philadelphia are ringing as if for a fire, and the crowds, shouting and hallooing, fill the streets; ring, bells, throughout the night, let no one sleep; ring, clash, and peal until the log cabins and cottages of cedar shingles, the houses of grey stone or of brick, tremble, and the listeners feel in their flesh the vibrations of your metal voices ringing, Proclaim liberty, proclaim liberty throughout the land! Wrongs, like molecules of gas that seep into a house, explode in particles of fire! A captain gallops down the street, wheels, and the hoof of his horse sends the pie plates shining in the sun, his horse stops at what is flowing from the battlefield, sniffs at it, and will not cross; this is not water— it is blood in a thick and ropy stream. (The dying Negress says, I cannot eat dry hominy: I lived in Massa’s house, and used to have white bread and coffee; and I want something sweet in my mouth.) On the lawn the Negroes dance and clap their hands, So glad! so glad! Bless the Lord for freedom! So glad! so glad! Do not mourn the dandelions— that their golden heads become grey in no time at all and are blown about in the wind; each season shall bring them again to the lawns; but how long the seeds of justice stay underground, how much blood and ashes of precious things to manure so rare and brief a growth. Currents of waste wind along the river between the factories— the colonnades and sacred groves of chimneys; where once the road in ruts and ridges—lines of rails hold to a gleaming purpose, come wind, come rain, come winter or the night; build storey on storey out of glass; light electric lights, row after row, whose shining wires will not flicker in the wind; let the streets sound with the horns and hosannahs of motor cars! Man, you need no longer drudge at plow or oar, no longer trudge; proclaim this liberty to all! If bread may be as plentiful, shall we not share it as we share water?

1 One night in April or May, his daughter saw someone's hand make the curtain which was drawn tightly across her window bulge and ran to the adjoining room in her night clothes where he and his son were sitting. He ran around the house one way and his son ran the other way and they found a Negro under a workbench within six or eight feet of the window holding a piece of plank before his face— begging them not to shoot. 2 The Negro was dead when the doctors examined him. They found upon his belly bruises: he died, the doctor said, of peritonitis. The jailer testified that the Negro had been brought to the jail charged with burglary; but no warrant for his arrest was produced and the jailer did not know—or tell— who brought him. The Negro said that a crowd of men had taken him from a store to the woods and whipped him with "a buggy trace." He was not treated by a doctor, the jailer, or anybody: just put into the jail and left there to die. The doctor who saw him first—on a Monday— did nothing for him and said that he would not die of a his beating; but he did die of it on Wednesday.

Leaving the beach on a Sunday in a streetcar a family of three—mother, son and daughter: the mother, well on in the thirties, blond hair, worried face; the son, twelve years of age or so, seated opposite, and the daughter, about eight or nine, beside her. The boy was blond, too; a good-looking little fellow with dreamy eyes. The little girl was quite plain; mouth pulled down at the corners, sharp angry eyes behind eyeglasses. No sooner were they seated than the boy, speaking gently, said, “Today was one of the most wonderful days I ever had.” The girl said shrilly, “I wish we could live in one of those houses”— looking at the bungalows along the shore— “then we could go to the beach every day.” The mother did not answer either. The beach they were coming from was crowded with poor people; and the family was dressed cheaply but was neat and spotless, even after the day’s outing. I wondered idly where the father was: at work? dead? divorced? After a while the mother said, weighing her words, “You know Mister. . .” I did not hear the name: it was spoken so softly. She was talking to the boy. “He goes fishing every Wednesday. I think I can get him to take you along.” The boy did not answer for a minute or two and then said, in his gentle voice, “I should like it very much.” “Can I go too?” asked the little girl shrilly, but no one answered her. Mother and son had eyes only for each other. She took out her handkerchief and wiped his face. He complained of something in his eye— certainly not enough to make him blink— and she raised the upper lid and lowered the lower lid to look for it. The little girl stood up to look out of the window and the boy said to his mother, “She stepped on my toes and did not even say, Excuse me, please.” The mother turned to the little girl and said sharply, “Why didn’t you say, Excuse me? You should have said, Excuse me, brother.” The little girl said nothing, face turned toward the window, the corners of her mouth far down and her eyes, bright and dry, looking sharply through her glasses.

“The lamps are burning in the synagogue, in the houses of study, in dark alleys. . . .” This should be the place. This is the way the guide book describes it. Excuse me, sir can you tell me where Eli lives, Eli the katzev— slaughterer of cattle and poultry? One of my ancestors. Reb Haskel? Reb Shimin? My grandfathers. This is the discipline that withstood the siege of every Jew; these are the prayer shawls that have proved stronger than armor. Let us begin humbly. Not by asking: Who is This you pray to? Name Him; define Him. For the answer is: We do not name Him. Once out of a savage fear, perhaps; now out of knowledge—of our ignorance. Begin then humbly. Not by asking: Shall I live forever? Hear again the dear dead greeting me gladly as they used to when we were all among the living? For the answer is: If you think we differ from all His other creatures, say only if you like with the Pharisees, our teachers, those who do not believe in an eternal life will not have it. In the morning I arise and match again my plans against my cash. I wonder now if the long morning prayers were an utter waste of an hour weighing, as they do, hopes and anguish, and sending the believer out into the street with the sweet taste of the prayers on his lips. Today this creditor is at your office; tomorrow this one in your home; until the final creditor of all places his bony hands upon your breast. Faster! Dig your heels into the dust! How good to stop and look out upon eternity a while. And daily—at Shahris, Minha, Maariv, in the morning, afternoon, and evening— be at ease in Zion.