Winter Is Past (12 page)

At the end of the meal Althea saw a different side to Simon's father. He stood over the table, the fringe of his prayer shawl visible beneath his coat, and closed with a blessing. He didn't shut his eyes to recite the prayer, and at one point his gaze crossed hers. As his deep voice intoned the words in Hebrew, Althea could imagine Moses or Jacob speaking such a blessing over the people.

After the meal, the family gathered once again in the drawing room. Whereas the men had dominated the dinner conversation, the women gained in prominence after dinner as those with musical ability began to sing. Although she didn't understand the words, Althea was captivated by the haunting melodies. Nathan played a mandolin to accompany his sisters.

 

“They're singing in a form of Spanish called Ladino.” Simon spoke quietly into Althea's ear as he took a seat beside her.

She nodded her head, keeping her gaze on Simon's two sisters and the elder girls singing together.

“These are traditional Sabbath melodies which have been sung for centuries.”

“Is that the language they were speaking earlier?” she whispered back.

“Yes.”

“Your family still speaks this form of Spanish, even after so many years out of Spain?” she inquired.

“Yes, it's a form of Spanish, mixed with Hebrew. My generation and the next—” he nodded towards his nieces and nephews “—barely speak it, though we understand it well enough.”

The tone of the songs changed. “It sounds like Gypsy music.”

“It's from the same part of the world. Andalusia, or as we say in Ladino,
Sepharad.
”

She nodded in comprehension. “Hence Sephardic?”

“Yes. For us it simply means ‘Spain.' You'll find a reference to Sepharad in
Obadiah
.”

He was amused at the look of surprise she cast him. “I thought you didn't read the Bible.”

“Oh, I've read my share. I had the traditional scholarly upbringing for a male Jew until I was thirteen. Every family must have its scholar, you see.” His glance strayed to Nathan. “Now perhaps the mantle will pass to my younger brother's shoulders.”

“How so? I should think your present profession involves quite some scholarship… I mean, all those pamphlets you've published.”

He could see her hesitation at the last remark. “You know about those?”

She looked down at her hands. “I—I was looking for something in the library one day and came across them. I'm sorry.”

“It's quite all right. Feel free to look for anything you might need in the library.” He gave a rueful smile. “Unfortunately, as you heard over dinner, my writing does not find favor in this household. The only true scholarship for the Jew is to spend his life pouring over the Torah. My life as a Torah scholar reached its zenith when I received my Bar Mitzvah at thirteen. A few short years later I was sprinkled at the baptismal font at St. Michael's.”

“Why ever were you baptized?” she asked curiously.

He regarded her through his oval spectacles. “I was the sacrificial lamb, you might say. Haven't you gathered from my father that he desires to wield power in both worlds? A Jew has no rights in the Gentile world. Our only dominance comes through money. Filthy mammon, didn't your Jesus call it?

“Well, money certainly has its advantages,” he continued, his gaze straying to the singers, “but it also has its limitations. The English pride themselves on regarding family name and Church higher than money. They refuse to admit that money is the driving force behind the two.

“My father, in his wisdom, looked around to see how he could improve his family's lot in this land they had adopted a few generations back. It wasn't enough that he'd doubled his father's wealth. He wanted entry into the more rarified spheres of influence. So, he looked at his prime resources—his four sons.” He gazed at Althea sardonically. “What is one among so many? He could spare one to the Gentile world, even though that would mean that in the eyes of the Jewish world the son would be declared dead.”

“How could your father contemplate doing such a thing?” she whispered.

“The Sepharad has a long history of playing a double game. We learned to feign conversion in medieval Spain, yet continue to practice our religion in secret. Do you find that distasteful?”

She looked down again so he could not read her expression. He wondered why he was telling her the most shameful things about his heritage. Why not regale her with stories of the great
scientists, philosophers and sages the Sephardic people had produced?

“The consequences must have been dire for someone to deny his faith,” she said quietly.

“It was either baptism or death at the hands of the good Spanish friars. There were hundreds of thousands of these ‘conversions.' Many of our kin rose high—it is even said one of the popes was of Marrano stock.

“In time, to make sure our conversions were genuine, the Catholic Church instituted the Inquisition. Of course, it was no coincidence that the Marranos held great wealth, and once they were exposed, the state had a right to all their properties. Convenient, wasn't it?

“It was a great sport for a churchgoer to come to an auto-dafé—an ‘act of faith'—and watch one of these counterfeit Christians burned at the stake after a confession had been extracted.

“Unfortunately, the Spanish Church found there were simply too many of us. They hit upon an easier method—simply expel us…after forcing us to leave behind our gold and silver and jewels, naturally.”

Simon smiled at the look of growing horror in Althea's eyes. “So you see, we are used to surviving. It should, therefore, not surprise you that my father knows how to play the game.

“His only dilemma was, which son could serve as a Marrano here in England, where there are no auto-da-fés, but where few doors are open to the Jew?” Simon nodded toward his eldest brother. “Well, not Daniel there, the firstborn. As you could perhaps gather from our dinner conversation, he will step into my father's shoes. Already he manages most of the factories we have accumulated during the war years. And what about David there? He doesn't have enough imagination and flair to enter the world of politics. He does have a mind brilliant in finances, so my father put him in charge of our growing banking concerns. Besides, both of my elder brothers are Jewish to their very core, appearances notwithstanding. They easily rub shoulders with their Gen
tile equals in the world of commerce and finance, but in their private lives, you see for yourself, they are most at home in their ancient culture.

“Then came the third born, myself.” He inclined his head. “A skeptic almost as soon as I could read the Scriptures, and with a wit and irreverence that was the bane of my Hebrew tutor, but which my father soon found a way to exploit. I was the one chosen to receive baptism and catechism in order to grant me entrance to the finest schools of Britain.

“First Eton, then Cambridge, the place where statesmen are formed. Then to find me a borough where I could be guaranteed election. You've heard of the ‘rotten boroughs'?”

Althea nodded. “They are the areas where there are very few votes needed to become elected to Parliament, are they not?”

“Do you know I sit for a borough in Surrey which comprises only one vote?” At her amazement, he repeated, “A total of six houses, and only one vote.”

“Only one person was responsible for electing you to Parliament?”

“That is correct. And how difficult do you think it would be to buy one vote? You heard my father over dinner—he bought my seat in the House, and now he expects his return.”

“You mean someone agreed to vote for you for a price?”

“You think they would vote for a Jew—albeit a Christianized one at that? But who is fooled by a skin-deep conversion? My father, the banker, found his price—the man, as a well-respected member of the landed gentry, was up to his neck in debt, and in danger of losing the property that had been in his family's hands since the days of Charles the First.” Simon smiled thinly. “All it took to pay off his debts was his vote. One tiny vote.”

He watched Althea digesting the world of politics and money, while he tried to fathom why he was exposing himself to her. It really was quite sordid when boiled down. “Have I shocked you, Miss Breton?”

“You have, indeed. I was aware of the rotten boroughs, but not—not—”

“Not face-to-face in all their rottenness, is that it?”

She looked at him as if at a loss to respond.

At that moment, the singing ended, and Simon's grandfather was handed a large thick book. He opened it and began to read in that foreign tongue.

“He is reading from the
Me'am Lo'ez.
”

“It's not the Bible?”

“You might say it's our Bible, that of the Sephardic people. It's written in fifteen volumes,” Simon explained. “It's an accumulation of legends, histories and wisdom of the ages. You must get Grandfather to tell you our own family's history sometime. Do you know he still has the key to the family's old house in Toledo?”

Althea's eyes widened. “How many years ago did your family leave?”

“This year we celebrate our three hundred and twenty-fifth year of exile from Spain. We left the same year good Columbus sailed for the Americas. The last boatload of Jews was forced to leave the port of Cádiz in the year 1492.”

“Where did your family sail?”

“Not many countries would accept our detestable race in those days. Some went to the Levant, quite a few started a colony in Salonika, which began to thrive. My own ancestors chose Holland. We lived there peacefully for more than a century until Oliver Cromwell once again allowed Jews to settle in the British Isles. Then a great-great-grandfather decided things might be more favorable in the city of London—and here we are, the ancient family of the Aguilars. Not a pretty story, is it.”

As Althea turned her attention to his grandfather's mellifluous voice, her expression as fascinated as if she understood every word, Simon felt a curious release.

Despite having regaled her with his family's greed and ambition, he felt no scorn from her. Instead, there was a bond of understanding.

 

That night Althea went to sleep with much on her mind. Rebecca went to bed tired but happy, talking of her cousins and her puppet show.

Around midnight Althea was awakened from a dream about leaving Spain in a big ship, while the cries of a little girl left on land reached her on the deck. She awoke to realize it was Rebecca crying.

Through the haze of a deep sleep, Althea pushed aside her warm covers and faced the cold air. Reaching for her wrapper and shawl and pushing her feet into her slippers, she gradually became fully awake. She stumbled toward the doorway, her heart constricted as always by the girl's cries.

Seconds later she was by Rebecca's bedside, turning up her lamp. She smoothed the girl's hair from her forehead.

“Althea, I feel so much pain. My belly hurts.” Rebecca doubled over.

“Maybe the food was too rich. Let me go down and make you some tea.”

“No! Don't go away. Don't leave me alone.” Rebecca began to cry and reached for Althea's hand.

“I won't leave you. Here, let me rub your belly.” Softly Althea began to croon in her ear as she rubbed her hand against the little girl's stomach.

After a few minutes of tranquility, Rebecca doubled over again. “Oh, it hurts.”

Althea retrieved the chamber pot and held it by the bed. “You'll feel better if everything comes out.”

The girl continued to whimper in pain, Althea patting her back as she held her over the pot. Finally she heaved and threw up her dinner. Althea brought a wet washcloth and glass of water to her and helped her erase all the traces. “Now, let me dispose of this, and get you some chamomile for a cup of tea. I shall be right back.”

“I don't want to be alone.”

Althea was in a dilemma. “Do you want me to call your papa?”

“Oh, yes, please call
Abba.
”

Althea stirred up the embers and added some coal. Then she filled up the teakettle she kept on the hob. “There,” she said, brushing off her hands, “I'll leave that heating while I go down a minute.”

“Is
Abba
coming?”

“Yes, let me just get him.”

Althea went out into the corridor, realizing she was not sure which room was Simon's. She looked at the door directly across the hall, deciding he would most likely be as close to his daughter as possible. She rapped lightly on the door. A second later she tried again, this time a little harder.

“Yes? What is it?” came the muffled reply.

“It is I, Althea, Mr. Aguilar. It's Rebecca—”

Simon was already opening the door. “What is it, what's wrong with her?” His hair was tousled, his eyes sleep-filled as he tied the belt to his dressing gown.

“I'm so sorry to disturb you. Rebecca had an upset stomach. She's better now, I believe, but wants you. I need to go downstairs to get her some tea.”

“Of course,” he said as he rubbed the sleep from his face. “I'll stay with her. You go down.”

When she returned, she found Simon had parted the curtains on the far side of the bed and now sat on its edge, singing softly to his daughter. It sounded like one of the haunting melodies his sisters had sung earlier in the evening.

Althea went about making the tea. When she finally turned toward the bed with a tray in her hands, she could see that Rebecca had fallen asleep. “I don't think she'll be needing this,” Althea whispered as she placed the tray on the bedside table. “I fixed you a mug, as well. I didn't mean to get you up from your bed.”

“As long as you drink the other cup,” he said, taking the cup from her.

Althea sat on the chair beside Rebecca's bed. The two sipped in silence.