the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, the last day of the departure of the Jews from Spain. He spent the rest of the day in silent prayer as well as in work, begging God over and over again that Eleazar and Aron and Juana were safely on deep water, being carried farther and farther away from this place.
13
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 mourners 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
13
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 mourners 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
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