Doce de Abóbora (58)

As we emerge from an alley onto a main street, I spot a neighborhood supermercado. We weren’t looking for one, but it occurs to me we should go in and explore the local offerings. I might find nuts dipped in something unexpected or some other culinary novelty to remind me of Portugal, instead of a tacky souvenir. One thing I’m sure of: we don’t need toilet paper. We still have the extra rolls Rita bought in Lisbon, sitting in the trunk of our fancy Toyota and taking up too much space. 

Near the supermercado, in the roundabout, stands a tall metal installation of three women in colorful dresses balancing loaves of bread and flowers on their heads. It must mean something. Probably a Catholic ritual they celebrate around here. I’ll have to google it later, like everything else I see in this country. I resist the urge to take a picture. Not everything needs proof; some things can be left to memory.

Rita and Vera don’t object to entering the supermercado. We’re not in a rush, and buying stuff is always a fun activity, for Rita anyway. Besides, we need to stock up on groceries. The last time we were in a supermarket was on the way to Peniche, which feels like an eternity ago, somewhere between pastel de nata and francisinha.

Only two other customers are inside, causing our small group to stick out like the foreigners we are, moving awkwardly between the narrow aisles and trying to decipher the contents of unfamiliar packages. A shelf brimming with jars catches my eye. I stop to read the labels. There’s no picture on the orange labels to clue in those who don’t know Portuguese. I read doce de abóbora, which gives me an advantage over those who like pumpkin jam but cannot read the language. I’ve never had pumpkin jam. I know pumpkin pie, soup, and bread, but I’m not crazy about any of them unless they’re mixed with ingredients that are free of cloves. But this is Portugal, and I feel adventurous, so I pick two jars and place them in my basket. I could gift them or bring them to a Thanksgiving gathering as a curiosity item from my trip.

 

“What’s this?” Rita asks, appearing out of nowhere and pointing at the jars in my basket. Her voice is a mix of curiosity and envy, as if she’s saying, I want what you have, even though I don’t know what it is. 

“Pumpkin jam.”

“Where did you find it?” she asks.

“Right here,” I say, pointing to the shelf.

She steps in front of me, grabs one jar, and puts it in her basket. 

“Is it any good?” I ask. Maybe she knows something I don’t?

“I don’t know,” she laughs. “But I can give it to someone.”

Suddenly, I see her in all her sad glory. For the first time, I’m not irritated. I realize that her constant noise and jubilance hide deep insecurity and a childish desire to be adored, accepted, and loved, as cheesy as it may sound. This behavior shouldn’t make me feel annoyed or indignant. It must be exhausting to live like this. 

What surprises me is that only this morning, I saw her stepping all over me, co-opting my experience to impress the world, erasing me with her need to feel more visible. But now, I see something else: a little girl wanting, acting out her insecurity. She even has her mother here to hold her hand, metaphorically, of course. How could I not see it? It has nothing to do with me. I’m just a mirror. 

I don’t know why I didn’t see it until now. Perhaps I was too absorbed in my own insecurities to see clearly. But somehow, in the intensity of being together every day, this small moment opened my eyes. Now I understand the insults, the giggles, the demands for appreciation. My seething silence. I see it all, and I am no longer offended. I should let go of my frustration and feel less judgmental toward her.

I hope I’ll be able to protect myself by remembering this moment, at least until we land back in Israel.

Heading to Tomar (57)

Again, we are on the road. This time, we’re heading to Tomar, a town I know nothing about except that Simone’s nephew lives there, and we are going to meet him as promised. Rita has already called him to let him know we’re coming and even booked a place for the night. Vera has no opinion on the subject, and neither do I. I’m not worried about what Tomar will be like. So far, I haven’t been disappointed by any place we’ve been to. Portugal is a treasure that reveals itself gradually. Every town is unique, every corner is steeped in history and beauty; the architecture, the music, the people, and nature itself. If it weren’t for the cruelty it inflicted on the Jews, still haunting its plazas, alleys, and stone walls, I’d say it’s an ideal place to lose oneself in and be renewed. 

The road is dotted with agricultural plots, small towns, and forested hills, but I’m more absorbed in my thoughts than in paying attention to the landscape. I’m curious about the name of the town. Tomar is a versatile verb in Portuguese, an infinitive, if you insist on using the accurate term. The dictionary might translate it as to take, but in practice, it means more than taking. They say tomar banho, to take a bath, tomar café, to drink coffee, tomar uma decisão, to make a decision, tomar sol, to sunbathe, tomar conta, to take care of or look after, tomar um remédio, to take medicine, and other phrases I either don’t know or prefer not to use in polite society. So what does it mean that a city is called Tomar? Tomar what? Tomar who?

I stop wondering about it when we reach the edge of town, which seems bigger and more developed than Belmonte. I don’t know what to expect. I only know that we are traveling through streets and roundabouts toward wherever we’ll spend the night. Rita finds a parking spot in front of a sidewalk café with a bank next to it, and off we go to look for our Airbnb. 

The two-bedroom apartment is small but charming, with a lovely view from the living room window. Like every self-respecting town in this country, Tomar’s skyline is graced by a sprawling fortress on a hilltop. The modestly equipped kitchen has a generous stock of tea bags and even sugar, more than most places we’ve stayed. Maybe the previous overnighters left them behind. 

After settling the bill with the Airbnb host and learning the house rules, we leave to explore the town, and it is gorgeous. An unassuming bridge above a calm river, whose name eludes me as usual, leads us to the historic town center. On the opposite bank, there’s a long white building with a tall red chimney rising above the rooftops. It’s picture perfect, but I have no idea what it is. Maybe an old mill or a brick factory. 

Beyond the bridge, we enter a labyrinth of narrow alleys paved with cobblestones and bordered by two- and three-story buildings painted white, pink, light green, or yellow. Some buildings have balconies surrounded by wrought-iron railings, which I’ve seen all over Portugal and even in parts of Rio and small rural towns in Brazil. The restaurants are empty, but the tablecloths and candles on each table promise that soon they’ll fill up with weekend customers. Below the looming fortress, which seems to be the focal point of town, a large plaza stretches in front of an old church that’s still open. A sign at the entrance advertises a Christmas concert series. I wish I could stay for at least one concert, but the first performance will be tomorrow evening, when I’ll already be on my way back to Lisbon.

When we turn back into the maze of alleys, we find a synagogue. If it weren’t for the sign and the Star of David above the door, I wouldn’t have guessed it. The building looks just like the other houses on the street; its exterior gives no clue that it’s a house of worship. It’s closed, maybe because it’s Shabbat, even though it would make more sense to keep it open today. Through the window, I don’t see religious artifacts, books, or other signs that this is a synagogue, only a table covered with a white cloth. It seems that during the week, someone gives tours here, but the hall no longer functions as a synagogue, unlike the dazzling sanctuary in Belmonte. Maybe there’s no Jewish community in Tomar anymore, and this synagogue is only a quiet reminder of distant, more benevolent times.

After the heaviness of Belmonte’s centuries-old stone buildings and the gloomy memories trapped in them, Tomar feels like a breath of fresh air. If Jews were persecuted here five hundred years ago, this town feels like it has moved on and found peace.

Galeria das Bonecas (56)

 I feel self-conscious wandering the alleys, killing time until Rita and Vera decide we should leave town. It wasn’t my plan, but it beats sitting on a park bench and watching the clouds. I just hope I don’t stand out too much. I draw a contrast to when I walked through Lisbon’s Alfama Quarter. There, the locals learned to endure the hordes of tourists gawking at them. In Belmonte, which isn’t much of a draw unless you’re Jewish or Israeli, people might be more sensitive to the presence of foreigners.

It’s still early in the weekend, so not much is happening. Only a few people are out, and the places that are already open are empty of customers. I turn into a narrow alley and find a courtyard with round tables, umbrellas, and trees shading empty chairs. At the far end, a short flight of stairs leads to a stone building with the door open. A sign by the door indicates that it’s a gallery of dolls, listing art classes and the dates of an upcoming puppet show. Although nothing gives me the impression that the gallery is open, I decide to enter. Worst case, they’ll ask me to leave.

A bearded man in a black flat cap greets me from behind a table covered with hand-painted ceramics and waves me in to look around. Inside, a song by a famous Brazilian singer is playing. I decide to say something about it and see what happens. 

“Cê gosta de Zé Ramalho?” I ask, using my best Portuguese accent. 

He stops twisting copper wire, raises his eyes, and studies me for a few seconds.

“You know Zé Ramalho?” he asks in perfect Brazilian Portuguese, which I could understand in my sleep.

“Conheço as músicas dele,” I say, smiling.

“Brasileira?” he asks. 

That’s what I love about Brazilians. In the U.S., people ask where I’m from the second I open my mouth. Brazilians assume I’m one of them. 

“In my heart,” I answer, in Portuguese, my canned response to the question when posed by Brazilians. And for a moment, my old self emerges from somewhere, reminding me of who I used to be before I was sucked into Rita and Vera’s orbit. A lighter and calmer, less paranoid version of me.

He asks how I learned Portuguese; I tell him I lived in Rio many years ago. It’s only part of the story, but all I’m ready to share. The conversation drifts where I hoped: connecting with a local, even if he was a transplant from another Portuguese-speaking country. He’s the second Brazilian I’ve met who lives and works here, aside from the tourists in Lisbon and the woman last night. 

He says he’s from Minas Gerais. “Have you been to Minas?” he asks, like a real Brazilian, dropping “Gerais.”

“Yes, more than once,” I’m happy to say. I have friends who live near Caparao National Park. I hiked with them to the waterfalls, but not all the way to the top. He’s impressed. I’m almost a peer now. He knows the area and has even camped there. 

“Why leave Brazil? It’s so much more fun,” I say, not to pry, just to show how I feel.

Fortunately, he’s not offended. He gets up and joins me by a shelf lined with whimsical handmade dolls made of colorful fabrics and beads. One of the dolls fell against another, so he picks her up and leans her against the wall. If I knew anything about making dolls, I’d ask about the artist. But I’m not crafty, so I don’t take the bait, if that’s what he’s trying to do. 

As he rearranges the dolls, he tells me that he was an English teacher at a college in Belo Horizonte, but he grew tired of it and decided to try his luck in Portugal. “It’s easy to make friends here,” he says. “The only problem is that Belmonte is a small town, so there’s not much going on,” he adds, handing me a business card with the name of the artist who made the dolls.

“She owns the gallery,” he explains. “I help run it when she’s in Lisbon.”

I can’t help but wonder if he needs a special permit to work here like other non-EU residents. Unfortunately, I can’t ask. It would be even worse than asking why he left Brazil. So I slip the card into my pocket and keep my mouth shut. Maybe I’ll return to Belmonte one day and meet this artist, and who knows what may come of it.

“I thought about teaching here, but the paperwork was too much,” he says in English, as if he could read my mind. “Then someone introduced me to Mirele.”

“I’d love to meet her one day,” I respond in English. 

“Meet who?” Rita’s voice quacks behind me.

Of course, she has to appear out of nowhere and interrupt this blissful moment. I shouldn’t entertain any illusions of connecting with people without her barging into the conversation and taking over. I should be grateful and graciously clear the stage because I’m the warm-up and she’s the headliner.

I don't bother to answer her question since the name is inconsequential. Besides, the Brazilian has already turned to greet her and respond to the flood of compliments she showers on the beautiful little gallery.

While she soaks up all of the man’s attention, I sulk in a corner by a display of jewelry. My part is done, and whatever spark there was dissolves into nothing as always. I tell myself: Let Rita be Rita. I’ll be me. I can endure a few more days, learning my lessons, discovering my limits, and practicing humility.

In the background, Rita has chosen a doll that reminds her of her sister. She giggles as she shows the doll, whose arms are made of decorative teaspoons, to Vera. Vera is not sure about the similarities, but agrees that it’ll be a nice gift as long as Rita doesn’t say that it looks like Sigal. 

I watch Rita follow the Brazilian to the table by the door, where he gift-wraps the doll. She asks him if he sells leather bracelets like the one on his wrist. 

“No,” he says. He got that one in Brazil. 

I leave the gallery and wait for her and Vera in the empty courtyard. I’m beyond relieved she didn’t try to negotiate the price down. And I refuse to watch her perform the schtick she does whenever she meets a Brazilian, and pretend that it’s cute.

Belmonte: Terra De Tolerancia (55)

After a quick stop at Hotel Sinai to return the keys to the trusting front desk attendant, we find a charming café with a patio surrounded by flowering potted plants. This time, I order a galão like a local, sparing the barista the confusion over my request for espresso and then for milk. I also order for Rita and Vera, so Rita will quit worrying that I’m plotting to skip paying my share of gas. She began hinting at it when we were leaving Porto. Don’t ask me why. It has nothing to do with reality. Maybe an after-effect of Anna’s departure. 

When the barista brings the coffee, Rita announces she’s looking for a place to stay in Tomar.

“What’s in Tomar?” Vera asks.

“Simone’s nephew,” she says, eyes still on her phone.

“How far is it?” Vera persists because that’s what she does.

 
“A couple of hours. We still have time to walk around. Check in at four,” Rita says.

“There’s a Jewish museum here. We can see if it’s open,” I say. The tuk-tuk guy in Lisbon mentioned a museum, and since we’re here, why not? I just hope an idea from me won’t trigger Rita like it did in Porto when I suggested another restaurant. Vera’s stupid comment earlier was more than enough. 
To my surprise, Rita puts down the phone and agrees. Maybe it’s not the worst idea. 

“Is it close enough to walk?” Vera asks, the ever-practical link in the chain.

A glance at the tourist map shows it’s only a short walk away. We leave the café and find the museum in one of the narrow alleyways in the old part of town, where laundry hangs outside to dry and green moss grows between old cobblestones. The museum, with its Jewish color scheme, is open even though it’s Shabbat.

This is the first museum we visit in Portugal. And the last one, for sure. Museums were not on the itinerary from the start. Rita has little patience for them, unless they are so famous that tourists must visit despite the high risk from pickpockets and a painful entrance fee. Otherwise, museums slow down momentum, require the ability to focus, and provide no interactions with people or merchandise. A lethal combination for fun seekers.

To be honest, I don’t expect much. I just want to get a feel for the place. Maybe we’ll see something interesting. The community here is quite small anyway and doesn’t seem to have many resources. Still, I appreciate the thought of building a center for learning about the history of Belmonte’s Jewish community. At least the books at the entrance appear promising if you can read Portuguese. The rest is standard Jewish paraphernalia, pretty but not groundbreaking.

Rita and Vera vanish into a side gallery as soon as we enter the main exhibit. I take my time to read some labels beside the pictures and objects on display. I suddenly realize this is the most educational phase of the trip. Digging into the past of Portugal’s Crypto Jews, learning how they practiced the traditions behind thick walls and dark curtains. There are even pictures of religious artifacts that the women used throughout the centuries and passed to their daughters, who learned to perform rituals in secret until they became almost unrecognizable.

Seeing all this makes me sad, not satisfied, even though a happy ending came five hundred years later, like Vera’s survival during the war in Europe. She came out of it alive, but the trauma remained buried until it resurfaced later in life in the form of night terrors. I wonder if she sees any parallels between her experience and this story. Probably not. It might be too painful to think about. For me, it’s a reminder of what could have happened in my lifetime, but didn’t, thanks to the sheer luck of being born elsewhere, under different circumstances. And I’m grateful for being lucky for once. As for Rita, I don’t think she would reflect on it. Why think about heavy stuff that makes you sad? Life is short and we must enjoy every minute because every day can be the last. Blah blah blah. Tell me something I don’t know.

With these thoughts swirling in my head, I go outside to meet the two of them and see what’s next. A great conversation about the meaning of being Jewish? I doubt it. Rita wants to explore the antique stores we passed on our way to the museum, and Vera is happy to plod along. We decide to meet at the car in an hour, and off I go to explore the narrow alleys on my own, again.

Losing My Cool (54)

With Rita taking over the conversation, all bells and whistles and jewelry dangling from every extremity, I retreat to finish packing and tidying up my room. I don’t leave a mess for those who clean up after me. I always remember the proletariat. From inside my room, I hear laughter and Rita’s broken English asking how much to pay. The driver murmurs something, and then a metal door slams shut, the engine starts, and the van drives away. 

Rita pokes her head in to say she’ll bring the car to the front door to spare Vera the walk with the luggage. “Then we can look for a place to have coffee near the hotel,” she suggests.

“Great idea,” I say. 

She deserves credit for thinking of all the details. And I need to appear more cooperative after leaving her and Vera at that stuffy bar last night. Skipping breakfast in Porto could pass as laziness, but leaving after they’d ordered dinner might have felt like a provocation. No need for more drama. I think we’ve had enough of it. My challenge is to end this trip on a positive note, keep grudges buried, and deal with them later on firmer ground. 

I finish tidying up the room: the sink is clean, the trash is in the bin, and the towels are on the rack. I roll my carry-on outside to wait for Rita. Vera joins me with her luggage on the pavement, ready to conquer the day or at least the first two hours. If we’d been staying in the same house, she would have walked with me earlier. But today I was selfish, and I took advantage of the situation to walk by myself. 

“How was your room? Did you sleep well?” I ask to quell my somewhat guilty conscience. It’s the polite thing to do. Engage in meaningless small talk. “It was fine,” she recites her usual generic response. Good. I just want to make sure the atmosphere is congenial, with no hard feelings about last night. 

When Rita pulls up in front of us, I help Vera lift her carry-on into the trunk and then load mine. 

“I’m going to stop at the hotel first,” Rita says, heading up the stone stairs to collect her stuff and lock up. 

That’s right. We’re following the honor system here. Not skipping town without paying for the rooms, even if it might tempt some people. 

While we wait for Rita, I decide to go back in and make a final sweep. “I’m going to step in and check that I didn’t leave my phone charger,” I say to Vera. 

“Ah,” she shrugs without looking at me. “Then leave it. If you forgot, you forgot.” 

Jesus Christ! What do you even mean, “If you forgot, you forgot?” I’m still here. I just need to step inside for a minute. People always do this when they check out. It’s not a sign of a mental disorder. Chargers are the most forgettable objects. You want me to leave it behind just because you don’t think I should check? Will you buy me one if I leave it here? You’re driving me insane. I could strangle you. I’ve been patient, respectful, helpful, friendly, and this is what I get? Damn it! 

Of course, none of this comes out of my mouth. Instead, I say, “It will only take a minute,” like the grown-up I pretend to be, and take a deep breath to slow down my heart. 

I check the outlets, under the bed, and under the blanket. Nothing. I lock the door and return to the car’s backseat. Still fuming. Because Vera already occupies the front. Peaceful, unaware of the storm she’s caused.

Pão de Sal (53)

Since I arrived in Portugal, every morning had started with some unexpected drama. But today, I can simply open the door and step into the street without pretending, inviting, or watching a bizarre scene unfold before me. The neighborhood looks the same as it did last night, except that I now notice Umberto’s other properties. They have brass plaques by their doors with the names of Jews he wanted to immortalize, Don this, Dona that, with a brief description of who they were. The old quarter is so small that I can walk it in fifteen minutes. I snap a few photos of the alleys with the mountain range peeking between the houses, then turn back to my room to finish packing.

When I reach Casa Dona Branca, I see a woman in a pink robe standing at a doorway next to mine. She’s probably in her eighties and looks far less “widowy” than the woman I met yesterday. Her white hair is not covered by anything black, and her feet are secured in fluffy green slippers. In short, she looks cozy and comfortable, part of the scenery, unbothered by the cold air. I suddenly realize I hadn’t considered that people lived next door, which is silly. Of course, people live here, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t run into someone.

“Bom dia, senhora,” I say when I’m close enough for her to hear me. Behind her, a man’s voice on the radio drifts out, mingling with the clink of dishes.

The woman asks me if I spent the night next door. I tell her that I arrived yesterday and that I’m a friend of the owner, Umberto. “Do you know him?” I ask, excited that she understands my Portuguese and is open to talking.

Yes, she knows him, and more than that. The room I’m staying in, and the upstairs where Rita and Vera are staying, were part of her family home, and she was the one who sold them to him. Her older sister, who lives with her now, but is not feeling well, was against splitting the house and selling the rooms, but they needed the money.

I’m not sure how we got here, but I’m amazed by my luck. I went out for a stroll and now I’m talking to a woman who can tell me things I’ll never find in a tourist brochure. It feels like an out-of-body experience. Part of me converses with her, part watches us from outside in disbelief, and another prays that Rita and Vera stay in bed and let me continue the conversation.

Her family lived in this house for generations, she says.

“I learned about Belmonte only recently,” I say.

She’s easy to talk to. I only have to nod or express curiosity, and she responds, volunteering details without trying to impress me or accuse anyone. Maybe my questions make her remember things she hasn't thought about in a long time. Maybe that’s why she’s so open.

She tells me that her family escaped to France during the dictatorship, and she spent many years away from Belmonte. She married in France, and her children stayed there. But she grew up here. She walked these alleys as a kid and played with the Jewish kids outside. There was no hostility towards them. 

“They were just like us,” she reminisces. “They dressed like us, spoke like us. We knew them and their families until we left.” But no, she didn’t keep in touch with anyone.

I ask her how she found the house when she returned. She says it was empty and many things needed repair. Umberto helped her paint the walls and fix a leaking faucet, and when she found out he was buying properties in the neighborhood and fixing them, she suggested splitting her home and selling part of it. Her sister was against it, but they didn’t need such a big house, she explains.

I have to focus on understanding everything she says. She speaks at a normal pace, not slowing down for me, with an unfamiliar accent and some words I don’t recognize. But I get the story, and I’m floored by this encounter. This is the most interesting moment in my whole trip. I couldn’t have planned or imagined anything even close to what I’m experiencing here. Her openness feels like a small miracle. This is exactly what inspires me when I travel. Meeting people and hearing their stories. Connecting without expecting anything in return. I don’t volunteer much, though. Her story is much more interesting.

I have many more questions for her. I was amazed when she said her family escaped or left during the dictatorship. My Portuguese colleague at work had the same experience. So I can imagine what she went through. Leaving everything behind and becoming a refugee in a foreign country. Working jobs no one wants to do. Starting over from the bottom. I want to ask her about her life in France, but our conversation is interrupted. A white van pulls up in front of us. The driver, a middle-aged man wearing a dark blue apron, climbs down and greets us with a Bom Dia. He goes to the back of the van and opens the door. Inside, there are crates full of rolls and loaves of bread, some I recognize as pão de sal. Soft white bread that smells like heaven.

The last thing I expected. I thought he was a plumber or house painter, not a baker. 

It takes me a moment to realize the woman had been waiting for the van all along. She selects some rolls and a loaf, puts them in a plastic bag, and hands the driver a few coins from a small purse tucked into her robe. I ask the driver if I can buy bread, too. Maybe because he realizes from my accent that I am not a local, he forgives my idiocy. Of course, I can buy bread. That’s why he’s here. He’s not running a delivery service; it’s a mobile bakery. I want to tell him I’ve never seen anything like it before. But I don’t. I wonder, do they sell ice blocks and deliver bottles of milk to your door here? Which century is this?

I step inside to get my wallet. By the time I return and pay him, Rita opens the door and joins us on the pavement.

And just like that, one of my best moments in Portugal comes to an end. 

The Crypto-Jews of Belmonte (52)

Even though the pavement is flat and I can see the street ahead of me, my head is spinning with what I’ve been through since arriving in Belmonte. In a few hours, I communed with the ghosts of my Jewish past, including Umberto, my old roommate from Rio who became a secular rabbi. I was reluctantly allowed into a synagogue run by Jews who risked their lives for centuries to preserve their traditions. I held a siddur without knowing what to do with it. I met a Brazilian woman aspiring to become a Jew. And I watched two Israeli women ordering scrambled eggs and toast for Shabbat dinner.

What else should I expect?

I surprise myself at the ease with which I find Casa Dona Branca Dias. Belmonte is a small town, but at this hour, it is quiet and completely deserted. Even the quintessential cats who hunt in dark alleys after nightfall are nowhere to be seen. Luckily, I can navigate the streets without needing help from passersby or Google Maps. The main drag leads to the old neighborhood below the castle and to the street where small stone houses greet me without distractions. I even spot our rental car on the way, giving me confidence that I am on the right path.

As I open the door, I realize that Vera was right when she insisted I turn the heater on, though I won't admit it to her. All I need is to hear her say, “I told you so.”

The room feels warm and inviting, and its modern amenities signal to me that it is time to relax and enjoy my solitude. I decide on a cup of tea and a snack from the leftover food I bought in Porto, and connect to cyberspace to learn about Belmonte, just as I did in Porto, when I wanted to explore the sites I would miss on this trip.

The first thing I discover is just how little I know about the Jews of Belmonte. I thought Crypto-Jews and New Christians were interchangeable, describing the Jews who converted to Catholicism during the time of the Inquisition. I was wrong.

The New Christians were the Jews who converted to Christianity, either “voluntarily” or by force, during the Portuguese Inquisition, which began in 1497. They were also called Conversos, Marranos, or Anusim in Hebrew, meaning “the forced ones.” The Crypto-Jews were a subset of the New Christians, meaning “the hidden Jews.” These Jews practiced Christianity in public, but secretly maintained some Jewish beliefs and traditions, even though they had lost their sacred books and the Hebrew language. In Belmonte and a few other towns in Portugal, Crypto-Jews carved Christian symbols, especially crosses, into the stones beside their doorways to show loyalty to Christianity and protect themselves. Some of these carvings are still visible on the walls of Belmonte. Umberto once posted photos of these stone markings on his Facebook page, but I never understood what they meant or how they were connected to the Jews of Belmonte.

I also learn that the Jews of Belmonte were Crypto-Jews who had remained hidden until not that long ago, something I had already begun to suspect when we tried to enter the synagogue. Now I read that the Jews of Belmonte lived successfully under cover until 1917, when they were “discovered” by an outsider.

That outsider was Samuel Schwarz, a Jewish mining engineer from Poland who had been working in Portugal since the start of the First World War. At the time, the Jewish community in Lisbon had little interest in or sympathy for the New Christians. But Schwarz decided to investigate a rumor that the New Christians in Belmonte considered themselves Jewish and preserved some Jewish rituals. He traveled to Belmonte and met a local merchant who told him that he was a Jew and that his family had been secretly practicing Judaism. Other members of the community refused to reveal their secret to Schwarz until he recited the Sh’ma prayer (Sh’ma Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad). Only then did they reveal their Jewish identity to him. Or at least, that’s how the legend goes.

Schwarz studied the Crypto-Jews for several years and published a book describing their lives. He observed that the Crypto-Jews had no synagogue, rabbi, or Hebrew texts, which made sense considering the ubiquity of the Inquisition. But they celebrated a holiday that resembled Passover, lit Shabbat candles inside clay jars, and kept some kosher food practices at home, such as abstaining from pork. Their practices and traditions passed from one generation to the next through the women who conducted the rituals and taught them to their daughters. The men were not circumcised because it could have given their secret away, and the community married within itself for generations. They also lived in total isolation for centuries, believing they were the last Jews.

In the 1970s, the Belmonte Jews began to open up to the world. In 1989, the Jewish Community of Belmonte was established, and the Crypto-Jews officially “returned” to Judaism. The synagogue Bet Eliahu, which I visited earlier, was opened in 1996. The land on which it was built was donated by the heirs of a woman remembered as a “female rabbi,” and the construction was financed by a Moroccan Jew whose ancestors probably came from the area. Unsurprisingly, the majority of the young Jews of Belmonte left for Israel, and those who remained in town now practice Orthodox Judaism.

After learning all this, I feel differently about the men from the synagogue. I no longer think they are weird or impolite or mean. They are the direct descendant of the Crypto-Jews. Too bad I didn’t know any of this before I invaded their sanctuary. These guys lived in hiding for five centuries. They can’t be expected to change their ways just because some of the outside circumstances changed a few decades ago. The Inquisition can come back in the blink of an eye in one form or another from somewhere unpredictable. Nothing guarantees that it won’t. Hatred of Jews is deeply ingrained in Europe, and not only there. So I completely understand that the habits and skills acquired during centuries of hiding should not be discarded. The world has not proven itself to be a safe place for Jews just yet. 

 

Unfortunately, the synagogue is closed now, and I can’t go back to apologize to them. I’ll have to do my tikkun in another way.