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.
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