A Smoky Bar on Friday Night (51)

At the next crosswalk, Frida stops to bid us goodbye. Rita tries to persuade her to join us for dinner, but Frida says she can't. She says she has too much to do tonight—hopefully nothing that involves cleaning or babysitting. Rita backs off and thanks her for helping us, suddenly turning into a model of politeness and generosity. I’m not sure what caused it, but I welcome the new development. We should leave a good impression after our bold invasion of the synagogue. 

Frida wishes us a nice rest of the trip and suggests we visit the local Jewish museum.

“We can do that,” Rita says.

I don’t know if she means it. She stopped being a fan of museums after traveling across Europe more times than she can count, but who knows? Maybe her curiosity has been piqued after our synagogue excursion. We’ll see how things go tomorrow. 

I thank Frida for helping me with the siddur and wish her luck with the rabbis.

“Thanks, I need it,” she says solemnly and wraps her shawl around her head. The skirt she’s wearing can’t keep her warm, even with thick wool tights underneath. 

She leaves us in front of a small garden after pointing in the direction we should continue. Now it is only the three of us, again, exploring the town in the dark.

“Why does she need luck with the rabbis? What did she do?” Rita asks out of the blue.

“She’s trying to convert.”

“Every person and his trauma,” Rita says dryly, using the Hebrew slang word “scratch” instead of trauma, painting Frida as a person with mental issues. Usually, the way she uses Hebrew slang makes me laugh, but I am not in a laughing mood. My feet are turning into icicles inside my boots, and the topic is not funny enough. I kind of feel sorry for Frida. If you are not converting for love, then why bother?

“Why does she want to convert?” Vera asks, always practical.

“She found a Jewish ancestor who might have been expelled from Portugal during the Inquisition,” I offer the short version that might make Frida look less “scratched.”

“And this makes her want to be Jewish?” Vera asks in disbelief. It sounds more like a rhetorical question. I guess if I said she was marrying someone Jewish, it would make more sense.

“There are all kinds of people in the world,” Rita recites one of her favorite mantras— something she usually says when I ask her who buys the ugly stuff she sells at street fairs. 

She is right about the “all kinds of people.” She herself almost converted to Islam years ago when she dated an Arab Muslim man, but the negative social repercussions that threatened them both made her reconsider. Maybe a little pressure from both families also helped.

 
So she knows better than anyone what it’s like to convert. And Vera does, too, I am sure, so there is no need to dwell on this topic. Better to focus on finding a place to eat and getting away from this freezing wind.

“It looks like nothing is open,” Vera observes after a few minutes. 

I’d be happy to turn around and go back to the Airbnb where the heater is on and I can thaw my toes, but they want to keep on walking. After walking another block, we see a lit venue further down with a small awning above the glass door. Rita decides to check it out. Maybe they serve food there. 

We follow her inside. There are six bare wooden tables in the room. One table is occupied by three men who look like a combination of bodybuilders and construction workers, certainly not office dwellers or tourists. They are watching a soccer game on a flat TV hanging on the wall, drinking beer and smoking. 

Not a promising scenario. But I’m not going to start an argument.

A young guy comes out from behind a counter and motions for us to sit at one of the tables. His arm is covered in indecipherable tattoos, and a green apron is tied around his waist. We sit at the table closest to the counter. He wipes the table with a wet rag before dropping three menus in front of us. 

Vera opens one menu and purses her lips, her finger moving slowly from one item to the next. Rita holds the menu upright, hiding her face behind it. I pull the last menu in front of me, but I don’t open it. It’s only been a day since I decided to avoid going to restaurants with Rita. I don’t like eating according to Vera’s schedule. I don’t like hearing the chewing sounds Rita makes or watching her eat. And something about this place feels off. There is way too much cigarette smoke in the air, and I can feel the smell of fried food already clinging to my clothes.

“What are you going to order?” Rita asks Vera after a few minutes.

“I think I’m going to order scrambled eggs and toast,” Vera says.

I would have never guessed. This is not something people order for dinner, even in Israel.

“It’s too late to eat now,” she continues, as if she can hear my thoughts. “Everything on the menu has meat in it.”

I believe she means steak, hamburgers, and pork sausages. 

Rita puts down the menu that has shielded her from the world until now and declares decisively, as if she put a lot of thought into it: “I’ll order eggs too.”

How can anyone eat eggs—or anything—off this sticky table? Or breathe? I can barely breathe in this smoky room that smells of burned oil. I don’t want to watch Rita eat. I want to get out of here. Now. 

“Are you ready to order?” Vera asks me.

“I’m not going to order anything,” I hear myself say. “I’m going to walk back to the room,” my voice adds before I can stop the words from coming out. 

I honestly don’t know where that came from. I’m supposed to think about how this might affect the rest of the trip. But something inside me decided without asking first.

“Are you sure?” Vera asks, surprised. 

For a moment, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what came over me. I just want to get away. I don’t want to talk about it and create drama. I am not worried about finding my way back. I feel safe in this town, and I know it is only a short walk back to the old neighborhood. I assure her that I am fine. 

Rita takes the menu that lies in front of me and puts it under her menu. “She’ll be fine,” she says to Vera.

I leave them in the bar and go out into the street. I am surprised by how dark it is outside, but it’s not scary. I am relieved to be by myself. I am happy I can breathe the cold air and be out of that suffocating, forsaken bar. The wind bites, but every step I take brings me closer to the warmth of the room I left a few hours ago. I can’t wait to be there again.

A Woman from Brazil (50)

There is not much to do on the balcony except watch the men by the bimah rocking back and forth in prayer—unless I want to pray, which I don’t, and wouldn’t know how to anyway. As if she can read my mind, the woman sitting next to me hands me a siddur after leafing through it and finding the page they are reading from. I don’t know what portion to read, but I take it and thank her quietly. 

I must admit that I never imagined myself sitting in an almost empty synagogue on a Friday night in Portugal. This trip is not a pilgrimage or a search for ancestors and deep meaning. It is embarrassingly mundane. Yet here I am, confronting my unpracticed Jewishness in a town where Jews risked their lives for generations to do the opposite. It’s unsettling. I feel out of place, despite whatever came over me in the room up the street. Prayers don’t move me. Except for the Kaddish and El Maleh Rachamim, the prayers for the dead, which have somehow become embedded in my DNA, most prayers and hymns sound foreign to me, even though they are mostly spoken or sung in Hebrew, albeit in an archaic and liturgical style.

I wonder what the men praying by the bimah think of the three of us, barging into their synagogue in the middle of Shabbat prayers and interrupting the ritual. We didn’t even cover our hair. 

Unfortunately, instead of feeling awe and gratitude, I feel let down. The grand sanctuary with the gold menorahs and lions protecting Aron HaKodesh is the exact opposite of what Belmonte’s hidden Jewish community represents. For five hundred years, these people practiced a religion they barely remembered—in secret and fear, behind thick walls and darkened windows. And now that they can practice openly, they do so with both grandeur and caution. I think simplicity would have been more appropriate. After all, the surviving Jews of the Iberian Peninsula will never be able to compete with the riches of the Church that obliterated their communities.

But who am I to criticize and judge? A secular woman who doesn’t bother to cover her hair inside a synagogue or fast on Yom Kippur. This beautiful sanctuary is a natural response to centuries of oppression—a way to show pride and resilience, not a frivolous display of wealth.  

I want to feel spiritually moved, but I don’t. Maybe it’s too foreign to make an emotional impact. Maybe it’s my lack of preparation and my ignorance. I’ll never know if I don’t delve into it, but at the moment, I am not ready to investigate my soul.

The men down in the sanctuary seem to conclude the prayers. They close their siddurim and place them on a small table. They shake hands and, I surmise, wish each other Shabbat Shalom, even though I can’t hear what they say. They are going to leave the synagogue now and walk home to unite with their families around the Shabbat table. 

“Where are you from?” The woman whispers to me in English as we squeeze our way out between the benches. She has a familiar accent, but I can’t place it. 

I’m not sure what to say. California? America? Israel? Which will be the best answer? Which will prevent the next useless question, Where in Israel, America, or California? 

“California,” I say, even though it excludes Vera. I can let Rita explain the rest, which I’m sure she will. I’ve never noticed it before, but during this trip, she has developed the habit of taking over any conversation I start as soon as she notices I’m speaking to someone, so why bother? 

“And where are you from?” I continue before she can ask me where I live in California.

I wouldn’t ask this question if she hadn’t asked me first. It is not something I do. Mostly because I get that question all the time, and I resent it. Especially when strangers insist on where I’m “really” from.

“Brazil,” she says.

She is not the first Brazilian I’ve met in Portugal, but certainly the first Jewish Brazilian. Otherwise, why would she sit in a synagogue on a Friday night and read from a siddur? 

“We’re going to look for a place to eat,” Rita says when we join her and Vera on the way out. She turns to the Brazilian woman and asks, as if she has known her for years, “You want to go with us?” 

“Thank you, but I have to go home,” the woman says, letting her colorful head cover slide to her shoulders and revealing her long curls.

“Okay,” Rita shrugs and throws a question to all of us: “Any chance we get invited to Shabbat dinner?”

There are two men down in the lobby. I hope they didn’t hear her. I also wish she didn’t say that. But Rita is not the timid type. And she has some reason to think we might be invited. She’s friendly with the wife of our local Chabad rabbi and often attends Shabbat dinner at their community hall, which also doubles as a synagogue—no formal invitation needed. The rabbi welcomes visitors from Israel and locals alike, religious and secular, without judgment or expectations. But here it looks like things are done differently. These people are extremely private, and I don’t see them changing their ways for us.

“No. They don’t do it,” the Brazilian woman whispers.

When we reach the lobby, we stop to thank the men for letting us into the synagogue. The older man, one of the two who met us earlier, wishes us Shabbat Shalom, unsmiling. The younger one, someone we haven’t met yet—a tall guy dressed in jeans and a gray wool sweater, with a shiny white yarmulke on his head—wishes us Shabbat Shalom and asks in French-accented Hebrew, “Are you from Israel?”

“Yes, and California,” Rita answers, then quickly asks if he knows of any café or restaurant nearby that’s still open. I hope she’s not trying to guilt-trip him into inviting us to dinner.

The man doesn’t seem surprised or impressed to meet women from Israel. He’s probably met plenty of Israelis visiting this town to learn about its Jewish history. He might even know Umberto or the people who run Hotel Sinai. But he can’t think of any place to recommend. Instead, he offers to walk with us part of the way and show us how to get downtown, where we might find something open.

The Brazilian woman, whose name we learn is Frida, says she’s also heading downtown and can show us the way, so we invite her to join us. We exit the synagogue and head in the opposite direction from where we came. By now, the temperature has dropped even more, and the air is brutally cold. Wind from the valley cuts across the exposed side of the street, making things worse. We huddle in our scarves and jackets to keep warm, but it’s not much help. We walk in the middle of the road, and the sound of our shoes tapping against the pavement punctuates the silence.

After we pass a couple of poorly lit intersections, our French guide announces that it’s time for him to leave us. He’s going to a Shabbat dinner at a local family’s home—they’re waiting for him to arrive from synagogue. We thank him for showing us the way, though we could have figured it out ourselves. It’s hard to get lost here.

“They rarely invite guests to dinner,” Frida says after he disappears around the corner. “The houses here are small.”

I wonder if she feels left out because she wasn’t invited. She told me earlier that they don’t do it, but this guy made friends here, enough to be invited into their small home.

 

“We have met several Brazilians since we arrived in Portugal, but you’re the first Brazilian Jew,” I say, hoping to distract her from feeling rejected. I don’t know if it would make her feel better, but that’s my intention. 

“I’m not Jewish,” she says.

That’s not what I expected to hear, and I’m a little embarrassed. But she knew what to do in the synagogue, so why wouldn’t I think she was Jewish? I’m not going to apologize, though. Being Jewish isn’t an insult—unless you’re a raging antisemite, which I’m not. Besides, maybe she likes that people think she is Jewish.

“I’m trying to convert to Judaism,” she says, looking at me. “But they make it too difficult.”

“Here, in Belmonte?” I’m not sure I understand who she is talking about, and I want to find out. Luckily, Rita is walking ahead of us with Vera, talking on the phone with someone in Hebrew. There’s a good chance I will hear Frida’s entire story.

Frida nods, hugging herself against the cold. “I came here a year and a half ago for the second time. Even before I came, I’ve been studying Jewish texts, learning to read Hebrew, and going to synagogue. I told them I wanted to convert, but they don’t care. They’re polite, but they keep telling me to be patient. Three years ago, they told me to go back home and think about it. Now it’s still the same.” 

She tells me she became curious about her Jewish roots after taking a DNA test. It said she had Sephardic Jewish ancestry. Not a lot—maybe six or seven percent—but she wasn’t surprised. She always felt she was different. Even before the test, she believed her family descended from the Anusim—Portuguese and Spanish Jews forced to convert to Catholicism. After the test confirmed her suspicion, she began researching her family history and found an ancestor on her mother’s side named Abraão Rodrigues—the Portuguese version of Abraham. He had settled in northern Brazil more than two hundred years ago.

I ask if “Rodrigues” ends with S or Z because these letters can indicate a Jewish origin.

“‘Es’ was the Portuguese Jewish spelling,” she explains. “So I know I have Jewish ancestry here.”

I guess she’s learned something in Belmonte. I used to think Jewish last names ended with a Z. 

I don’t know if I should congratulate her for finding a Jewish ancestor. Being Jewish is complicated, so why pursue it? Jews got killed and persecuted throughout history, from the Spanish Inquisition to Kishinev to the Holocaust. In every place where there were Jews, there were pogroms, so why does she want to be part of this trauma? But she is not deterred by history. After discovering Abraão Rodrigues, she joined a Bnei Anusim organization and decided to travel to Portugal and convert to Judaism. Before she knew how hard it would be.

I want to tell her that being Jewish is trouble, but maybe that’s what she wants: to feel special. To belong. To find meaning and a new purpose in life. 

But it’s not easy to convert. I know people—men and women—who did it, often because they fell in love with someone Jewish who insisted they convert, and it took them years to do it. Judaism doesn’t proselytize—it’s the opposite of Christianity and Islam. It’s an exclusive club that is not interested in increasing its membership. If you weren’t born Jewish, the rabbis don’t seek your company. And here, in Belmonte, they seem to be even more reluctant. And I can understand them. After five hundred years of secrecy, you have to work hard to prove that you belong, and only then, maybe, will they accept you. 

“I am not ready to give up,” she says, “but they won’t help me.”

I don’t tell her that I am not surprised. Her eagerness seems misplaced, even to a non-rabbi like myself. It’s one thing to apply for another passport because of one ancestor. It’s a whole different story to change your god because of it. 

SInagoga Bet Eliahu (49)

“I guess we should knock,” Vera suggests.

It feels ridiculous to knock on this giant red door—you could bruise your knuckles. And nothing suggests anyone inside would even hear it. These doors look enormous, but none of this deters Rita. She bangs on the door with her fist, and we wait. And wait. Another knock, and we wait again. We can hear some distant noises from the other side, but it's unclear what they are. So, she bangs on the door once more. After what feels like several minutes, the door opens partially. Behind it stands a tall, skinny teenager, maybe fifteen, dressed in a white shirt and dark blue pants. He is wearing a kippah, so he’s definitely one of the tribe. Perhaps he even speaks some Hebrew.

“Shabbat Shalom,” Rita starts in her cheeriest sing-songy voice.

The boy nods solemnly from behind the door but says nothing.

“Can we come in?” Rita asks cheerfully, in English. “We want to see the synagogue.

The boy examines us, his expression somewhere between confusion and alarm; I can’t tell which. I can only say he is not opening the door to let us enter.

“Can we come in?” Rita repeats the question more slowly this time.

The boy turns back to glance inside, still blocking the entrance. He then gestures for us to wait and walks inside, closing the giant door behind him. Rita shrugs her shoulders and giggles. “What was that?” she asks the two of us, knitting her eyebrows together and shaking her head.

I hope it’s not her outfit that scared him. Her frizzy, bleached hair, which has seen better days, the leggings, and the piles of jewelry dangling from her ears, neck, and wrists might not exactly align with local customs. On the other hand, Vera and I, although strangers, look more like mainstream adult women. In short, we’re harmless.

“Don’t ask me,” I say. I’d rather be somewhere else now, where people aren’t closing a door in my face.

The door opens again to reveal two men in white shirts and dark slacks.

“Can we help you?” one of the men asks.

“We want to come inside and see the synagogue,” Rita says.

“Why?” he asks again.

“Because it’s Shabbat,” Rita says, unable to hide her bewilderment.

“Who are you?” the other man asks.

“I’m Rita. This is my mom,” Rita says, pointing at Vera. “And this is my friend."

“What are you doing here?” he continues.

“We are visiting Belmonte. We arrived two hours ago,” Rita says.

“Why do you want to come in?” the man asks again. He doesn’t sound hostile, but it is clear that he does not want to let us in. I wonder if I should enter the conversation to help Rita, because this situation is strange. Why are they so suspicious?

“We want to see the synagogue. We like to see Kabalat Shabbat,” she mixes a little Hebrew for effect, although I am not sure this is why we want to visit the synagogue. We just wanted to check it out and see it from the inside.

“We don’t let people enter the synagogue like this. It’s a private place, and the service is almost over,” he explains.

“We are from Israel,” Rita tries again. “We are Jewish and we speak Hebrew."

I have to admit that she is very convincing. We are not just anyone and are kind of from Israel, even though we don’t all live there now.

“We speak Hebrew,” Vera contributes her share, in Hebrew, to drive the point home.

“E Português também,” I say in my Brazilian Portuguese. Maybe that will convince them we are not here to harm them. I can live without seeing the inside of the synagogue, but since we are already here, why not?

“From Israel,” the main interrogator says, nodding his head.

“Yes,” Rita and Vera answer together. “We want to see the synagogue,” they add again, for effect. I think the begging is working. The suspicion on the men’s faces softens, and their bodies seem to relax.

“Okay,” the man says after whispering something to the other man, who whispers something back to him. “We will let you in, but we are closing soon. The service is almost over."

He opens the door wide, and they let us in. I feel awkward, forcing my way into this secretive synagogue. I’ve never experienced anything like this in my travels. When I backpacked around Peru and Bolivia in my twenties, I visited several Jewish community centers where people were happy to meet me. They offered to let me stay with them for free instead of paying for a hotel. In La Paz, they asked if I would agree to work in the local Jewish school and teach their children to read Hebrew. But here, they seem reluctant to let us in, bordering on the unfriendly. Maybe they suspect we are spying on them for the Inquisition. I have no idea what’s going on.

They send us to the women's balcony to observe the end of the service. We tiptoe up the stairs, Rita in front of me, trying to swallow some giggles. Vera slaps her hand, whispering “Shshshsh,” which makes her giggle even more.

There is only one woman on the balcony. She acknowledges our presence with a nod and invites us to sit on the bench next to her. Her friendly gesture makes me pause for a moment. After the uncomfortable encounter at the door, I didn’t expect it. I thought the worshippers would frown or ignore us. But she seems curious and welcoming. Maybe because she’s a foreigner—she certainly doesn’t look like a local, although I’m not sure what the local Jewish women look like. It might be her loose, flowing green skirt or the colorful scarf covering only part of her long, curly hair. In any case, she looks and acts like the opposite of the men we met downstairs.

We join her in the front row and look down at the main hall, where a few men stand before the bimah (stage), reading and praying quietly. A large Torah scroll is opened in front of them. Contrary to my expectations, the synagogue’s interior is beautiful. This is not the modest house of worship typical of small towns. It is grand and spacious—the ceiling soars high above the balcony. On the far wall, the Ten Commandments are embossed in gold beneath a chunky golden menorah, and the empty pews and the dark, polished wood railing surrounding the bimah gleam under the light. The ark is covered in red brocade embroidered with two slender gold menorahs and Hebrew script. In short, the synagogue radiates affluence and prosperity—a stark contrast to the modest neighborhood in which it stands.

To Heat or Not to Heat (48)

 

A knock on the door brings me back to the present and to Rita, who surely isn’t bothered by the spirits of our beleaguered ancestors. I grab my jacket and scarf, then open the door. Rita and Vera are standing outside, bundled in their jackets. The sun had descended behind the mountain range, leaving the narrow alley darker and colder than when I entered my room.    

“Are you ready?” Rita asks.

I gather my key, phone, and some euros before stepping outside. I’m not optimistic about finding an open café or restaurant since I haven’t seen any on the drive from the hotel or during my short walk through this quaint neighborhood. But you never know—there might be something hidden away somewhere.

“Do you like your place upstairs?” I ask Vera, who is standing in front of the door. I’m sure she’ll say it’s okay since she isn’t one to complain, but I want to show her that I care. After all, I suggested staying at this place.

“It’s clean,” Vera shrugs, as if admitting something she finds hard to believe. It makes me wonder if she expected it not to be clean because the room is inside a centuries-old stone house or if this is how she expresses approval. I don’t know, and I can’t guess how she thinks.

“I turned the heater on, so when we get back, the room will be warm," she adds, zipping up her jacket to make a point about the temperature.

“Good thinking,” I compliment her. My room, too, was quite cold, but I was too preoccupied with its eerie atmosphere to consider turning the heater on.

“Go in, turn it on. We’ll wait for you,” she suggests, letting her maternal side emerge again, which I find so endearing—just like when she paid for my tram ticket in Lisbon and refused to let me repay her.

“Come on, let’s go,” Rita intervenes, impatient. Of course, Rita has to stop Vera’s maternal eruption. The quintessential jealous child is offended. Mommy is supposed to worry only about me, and these niceties are out of place.

“Let her go and turn on the heater,” Vera insists. “It will be freezing when she returns.”

I’m impressed she is arguing on my behalf and unsure where this goodwill came from. Less than an hour ago, she accused me of forgetting her in the car, and now she worries about my well-being. How sweet of her. Vera never ceases to surprise me.

“Fine,” Rita sighs, conspicuously pulling at her pockets in search of her phone. “Just do it quickly. It’s going to be dark soon.”

I don’t want to come between Rita and Vera. The last thing I need to do is take sides. Although I know Rita isn’t one to hold a grudge with her “be happy don’t worry” disposition, the situation is delicate, and there’s no need to escalate. I gather that the best thing to do is obey both of them and go turn that heater on.

Fortunately, we are still outside my door. I turn around with the key in hand, unlock the door, and enter, leaving the door wide open to let the light in. I set the heater to low. In my heart, I know I don’t need to turn it on; Vera wouldn’t know either way. But the room is cold, and it will get colder after nightfall, so why not? I guess it’s because I feel guilty about leaving Umberto with a high heating bill and acting like a spoiled and inconsiderate tourist. I never leave the heater on when I’m not at home just to keep it warm for when I come back. I can only hope electricity is cheap here and that maybe the heater is energy-efficient—get me off the hook.

I rejoin Rita and Vera, who have already started walking down the alley in the opposite direction from which we entered the neighborhood. Across the valley, I can see the sun setting, almost touching the tops of the mountains. The last light paints the stone walls in soft orange hues, casting a peaceful glow over the narrow alley. The houses on both sides are attached, but now and then, there is a gap between them, allowing us to see the houses on the street below. Through one of these spaces, between ivy-covered stone houses, 19th-century-style streetlights, and wooden shutters, we glimpse the top of a tall building with white walls. Under the slanted red roof, inside a circle of words too small to read from a distance, some Hebrew words are large enough to be seen: Bet Eliahu.

“This must be the synagogue,” Rita notes.

We head towards the building, winding through narrow alleyways and descending old stone stairs until we reach it. Now I can see the Portuguese beneath the Hebrew words: Sinagoga Bet Eliahu. Two enormous red doors, adorned with a dark Jewish menorah, take up nearly the entire front of the building. No one is around, and we can’t hear any sounds from inside. No cars are parked outside, even though the street overlooking the valley is wider than the alleys we passed on our way down here.

We stand in front of the giant doors, trying to decide what to do. 

Casa Dona Branca Dias (47)

I am not religious and I don’t believe in God. I don’t pray—even when the airplane I’m flying in shakes violently during turbulence. I close my eyes and curse silently until the shaking subsides and I can breathe again. I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason nor do I console myself with the other cliches that help humanity survive existential calamities. If I enter a synagogue, which is extremely rare, it is not to pray. I don’t fast on Yom Kippur or light Shabat candles. I don’t keep kosher, and even though I prefer not to eat pork or shrimp, it is mostly because of health reasons and habit, not for fear of divine punishment. Yet, despite all this, because I was born in Israel and Hebrew is my mother tongue, I have a strong Jewish consciousness and Israeli sensibilities.

This is why I know that what I sense in this random Airbnb room in the old part of Belmonte is something only a Jew could recognize. It is the heaviness of Jewish history—something that happened here long ago. I don’t want to feel it. I didn’t plan to feel it. But it keeps hitting me. When the tuk-tuk driver insisted on showing us the public squares where Jews were burnt, hung, and tortured in Lisbon, I turned him down. But here, in Belmonte, in this small room, it has finally caught up with me, forcing me to accept that Jewishness is in my blood. Simmering in the unconscious regions of my being whether I’m aware of it or not. They say the body keeps the score, so it must be in my cells, in the nuclei where my hereditary material has been stored since the beginning of days—or, as others may say, since we left Egypt or Jerusalem, whichever works.

It’s the same sensation I felt years ago when I sat in front of the Sephardi Chief Rabbi of the Jerusalem Rabbinical Court during his visit to San Francisco. That meeting, too, made me feel a connection to my Jewishness which, until that moment, I didn’t know existed inside me. It is like the feeling that washes over me when I hear the Israeli national anthem: Od lo avda tikvatenu… You hear it again and again and it becomes part of your cellular memory.

The rabbi agreed to see me after his wife spoke on my behalf when she heard about me from a mutual friend. I came to ask him about the status of my daughter, who was born to a non-Jewish father. I did it for her sake rather than for mine. I wanted to make sure that if for some reason in the future, she decided to enter the Jewish faith, she would be accepted as an equal. I also wanted to know if I could recite the mourner’s Kaddish in honor of my parents who recently passed away, even though I am a woman and, traditionally, this prayer is recited only by men.

I know this sounds contradictory because I am secular and a non-believer and shouldn’t care about these things. I also know I was not trying to please anyone or get points to ensure my entry into heaven. Besides, the Kaddish is a prayer that praises God not the dead. So why did I want to do it? Why did I care? Why did I want to recite Aramaic words that penetrate my soul when I hear them? Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba…

I had no answers then, and I have none now. I only know these words resonated inside me in a frequency that dissolved any intellectual resistance. They had nothing to do with faith, commandments, or good deeds. Perhaps it was a desire to belong to something larger than the self, even though, I didn’t think in those terms or aspired to anything resembling a religious awakening in those days.

The rabbi was dressed in the traditional uniform of ultra-Orthodox men: a white shirt, black jacket, and wide-brimmed black hat. A long, bushy beard with a few gray strands hid his neck, and thick eyebrows above his reading glasses completed the look. He was sitting in a small auditorium reading something when I entered. He put the book on the table by his side and invited me to sit in front of him. 

I wasn’t sure how he’d react to me, a secular woman who had never spoken to a rabbi, especially a Sephardic rabbi. Not only am I an Ashkenazi Jew, but I also lack any religious etiquette. I didn’t know how to behave near a rabbi except that I shouldn’t try to shake his hand. I also didn’t know if I had to use special honorifics or greetings. I was afraid he’d be preachy and patronizing, that he’d lecture me on the need to draw closer to God and the Torah. Instead, he was friendly and curious about my story. He wanted to know how I heard about him, where I grew up, and if I ever visited my family in Israel. He was impressed when he heard that my mother was born in Jerusalem. I think I scored a few points when I told him that. 

After I explained what bothered me, he promised me that my daughter was as Jewish as can be and that he had no problem with me reciting the Kaddish.

“You can recite it anywhere you want, even in a synagogue,” he said. “Just tell them I said so,” he added when he saw the surprise on my face.

It felt so natural to talk to him. There was not one awkward moment in our conversation nor a word I regretted uttering. For a second I thought he was even entertained by my request. The contradictions I presented probably did not make much sense to him, but he carried on without showing any displeasure or bewilderment. 

On my way out of the auditorium, I felt like I was emerging from a meeting with one of our sages of blessed memory who shaped Jewish laws and rituals two thousand years ago. Against all my expectations, I experienced a deep connection with him, as if we had met more than once before when I still understood and practiced religion. I knew it was that Jewish thing that made me feel it—not anything he said or did. It was just there, between us, something beyond words and logic or belief and wishful thinking. It was in my DNA, not in my brain. Otherwise, there is no explanation.

It is the same thing that makes me feel the Jewish history swirling inside this room in Belmonte. The room looks modern with its obvious mass-produced furniture, the fridge, the microwave, the electric heater, and the glass-walled shower. But the thick stone walls, the low ceiling, and somehow even the air hold inside them the stories of the Crypto Jews who lived here. I can feel the weight of their presence around me, not suffocating or ominous but light and elusive. It is not a happy presence for sure. It is secretive, inquisitive, and not very friendly—used to hide from nosy neighbors, the cruel Church authorities, and daylight. It needs time to become familiar with me and for me to become familiar with it. Luckily it is still daytime so there is no reason to feel uncomfortable.

I park my carry-on by the bed and shove the plastic bag containing the little food I bought in Porto into the small fridge: a couple of rolls, tomatoes, cheese, cookies, and tea bags. Later, I might make tea and sit by the round table to read about the history of this town, which would help me understand why this room feels so haunted.