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.
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