Consolaçam 2

Chapter Two.

Getting back to what I do know, my fate under the Muslims of Selânik may be called the antithesis of the fate of those who had come under the Moorish yoke in Fez, and the Christian ones in Castile and Portugal. My good fortune can be attributed to a circumstance of history: the last years of the fifteenth century witnessed a rapid rise in the Jewish population of Selânik. This shift in the city’s population was, in turn, by no means accidental.

Since the Turks had only taken Thesaloniki, in 1430, after an eight-years’ siege, the forced influx of Jews (the majority of whom were, like myself, Sephardim fleeing the Spanish Inquisition) was intended to insure a loyal and influential body within the populace of the formerly Greek city. To that end, The Turks had decreed that rich Jews be settled in Selânik. Of course, any unrest in Selânik would also be deflected from the Ottoman rulers onto their Jewish surrogates. In other words, we would once again be asked to play our traditional role of scapegoat.

For me, personally, the situation meant that I was assured of a much warmer welcome than an almost penniless refugee could otherwise have expected. It also seemed there were available purchasers for the skills I happened to have on offer. Before the expulsion from Spain, at the age of twelve, I had been apprenticed to an eminent Jewish architect in the great city of Cordoba, which was probably the place where I received my first inklings that Muslims might be more trustworthy than Christians. Since my master’s father and uncles had designed the lovely Sinagoga de Córdoba, among other important buildings, my apprenticeship featured the design of religious edifices.

Immediately upon my arrival in Selânik, the rich Jews of that city began to compete with one another for my services. Why was this? For one thing, there was a mad scramble underway to convert any and all vacant buildings into places for Jewish worship and religious instruction. Then, too, the rich new residents, whose purviews ranged from textile manufactury, to control of the Ottoman mint and customs services (“tax farming”), to positions as ocak bazirgani [quartermasters to the Janissaries], were in fierce competition with one another to earn the mitzvah [good deed] of being the pre-eminent donor for the reconstruction of the old synagogue building, the place where, rumor had it, St. Paul had sojourned during his missionary travels. (May the good Saint rot in gehenna [the lake of fire, or “hell”] !)

At any rate, I was soon employed by one of the prosperous building firms in the city. My contract, which was to run for five years, from 5253-58 [1493-98], described my duties as extending beyond drafting blueprints, and such, to “serving in other capacities, as needed.” The contract also stipulated that my renumeration would be generous: 100 akces [Ottoman silver coins, each worth 54 Venetian ducats] per annum, plus room and full board at one of my master’s houses, and five cords of firewood, to heat my room.

Are you familiar with the ketubah, the contract signed by Jewish bride and groom prior to the marriage ceremony? I have always observed an odd incongruity in this contract. Whereas the groom’s list of undertakings is lengthy, the bride’s are condensed into a single phrase: “to be a good Jewish wife.”

That phrase came forcefully to mind when, during the first few weeks after signing my own contract, I discovered the meaning of those “other capacities.” I learned, to my dismay, that they might include anything from serving as a lowly גולש [go-fer] to serving as a clerical functionary —that is, one of the men who perched on high stools all day, worrying the beads of an abacus!

As it turns out, I spent less than a quarter of each sixty-hour work week at architectural tasks. Most of the remaining hours were spent among the “stool-perchers,” helping to keep track of my master’s huge incoming and outgoing moneys, some of them garnered from the lucrative practice of “tax farming,” and others earned by his wife, who served as a kyra [purveyor of goods and services to the harem]. In short, once the magnate discovered that arithmetic had been part of my Cordovan training, he exploited the fact mercilessly. After the first two months of drudgery, I was beginning to feel like a human abacus.

Once again, it was my nautical friend, the good Demopoulos, who came to my rescue. When the αρχάγγελο returned from Lisbon to Selânik, some three months after my deliverance, our reunion included a second bonus, beyond the pleasure of seeing “Demo" again. By then, it was the month of Sivan [May-June], and since the day was warm and dry, we proceeded from the boat to an outdoor cafe’ on the esplanade. There, we ordered a plate of cold meze [snacks] and a pitcher of iced raki [a Turkish alcoholic drink]. When the waiter had served us, and left our table, Demo lifted his glass for a toast.

“Cheers, Uzi!” he cried.

“Serefe [Cheers]!” I responded, clinking glasses.

“I have an offer to make to you today, my friend,” he said, hardly giving me time to swallow my liquor.

Twenty minutes before, on our way over from the gangplank connecting the αρχάγγελο with the dock, I had been complaining about my job. So I was not completely surprised when Demo now told me, “Owing to the illness of a family member back in Portugal, our ship’s carpenter has just been forced to resign.” Not even giving me a moment to commiserate with this unfortunate, Demo rolled on. “The position is a good one, which my friendship with the captain, and his trust in me, have placed at my disposal. Interested?”

I helped myself to a cube of cheese wrapped in a thin slice of beef before cautiously replying. “Hmm, that sounds interesting. But would they consider a J…”

He interrupted. “Of course not! But I will say that you are of Syrian, Yemeni, or some other extraction. You can certainly pass for an Arab, my friend. Just don’t turn up at your interview with Captain Michalopoulos wearing payos [side locks] and a tallis [prayer shawl] !

Somehow, this joke put my nose out of joint, giving my reply a snitty tone. “Are you frightened, Demo, that I might choose to masquerade as a devout man when, as you well know, I am no such thing?”

“Just kidding, Uzi,” he said, placatingly, and before I could say more, he launched into the enticing details of the prospective job. While the salary for the position, as carpenter of the αρχάγγελο, eighty akces per annum, was twenty per cent less than I was currently earning, I would only have to sail to Portugal, and back, on an as-needed basis —that is, when the the ship required repairs that were beyond the capacity of its ordinary crew members. Between times, responsible for the supervision of minor repairs, which could be completed in the Selânik harbor, I could live —and eat— in idleness at the company hostel, also here in Selânik.

“In other words,” he concluded his sales pitch, “you would be earning full-time wages for part-time work.” We lifted our glasses to that.

“But what about the ketubah clause?” I asked. As part of my complaint, as we had been walking from the boat, I had explained how my job as architect had metamorphosed into that of clerk.

“This job contains no such clause,” Demo replied. “I swear on my mother’s bones that you will not be anything but a ship’s carpenter.” The Greek sailor frequently uttered oaths involving his late mother. Swearing on her bones was his second most serious oath, with only her soul being more serious.

Of course, I was not slow to mention the distinction between an architect and a carpenter, to which he made the clever reply that both were a far cry from being a “stool-percher.” Between the raki and the state of discontent in which my friend’s visit had found me, I wound up agreeing to meet with Captain Michalopoulos. I wish, however, that I had better anticipated the aftermath.