She continued. “Florence’s Jewry approaches a schism, I fear. Here the multitudes of our people turn their hearts to the imposter Sabbatai Zevi. They follow his claim to be the Messiah, whom we have awaited with such patience and through every trial and persecution. Even the rabbis of our community begin to turn their hearts to him. I have spoken with those I hoped I might persuade, but my reasoning makes little mark on them, for they still stand ready to join the multitudes in following Sabbatai Zevi.
“Though I was never the wisest pupil, still I recall fondly the steady light of your teachings in Amsterdam, and I feel certain you would deem this man Sabbatai Zevi an imposter. I beg you, please, to send some words that might help me persuade the people against this folly. There are those who sell their belongings to prepare for their removal to the Holy Land on the day he will declare himself the Messiah. There are those who speak of unearthing the graves of beloved ones so their bodies may be revived to life at the approaching end of days. I fear for the Jews of this city and”—she faltered—“this city and all the lands this false leader touches. I fear the people will not be able to return whole, once they lean their weight on false faith.
“Your respectful servant, Daniel Lusitano.”
She waited. Had it not been enough?
“I’ve heard much rumor of Sabbatai Zevi’s claims,” the rabbi said slowly, “and the madness of some of his followers. I did not know it had reached Florence, nor that the wiser minds of that community were susceptible to it. But why does he not turn for aid to one of the great rabbis of Amsterdam? Or to Sasportas, whose authority exceeds mine?”
She kept her voice even. “Perhaps your student trusts only in his teacher.”
The rabbi stirred in his chair. “Let it be known,” he said, “that I oppose the following of Sabbatai Zevi as dangerous.”
He was asking her to begin a letter. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to move.
He waved at her, his face taut, distracted. “I wish you to write a reply for me.”
She stepped to the writing table. She let herself down onto the chair as though sinking from a great, vertiginous distance.
The rabbi had lowered his face into his hands and remained in that posture for a long moment. Then he raised his head and spoke. Quill in hand, she took down his words in a hasty scrawl. My dear Daniel, You may be assured I will attempt to do as you have asked. With full heart, I offer the arguments that seem to me most true. You have my blessing to improve upon or alter my words as you see fit, trusting your own wisdom as to how best to use them, for it is G-d’s work that you do and you will know better than I what will sway the Jews of Florence. She struggled to keep pace with his words, ink staining her fingers. The argument against the claims of Sabbatai Zevi may be divided into three portions, which I will attempt to set out for you now.
When the rabbi had finished, he had her read his words back and take his corrections. When he was satisfied he rose, his hand reaching to the wall for support.
Once she would have stood to help him. But the set of his face told her the rabbi did not welcome her help.
“I’m troubled by this news,” he said. “I’ll sleep now. Copy the letter, and send it.”
“I will,” she said.
He felt his way toward the doorway, a long, labored process. Near the door he turned to her, his face heavy and unreadable. “Tomorrow you will take down a further letter to the rabbis of Amsterdam, alerting them to the danger of Sabbatai Zevi’s rise. You will scribe for me until this matter is resolved, and only until that day.” He paused. “I will not ask you to write to Amsterdam and send for a scribe to do this work in your place. I will not ask you to do this thing, because I know you will not do it. And as the only remaining guardian of your soul, I do not wish to be responsible for your lie.” His face was tight with vexation, though whether at her or at himself or at the congregation of Florence she didn’t know. He left.
She spread her palms on the writing table’s cool, smooth surface. Did these hands belong to her? The very words she’d once hurled at her brother accused her: You ask me to spit on the one man who’s helped us.
Yet how easily she betrayed the rabbi now.
Tears welled. She banished them.
After a moment she set the rabbi’s letter to one side, drew a fresh piece of paper from the drawer, and picked up the quill. She wrote the words in a rush.
To Franciscus van den Enden,
I have read with much interest of your work with Plockhoy and of your notions of the ideal society. Yet while your political philosophy is a rich terrain, there are other matters I wish to discuss with you and the philosophes of your circle.
I will speak plainly and ask that you judge such directness a mark of respect. Some say you go so far as atheistery, and that your association with Benedictus de Spinoza emboldened him to leave his people the Jews. If this is so, I will not judge it for ill, for the notion of the divine is to me a puzzle not yet answered and many are those who strive honestly to solve it. It is evident, by proofs I will gladly formulate should you choose to engage this discourse, that the twinned concepts of divine will and infallibility do not withstand study except where shrouded in obfuscating mystery by men whose imaginations insist on this comfort.
These words alone are a heresy, yet my questions range beyond what I write here. Among my strong desires is the wish to understand the notion of determinism rumored to be held by de Spinoza. Are you in agreement with it? And in your thinking how far do its consequences reach—does man hold no remnant of free will? And might determinism limit even God, if one may still speak with you of God? Does God possess will, and the power to execute that will, or is God something other than what every manner of faith has conceived? I beg to enter into an exchange with you on these and other matters. I assure you that your reply will not stray from my hands, but will be seen only by myself. Well do I understand the perils of metaphysics, and the dangers to philosophers whose work too sharply interrogates faith. Yet I ask of you whether a thinker might join in your circles from a distance. For even though I respire the air of another clime, I gladly conspire with you, as all we men of philosophy breathe the same air of questions wheresoever we reside.
Awaiting your reply,
Thomas Farrow
It was with a grim smile that she signed Thomas’s name as she imagined he might: with a swaggering flourish. At least, she told herself, she did that one goodness. She told no lie under the rabbi’s name.
When Ester opened her eyes it was to a ripened day. Rivka, who must have been informed by the rabbi that Ester was again in his service, had left her abed, wordlessly hefting the load of housework upon her thick shoulders once more.