The brief missive from Rabbi HaCoen Mendes to Benjamin HaLevy, a prominent merchant, not only implies that HaLevy’s son Alvaro was homosexual, but argues against the harsh punitive stance taken by the father. Benjamin HaLevy, undeterred by the rabbi’s argument, chose to impress his son into service on a ship (this is the exile referred to in the rabbi’s letter—see box below for complete text—and this punishment was indeed carried through, as confirmed by the muster roll of the ship Triumph, which sailed from England in 1665 and sank with all hands in a storm off the coast of Brazil in 1667). The father’s punishment, paired with the rabbi’s plea (“It is not for us to stone the sinner . . .”), maps for us a range of Jewish responses to the looser sexual mores of Restoration London.
The inverted document is the most obscure element thus far discovered. Although it’s tempting to hope for further enlightenment concerning its vague references, given the lack of a Jewish Pepys to map the personalities and social intrigues of this community, it seems unlikely we shall ever discover the full stories behind the individuals in question. The scribe was most likely the daughter of one Samuel Velasquez of Amsterdam, and is known, along with her brother, to have joined the rabbi’s household after the parents’ deaths (we have yet to confirm the siblings’ given names). We can assume, however, that this young woman’s own education had not prepared her for the learned discourse to which she had access in the household of Rabbi HaCoen Mendes. The pronouncements she makes in the inverted text are most likely a blend of her own thoughts and fragments overheard in the rabbi’s conversation. Given the disjointed nature of the inverted text, it also seems possible that she was merely copying out lines from a poem or other source unknown to the modern reader. Certainly a scribe might undertake such an exercise as a memorization aid, or even in order to practice penmanship. Indeed the final lines of the cross-writing invite this explanation; the scribe’s use of a quotation from Shakespeare’s Richard II implies that she was versed in popular literature and in theater, and perhaps eager to show her knowledge of a beloved verse, even in a doodle to herself between the lines of another document.
While comparisons to the discovery of the diary of Glückel of Hameln will surely arise, this loose collection of cross-written statements offers none of the access to the details of daily life that makes Glückel’s diary such a rich source. Nonetheless, a young female scribe’s presence on the written page, while a lesser discovery, remains a compelling one. Indeed, her voice in the cross-written document—though occasionally breathless in tone, as any of us might find ourselves in a heady environment—may be seen as a touchingly human grace note to the graver matter at stake: the evidence of a determined Sabbatean faction in Florence.
Multiple works will surely follow this first one: there is room for a biography of Rabbi HaCoen Mendes, about whom too little is currently known, and there is perhaps a dissertation to be written about his scribe, as we might glean from it something about the lives of Jewish women of this community.
At the risk of injecting the personal into a scholarly article, I must say that it is an honor to be present at such a find, and a privilege to launch what will surely be a rich and multifaceted study of these documents.
She ate before driving to the university. She set her place without a butter knife, put the milk back into a cabinet instead of the refrigerator before realizing what she’d done. When she sat she didn’t bother, for once, tucking a napkin about her neck, and the sandwich she’d made wavered broadly in her hand, scattering crumbs to the table and floor while she aimed her mouth at it, and she cursed her hunger and cursed her body, though she could not blame it for its mutiny. Had she but loved her life, her body, instead of warring against them—had she but loved someone, had she but allowed a different future . . . ?
She couldn’t think.
Her blouse was stained with tomato juice. Perhaps she wouldn’t change clothing—would simply walk into the world like this: stained, defeated. Don’t you eat? Aaron Levy had asked, during that innocent first week in Richmond, when she’d felt so certain that the documents, once acquired by the university, would be hers.
She ate, yes. She ate in private. This was why. She’d let none but her doctor see the extent of her tremor.
Except—the realization hit her, a tiny shock—Aaron. On that first day in Richmond, she’d deliberately shown Aaron her tremor, hadn’t she? Lifting her hand and letting it quake right in front of his face: an act of aggression, a dare. Why? Had she so wanted a friend—and so forgotten how to obtain one—that she’d bullied an underling in a play for sympathy? But it had had the opposite effect: she’d been so unsettled by the horror on Aaron Levy’s face that she’d barely been able to speak to him the remainder of the day.
She stood, walked to her closet, changed her blouse.
Aaron was waiting for her outside the rare manuscripts room. He looked as though he’d taken a bite of something foul and hadn’t yet decided whether to swallow. “I’ve read it,” he said.
She mustered a nod.
To her surprise, he reached out and, before she understood what he was doing, took her heavy bag from her. Hefting it on his own shoulder as though the weight were nothing, he breathed a long sigh. “Shall we?” He opened the door for her.
It took her a moment to identify the sensation that came over her as she passed him. Aaron was being protective. She felt protected. It was a useless gesture, yes. But she was grateful all the same.
Which made it all the harder, having checked in with Patricia and settled at the table to await their manuscripts, to speak. Still, she owed him this.
“You should join Wilton’s group,” she said. She didn’t look at him as she said it.
The silence with which he received her words was interrupted by the arrival of Patricia, who placed a document before each of them.
When Patricia had departed, Helen spoke again, her eyes on the far wall. “I think he’d have you. You’re good.”
He still hadn’t spoken. She looked at him.
“See?” she said. “That’s a compliment.”
She’d meant it as a joke, but her voice sounded stifled.
Aaron appeared to be casting about for a wry retort. At length he said, “Thank you.”
“I’ll be retiring soon, as you know.” The words hurt coming out. “I’ll write you a reference.”
“I don’t want one.”
The door of the rare manuscripts room opened, and Wilton entered with his group. They made their way down the broad aisle, deposited their things serenely in lockers. To Helen they appeared too bright to look at, beautiful and terrible angels from a painting. But Aaron was looking directly at them, and he wasn’t smiling.
Wilton was passing their table. She forced herself to stand. She forced herself to look at him. “Congratulations,” she said. “That was a fine paper.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you. I confess, I’m gratified by the reception it’s receiving. But that’s a tribute to the significance of this find, of course, more than to anything my group has done.”
She offered a tight smile in return. She said, “Have you met Aaron Levy?”
Wilton stepped forward and shook Aaron’s hand. Then, instead of stepping away from their table, he lingered with one palm on its surface, and Helen saw that he needed to tip the scales a bit so he could rest comfortably in his triumph. Having vanquished her, he’d now offer her some kindness.
Wilton’s focus had fallen, she saw, on the document Patricia had set before Aaron. “That’s the last of the Sabbatean letters, I suspect,” he said.
“How do you know that?” Helen snapped, then regretted her defensive tone.
“The rabbi died on July 8 of that year, in the thick of the plague,” Wilton said. “We have the death record from the parish, which is presumably correct. This letter is dated some three weeks before that.” He studied the document, an expression of sympathy on his face. “Rather sad to see him go, of course.” He glanced up at Helen. “The documents are really quite moving,” he said, “aren’t they?”
She saw that Wilton wanted her to like him, and she could not help liking him. “Quite,” she said faintly.
Aaron spoke firmly. “Maybe it’s the last Sabbatean letter, and maybe it’s not.”
Wilton gave an affable smile. “You’re right, of course. It’s important to be cautious. But feel free to check the parish records; you’ll see the rabbi’s date of death.”