Dreaming in Medieval

He rose from his chair and began to pace. In motion, he proceeded to describe several attacks which had occurred in our neighborhood in the past week. We lived in the lower section of the judería in an area called Villa Nueva on Calle Tenebregosa. Of course, I knew the area intimately, and I was aware of these attacks, but I did not know any of the details. Ironically, our house was located not far from the great Cathedral, the massive and beautiful structure which dominates the city, and which also, ironically, is situated on the same street as several synagogues. As he spoke, the smoldering images of my recent nightmare returned to me. But the images he was describing at that moment were different and overpowering, and they were not from a dream. “Yehudit,” he began, “the stones which framed our synagogue doors have all been smashed and scattered. Inside and out, Torah scrolls lie unraveled, and all our valuable objects made pf precious metals are gone, stolen because of their value. The silver filigree reading pointers and the silver crowns which topped the Torah scrolls are disappeared. And Yehudit,” he continued, “do you remember the gold finials that were engraved with Hebrew verses from the Book of Psalms, the ones that served as handles to open the doors of the ark? His despair was boundless. “The looters are also burners,” he continued. “Beautiful wood was tossed into the pyre in the street. Staffs used to wind and keep the Torah in its place were broken, and holy arks which housed the scrolls were splintered into jagged pieces and burned, and so too the scrolls themselves. Wooden benches and rabbis’ platforms fed the flames, and prayer books added fuel. All this malicious damage is incomprehensible to me, Yehudit,” he howled, “and yet, of course, I understand it perfectly.” At last, he sat down. As my husband spoke, I began to mourn silently. I was not surprised by his news, but the enormity of the disaster he described and the amount of detail he included were deeply shocking. It is hard to accept that people who live in your neighborhood hate you so much and want to harm you. I was not surprised that the focal point of our conversation had been the current disasters being brought against our people. It was impossible to ignore them, but what I had not anticipated was the conclusion to which Solomon came in the face of them. “Yehudit,” he continued, visibly uncomfortable and deeply anguished,” as much as I fear that our entire community may soon be felled by angry mobs who hate us because of our beliefs, I have begun to fear something that frightens me almost as much, perhaps even more.” I braced myself and looked intently at him. “I am beginning to suspect,” he continued, “that my own beliefs as a Jew are false. I see the violence being committed against us, and I ask myself if this might not be a message from God, that He is punishing us because we have sinned and erred in our ways by not accepting Jesus as the Messiah.” I recoiled at his words, but I did not change my expression. “Do you ever feel that way, Yehudit?” “No, Solomon,” I responded solemnly, “I do not share that belief.”