Teresa hated God more than ever. Just look where the Ancient Cruel One had led them! What was the meaning of that port, devoid of flat ground, with thousands of houses that didn’t seem man-made, but like abscesses spreading along the sides of the hills? The Russians may have been dangerous, but at least they didn’t eat human flesh. But the Indians here, who knows? Maybe not cannibals, but thieves, all of them! Anyway, what did that matter when not even the crumbs were left of the few dollars Moishe Rosenthal had given them?
Now at least she wouldn’t have to rub elbows with the Jewish wives (who didn’t know how to live without swapping things — a wool vest for three sets of underpants, half a loaf of onion bread for six rotten oranges) invading the kitchen to fry their latkes, boil up some kasha, or bake matzo, slapping their children, dribbling out a constant stream of proverbs—“Spare the rod and spoil the child,” “The answer is always in the question,” “God punishes those He loves”—and scaring off sheidim from every spoon, knife, fork, plate, and casserole. Teresa paid a waiter from the second class to bring them goy food in pots. Seeing these renegades devour impure food, the immigrants kept their distance: they preferred being even closer to one another so they could leave a six-foot ring around the apostates.
While the family slept, Alejandro allowed the Rabbi to put his mouth in the center of his heart, so he could recite prayers that would navigate through his blood and purify his entire body.
When the ship entered the docking area, the four children ran to the handrail, slipping through the chattering Yiddish crowd who recoiled from them in disgust. With great dignity, Teresa took Alejandro by the arm and caught up with her excited heirs to look contemptuously at the port. Clustered around the gangway, people were selling bananas, grapes, cherries, and many other fruit with strange names — chirimoyas, nísperos, avocados, and caquis. Others were waving bouquets of herbs and flowers. Their clothes were tattered and they had no shoes. But at the same time they had no feathers, no bows, and no arrows. A bit further off, groups of elegant people under multicolored parasols were awaiting first and second-class passengers. There were ships loading and unloading Italians, Englishmen, Germans, Swedes, Frenchmen. Painted-up women were pulling on the arms of the sailors, dragging them toward the bars. In their luxurious construction, the buildings on the narrow flat area beyond the dock, unlike the poor houses covering the hillsides, resembled the mansions of Paris.
The city — civilized, flourishing in a transparent, caressing breeze, deliciously perfumed, between the glitter of the rocky mountain range and the murmur of the sea — made Teresa smile, even if her strenuous effort not to show it made her face look like a sun-drenched apple. And as an orchestra, which included guitars and a harp played a kind of polka to a clapping, shouting, dancing, handkerchief-waving audience, Alejandro and the children hugged Teresa because they were carried away by an irrepressible joy.
The disembarking passengers were received with hugs and kisses. A well dressed group in the style of the goyim, received the immigrants, waving pennants emblazoned with six-pointed stars. To each newcomer they gave a package of food and clothing. They kissed the strangers as brothers, wept, sang hymns in Yiddish, and moved off into the port. Teresa’s smile inverted into a bitter frown. She shook off her husband and children as if they were dust and was no longer mute: “Don’t start in with this idiocy! Remember, we’re not Jews anymore! We’ve reached Hell, and not a single devil is waiting for us!”
Picking up a suitcase she walked haughtily down the gangplank to go through with the customs formalities. Her family followed her, trying to imitate her painful dignity. No one checked their baggage. Some dark men with black moustaches stamped their passports and, laughing among themselves, pointed towards the exit door.
It was 9:00 a.m. They were in the middle of the street in Valparaíso, the farthest corner of the world, unable to speak a word of Spanish, with no money and no friends. What should they do? Just as she had in Paris, Teresa sat down on the ground, closed her eyes, and said, “Fix things up the best you can. I’m not here.”
Fanny, Lola, Benjamín, and Jaime looked at their father. He responded: “Well, I think she’s asking me to summon the Rabbi again so he can save our skin.”
On this occasion, the Rabbi was unsure. This world was unknown to him. He doubted. “If a wise man is one who knows that he doesn’t know, then at this moment I’m a wise man. Let’s see. Everything revolves around money and death. Look in your pockets, Alejandro; one golden key opens a thousand doors. Perhaps you’ve got one last banknote.”
My grandfather carefully searched his deep pockets. In the fold at the bottom of his leather coat, he found a tiny coin. Half a kopek: worthless.
Alejandro shut his eyes and dropped down to the ground to sit next to Teresa. A jubilant shout from the Rabbi made him jump to his feet. “Mazel tov! Half a kopek, marvelous! Adonai is calling us. Remember Exodus, Chapter 30:
And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
12 When thou takest the sum of the children of Israel after their number, then shall they give every man a ransom for his soul unto the Lord, when thou numberest them; that there be no plague among them, when thou numberest them.
13 This they shall give, every one that passeth among them that are numbered, half a shekel after the shekel of the sanctuary: (a shekel is twenty gerahs:) an half shekel shall be the offering of the Lord.
14 Every one that passeth among them that are numbered, from twenty years old and above, shall give an offering unto the Lord.
15 The rich shall not give more, and the poor shall not give less than half a shekel, when they give an offering unto the Lord, to make an atonement for your souls.
16 And thou shalt take the atonement money of the children of Israel, and shalt appoint it for the service of the tabernacle of the congregation; that it may be a memorial unto the children of Israel before the Lord, to make an atonement for your souls.
“Do you understand, Alejandro? A silver coin, half a shekel, half a kopek, the same symbol, rich and poor giving a half, the mortal half, while receiving the totality of eternal life. You thought you’d lost everything, but Adonai left in the darkest corner of your clothing what you really needed, the half shekel of the offering so you can enter the Sanctuary and establish the union that will liberate you from mortality. Courage! God is waiting for us! You, I, your family, we are seven, the golden candelabra, the menorah! Let us arrange ourselves and in proper order climb up to the top of that peak. Do you see the Temple? There we will deposit your obolus and receive from the Eternal One an impulse to the new life.”
Alejandro squinted, trying to see what the Rabbi was talking about, at the top of that peak, itself covered with clusters of houses. He could make out a gray, rectangular house of some size with a chimney that was pouring out white smoke. “The fire of sacrifices.” As usual, my grandfather completely believed whatever the Rabbi said. He knelt and, spreading his arms, made his way to Teresa, who stubbornly kept her eyes shut.
A chorus of crystalline voices accompanied their short, uncomfortable walk. A pack of dark, ragged children, among whom there were two or three blonds and skeletal dogs, surrounded them, begging for money at the top of their lungs: “A penny! A nickel! A loaf of bread!”
Suddenly a rotten peach exploded on Benjamín’s bald head. Everyone laughed and went on tossing garbage.
“Teresa, you know by now that the Rabbi always saves us. If you wish, just go on pretending he doesn’t exist, but do what I’m asking you to do with your eyes closed. Line up in the order he tells us and we will go to the top of that peak. There, God will give us the help we need.”