The ninth of Av ( 5252) 1492, was a dark day in the history of our people. After having occupied the Iberian peninsula for more than fourteen centuries, the Jewish community, numbering more than 100,000 that had contributed much to the physical and intellectual development of Spain was exiled. Those who refused to convert to Christianity fled to Portugal, Italy, North Africa and Turkey.
Leading the exodus was the prominent Biblical commentator, philosopher, statesman and royal treasurer, Don Isaac Abrabanel. Ferdinand and Isabella who had signed the edict of expulsion were sorry to see him and his family leave. They hoped that the Abarbanels would convert to Christianiy and thus avoid expulsion.
Don Isaac Abarbanel had been a Godsend to Ferdinand and Isabella, lending the royal treasury considerable sums from his personal funds. With Abarbanel’s loan, the monarchs were successful in their conquest of Granada, ending all Islamic rule on the Iberian peninsula.
Instead of expressing gratitude to their Jewish benefactor, they spurned his entreaties, including Abarbanel’s offer to pay a magnificent sum to reverse the evil decree. The monarchs had the ear of the wicked , Father Tomas de Torquemada, the head of the Inquisition and were persuaded by his sharp tongue.
Yehuda (Leone) Abrabanel also known as Leone Ebreo (born circa 1465) was the oldest son of Don Isaac and served as the private physician of Ferdinand and Isabella. He was a Talmid Chochom, having been educated together with his younger brothers under the tutelage of Rabbi Yosef ben Avraham Ibn Hayoun, one of the leading rabbis of the Jewish community in Lisbon, Portugal where Yehuda was born and raised.
Yehuda who was only in his twenties during the time of the expulsion was to later go down in history as the greatest Jewish philosopher in Renaissance Italy and one of the greatest philosophers in the world during his time.
The monarchs begged their physician, Leone Ebreo, to convert to Christianity so that he could remain in the country and continue to treat them.
They hoped that the conversion of Rabbi Avraham Seneor. chief tax farmer who held the title of Rab de le Corte, as well as the conversions of the latter’s sons and son-in-law would induce the Abarbanels to convert as well. Ironically, Rabbi Avraham Seneor had beens the shadchan of Ferdinand and Isabella and what a disaster his Shidduch had wrought.*
Sadly Rabbi Seneor was already eighty in 1492 when he converted; he passed away the following year. Although the Abarbanels were close to the Seneors and Rabbi Seneor had approached the monarchs together with Abarbanel three times to try to convince them to withdraw their expulsion edict, once the Seneors perceived that the monarchs were unwavering, they caved in.
The Spanish Monarchs soon realized that the Abarbanels had no intention of abandoning their Jewish faith, and hatched a plot to have Dr. Yehuda Abarbanel’s baby kidnapped and converted. They expected the kidnapping would sway the Abarbanels to abandon their faith.
The Abarbanels became aware of the plot and Yehudah (Leone) Abarbanel sent away his one year old baby, Yitzchok together with a nanny to Portugal. According to the late Professor Benzion Netanyahu of Cornell University (father of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu), who wrote a definitive work on the life of Don Isaac Abarbanel, the nanny and baby escaped to Yehuda’s sister who lived in Lisbon. From Portugal the Abarbanels hoped to have the baby brought to Italy where they were planning to flee.
The Spanish monarchs were furious when they discovered the disappearance of the baby. They immediately contacted the King of Portugal, John II who had the baby taken away, baptized and raised with the Dominicans.. King John II had been especially furious with the baby’s grandfather, Don Isaac Abrabanel, who King John had mistakenly believed had transpired to oust him
. Historians have learned about the tragic kidnapping from the Hebrew poem composed by his father Dr. Yehudah Abarbanel, entitled “Tlunah al Hazeman .(literally Complaint of Time) which has been translated as “The Travails of Time. “ It was composed eleven years after the kidnapping when the boy would have been twelve. Dr. Yehuda Abarbanel beseeches his kidnapped son that wherever he is, he should observe the Torah and tells him of his illustrious family and Jewish heritage.
Below are parts of the English translation of the poem rendered by Professor Raymond P. Scheindlin. .
.The Travails of Time
Time with his pointed shafts has hit
My heart and split my gut, laid open my entrails,
landed me a blow that will not heal,
knocked me down, left me in lasting pain.
Time wounded me, wasted away my flesh,
used up my blood and fat in suffering,
ground my bones to meal, and rampaged, leapt,
attacked me like a lion in his rage.
………………
Yes,Time-
my bear, my wolf! – ate up my heart, cleft
it in two and cut it into bits,
so that it aches with groaning, panic, plunder,
confiscation, loss, captivity.
But even this was not enough for him; he also seeks
to snuff my spark, exterminate my line.
Two sons were born to me, two splendid sons,
two precious, noble, handsome boys.
The younger I named Samuel. Time,
my watchful overseer, confiscated him,
struck him down, just five years old,
and all that grew from him was misery.
The elder I called Isaac Abravanel,
after the quarry where I myself was hewn,
after one of Israel’s greats, his grandfather,
a man a match for David, Lamp unto the West.
At birth I saw that he was good,
his heart a fitting site for wisdom, apt
repository for the goods
his forebears handed down through me.
He was just one year old-alas!-when Time,
the enemy ever at my heels,
took him away.
The day the King of Spain expelled the Jews
he ordered that a watch be set for me
so that I not slip away through mountain passes,
and that my child, still nursing, should be seized
and brought into his faith on his behalf.
A good man got word to me in time, a friend;
I sent him with his wet-nurse in the dark
of midnight-just like smuggled goods!-
to Portugal, then ruled by a wicked king
who earlier had nearly ruined me.
For in his father’s time-a worthy king!-
my father had achieved success and wealth.
Then this one followed him, a grasping thing,
a man but with the cravings of a dog.
His courtiers and his brother schemed revolt.
He thwarted them and killed his brother; then,
alleging that my father was with them,
he tried to kill him too! But G-d,
the Rider of the clouds, preserved his life.
My father fled to Castile, home of my ancestors,
my family’s source. But as for me,
the King seized all my gold and silver,
took as forfeit everything I owned.
Now, seeing that my child was in his land,
and learning that I planned
to join my father’s house in Italy,
the King detained my child and gave command
that none should send my stray lamb back to me.
After lie died a foolish king arose,
fanatical and hollow in the head,
who violated all the House of Jacob,
turned my noble people to his faith.
Many killed themselves, rather than
transgress the Law of G-d, our help in need.
My darling boy was taken, and his good name,
the name of the rock from which I was hewn changed!
He’s twelve years old; I haven’t seen him since-
so are my sins repaid!
I rage, but only at myself;
there’s no one else but me to bear the blame.
I chased him from mere troubles to a trap,
I drove him from mere sparks into a flame.
I hope to see him, heartsick with my endless hope.
0 dear gazelle! What makes you tarry so?
Why do you thus crush a father’s heart?
Why do you aim your arrows at my inmost parts?
Why do you dim the fight by sending clouds
and make the shining seem like night to me?
The moon is always darkened in my sight,
my star is blotted out by clouds;
no sun’s ray ever penetrates my home,
or crosses my doorsill to reach my beams.
My roses never bloom on Sharon’s plain,
my grasses never feel the driving rain.
You steal my very sleep with the thought of you-
am I sleeping or awake? I cannot tell.
I cannot touch my food, for even honey stings,
and sweets taste venomous to me.
Miserably I nibble coal-burnt crusts,
moistening with tears my dried-out bread.
My only drink is water mixed with tears;
the blood of grapes does not come near my mouth.
I’m drunk with nothing more than water,
like a Nazirite or one of Rechab’s sons.
But when I dream of your return,
and when I picture in my mind’s eye how you look,
how good my fortune seems! The rose returns
to dress my cheek in sanguine once again.
I sleep and find sleep sweet; I wake
refreshed, delighting in your lingering image.
The water that I drink is sweet, and even earth
tastes sweet when I imagine you are here.
But when I think about our separation,
hear blasts my heart, a desert wind within.
I seem like one dismayed or in a faint,
diminished somehow and reduced in size.
The thought of you is joy to me and pain,
tonic and torment arc from you, balm and bane.
I have your image graven on my heart,
but also our separation in my core,
and any joy your image brings to me
cannot outweigh the reproach your absence speaks.
Your absence frustrates all my plans,
your exile blocks, diverts my roads.
*
Let me go back to speaking to my boy,
for that will make him leave off hurting me.
Now pay attention, son: Know that you
descend from scholars, men with minds
developed to the point of prophecy.
Wisdom is your heritage, so do not waste
your boyhood, precious boy.
Think of your studies as pleasure: learning Scripture,
conning the commentators, memorizing Mishna,
reasoning out the Talmud
with the Thirteen Principles, guided by
the glosses of the ancient Schools . . .
-But how can I control myself when he is lost?
That is the thought that sickens, strangles, slashes me;
that is the razor, sharper than any barber’s blade,
that rips the membrane of my aching heart,
that brings into my miserable heart
into my very gut the flaming sword:
To whom will I hand on my scholarship?
To whom can I pour the nectar from my vines?
Who will taste and eat the fruit of all
my learning, of my books, when I am gone?
Who will penetrate the mysteries
my father put into his sacred books?
Who will slake his thirst at my father’s well?
Who will drink at all in this time of drought?
Who will pluck the blooms of my own garden,
hew and harvest my own wisdom’s tree?
Who will take my undone works in hand?
Who will weave my writings’ woof and warp?
Who will wear the emblem of my faith
when once I die?
Who will mount my mule or ride my coach?-
Only you, my soul’s delight, my heir,
the pledge for everything I owe to God.
For you, my son, my heart is thirsting, burning;
in you I quell my hunger and my thirst.
My splendid skills are yours by right, my knowledge,
and the science that has gotten fame for me.
Some of it my mentor, my own father
bequeathed to me -a scholar’s scholar he;
the rest I gained by struggling on my own,
subduing wisdom with my bow and sword,
plumbing it with my mind. Christian scholars
are grasshoppers next to me. I’ve seen their colleges-
they’ve no one who can best me in the duel of words.
I beat down any man who stands against me,
crush and hush my opponent, prove him wrong.
Who but me would dare to tell the mysteries
of the Creation, of the Chariot, of its Rider?
My soul excels, surpasses all the souls
of my contemporaries in this wretched age.
My Form is fortified by G-d, my Rock,
locked, imprisoned in my body’s cage.
It yearns for you to surpass my degree;
I always hoped that you would outdo me.
Dear one, what keeps you with an unclean folk,
an apple tree alone amid the carobs,
a pure soul lost among the nations,
a rose among the desert thorns and weeds?
Set out upon the road to me, my dear.
Fly, bound like a fawn or a gazelle,
and make your way to your father’s house, who sired you
(may G-d protect you, Who protected me!).
May the Lord give you smooth roads to travel,
lift you out of straits to my ample court,
heap upon your head my forefathers’ bounty,
besides my father’s and my grandfather’s wealth.
Then He will light my spirit in its darkness,
and redirect my footsteps to the plain.
I now commend my son to G-d, my shepherd,
and cast my burden on my Highest Father.
.
Many believe that after the boy disappeared he was never seen again by members of his family. . However, the 1971 Encyclopedia Judaica entry on Yehudah Abrabanel states that there is reason to believe the boy returned to his roots and his family.
The Hebrew poem concerning his lost son, has been published together with the Hebrew translation — “Vikuach HaAhavah” –of Yehuda Abarbanel’s”Dialoghi d’amore (Dialogues of Love). This philosophy book which is believed to have originally been written in Ladino by Dr. Yehuda Abarbanel was published in 1535 in the Italian version after the doctor’s death.
It became an international best seller and translations in Spanish, Hebrew, Latin followed the one in Italian. The translations were published numerous times to keep up with the huge demand. The philosophy book discussed the concept of happiness as well as love of G-d and man. The Spanish translation was rendered by a non-Jew thirty years after Dr. Leon Abarbanel’s death. The translator dedicated and gifted it to King Philip of Spain, a grandchild of Ferdinand and Isabella who were the ones that initially exiled him and had Jews burnt at the stake.
Dr. Yehudah Abarbanel composed his philosophical work during his wanderings – He wandered from Naples to Genoa to Barletta, Venice, Ferrara and Pisaro. During his sojourns in various cities, he served as physician to several royals including the Viceroy of Naples.
But he will be remembered most for his Dialoghi d’amore which is studied all over the world.
Now that he is in the world of truth, he has certainly been reunited with his long lost kidnapped son, and together they are basking in the Torah for which they sacrificed much.
- Rabbi Yair Bachrach in the Chavos Yair Siman 185 states that. Jews should not serve as shadchanim of non-Jews because I was told
מפי גדולים וזקנות כי המתעסק באלה לא יצא נקי מזרע שמקדיח תבשילו