Kantika

“Is this when Rebecca feels her first flicker of unease, standing snug between her mother and little brother, Isidoro, an adult’s hand resting heavy on her hair? Is this when the skin of her eyelids first registers the possibility of sudden loss—how, for the people below, a house is a matchbox, its residents slender, red-tipped matches; strike them and they flare?”

The young Rebecca’s reaction to the fires that destroy homes in an impoverished neighborhood draws a distinction between the Cohens’ wealth and privilege and the situation of other Jewish families in Constantinople. The protagonist’s “flicker of unease” foreshadows the loss of the family’s high socioeconomic status and the vulnerability that Rebecca faces most of her life as a result. Like the people whose houses burn, Rebecca will be displaced by a “sudden loss” that impacts the meaning of home to her.

“The two girls look alike, both dark-haired and petite. Strangers sometimes mistake them for twins, though Rebecca’s eyes are lighter, and they tote around twin dolls, birthday gifts from Rebecca’s father.”

Rebbeca and Lika are as close in their friendship as they are in their appearances. However, despite the similarities that cause people to “mistake them for twins,” the girls come from starkly different socioeconomic backgrounds, which becomes apparent when World War I sets them on different paths. Their dream of remaining near one another all their lives does not come true, but Lika lives on in her daughter, Luna. Rebecca’s relationship with her stepdaughter has none of the ease of her friendship with Lika, but there is a great deal of love between them, and caring for Luna gives Rebecca a way of honoring her best friend’s memory.

“Because what was Spain? It was where his people were from and where they were not from. It was where they’d been massacred, accused of blood libel, rounded up in town squares to be assigned saints’ names or the names of trees. It was where—over four hundred years ago, for God’s sake—they’d left.”

After World War I, Alberto reluctantly prepares to relocate his family to Spain. This is a major advancement for the theme of Displacement and the Meaning of Home. Graver interrogates the concept of a homeland by providing historical context about antisemitism in Spain. The allusions to the Alhambra Decree in this passage emphasize Alberto’s desperation and fear because he feels very little attachment to Spain but believes this is a safer place for his family than Turkey.

“Staying together was supposed to be everything. What did a house matter—two houses, silver and china sets, books, divans, ivory carvings, paintings, bronze beds, silk carpets? What did a place matter, even, if you kept the people together, but what she is only now coming to understand is that the move itself can change the people in a corrosive, internal rearrangement.”

For Rebecca, the meaning of home becomes family. This is shown in the statement, “Staying together was supposed to be everything.” While she embraces the changes of her new life in Barcelona, her father and siblings become grimmer and warier after their displacement from Istanbul. Alberto is the character most impacted by “a corrosive, internal rearrangement,” likely because he blames himself for the loss of all the luxuries listed in this section—“ivory carvings, paintings, bronze beds, silk carpets.” Rebecca’s relationship with her father is complicated because she blames him for the family’s drastic change in circumstances as well.

“What is ‘from,’ anyway? She has never been to the Land of Israel, but she is from there; she has been told so all her life. She had never been to Spain until now, but she is from here, has been told so all her life, even as it has been endlessly, tediously drilled into her that her people have no home, condemned to wandering. Where she is actually from, Constantinople, does not even exist anymore, turned into Istanbul.”

A dressmaker refuses to hire Rebecca despite the quality of her work because she is Jewish, even though the Spanish government specifically invited members of the Sephardic community to immigrate to Spain. Graver uses this scene to develop the theme of displacement and to examine the complexity of the protagonist’s situation, who has many homes and yet none. The author places Rebecca’s personal struggle within broader cultural and historic contexts: The city of her idyllic childhood “does not even exist anymore, turned into Istanbul” and “it has been endlessly, tediously drilled into her” that displacement is part of the Jewish experience.

“Corinne and Israel are expecting a baby in Cuba, did you even hear me? And he says of course I heard, thanks to El Dyo, a baby, why do you think I’m crying? I’ll be a grandfather, I’m an idiot! A baby, God willing. Mashallah!”

The news that Alberto and Sultana’s eldest child is pregnant brings the usually distant man to tears, signaling a positive change for him and his relationship with his wife. The beginning of a new generation of the Cohen family is cause for joy and hope, but the scene is melancholy, too—they’ll never be permitted to leave Spain and see this grandchild in person.

“Even the studio set looks odd in retrospect. Something is wrong with the table, its legs neither bird nor beast and caught in a perpetual cramp, its top not a seat, though a man is seated on it, gazing (raptly? dumbly?) at his new bride as she looks away. Something is wrong with the man.”

The beautiful and charming Rebecca usually takes pride and pleasure in being in front of a camera, so her dissatisfaction with her and Luis’s wedding photograph foreshadows that their union will be troubled. In addition, the description of Luis “gazing (raptly? dumbly?) at his new bride” hints at the impact that Luis’s injuries in World War I have on his mental state and the effect his health has on their marriage.

“Any illusions she’d had about him being a good match are gone, but still she yearns for him—or maybe it’s not him at all. She yearns for touch—the plush, heady pull of it, the shedding of clothes, salt and heat of skin and clink of teeth, to feel at once powerful for awakening such lust and dizzyingly incidental, a stray leaf in a stream. It might almost make her think she loves him, or else she’s just a rutting animal.”

Rebecca’s physical desires during her early twenties develop her relationship with her body. Graver uses sensuous descriptions to express the joy and pleasure Rebecca finds in sex, illustrating the theme of Women’s Strength and Relationships with Their Bodies. However, the protagonist castigates herself with judgmental statements that reflect internalized misogyny, such as the idea that she’s “a rutting animal” unless her desire for sex is rendered socially acceptable by love for her husband.

“‘My sweet girl, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry what happened to you. It happened to me, the exact same thing. I was very young when I lost my husband. Aye, it happened to me, too!’ ‘What do you mean? What do you mean, that I lost my husband? The way you talk! Don’t talk to me like this!’”

In this scene, a stranger informs the protagonist that her husband is dead. The author’s use of repetition, such as in Rebecca’s questions—“What do you mean? What do you mean […]?”—helps to convey the surrealism of the situation. Luis’s death forever changes the course of Rebecca’s life and those of her descendants. This event also advances the theme of women’s strength because Rebecca must exhibit resilience and courage by caring for her children as a single parent in Spain and by marrying Sam and starting over in the United States.

“‘Our motto must be, once again,’ proclaims the final subtitle, ‘Spaniard, return to where you once lived!’”

Caballero’s film develops the theme of Displacement and the Meaning of Home. Spain may be where the Sephardic Jewish community “once lived,” but that doesn’t mean that it is truly home to their descendants. For example, Alberto still sees Turkey as his home. In addition, the motto rings hollow when Alberto’s Spanish-born grandchildren are denied citizenship. The film seems hypocritical at best given the Spanish government’s treatment of the Sephardic Jewish community and Caballero’s later commitment to fascism, but it nonetheless preserves a piece of the Cohen family’s history.

“‘I’m not a chess piece you can move around at will.’ ‘Nobody thinks that.’ Her father speaks into his wineglass. ‘But you knew? You wanted her to ask me this? Is that what you want? To send me away?’ She tries to sound angry, but the hurt breaks through. ‘To get rid of me?’ Her father looks up at her with his watery eyes. ‘Don’t ever say that. We want to be together, all of us. But we also want our children to have a future, and for our grandchildren to grow up safe and not feel ashamed.’”

Alberto’s request that Corinne help Rebecca find an American husband is simultaneously a deeply personal decision and one shaped by historical changes. He observes the growing antisemitism in Europe during the approach of the Spanish Civil War, and his longing for his “grandchildren to grow up safe and not feel ashamed” connects to the novel’s examination of identity and home. Although Rebecca objects to being treated like “a chess piece you can move around at will,” she agrees to meet Sam with her family’s encouragement, a choice that changes the course of her life.

“His voice was dim, but his hand spoke freely now, abandoning collar for neck, finding her face, the curve of chin, her cheek still damp with tears, her brow, and she shut her eyes and turned her head to taste his open palm with its salt and soap and padded heel, its lines a fortune-teller might read to predict a life long or short, a marriage happy or not. You will go on a voyage, meet a man. He felt brand new and, at the same time, deeply familiar, and why not? Lika, her almost-twin, had been held by these selfsame arms.”

When Rebecca and Sam first meet as adults, passion sparks between them almost immediately. The two share other complex emotions, too, including their grief for Lika, Sam’s late wife and Rebecca’s “almost-twin.” Graver adds suspense to the scene with the question of whether Sam will have “a life long or short, a marriage happy or not.” This builds the reader’s anticipation at the start of his relationship with Rebecca, which does turn out to be both long and happy.

“Sam Levy speaks to the crust of his toast. (He got down on one knee, with a rose in his hand. Everybody clapped, then they brought out champagne!) ‘Rebecca, will you marry me?’”

By her own admission, Rebecca is prone to little white lies. She loved Djentil Nahon’s stories when she was a girl, but those tales were full of terror and evil spirits. When Rebecca embellishes the truth of Sam’s proposal, she adds beauty and romance. Both approaches express her creativity and offer a reprieve from reality.

“Rebecca retreats farther, colliding with a kitchen cabinet, and finds herself pinned in place by the intensity of Luna’s gaze, the irises a liquid brown, the pupils large, the stare full of hunger and, it seems, a kind of complex challenge: Don’t mess with me, deliver me, come near me, stay away.”

Rebecca and Luna’s first meeting is filled with tension and complicated emotions. Luna’s mingled excitement at having a new mother and her immediate dislike for her stepmother are both evident in the “complex challenge” of her expression. At the same time, Rebecca’s knee-jerk reaction to Luna is one of apprehension. The way in which Rebecca recoils from the girl, who has cerebral palsy, shows her ableism, but she later becomes one of Luna’s greatest allies in her struggle for greater autonomy. Luna and Rebecca’s relationship is one of the novel’s most complex and significant dynamics, and the two women’s vastly different relationships with their bodies develop a major theme.

“I can work with her, Sam, if you’re on my side and show her she can trust me. I can get somewhere with her—I feel it in my bones. You know how much dignity it would give her to use the toilet like other girls?”

Rebecca wants to use her determination and work ethic to improve Luna’s quality of life and her relationship with her body. Although Sam considers it a miracle that his daughter is even alive and is afraid of getting up Luna’s hopes only for them to be dashed, he agrees to let his determined wife try. In part, Rebecca resolves to be more of a mother to Luna because she’s missing her sons and wants an outlet for her love and nurturing.

“You went down the stairs, your mother has worked miracles!—and the people are clapping and Mama is laughing and clapping, too, her hands a blur, and from high in her papa’s arms, Luna tries but fails to greet her good audience with a bow.”

Graver shows the tremendous pride and joy Luna and her parents feel after she goes down the stairs by herself with Rebecca’s encouragement. This achievement represents a milestone for Luna’s growing autonomy and her improving relationship with her body. With Rebecca’s help, Luna goes on to accomplish other things that she was told were impossible, including learning how to walk.

“The truth is that what she is looking for—David understands instinctively because he feels it, too—is nowhere to be found in America. For her, the synagogue in Turkey where she spent her childhood; for him, the wooden pew at Carrer de Provença where his uncle Josef helped him carve his name under the seat; for both of them, the ark shaped like a ship but one going nowhere, even as David (even as his mother) was forced to leave.”

After a painful separation from her sons, Rebecca manages to bring David and Alberto to the United States. However, their reunion is bittersweet for her oldest son. New York doesn’t feel like home to the young David, and his beloved grandparents remain behind in Spain. The boy’s recognition that his mother takes him to the synagogue because she’s looking for something that is “nowhere to be found in America” develops the themes of Displacement and the Meaning of Home and Cultural Preservation Amidst Change.

“‘You’re a mother with five children, and a wife.’ He touches her hair. ‘We love you and depend on you.’ Rebecca pulls away and sits up in the dark. ‘I failed my family. Do you understand that? I could fail you, too.’ ‘You saved my daughter.’ Sam pulls her back down, and she gives in to his embrace. ‘You’ve given her a life. What’s happening over there is much bigger than us, bigger than anyone—it’s history.’”

Rebecca feels distant from herself, her family, and God after her father dies from malnutrition in Spain. Her husband offers her love and consolation as well as brutal honesty. He considers her a miracle worker for the ways she’s helped Luna, but some things are beyond even the resilient, strong-willed protagonist. In the last sentence of this passage, Sam situates the family tragedy within the broader historical context of the Spanish Civil War.

“In her heart of hearts, a sealed-off, airless place, she wants three things: (1) to be a mother to a pretty, normal little girl, (2) to be a wife to a handsome, doting, funny (normal) man and (3) to be a famous romance writer (here, normal matters less, since you can lop off your body for the photo on your book).”

Luna’s dreams reflect two of the main sources of her pain. For one, her loneliness is reflected in her focus on love, both in her desire for marriage and in the fiction she hopes to write. For another, the repetition of “normal” is replete with internalized ableism. In time, Luna finds love and self-acceptance, marries a man with cerebral palsy, and has children of her own.

“‘You made something beautiful, Luna,’ she says. ‘Of course you’re proud. But you have to understand—they’re yours to save, a gift from God.’ She turns toward the boys. ‘You keep your lousy hands off her, do you hear me? If it happens again—or anything like it, no matter how slight—I’m going straight to Sam, who’ll beat you to within an inch of your life and send you away without a penny to your name.’”

Rebecca’s stern warning to her sons comes after Luna showed the boys her bare chest and one of them grabbed her. The protagonist tries to preserve her stepdaughter’s budding positive relationship with her body by telling her that she “made something beautiful,” which is “a gift from God.” The incident is a shameful family secret that they hide from Sam, and it helps Rebecca realize just how painfully lonely her stepdaughter is.

“‘With your father, it was different. I was a mother twice over by then, a widow. I’d been around the block. Of course I was scared, terrified, really, to give up everything I’d ever known, but my children needed more—I needed more—so I took a chance, and then—well, you know the rest.’ She shrugs. ‘I made a life. We made one. If you don’t like this school, Luna, right away when you see it, or after a month or five months, you just walk away, come home. You don’t even need to cross an ocean. You just call us up and say come get me, I am done.’”

Rebecca encourages Luna to enroll at a prestigious school with scholarships for students with disabilities. Her words echo the advice her own mother gave her when she was debating whether to meet Sam. The trust between the characters demonstrates how much Rebecca’s relationship with Luna has grown since its tense beginnings. Luna decides to attend the school, where she makes friends and meets her future husband.

“Someone painted a red swastika on the sidewalk in front of the store, which made Mother want to file a police report and close the store until they caught the culprit, but Papa said no, that would be bad for business and make us look scared; some people are ignorant, pay no attention, just move on. Instead, he scrubbed the sidewalk, applied gray paint and did drive-by check-ins in the middle of the night as his vision of America began to fray.”

Rebecca feels that she and her immediate family are lucky compared to what her relatives in Spain experience, but, as this passage illustrates, they still encounter antisemitism in the United States. Just as Rebecca’s view of the world dims over time, Sam’s “vision of America began to fray” due to incidents like the antisemitic graffiti outside his store. Discrimination like this adds to the pain of their displacement and makes it harder for the immigrants to feel at home in the United States.

“David holds on to the story of the spectral officer, repeating it—with all these burns, the guy said he’d be shark meat!—until it takes on the burnished patina of fact. He remembers, even mourns, the burned man, how raw he was, how red, a body with no envelope, a skinless hunk of meat. How, despite his condition, the man paused to offer advice to a lost boy on the catwalk: you better get the hell off.”

David’s story about the burned officer is an addition to the novel’s examination of fact and fiction. The two interplay in life, not just in literature. David’s fabrication serves a twofold purpose: It offers him a sense of protection against the threat of court-martial, and it defends him from the inner voice that accuses him of cowardice for fleeing the bombed vessel.