I was just around 13 years old. I don't know if I had yet become a man, but my father and I worked hard. I remember carrying bolts of heavy, dark cloth up and down narrow twisting stairs. I don't know his occupation, perhaps a weaver or dyer of cloth, or even a tailor. Somehow, a tailor sounds right, but I'm not sure. We lived in the same house in which we worked, with my mother and sister lived in the uppermost story, and I don't remember much about them.

The house was small and built more up and down than side to side. The very heavy, wooden front door opened into a tiny vestibule that was so small that there were no furnishings in it except some bolts of cloth leaning against the walls. The stairs leading upwards dominated the room.

Late one evening, there was an insistent, hard knocking at the door. My father opened it and was confronted by several men dressed in iron suits, carrying large knives and holding long, sharp spears. They all had arrogant expressions of disdain. One openly sneered. Somehow I knew that they didn't mean well for us. Especially since they were openly displaying their weapons.

"Yes? May I help you?" My father asked.

"You are the Jew?" Asked the shortest of the men. He spoke with an accent which was difficult to understand. I peered around the corner of the stairs to watch this interchange.

"Yes, I study the teachings of Moses and Maimonides." Admitted my father.

"Mmmm. There are other males in your household?"

"Only my son." He gestured for me to come down. I slowly descended the last flight of stairs to stand beside him. I stood next to him, reaching partway to his shoulder. He glanced down, smiled to me and proudly placed a hand on my shoulder, looking directly at the short man.

The short man then nodded in our direction and stepped aside. The other men swarmed in and grabbed my father and me, quickly tying our hands. I heard my mother gasp and run down the stairs trying to beat the men from my father and me. One of the men swung his hand very hard, hitting her in the side of her head. She slumped to the floor, and we were pushed out of the house. I heard my sister crying upstairs.

The men surrounded my father and me, pushing us ahead of them. They walked very fast, and I almost had to run to keep up because they kept pushing me. As we started up a hill, I tripped on a loose cobblestone and fell forward, trying to break my fall with my hands, but couldn't. They were tied behind me and I fell face forward. My head hit the ground and my teeth penetrated my lower lip, breaking a tooth. One of the men behind me laughed and kicked me while another grabbed my collar and yanked me up. He released me with a push so I had to almost run to stay upright. Once I glanced back at the man behind us. I thought I recognized him from the bazaar. He would sometimes help a relative sell vegetables on market day. He only glared from under his iron helmet and pushed even harder. My father and I were out of breath and sweaty when we halted at a wooden door set into the enormous granite walls of the Presidio. The short man banged on it several times with his sword.

It quickly opened, spilling bright light onto the ground. I blinked as my father and I were pushed through the door. More ironclad men were standing in an alcove. They glanced up at us as the door closed behind us. We were led to a tiny dark room. It smelled of old leather, sweat, oil and rust. Since there were no chairs or lights, we stood close, whispering. I was scared. I remember some of the boys at the synagog mentioning these men and they had all sorts of terrifying ideas about what these men wanted. The problem was, they agreed, that the people visited by these soldiers were never heard from again. It sounded ominous and my belly turned to water. My father also had heard similar stories, but was not afraid. They were only after Jews and other non-christians. He said that our faith would keep us safe. After all, Moses kept the Jews safe during the time of Pharaoh. So, our belief in Moses would keep us safe from the Christian Pharoah. I felt better, but could feel him shaking against me. He said that he was cold, but I was sweating.

We couldn't tell how long we were in there, but it semed like hours when the door opened and two soldiers came in, went through our pockets, and took our shoes. I remember my father asking why. "So you can't run." He laughed and squeezed my buttock affectionately. I wanted to hit him but couldn't with my hands tied.

We were led out of the room and down a short corridor. I could hear the drunken laughter of men in a nearby room. At the end of the corridor was a flight of stairs leading down into darkness. There were no railings. They wouldn't have helped anyway because our hands were still tied. As we descended, we were told to go faster and sometimes I was pushed. They laughed when I yelled out after being pushed especially hard toward the edge. At the bottom of the stairs, it was much, much darker, and smelled terrible. The smoky torches were farther apart, forming ruddy, glowing areas. A voice called out from the darkness. "Yaccov?"

One of the guards opened a door with a key while another took a knife and cut our ties. We were then pushed forcibly into a black room. I tripped and fell against something on the floor, and was overwhelmed with the stench. The thing on the floor reached out and grabbed my hair. How he knew where my hair was, I don't know because after the door closed, the room was black as pitch. He held my face right in front of his and the smell of his breath was horrible. "This is MY place! Remember that." He released me and I scrambled to my feet, looking for my father.

As our eyes adjusted to the darkness, we found we were in a room with twelve other men. They were in various stages of cleanliness. One was naked and covered with sores. They ranged along the four walls of the small room, maybe eight by twelve feet. One corner was unoccupied, and as we started for it, one man cleared his throat and said "Not there. That's the pit." Some of the others scooted closer together to give us room. There were no chairs, beds or tables, nor was there room for any. Everyone sat and slept on the floor. We sat, and introduced ourselves. My father knew one of the men from the synagog, and they got up and hugged. He also hugged me.

It seems that the soldiers were gathering up all the male Jews in the city. Nobody knew why, and some of them had been in this terrible place for as long as a month. The only contact they had was with the soldiers who fed them, and the rats who somehow could easily come and go through the crack under the door. Only twice did soldiers come in and take out the bucket called the "pit."

During the long days in this dungeon, we got to know all the men in there. Most were Jews, but one was a traveler from far away who simply stopped to ask directions, and was locked away. Another was a Moor who owned a business in Toledo making swords and knives. A youngish man was a Pagan who hid from the soldiers for over a year, living in the forest, eating food stolen from gardens or surreptitiously given to him by supporters. The naked man was a thief who was caught in a brothel. He was mad, and, I suspect, he had some sort of incurable disease. He was the one I tripped over.

Food was brought in once a day. Some days, however, there was no food. It usually consisted of a thin pasty gruel. And on rare occasions, some stale, moldy bread. Those days, the rats were terrible; scouring the floors for bits and crumbs. I could feel them skittering over my legs. They even began eating holes in my shirt and trousers after they nibbled my belt as I slept. The lice became terrible and I could feel them exploring every inch of my body. I itched and desperately wanted to bathe.

The thief died during the night. The rats had already gnawed some of his body, starting with the eyes, and then the running sores. He was bloated and stinking by the time he was removed. The soldiers left him until they cleaned out the pit. Then they rolled him on a piece of canvas and dragged him out.

Several others became sick and their bowels turned to water. They couldn't hold them, and the pit quickly overflowed. Some of them couldn't even make it to the pit and soiled themselves. It was terrible. One began vomiting blood and was dead the next day. The soldiers emptied the pit and took his body right away.

Occasionally, soldiers came to take someone. Some were returned, and others we never saw again. Those who returned told us what had happened. They were asked questions about their beliefs, and some were beaten. The Pagan was placed in "The Boot" which broke his legs in two places as the metal pieces were hammered into place. He couldn't walk and moaned all night. They dragged him out the next morning. We never saw him again.

Sometimes, other people were brought into our cell to replace those who had died or been taken away. We got to know them as well as the rest. It was comforting to know that others were as scared as we were. Some had terrible stories to tell. Unfortunately, we couldn't talk to the others in the other cells, although we could hear them talking. Every time we tried to establish contact, the soldiers beat on the doors and told us to shut up. One day, another man from our synagog was brought in. He and my father talked for a long time. Father told me that my sister was being taken care of by another family. My mother had been killed by the blow to her head. The Church had taken our house. That night, I heard my father weeping when he thought I was asleep.

One day, soldiers came for my father and me. Our hands were tied together again, and our legs were shackled. His right leg was shackled to my left. We were brought up the stairs and into a very large room. The stones felt cool on my filthy, bare feet, and the breeze was fresh and clean. The soldiers stopped us about midway in the room. At the other end of the room, placed on a platform was an enormous chair. On it sat a man in a red dress. Other men seated at tables were writing. Still others were reading large books. There were many soldiers stationed around the room. Along either side were tall, open windows. It was a glorious, sunny day with a gentle breeze.

The man in the red dress stood and came down the steps, standing at the bottom. A couple of guards took places on either side of him. Other guards stood at our sides, and they all had their swords drawn. The man in the red dress asked my father. "What is your name?" My father answered.

He asked me; "What is your name?" I gave him my name.

He turned to my father again and asked his relationship to me. My father replied: "He is my son."

"Are you circumcised Jews?"

"Yes." Answered my father.

"Do you know of Jesus the Christ?" Asked the man in the red dress.

"I have heard of him."

"Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?" Demanded the man.

My father spat on the floor and glared at the man in the red dress. One of the guards started toward my father, but the man in the red dress held up his hand and the guard stopped. "We must be compassionate to the ignorant. Bring them back tomorrow." The guards then dragged us back to our cell in the dungeon. As they gathered around us, we told what had happened. The evening was taken up with discussion of the questions and my father's reaction. The general consensus being agreement.

The next day, the soldiers tied up my father and me, and shackled our legs together again. We were brought before the man in the red dress again. He stood up, descended the steps, and approached my father again: "Do you accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your Savior?" He shouted.

My father again glared and spat on the floor. The man in the red dress turned red as his anger was very evident. He waved his hand and we were taken back to the dungeon.

On the third day, the man in the red dress simply stood without descending the steps, and demanded: "Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Savior?" The third time, my father glared back as he spat on the floor.

"You ungrateful Jewish bastard!" Shouted the man in the red dress. His anger so intense, his lips drew back in a ghastly rictus which revealed jagged and uneven teeth. A fearful display which frightened me.

I could feel the tension rise in the room as he leaned over to one of the men in a black dress to speak to him. The man in the brown dress then turned to speak to one of the guards, and then spoke to another man in a brown dress, and hurried out of the room. The guard approached us and unshackled our legs. As my father was taken away, I was dragged to one of the tall windows to the right and tied to rings on either side. Thus, I was forced to look out into a courtyard where several tree trunks were surrounded by piles of wood and trash. In a short time, I saw my father emerge from a door, dragged over to a pile of trash and lashed to the tree. As he realized what was going to happen, he began crying. Then he glanced up and saw me spread-eagled at the window. "Remember Moses, my son!" He shouted to me in Hebrew as the flames leapt up. His dying scream echoed in my ear as I was untied and turned to face the man in the red dress.

"Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Savior?" He asked. I spat on the floor in tribute to my father's courage.

Two more days, the question was asked. On the third day, I was taken by the guards to another tree trunk surrounded by a pile of trash. As the flames rose, I left my body before I could feel the pain.

As a young woman working in New York City, I often went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and loved to roam the rooms, soaking up the beauty. However, I frequently found myself in one room in particular, seated in front of the massive El Greco masterpiece, View of Toledo. I delighted in it's stormy sky and the windblown trees, but my eyes always drifted to one small place on the side of the castle where the walls met the ground. I could never figure out why that was. I had mixed feelings about the painting. As I said before, I loved the sky and trees and exalted in the freedom of the wind and the clouds, but I felt something else in the pit of my stomach behind the exaltation. That feeling was somehow connected to that place in the wall. It was only after I realized that my attraction to View of Toledo and my bizarre flashbacks were connected, that I knew that my past life occurred in Toledo, Spain.

Much of this came to me as "flashes" of cognition, some as dreams, some as feelings, and some as "meditational understandings." They came to me all jumbled up and in no particular order; as bits and pieces. Feelings at one time, sights, smells or sounds at others. Only after I had received most of it, could I put it into any semblance or sense of order. Now, when writing it down, I can almost hear the conversation, and many of the gaps are filling up, in and of themselves. While it may or may not be historically accurate, it seems to be what I remember, and that in itself seems to make it right. After I pieced these reincarnational flashbacks together, I finally realized that I recognized something about the man in the red dress. He was my ex-husband. His jagged teeth, controlling and presumptuous attitude as well as his sudden intense temper have not changed. I do not know who my father was, although, I suspect that he may be a Flambé. We were very close. I felt a definite bond.