At first, the remark struck Marez as strange. After all, if his cousin were actually a Jew, why did he become a priest ? Marez grew curious, spoke more to his cousin and to his immediate family, visited a synagogue and did some reading. What he found shook him. He realized that several of his family's customs were actually Jewish: They never ate pork; mirrors were covered during mourning, and his grandmother used to light candles on Friday nights.
Within a few months, Marez was researching his family roots and attending synagogue regularly, upsetting his parents. " For a long time ", he says, " they didn't want to hear about it. " His mother, unhappy about digging up the past and still bound by an old taboo against revealing one's identity, tried to talk him out of his efforts. She failed". Today, Marez proudly tells strangers that he's a Jew.
In his exploration, Marez is far from alone. Throughout the American Southwest, from Los Angeles to Houston, an unknown number of Hispanics, prompted by a new awareness created by academic research, are tracing their ancestry as far back as 500 years to see if they have Jewish roots.
The links are far from tenuous. Here's what scholars say happened: Many conversos, or New Christians - Jews who adopted Christianity under duress before the expulsion from Spain in 1492 - continued to practice Judaism secretly. Some settled in New Spain (later Mexico), beginning in the 1500s, with the hope of rebuilding their lives away from the clutches of the Inquisition. Others settled in the Caribbean, and some of their descendants may now live in New York.
But the Inquisition spread. On several occasions, beginning in 1519, inquisitors were appointed for the American colonies, and the church in New Spain imprisoned and tortured people for " Judaizing " - showing Jewish tendencies. In 1596, for instance, nine " Judaizers " were burned, including the governor of a province. The persecution prompted some conversos, also called crypto-Jews because they secretly practiced Jewish rituals, to flee to the northernmost reaches of Spanish territory.
Using ship manifests, church documents and Inquisition records, scholars have found that many of those persecuted by the Inquisition in New Spain had the same last names as the original New Mexico settlers, such as Leyba Flores, Coca, Gomez, Rael, Medina, Rivera, Sena, Salsa and Duran. Hispanics with these names may have Jewish ancestors. The first crypto-Jews in what is now New Mexico were among the Spaniards in a caravan that settled in the area in 1598 - over a decade before the establishment of Santa Fe, often referred to as the first Spanish settlement in the region. Others followed over several decades.
Even though they found relative safety in the isolated area, the secret Jews never came out of the closet. Conditioned by years of fear, they continued to practice Catholicism publicly and never discussed their true identities outside their homes, wary that Catholic neighbors might ostracize them, or worse. Because of the secrecy, no one knows how many were actually Jewish. And some assimilated, marrying Hispanic Catholics or native Americans.
Consequently, the little Jewishness that wasn't lost was kept under wraps for centuries. Rituals were left unexplained, their meaning forgotten. At times, they took on rather odd forms, such as the creation of St. Esther - the queen in the Purim story, honored because she, too, kept her Jewishness a secret for a time.
But over the past few years, scholars have pieced together clues connecting the rituals of hundreds of years ago with the practices of some Catholics today. Among the signs they've found of converso roots: grandfathers who wore shawls to pray; relatives who preferred the Old Testament; cousins who marry cousins to preserve bloodlines; elderly relatives who spoke Ladino.
Rituals still observed in some families, and remembered in others, include the slaughter of meat according to the laws of kashrut; the keeping of a special day of rest each fall, apparently based on Yom Kippur; circumcision of baby boys; the use of a special candelabrum each winter; and the baking of an unusual bread during Holy Week every year. Researchers have also found gravestones without crosses, but with unusual markings that look like the Hebrew letter shin - standing for Shaddai, one of the Hebrew names of God.
And often in such families, the oldest son was educated as a priest, continuing a tradition that began during the 15th century of conveying Jewish learning secretly through Catholic men of God. This explains why Marez's cousin was a priest.
" The consciousness was passed down through the generations right into the 20th century ", says Dr. Stanley Hordes, a former New Mexico state historian and now a visiting scholar at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque, who has furthered research on crypto-Jews in New Mexico. Even now, he says, " we're seeing the persistence of some practices in rural areas, since they tended to migrate there to escape attention and the forces of assimilation ".
Despite such traces of the past, it's unlikely that crypto-Judaism is widely practiced any more. A series of abrupt societal changes occurred about half a century ago that prompted many of the Spanish-speaking family elders to give up their ancient rituals. Chief among them was the enforced use of English in public schools, which in public schools, which drastically altered communication at home; interstate highways, which made it easier to leave isolated communities; the spread of American culture through radio; exposure of soldiers in World War II to the outside world - and the fear that the Holocaust meant Jews were still in grave danger.
As a result, Hordes estimates that only 2.500 people in the region may really still be crypto-Jews. And few, if any, are thought to realize what they're doing, because rituals were passed down without explanations. " Many don't have that connection anymore ", says Dr. Tomas Atencio, a descendant of crypto-Jews and a sociologist at the University of New Mexico. " If they light candles on Friday night, they don't know why they light them. They're both near and far from Judaism and Catholicism. "
Says Joshua Stampfer, a Conservative rabbi in Portland, Oregon and president of the Society of Crypto-Judaic Studies: " They're not necessarily Jewish because they light candles on Friday night. If they are, it's because their parents did, not to fulfill some covenant. "
The vast majority of the crypto-Jews' descendants are simply unaware of their genealogy and have melted into the greater American milieu that's overtaken Hispanic culture in the Southwest. But recent publicity over the scholarly research has prompted a growing interest among many Hispanics, though those exploring their ancestry are experiencing not only pride in their past but also shame based on the Catholic Church's anti-Jewish attitudes. And in some cases, they must contend with family anger.
Ramon Salas grappled with the problem last April, when he marked his bar mitzvah at the age of 28. An engineer in Albuquerque, he had discovered Jewish ancestors on both sides of his family, dating to the 1640s, a fact his family accepted. But he had to stop and think before deciding to undergo a ceremonial conversion and formally join the Jewish community; and he didn't invite his parents to the bar mitzvah, fearing they would be uncomfortable. His sister attended, but left in tears. Some family members still aren't even aware of his decision.
" For hundreds of years we heard Jews were Christ-killers and if you're a Jew, you don't want it publicly known, " says Dennis Duran, 38, who was raised by a Catholic mother and a Mormon father, but converted to Judaism several years ago. Only after his conversion did he begin exploring his roots. He has since traced Jewish ancestors on both sides of his family to the 1500s; his father had grown up in a crypto-Jewish Catholic family before becoming a Mormon.
" In many small towns, everyone knows everyone else and there's something instilled in a lot of people, especially the older ones, " says Duran. " There's a fear of the Catholic Church and their peers. If someone finds out you're a Jew, you don't know what they'll do. All that these people care about is their families and their lives. And they want to keep it private ".
Indeed, at a November conference on crypto-Jews in Santa Fe, New Mexico, several people who were willing to speak to a reporter were still reluctant to be identified. And one man expressed pride in his Jewish heritage but denounced Israel, fearing he would be shunned by Hispanic friends who identify with the Palestinians. " Hispanics understand what it is to lose land ", he said. " I don't want the thorn of Zionism in my side. "
Others stood before the audience and identified themselves, but refused to discuss their views or sense of identity. " My art speaks for itself ", says Richard Romero, a local woodcarver who, after learning of his ancestry, began making large crosses that contain a Star of David or la hai (the Hebrew word for " life ").
Clearly, many are still trying to resolve their feelings. Marez recalls spending months trying to sort out his identity and the direction he wanted to pursue before going public. " I was brought up a Catholic and it was difficult, " he says. " For a long time, there was a fight inside me between the acceptance of Christ and Judaic which way was up or down ".
The struggle has been complicated by rabbis, particularly Orthodox ones, who have required of crypto-Jews a formal conversion to become part of the Jewish community since it is difficult to prove conclusively that their ancestors did not intermarry. Not surprisingly, this has angered some. " These people jump through enough hoops as it is. Everyone I know of has gone through some kind of emotional process, " says Rabbi Lynn Gottlieb, who heads an unaffiliated synagogue in Albuquerque. " They're from a hidden heritage and that's enough ", says Gottlieb, who accepts crypto-Jews as being fully Jewish without any ceremony.
Richard Santos couldn't agree more. A 52-year-old scholar from San Antonio, Texas, he steadfastly clings to crypto-Jewish practices and rejects the notion that he doesn't have a Jewish birthright. " We are an anti-clerical, anti-institutional religion. We don't hold a roof over our heads to pray or practice the 1 Commandments ", he explains. " We continue to live the was we have for more than 400 years. And I don't feel the need to convert. That would be an insult and deny years of heritage. We're all Jews and we either hang together or go separately ".
It appears, however, that some will go their own way. Marina Vaca, a 54-year-old teacher's assistant in Albuquerque, for example, left the Catholic church an observes all the major Jewish holidays, but still worships Christ and calls herself a messianic Jew. Aware of such ambivalence, a local messianic group distributed flyers at the conference in the hope of enlisting adherents. " Let's face it, we've been in the church for hundreds of years. It's been a part of us for too long and it's too strong. It's part of the psyche ", she says. " I care about my roots. I want to know who I am and I get mad that my ancestors were killed by the church. But I believe Jesus is the messiah. I'm in a state of flux. I don't know where it'll lead me ". Others say the issue is moot. For the many people who grew up without the rituals or any knowledge of their heritage, the 50-year-old crypto-Jewish links aren't likely to be restored. " I want to incorporate it actively in my life, " says Ramon Salas. " But the original oral information is no longer available. I think we're the last desperate group ".
But Paul Marez isn't fazed. Although he, too, refuses to formally convert, he wants to date only Jewish women. So next summer, he's planning a trip to New York and looks forward to change in his life. " Do you know anyone I can meet when I visit ? " he asks. " She has to be Jewish ".