The Expulsion of the Jews from Spain
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April 5, 2026
by Dr. David Fialkoff, Editor / Publisher
Audrey Jacobs recently relocated to our fair city from San Diego, California where she was very involved in cultural matters, including having directed TEDx. Now she largely confines herself to giving tours on the Jewish history of San Miguel de Allende. As a whole Mexico's Jewish history is vast and deliberately obscured.
During the Expulsion of the Jews from Spain ("In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue") most Jews fled to the Ottoman Empire (North Africa and the Middle East). However, not wanting to go into exile and be separated from their substantial property, built up over centuries, many pretended to convert to Catholicism and stayed in Spain, as crypto or hidden Jews.
This was a dangerous thing to do as these conversos were closely monitored to see if they were secretly carrying on their Jewishness. The torturous deaths (the Iron Maiden, the rack, burning alive while wrapped in wet wool to prolong the process) that the Inquisition applied to those only suspected of secretly practicing Judaism (for example, for not eating pork at a party) make a narco's bullet to the head into a great act of mercy.
Although it was illegal for conversos to leave Old Spain, with all of this danger many did, mainly making the trip to New Spain, mainly to Mexico. Here, for a while, there was no Inquisition. And when the Inquisition did arrive in Mexico City, many of these hidden Jews moved beyond its reach, north into Nuevo León (all of Mexico north of Mexico City).
Casa Cohen, calle Relox, the "Noah's Ark house"
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In fact, the governor of the territory of Nuevo León, Luis de Carvajal y de la Cueva, was himself a hidden Jew. And he used his authority to give special concessions (land and commercial privileges) to other hidden Jews. That situation lasted until the Inquisition arrived in Nuevo León when he was tried and convicted of harboring heretics. He died in the Inquisition prison.
A startling high percentage of the Spanish male population in Mexico once consisted of hidden Jews. A surprising number of Mexicans today claim Jewish ancestry.
In addition to her tours, Audrey Jacobs sends out a weekly newsletter featuring San Miguel's "Jew of the Week." She has asked to feature me. I hope that the following musings will provide her material for her, much more concise, presentation.
Let me start by saying that I wish I had asked more questions about my ancestry. I am sorry that by now all those who knew more are gone.
Fialkoff's Pizza, Catskills
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Fialkoff is a common Jewish name.(The Jews adopted naturalistic last names: Rosenblum = rose blossom; Morgenstern = morning star; Fialk = violet. I think the family was into "flower water," an early form of soda.) I have seen the name high up in movie credits, and Fialkoff's Pizza is famous in the Catskills.
Regarding closer kin, escaping being drafted into the Russian army (a lifetime indenture) my father's father arrived in New York City in 1914, while his other siblings (as I understand it, not being able to get into the U.S.) settled in Canada, and, his brother Kasile, in Havana. (Yes, there is a Spanish side to my family, all of whom came up north after Castro took control, but that's another story.)
My father, the oldest of five siblings, didn't marry until he was 40-years-old. I wasn't born until several years later, by which time both of his parents were gone. He married a recent convert to Judaism, my future mother, whose conversion only became an issue when I myself went to marry.
Dad
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At that time, I was orthodox, attending and being counted towards the quorum of Jewish males required for the daily synagogue prayer service at my local Chabad House. The rabbis, there were a few, all of them my friends, extended me invitations every Friday night, after services, to their houses for the Sabbath dinner. I was a true believer, but as my wedding date approached, they expressed doubts about my mother's conversion. Their concern was the sincerity with which my mother had converted, that is, her intention to follow the certain major, essential commandments.
Because of these doubts they were advised by the rav, their legal authority in Brooklyn, NY (the seat of Chabad), to go speak with the rabbi who had performed the conversion, Rabbi William Cohen, who was then still shepherded of the Beth David Synagogue right there in town, West Hartford, Connecticut.
When questioned, Rabbi Cohen assured them that my mother's conversion had been kosher. Despite this, as they were aware of my mother's degree of religious observance, their doubts persisted.
When they spoke again with the Brooklyn rav, they were told to go back to Rabbi Cohen and more particularly review their doubts with him. When they did this, Rabbi Cohen, a proud, powerful man, got angry taking exception to having his authority and judgement questioned. With community rabbinical harmony at least partially involved, the Brooklyn rav declared my mother's conversion kosher. And, even though by Jewish law that made it so, before the wedding I went through a quick conversion process of my own.
Chabad House, West Hartford, Connecticut
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I did ask my mother what her conversion process had been like. She told me about the initial meeting she and another woman seeking conversion had with Rabbi Cohen. The rabbi asked them why they wanted to convert. The other woman, answering first, said that she wanted to convert to marry her boyfriend. That answer is the worst one for anyone seeking an orthodox conversion. But, the rabbi, to not give the game away, concealed his disapproval. My mother then answered, "I've never been a good Catholic. Maybe I'll be a better Jew."
Her answer was just so Jewish: with a twist; out of the box; irreverent, yet sincere. Rabbi Cohen could hear my mother's Jewish soul, her yiddishe neshama, calling out to him; "Here I am."
Reviewing Audrey's guidelines for her Jew of the Week feature, I find that I am not addressing her points. But then, digressing is, of course, a very Jewish way to answer a question.
My favorite Jewish food:
My Aunt Florence's matzo ball soup, sadly no longer obtainable. Oh, her matzo balls! Bagels and lox come to mind. But really, I prefer a different fish, pickled herring. (Pescado marinado is wonderfully available in San Miguel.) And (with apologies to Jackie Mason and his joke about the minutia involved is a Jew ordering eggs, toast and orange juice) not just any pickled herring. It should be schmaltz, fatty (sadly unavailable in San Miguel)... and on a good piece of rye bread (Buonforno bakery)... with cream cheese or, better, goat cheese... and onion... and tomato... and with a glass of orange juice to clear the palate and wash down that dense food.
My family Jewish hero:
My father was always my Zen master: terse, cryptic, providing puzzles that often frustrated me and always got me to think differently.
You can read about "my old man" (as he called his father) here, but immediately below are a couple of anecdotes that demonstrate his range.
Soldiers shooting craps
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This first one was told to me by Dad's youngest brother, my Uncle Joe, who along with my father was in the Pacific theater during World War Two:
