by Ilan Stavans
After we do our lessons and finish our assignments, the nuns reward us with one more picture. Since I’m one of the best behaved, I have the most pictures. I have to hide them, because my mother doesn’t approve of them. But she does see me make the sign of the cross every morning.
“I would rather you leave the room when they pray,” she said the other day. But I don’t want to. Then someone would ask me why I’m leaving the room, and besides, I like praying.
Yesterday at recess we were making sand castles, and when I moved to make mine bigger, I stepped on another girl’s castle. She got so mad that she threw sand in my eyes and then yelled, “Jew! Jew!” at me. Her yelling frightened me, because most of the girls don’t know. Then some other kids formed a group, and in a flash a bunch of them were screaming, “You killed Jesus,” and then they made the sign of the cross right in my face as if I were the devil. And I yelled back at them, “That’s a lie. I’m not a Jew. I pray and go to confession just like you do.”
It’s almost one o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep—I just keep remembering how they threw sand in my eyes.
Dreams of hell. I dreamed the same thing last week, over and over, my bed’s on fire. Even though it’s dark, everything’s lit up with yellow, orange, and red flames. Tombs pop open like jack-in-the-boxes, and people rise up and start walking toward God. He’s the one who’s going to reward or punish us. I only see the lids pop off the coffins, and then the dead people start to walk.
“The Last Judgment . . . we’ll all be there someday,” said Sister Maria. “Then we’ll know if we’ve won a spot in heaven, or if we’ll grow tails and sprout horns.”
I know that those who have gone to hell play tricks on children so they’ll be bad.
Last night the neighbors on the second floor came over and we played “Chance.” I got the devil and lost, because no one got the wicked card. That little red devil with the wicked eyes danced around in my dreams way into the night—grasping an iron fork, he stirs the ashes around, then he comes and goes, does whatever he wants, casts a glance at me, shows me his horns and the red-hot edges of his pincers. I freak out when I imagine that this day could actually arrive. I hope it never does. Why would all of us who come back from the dead have to walk around nude? I don’t like to be seen nude, and I wouldn’t like to have to get up that day and have everyone see me like that. What a horrible punishment! I’ll meet all those people from a thousand years ago—Benito Juárez, Napoleon, Miguel Hidalgo, and Costilla (my other grandmother), Cinderella, Cuauhtemoc. And how is he going to walk? They burned his feet. I’ll bet he’s going to rise up as good as new, everyone knows that with God nothing is impossible and . . . you know, it just might be fun, if I get to know so many people, but . . . nude? Oh, no! How embarrassing! And nothing to cover myself up with?
1. Thou shalt love God over everything else (I love him and I pray to him).
2. Thou shalt not take the name of God in vain (I’m not going to swear anymore, but when I do and I tell a lie, I’m going to cross myself, but not properly, so it won’t be any good).
3. Thou shalt honor your father and mother.
4. Thou shalt honor the Sabbath and holy days.
5. Thou shalt not kill.
6. Thou shalt not fornicate (I’ll skip this one, I don’t even know what it means).
7. Thou shalt not steal.
8. Thou shalt not commit false testimony (I only tell a few lies, besides they’re the worst thing that I can say to Mommy).
9. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife (I don’t understand. Whose wife?).
10. Thou shalt not covet that which is not yours (that’s easy, I never want anything that isn’t mine).
If I can just manage to follow those rules, I’ll go to heaven for sure, and I’m really happy that the Ten Commandments are the same for Jews as they are for Catholics. Whew! They share something in common! At least I can repeat them in school just the same as at home. It’s easy to obey them, because the thought of going to hell is terrifying. I want to go to heaven. I’ll be an angel like the ones in the pictures, and I’d like to be the one in the middle, invisible. Wouldn’t it be great to be invisible! To be everywhere at the same time, flying from one place to another, without anyone seeing me? Then I could get close to those children and whisper in their ears, “Don’t be afraid of the devil! Spend your time on Sundays helping an old person, loan your crayons even if some kids are mean to you and break off the tips.”
They say the devil speaks to children through their left ears, telling them to play nasty tricks. And their guardian angel speaks to them through their right ears, advising them to be good. Those little blond angels, who are dressed in light blue and have transparent wings, live in heaven. They can see God, the Virgin, and all the saints. They talk to them.
“Cross, cross, make the devil go away and Jesus stay.” Don’t get near me, you ugly devil. Get away! Leave me alone! I know that these little devils are very insistent and they’re always at your ear, saying, “Steal that pen, hit your brother, pull her braids, make fun of her.” Sometimes they are so convincing, because the devil shows you how to be cunning. And they can be really mean.
My clothing will be pure white, I’ll fly around from place to place, I’ll teach children to be good no matter which country they’re from . . . although I’m not sure I’d like to be an angel for a Jewish kid; maybe I’ll adopt a Roman Catholic. Then one day I’ll go to heaven. Wings made of a delicate material like a bird’s skin will sprout from me, and I’ll dump buckets of water from the clouds on everyone below so they can feel the rain.
The girls in my classroom receive gifts and have parties twice a year—on their birthdays and their saint’s days, but the Jews don’t celebrate saint’s day. The teacher asked me when mine was. The only thing I could think of was to tell her that I would ask my mother. I don’t think there’s a Saint Oshinica, but I’m going to look at a calendar and, if there’s a Saint Eugenia, I’ll be in luck.
Since we live right on Guadalupe Avenue, we can see the people streaming by on their pilgrimage to the basilica. They’re always singing, dancing, laughing, drinking, hugging each other, carrying their children and sick ones, food, and blankets. Each congregation has its leader who protects them so that the following group doesn’t overtake them in the unending procession.
As soon as we hear them coming, we run to the balcony. We never get tired of watching them, and sometimes the groups are as long as three city blocks. As they amble down the street, it makes us feel sad. Now that we’re approaching the saint’s day of the Virgin of Guadalupe, there are so many different groups passing by with their banners, all of which have the image of the Virgin—the mother of the Mexican people and their country—embroidered with golden thread.
They must enjoy it. They come from Toluca, Queretaro, Pachuca, everywhere. When they’re right in front of our house they begin singing the traditional Mañanitas. They’re happy because they’re about to arrive at the place where the Virgin first appeared. Tears fill their eyes out of emotion, and they feel so close to each other. Some crawled on their knees . . . and they still have fifteen blocks to go!
The smell of hot tortillas invades the entire neighborhood surrounding the basilica. On just about any step you can find women heating up corn tortillas, the small ones that they sell five or ten at a time, wrapped in cheap colored paper. I wonder why all those candles are for sale everywhere around the basilica? They’re slender and beautiful, and they’re decorated with pink flowers.
Sometimes we would go into the church and listen to Mass. We’d walk through the street with all the vendors’ stalls and then climb the little hill, which we can see from our window. There’s a small white house on top with a cross on the roof. That’s where the miracle happened to Juan Diego, an Indian. Wasn’t he lucky! I hope that happens to me someday. If it really was a miracle, then it can happen to me too. Afterward, we’d go back down the hill, and in order to get home, we’d take the trolley
that runs up and down Guadalupe Avenue. That way we wouldn’t be late and my mother wouldn’t find out that we had gone to the villa again.
I believed them, I truly believed my parents when they told me that the Jews didn’t kill Christ.
“If they bother you again, just tell them that Christ was a Jew and had had his bar mitzvah.”
“Oh, Daddy, do you think I would say that? They’d just get mad at me.”
When my mommy went to Monterrey to see my other grandfather, Micaela quickly finished her chores and took us to the villa again; we ran into some of her friends, and we walked together. Then I heard one of them say, “Listen, Mica, don’t work there; the amount the Jews pay isn’t much; they never pay much.” I acted like I didn’t hear anything, because I don’t know what to think or do when I hear those things. And what if later on they start on this thing about the Jews killing Christ? Everyone already knows about it. Then we went inside the church on the hill for a while, and I just stood there staring at Christ crucified on the cross. Look what they did to him! A woman who was kneeling next to us just sobbed as she stared at the blood flowing everywhere. Poor thing. Well, who wouldn’t hate the people who did this? They’re bad! And it was so long ago, and she still feels horrible about it. If that woman who is weeping finds out that I’m Jewish, she might even kill me. The good thing is that Micaela likes me a lot, and she doesn’t really buy all that stuff, and you really don’t notice that I’m Jewish at first. Honestly, I’d rather be Jewish than a black person. But even I get upset and sad! Look how they nailed him to a cross! Can you believe it? What monsters they were!
There’s a fabric store at the corner where I live; Bertita and Bicha live in the back part of the store, and they’re Mommy’s friends. They make pastries and decorate them beautifully. I spend hours just watching them put layer on top of layer, and then there’s always just one more. They make little doll-like figures, and using wire and icing they create the sweet little blue, yellow, and red flowers. Sometimes, when they finish a wedding cake, I say it’s the most beautiful one they’ve ever made, but when they put the finishing touches on a birthday cake with the little figure in the middle standing on a pedestal, it always seems to be the nicest. I spend a lot of time with them, surrounded by vats of yellow, red, and blue icing.
The little figures don’t look all that great until we make their clothes with little pieces of cloth and then stick them around the waist with some icing. We cover some of the folds with more icing, making it look like a waistband—then they look really elegant. Using some coloring, we decide if they are going to be dark-looking or fair-skinned, and they’re just like we want them to be—poor things!—but they always turn out fabulous.
Bichita and Bertita are friends of a priest who teaches catechism at a church near our house on Saturdays. He teaches us to pray. A lot of kids go there. Ever since I’ve learned to cross myself, I can use my right hand faster, because it’s the one you use to make the sign of the cross. Afterward, they give us anise-flavored candies. I just love them. I never miss classes; the pastry ladies just tell my mother that I’m with them, helping to decorate cakes. So I go to catechism secretly, because I want to have first communion, and they’re the only ones who can help save me at the Last Judgment; maybe, just maybe, by saving me, God will forgive my whole family too.
Several families from the old country live in this neighborhood called Industrial. They are my parents’ best friends. They were already good friends before they got married. My mommy introduced Max to Fortunita, his wife. Now they have children too, and we’re all very close. I’m the oldest. Today Mommy and some of her friends decided to go to a Hebrew school in the Valle district and see if the school could send a bus to pick us up where we live. When we got home from school, we found out they had enrolled us in that school.
Did all of these kids also kill Christ? They all seemed so gentle. I thought: it doesn’t seem like they would do it. How could they even remember? They play marbles, ring around the roses, and everything we did at the other school. Are they the same though? It’s hard to tell if they’re really Jewish. I don’t know why, but I’m not interested in making friends with any of them.
Wow! Third year is really different. I’m learning the multiplication tables. And we’re beginning to write in ink, which has been hard for me. It was easier with a pencil. Now we get everything stained—our notebooks, our backpacks, our fingers, and our checkered school uniforms. We bring ink bottles and blotters to make our lessons look better. With pencil, everything gets erased. Ink is better. This has been a big change for us. They treat us like we’re older—we use ink bottles.
Our teacher, Mr. Gomez, is the most demanding teacher in the school, and he’s the meanest too. I’m in his room. For an hour, starting at eight o’clock in the morning, he makes us draw our circles perfectly. He imitates the action and then draws them all linked together on the board, telling us all the while that these are calligraphy exercises, and that he doesn’t understand our scribbling. This is exactly the part I like best, and when we’re working hard in class, that’s when I’m not so afraid of the teacher.
My mother is really happy that he’s my teacher. She says he’s very demanding, and that’s why he’s a good teacher. Even if he is, he has an ugly face. That’s why I sit near the back, half-hidden, so he won’t see me when he asks questions. The other day he asked me three times, but I didn’t respond, because I didn’t even hear him. I remember that the nuns were great. Then he calls out our names with a gruff voice, as if we were soldiers. I’ll bet he doesn’t even laugh at home.
The bus going to the Condesa and Roma neighborhoods continues on to Indus trial. I’ve got a friend whose name is Dori. She’s in my class and rides the same bus. We return to school in the afternoon to learn Hebrew, which is a strange language. You write it from right to left, exactly the opposite from Spanish. Now, whenever my grandfather scolds my father or my grandmother, I’ll be able to understand him. Ah, I just remembered that at my grandfather’s house they only speak Farsi. They use Hebrew for parties. Oh well, whatever!
Max and Fortuna moved to the Hipódromo neighborhood because they wanted to be closer to the Sephardic school and live nearer to their friends from the old country. The other families are looking for places to live around there too.
“What are you waiting for, Shamuel, don’t pass this up! What are you going to do here by yourselves, wasting away alone? You and your wife who are still so young! Don’t pass this up; let’s move together, we’ll take you there. There’s an apartment on the corner near our house, it’s not rented, it’s on the fifth floor, and it’s cheap! Come and see it on Sunday! It’s great!”
I told Dori to check out the corner of Cholula and Campeche Streets because we were probably going to move there. She got excited, because it’s only a block from her house and the apartment building was beautiful. I can’t believe it: I’ll be living close to my best friend. Now I can’t wait for the day when I’ll finally be her neighbor.
Now that they’re building a movie theater near our house, we’re going to move. It took them so long to do it that we didn’t even get to go to the opening. The only time I’ve ever gone to a movie was when Max invited us one Sunday morning. He took us to the Alameda. What a place! When it went dark inside, it seemed like we were in a dark street, and there were pretty little houses lit up on either side. I don’t know if anyone lived inside them, I’m not sure, but maybe they were really stars on the walls. And what a movie! Max’s children are so lucky to get to go all the time. My dad has never taken us to the movies. He’s always working on Sundays, and then my mother shuts the blinds at six o’clock in the evening and puts us to bed, saying it’s already nighttime and that no one goes out at night. I don’t think I’ll ever get to go again. If I could just see that movie over again . . .
This is the first night in our new house, and I’m excited. I want it to be morning already, because Dori is coming to take me to see her house. She wants to show
me how close it is to mine. We’re so lucky!
The building is nice. It’s pink, which is my favorite color—after all, I’m a girl. That’s the only thing I like about being a girl, we get everything in pink; it’s prettier than blue. We have the whole floor to ourselves, because there are only five apartments in the building, one on each floor. We live right on the corner, so we have balconies that look down onto both streets. On the Cholula Street side, we get the sun when it comes up. That’s where the living room and kitchen are, and you can see the Popo store from that side. The bedrooms are on the other side: one for my parents, one for my three brothers, and one for my two sisters and me. Now we won’t have boys and girls sleeping in the same room. Too bad! It was more fun that way. If only Moshón could stay with me. He’s going to be bored with the two little ones. There are two bathrooms. One is small, and the other has a tub. The kitchen is so big there’s room for a breakfast nook and the washing machine. And my mother put the banana tree on one of the balconies. The sitting room has a long balcony with flowers. When I look out the window of my brothers’ bedroom, I can see the neon sign for a movie theater. It is divine (no one says divine, that’s only for God, Our Father); I mean it’s neat to have a movie theater so close. It’s called the Lido, and it’s already open. This is a fancy neighborhood!
I’ve got a bunch of school friends who live around here; well, they’re everywhere. Maybe there aren’t any Catholics here, I’m not sure. Now all of us who used to live in Indus trial live here, next to each other. Even my granddaddy moved from his house on Calzada de los Misterios and bought one in the Roma neighborhood, on Chihuahua Street, near a park that has a huge water fountain in the middle. What a house! It’s really something else. It has an indoor patio, and the floor and walls are decorated with smooth tiles, and there must be over one hundred flowerpots on the floor and hanging on the walls. The flowerpots that I like the most are the ones decorated all over with pieces of broken dishes. They’re like the ones we have at our house—they even have the same designs. And, by the way, the dishes that my mommy bought in La Merced Market are a thousand times better than the old ones, because while you’re eating your soup, all of sudden little animals—a bear, a dog, a duck—start to appear inside the bowl. It’s fun discovering them while I eat! I hope these don’t get broken very soon.