Blood Secret

by Kathryn Lasky

  “Estrella?” Jerry spoke the name softly. “Was there ever anyone named Esther?”

  Constanza looked momentarily confused. “I don’t think so. Why would there be anyone named Esther?”

  Should she tell her? There was so much to tell. Where to begin? She had no idea. “Well,” Jerry said finally. “As you told Padre, I am sorting things out. And last night I found this.”

  “What’s that?” Constanza squinted across the table.

  “A vial, a perfume vial. It belonged to a girl named Esther, and her middle name was de Luna. Esther de Luna Cardozo Perez.”

  “Yes, well, maybe Esther is close to Estrella. I told you,” Constanza said, dishing out some blue corn and mashed potatoes. “Estrella’s been a favorite middle name for many generations.”

  “Yes, many. Esther de Luna Cardozo lived in Spain, in Granada, until she left in 1492 when all the Jews were expelled.” Constanza was holding the serving spoon midair, her eyes riveted on Jerry.

  “Maybe your many great-greats-grandmother Estrellita was named for another great-great-grandmother named Esther,” Jerry said.

  “Are you trying to tell me that we’re Jewish?”

  “I’m not sure, Aunt. Does it bother you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a shock. That’s all. I mean, I thought I was a Roman Catholic. I was raised Catholic.”

  “I know. So was I.”

  “Confusing, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” Jerry replied.

  Chapter 19

  CONSTANZA LUNA STOOD over the sleeping form and watched the dim, flickering movements of Jerry’s eyes under her lids. It was three hours past midnight. In another half an hour she would have to start the fires in the hornos, but she didn’t know what to make of what Jerry had told her tonight. There were many things that were unexplainable to Constanza. Not everyone lit candles on Friday night, she knew that; but her own mother had, and not just during Lent. So she had just kept up the practice. And some things she did that might seem odd to others she just chalked up to superstition. There was some aunt on the Indian side of the family, which she guessed was the Morillo side, who had always done it, and she had just assumed it had come up from the Yucatán Peninsula. But she wasn’t sure what Jerry was talking about here.

  She knew Jerry often went to the cellar at night. That’s where she got these things—the vial, the letter. She hadn’t pried. She didn’t need to. She knew what the child did down there. What she herself had only dared to do once—open the trunk. It was too peculiar. Her sister, Jeraldine Luna Morillo, who was much older, had the trunk up until she died. She had called it a hope chest. Hope chest! Of all things. But Jeraldine was a little bit off—everyone knew that. Nice but off. She had a crazy daughter, Elizabeth—Betty, they called her then. Betty had Mildred, and Mildred had Jerry. The minute Constanza had opened the trunk that one time years and years ago, she knew there wasn’t anything like hope in it. Just awful musty things but each one with a kind of terrible dark little halo. She had picked up that same piece of old lace Jerry had shown her. She saw that stain—pale, brownish in color. She knew it was blood. Somebody’s blood. There was violence in that trunk and dark secrets and she did not want to know them. Yet at the same time she had been fearful to throw out the trunk. Superstitious, perhaps? Was she just turning into an old bundle of superstitions? She threw pinches of bread in the oven, never swept the dirt out the door. Was her candle lighting just part of all that?

  And then tonight Jerry tells her this thing about Jews in the family. Jews do things on Friday nights? News to her. She never knew, she never cared before Jerry came, and she could not answer Jerry for any of it except to say “just some old superstition.” And superstition had no place in her faith. God was not a superstition. Constanza was a good Catholic. She had been baptized in the church. Had become a communicant when she was what, eight, nine years old? There was no room for superstition in a true believer. But the truth was that she was superstitious of that trunk and she had been so fearful of it that she had never touched it in years and years.

  As she looked down at Jerry, from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of paper on the floor. She bent to pick it up. It appeared to be the corner of a map—a very old map. The map showed a landmass, or the fragment of a landmass, that vaguely resembled a horn that hooked into a sea—not a sea, a gulf, the Gulf of Mexico, and on the other side of the horn was the Pacific. The fragment of land that she was looking at was the Yucatán Peninsula. This is where her people had come from. This was where maybe Estrella had been born. This is from where, it was said, the old bread recipes came, the bakers of the family. The Yucatán bakers. Her great-grandmother had told her that. Constanza’s hands began to tremble as she held the piece of paper. If the child can do it, why can’t I?

  Chapter 20

  JERRY IN HER SLEEP felt herself floating on that strange borderline at the edge of dreams. She felt a presence, familiar but unnameable, hovering at the edge of her dreams. And where was she? She thought she had been in the cellar. She had reached for that map. There was a hot salty wind, a stinging wind gritty with sand, swirling with a rank tidal smell…and there was a woman. The woman was tall and she looked so much like her aunt but so different. Young and dark, much darker than her aunt, with high, rounded cheekbones, a bony nose that flared ever so slightly at the nostrils, the blackest eyes, and a cascade of black hair. No bald spot! This was no daughter of the Sanchezes or the de Lunas or the Cardozos. This was a new woman in a new world.

  Village of Quimpaco

  YUCATÁN PENINSULA, MEXICO

  NEW SPAIN

  1540

  Zayana

  It is not just words that I am running out of with this foolish priest, it is patience. They told me that if I agreed to have the child baptized, I could then sell my bread to the Franciscan friars of the new mission. They did not tell me that I had to name her a name of their choosing. Leona de Luna—that is her name. Named for her father, León, who died three months before her birth. And Luna because her father said that the women in his family often had the middle name of Luna. Now they tell me I must not name her that. I am standing here before their font of holy water and they say that this name will not do. I must name her the name of a saint. What do I know of their Christian saints? The priest says Marina is a lovely name, a name of the Holy Virgin mother. There are too many Marinas already. They are thicker than flies on a dead horse. They all want to be Marina—why? Easy. Doña Marina—hardly a virgin, mistress of Cortés. My mother knew her. Her real name was Ximaca. Aztec like us. But now I must think fast. The padre is telling me again. If I want to sell my bread, I must do what he says, I suppose. How else will I put food in my little girl’s stomach?

  “Milagros.”

  “Milagros? But Doña Zayana, why Milagros?”

  “Because she is a miracle. She was born in the middle of the plague. She lived. I lived. Is this not a miracle? Cannot a miracle be as wonderful as a saint?”

  He scratches his chin. A soft smile begins to slither onto his face. “It is an interesting thought, Doña Zayana. Yes, I believe we can accept that.”

  Then I have a sudden thought. I remember León saying that if he had been a girl, his father would have named him Jerusalem. They were secret Jews back then in Portugal, and his father wanted to name a girl after the holy city of Israel. Why can I not have two names?

  “Padre, I have thought of another name, a second name.”

  “Yes, Zayana. What might that be?”

  “Jerusalem.”

  “Very interesting, Zayana. A child named for a miracle and the holiest of cities.”

  But for one named after a holy city and a miracle, little Jerusalem Milagros de Luna Perez is certainly screaming in a most unholy way. He now presses his thumb, which he has dipped in oil, on my little girl’s forehead, then her chin and each cheek. She is turning bright red and screaming so loud. He speaks the priests’ language. I do not know what the words mean. It is nothing l
ike the Spanish I learned from León. I am to say “sí” to certain questions he asks me in Spanish. I do, but I don’t pay attention, really. All I know is that the padre and I have a deal. He does this for me and I get to sell my bread to the mission. This has nothing to do with what they call religion. These men, these friars and priests, are so strange. They come with their god statues painted in milky colors with empty eyes and they burn ours. And they call our carved gods blazing with bright reds and purples “idols.” Ours are not gods, are not sacred, so they say. Our gods have no power, so they say. And they wanted me to name my daughter after that white lady statue with her thin lips and empty eyes. How stupid. But our Indian gods are so powerful that we would never dare name a child after one. It would be an insult, not an honor, to a god. Imagine me naming this shrieking red-faced baby after our feathered serpent god, Quetzecoatl. He is the god of twins and monsters; he is the god of the wind. Quetzecoatl descended to hell and retrieved human bones still dripping with blood and from them made a new race, our race. Aztecs. He has taught men science and discovered corn. His power is too strong for some little baby. She would die from the strength of the name alone. But I might make her a wind jewel from the shards of a conch like the one Quetzecoatl wore. That will be her talisman. That can protect her, more than the cross the friars and the padre wear. The wind jewel speaks of life, the cross only of death, the death of the god, the one they call Jesus Christ.

  León’s faith was that of the Hebrews. Had he lived longer, I would have learned more. I did learn some things. They worship only one god. They never show a picture of their god. León taught me to throw a small piece of bread into the oven before I bake. He told me that this was to remind the people of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. But now look at this, my little Jerusalem. She has stopped crying and she sleeps so peacefully in my arms. My Jerusalem! My Miracle!

  1545

  “Why do you do that, Mama?”

  “Why do I do what?” I ask.

  “Throw the little piece into the oven and let it burn up?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because it was something your father taught me. It makes for good luck.”

  Jerusalem touched the wind jewel that hung on a cord around her neck. “Like a charm—sort of?”

  “Yes, like a charm. What a smart girl you are, Jerusalem Milagros de Luna Perez.” She loves it when I call her by that long name. I bend down and pinch her cheek. “Now you go off and play. Where is your little friend?”

  “Estrellita?”

  “Yes, Estrellita.”

  “She is practicing the Credo so she can get a sweet from Padre.”

  “Oh, that’s very good. Yes, when we deliver the bread to the mission, I am sure Padre will be pleased.”

  “Yes, but she will have to share it with me because too much will give her a tummy ache.”

  “And have you practiced the Credo?”

  “Oh yes, yes.” Jerusalem began to hop around a mud puddle on one foot. The piece of conch shell, her wind jewel, bounced against her collarbone, and in a singsong voice she chanted the first lesson of the catechism.

  “We Believe that the Roman Catholic Church is the One, True, Holy, Apostolic, and Universal Religion. Made by Our Lord Jesus Christ upon the Rock who is Peter and we believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the son of God….”

  I watch her as she hops off toward the front door of our adobe. And I smile, then whisper to myself, “And I believe in doing business, bread business, and if they want to call God Jesus Christ and I want to call him Quetzecoatl, well, that’s another kind of business altogether—private business.”

  1550

  It is hard to believe that it has been ten years since Jerusalem was born and León died. Today is Jerusalem’s birthday. I have taught her how to write numbers, which I learned from León. And now she is with a stick writing the number ten in the dust of our cook yard, and with the ink I borrow from the padres, on the few scraps of paper I can get. Or she will write in charcoal from the spent fires. She is proud of her writing skills, especially today. She is, after all, the only kid in Quimpaco who can make figures, and I have taught her how to add and subtract. But I warn her about bragging. People don’t like people who know too much. I, for example, I can read now. León taught me. But I keep it quiet. The padres would be disturbed and the village folk would think I was putting on airs. León taught me to read from his Bible. It is not like the padres’ Bible. It does not have the part the padre tells us about in church—the Gospel stories.

  But I do more figures these days than reading. I must keep my accounts for the bread. How much I sell, what I pay the miller for flour. Even Jerusalem is getting good at helping me keep these accounts. She’s a smart kid. I thought Estrellita would go away when she turned ten years, but she hasn’t. She still seems to be here. The imaginary friend comes around not quite so often but often enough. Elza, my sister, thinks it terrible that I indulge Jerusalem in this fantasy of hers. She tells Jerusalem that big girls don’t have imaginary friends. But Jerusalem tells her right back, “Aunt Elza, Estrellita is not imaginary to me. She is imaginary to you.” The other night Jerusalem told me that Estrellita is like one of the mysteries Padre talks about—things you can’t really know or see but are still true. So you believe in them, she says—like the Trinity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost and the resurrection. It is the same with Estrellita. She is a mystery. “But Mama, don’t worry; Estrellita is not a god. That would be blasphemous, right?” What do I know about blasphemy? “She’s a kid like me. A lot like me. That’s why I like her.”

  Today just as I am taking the last batch of bread out of the oven, the cart man from Quinque comes up the road. There is a large trunk in the cart.

  “For me?” I call.

  “For you, Zayana—all the way from Spain.” I reach in my pocket to get out two sueldos to pay him. But my heart is thumping. From Spain. It is a trunk. Who could be sending me a trunk from Spain? León’s parents. They must be long dead, I would think.

  “This is a very good sign, Jerusalem,” I say. “Imagine this arriving on your birthday. There is no way he could have known.”

  “Who, Mama?”

  “Your grandfather.” I point to the wood placard that has been nailed to the trunk lid. Luis Perez, Calle de Rosas, Lisbon, Portugal, and there is another name on the trunk: León Perez, Puerto Quimpaco. But I do not understand why it is addressed to León. Did León’s father not know his son had died ten years ago? I had the padre write to him about that and the birth of Jerusalem. Had the letter not been received? How awful that for all these years Luis Perez has not known that his son has been dead or that he has a granddaughter, Jerusalem. He knew of our marriage. For León had written him himself of that and we had received a reply with his father’s blessing. León had said that he had done really what his father had wanted to do himself—come to the New World. Like his father, he had studied medicine. Then he had sailed to the Indies as a ship’s doctor. First he had stayed in Hispaniola, and then went on to Cuba. The Indies were welcoming to people of “impure” blood, such as León, who had been forced to convert from Judaism to Christianity. Although León told me that his own father and mother still practiced secretly their old faith. He stayed in Cuba for a few years and then came to the Yucatán, where the new governor of the territory had requested doctors and “men of learning.”

  But now after all these years, this trunk.

  “Open it, Mama! Open it!” Jerusalem is dancing around me like a little sprite. But in truth I am almost afraid to open it. Surely there will be a letter inside and I hope I can read it. I cannot bear to think of taking it to the padre. “Open the trunk, Mama! Open the trunk!” Jerusalem is screeching now.

  Every night for two nights I have bent over this letter, trying to take meaning from this thin, slanting script of my father-in-law, Luis Perez. I move my lips around the words and finally they begin to make sense. The words do indeed
seem like something of a miracle. My dear son, I hope this finds you and your wife well. Your mother, Esther—Esther!

  I had never known the name of León’s mother. We had only been married for such a short time. We were young, and foolishly we thought we would have a lifetime to share stories and memories and little bits of information. But is it not a sign that Jerusalem’s imaginary friend’s name, Estrellita, is so close to the name of her grandmother!

  I have some exciting news for you. You possibly remember my speaking of an uncle of mine, Tomás Mendez, who was very powerful in the court of Isabella and Ferdinand. Well, a grandnephew of his has been appointed to a high post in the court in New Spain to govern a region called Nuevo León. His name is Julio de Luna, for indeed he married a de Luna from your mother’s side of the family. So you are related to him from both sides, which is good! I hope that you will have the opportunity to seek him out. You yourself might want to travel to this new province, for I am sure they need good doctors. It pleases me to see our relatives going to the New World. If we were not so old, we too would come, but I rest now in the knowledge that our family is planting new seeds in this new world. And this brings me to explain about the trunk in which you found this letter.

  As your mother and I approach our eighth decade of life, we feel the time has come to send to you this trunk that has the bits and pieces of our lives and the lives of your grandparents and their parents and even their grandparents. The trunk we think was originally the wedding chest of your great-great-grandmother on your mother’s side, Miriam Sanchez de Luna, who was born in Seville in the year 1381. It seems to have come down through the generations of women. I remember in the terrible year 1492, when your mother and I joined the thousands of exiles who left from Spain for Portugal, we took in our wagon only two trunks, this one and another that had our clothes and some crockery and the instruments of my medical profession. You perhaps remember this trunk, for it stood at the foot of your mother’s and my bed. There is nothing of great monetary value in it. There are a few silver pieces made by the husband of your great-grandmother Beatriz, who was an esteemed silversmith in Toledo. There is in fact a mezuzah made by this same silversmith, which I hope you shall put by your door as commanded by the ancient biblical passage in Deuteronomy: “And these words that I command you this day shall be in your heart and you shall inscribe them on the doorpost of your house.”