Don’t leave the sausage for last.
I ate a bite of bread, took my knife out of my purse, and cut a slice of the sausage and stared at it. Mottled with clots of fat, it looked hardly different from beef sausage.
I could never tell anyone about this crime.
Eat it.
I put the slice in my mouth, which filled with saliva. Tears streamed down my face. God forgive me, I began to chew.
I managed not to throw up. I got the sausage down, though without tasting it. Father Davalos patted my arm and asked why I wept. I gulped out that it was because my abuelo loved sausage. “And because you’re here. He was devout.”
The priest beamed at me.
We reached Toledo on the afternoon of Wednesday, May 2, the day after the expulsion decree had been proclaimed in all churches and synagogues, and three months minus two days before we all had to depart from Spain. I promised Señor Gonzalo that I’d meet him in the morning in the cathedral square to introduce him to the cardinal. May he wait there forever.
A rabbi took us in, and his first question was about Belo. I recounted his pleas to the monarchs and then his paroxysm. The rabbi wept.
“We had hopes he could change their minds.” He wiped a tear away. “The Jews are leaving Egypt again. God willing, the sea will part.”
God willing.
On Sunday, accompanied by six Jewish guards from Toledo, Hamdun and I reached home.
Fatima cried out when she opened the door. “Loma!”
Mamá came running. “Where’s your abuelo?” Without hugging me or waiting for answers, she ran upstairs, crying, “Asher! Asher!”
I followed her. Hamdun headed toward the kitchen. I felt his absence.
Papá emerged from his study, tears streaming.
No! “Belo didn’t die, Papá.”
Don Solomon had been here, so Papá already knew we’d had to flee.
“Thank God!” He hugged me. “Where is he? He wasn’t baptized? You’re not both Christians?” He searched my face.
“We’re not.” I took a deep breath and told him.
He let go of me. “You abandoned him?”
37
I nodded.
Papá walked away in the direction of his study.
“Loma!” Jento barreled at me and hugged me around my waist.
When I smelled him, when I heard his light voice, and, most of all, when I hugged him back—I was truly home.
Belo, I had to have this.
After a minute or two, Señor Osua, his teacher, came and pulled him away to return to his studies.
Samuel, Josefina, and baby Esther, fourteen months old by now, were expected for dinner. I went to the kitchen, but Mamá shooed me out. “You might poison us all.”
God forgive me, I didn’t care much what she said. I went upstairs to the living room.
Mamá or Papá must have sent someone to tell Samuel, because, when dinnertime came, he and Josefina weren’t surprised to see me and to not see Belo.
Josefina didn’t offer Esther for me to kiss.
When we were all seated, Mamá told everyone not to share a bowl with me. “She’s a jezebel.”
Bravely, Jento, on my right, pushed his bowl my way.
I left the table, not wanting Mamá’s fury to fall on him. As I descended the stairs, she called after me that I was heartless, hateful, ungrateful, and, worst of all, selfish.
Me: Belo, are you glad they hate me?
Belo: Yes.
Me: Is the fellow taking care of you? Are you alive?
No answer.
In the kitchen, I scraped the stew pot and licked the spoon. Then I served myself flatbread and garlic snacks. I carried the bowl to the courtyard, where I sat on a bench. I could always eat.
Papá, why were you kinder to Pero than you’re being to me?
Samuel didn’t come, though this was our place. Eventually, I went upstairs to my room. I didn’t look toward the dining room, so I didn’t know if anyone saw me. I took out my backgammon set and played against myself.
God had let me reach home so I could be punished by the people who could hurt me the most.
Esther wailed from the direction of the dining room. I jumped up.
Her cry was cut off, probably with a morsel of food. I sat again.
I heard Samuel’s and Josefina’s goodbyes.
How strange it was, to be idle.
How wrong it was, when I could help. Papá was certainly preparing for our departure, and he’d have Belo’s affairs as well as his own to settle.
That got me out of my room and into Papá’s study.
He looked up from writing. “We have to change our plans and go to Naples.” From his tone, this was my fault, too.
I said, “I know who owes Belo money and who will pay quickly.”
But didn’t he want to hear what had happened to me? Didn’t he care that I might have died? That Belo and I both could have died?
“You’ve helped enough.” He added, “We have to marry you off, and who will have your hard heart?”
I whirled. He couldn’t have said what I thought he had. “Excuse me, Papá. I didn’t hear.”
“The rabbi is marrying every female over twelve, for their protection. We’ll find someone. Another thing I have to do now.”
A wave of laughter rose in me. My whole body shook. I had to lean on Papá’s desk to keep from collapsing. My chest hurt, but I kept laughing.
Papá’s expression shifted gradually from stony to perplexed and, finally, to alarm. He came around his desk and put a hand on my arm—
—which I shook off. Cleanly, like a knife through butter, my laughter stopped, and fury possessed me.
Not caring if I created discord, I said, “You sacrificed me, though the Almighty didn’t tell you to as He told Abraham.” My voice sounded like spikes. “You knew I wanted more than anything to have children, and you knew Belo wouldn’t let me. You allowed him to not let me. I reminded him of Bela, and you wanted him to have the comfort. You never asked me if I preferred being an angel to being a mother. You could have traveled with him more. Fatima could have gone, too, and massaged his feet.” My voice rose. “I would have children by now.”
Papá made a sound in his throat.
“So I’m being married to protect me? When no one in my own family ever did before? After I crossed Spain alone, with just Hamdun?”
“Loma—” Papá’s voice was soft.
“I came home because I couldn’t bear being separated forever from the children. Maybe that was selfish.” I wept. When I could speak, I said, “I love Belo as much as you do. I brought him safely to Málaga, even though we were followed. I put him on a ship, and I thought Hamdun would stay with him, but Belo sent him to me. I didn’t know Hamdun was still on land until after the ship sailed.”
Papá hugged me. “I was cruel, God forgive me.” He sat me on the cushion by his desk. “I’ll talk to Samuel and the others, and I’ll try to make your mamá stop. Tell me what happened.”
I recounted almost everything, including our meetings with the monarchs. At the end, I gathered my courage and said what I’d promised myself never to reveal: “Papá, I ate pork.” Would he throw me out of the house?
He frowned. “Why?”
I told him about the priests. “I had managed not to until then.”
“God is merciful.” He touched my cheek. “How did it taste?”
My shoulders slumped with relief. “Fatty, I guess. My mouth was so full of saliva I couldn’t taste it.”
He changed the subject. “We’ve been arranging marriages ever since Don Solomon came with news of Belo and the expulsion. Most of the pairings have been made. Would you rather have a husband who is too old or too young?”
“Young.” Preferably a baby. Only the Almighty would really be able to protect us.
I was reconciled with my family. The littles were allowed to be with me again. In the time I’d been gone, Clara had grown an inch and promised to be the tallest
Cantala eventually.
The next day, my husband was chosen, the marriage contract written, my dowry pledged—a process that, before, would have taken months.
I was laughing often. So many ordinary things became funny when you turned them upside down.
It was funny that my husband-to-be, Hasdai Rosillo, had had his bar mitzvah only a week earlier, and I would turn sixteen on July 7, twenty-four days before we went into exile. Accentuating the difference between us, he was tiny, hardly bigger than seven-year-old Jento, and he was so thin that sunlight seemed to shine through him.
His mother had chosen to convert, and no one had to tell me that I would be his new mother. He would live with us and be taught with Jento. I insisted that he sleep with Jento, too.
I would be kind to him, as I always was to children.
He was the only child of a wool merchant. Papá said it could have been worse.
I chuckled.
While Papá was arranging my mismatched marriage, I had an interlude of happiness. In the morning, I went to Belo’s study, which still smelled of his foot salve.
Belo, I thought, I will pack your books. They will be perfect when we reach Naples. Please be alive to read them. Almighty, please let him be alive.
I opened his strongbox and filled a velvet sack with ducats.
Hamdun was in the courtyard, pruning the lemon tree. He didn’t hear my footsteps, so I watched his care, his economy of movement, the thoughtful way he paused before he cut.
When he finished, he turned. “Loma! You surprised me.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt you.” I sat on a bench and patted the place next to me.
He laid his shears in the soil at the base of the tree and sat.
“You shouldn’t have to wait so long to have a family.” I put the velvet sack of ducats in his lap. “Open it.”
His breath caught when he saw. “So much!”
I said solemnly, “It is inadequate recompense for your service to Belo and me.” I abandoned formality. “I thought of this when we left Málaga. Hoping to be able to do it made me happy during the journey.” The only thing.
His eyes were wet.
“What will you do with the money?”
“First I’ll buy a little land and a few goats.” He grinned. “Then I’ll look for a younger widow than I said before. Someone sweet and kind.”
“The goats will be lucky.”
He laughed.
Hastily, I added, “And so will she!” Then I asked him if he’d continue as our servant until we left Spain.
“With joy and gratitude, and after you leave, I’ll miss you forever.”
The next morning, Tuesday, May 8, 1492, I became a wife, along with six other young women, none older than fourteen. I wore my blue gown embroidered with gold thread. On my head sat my turban hat, a band of red around my forehead and over my ears, and, above the band, folds of blue silk. Around my neck hung three gold necklaces, one of them made by Pero when he was still Yuda. But my neck felt bare without Bela’s pendant. Two silver bracelets circled each arm.
No one was to feel sad for me, as richly appareled as I was.
The weddings took place in the street outside the synagogue. My nieces and nephews and Jento closed around me while we waited for the hazan.
Hasdai was in the middle of his own family where I couldn’t see him.
Vellida, eyes brimming, stood on the edge of the littles. Her twins clung to her skirts.
“Don’t cry,” I said. “It’s funny.”
She wiped her eyes. “You’re the bravest in the family.”
“No credit to me. Anyway, the mettle of all of us is about to be tested.”
Clara said, “You don’t look very old, Tía Loma.”
I laughed. “Thank you.”
“You have only one wrinkle.” She pointed. “Between your eyebrows.”
Todros said, “Hasdai is a good boy, even if he always hums.”
The hazan and the rabbi bustled out of the synagogue. The couples were to take turns being married. Because Papá was wealthy, Hasdai and I were first. Papá accompanied me, and Hasdai’s father, Señor Judah, accompanied his son.
The son of a wool merchant couldn’t dress as we did. Hasdai wore a wool tabard, blue, like my gown, possibly the only auspicious sign. Not propitious that his eyes were red because he was marrying me.
Hasdai’s head just reached my shoulder. He hummed, high-pitched and tuneless. His voice hadn’t changed yet.
He held out his hand and opened his small fist. I always loved children’s hands. On his palm rested a gold ring, which turned out to be too small for my plump finger. I pushed it on as far as it would go. Don Ziza, the goldsmith, would make it bigger.
Señor Judah spread a tallit across our shoulders. The hazan intoned the seven blessings and pronounced us wed. I had a husband at last.
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There was a meal after the wedding, meager compared with the usual feast, but I plied my husband with hazelnut nougats, butter cookies, and pastry crescents. He needed to be plumper. And when he chewed he didn’t hum.
Bringing him the best of everything became a game among the littles.
Todros pulled his shoulders back. “I’m your cousin now. We’ll all take care of you.”
Thank you, my darling.
After the celebration, late in the night, I led Hasdai to Jento’s bedroom and carried with me a plate of sugar cookies. “In case you wake up and are hungry.”
I kissed both my brother and my husband on the forehead. When my lips touched Hasdai’s skin, his humming rose to the pitch of a shriek.
I wouldn’t be able to spend much time with him during the day, because I had to help Papá settle our affairs. I asked Aljohar to protect him as much as she could from Mamá, and to bring him snacks.
Hamdun accompanied me wherever I went: to taverns for meals with Old Christians or to houses for meals with conversos. Before we left Spain, we had to pay our debts and we had to collect what was owed us. Each of us could take only one thousand ducats with us, but we could also take bills of exchange that banks would honor. If we were going to be able to continue to help the aljama and other Jews who fled to Naples, we would need funds.
But the people who owed us money offered excuses: the harvest was bad; their own debtors weren’t paying; they were low on cash. They wanted to delay until we were gone and couldn’t collect. But the ones we owed money to pressed for payment.
Everyone wanted to become rich by making us poor. Papá wrote to the monarchs, asking for aid, and paid a messenger to carry the letter, but an answer didn’t come. The days marched on.
In the evenings, I devoted myself to getting to know my husband. I played backgammon with him and Jento on their bed, challenging each in turn, or watching while they played each other. After a few nights, Hasdai’s age gave him the advantage over Jento, who bit back tears whenever he lost two or more games in a row. Hasdai never teased. He was a nice boy—man. If only he didn’t hum!
I brought snacks to munch on during the games: bread slices lathered with roasted garlic and onions or cheese-and-honey sweets or rosewater pastries. In just a week, Hasdai grew a little less thin, and Jento and I began to resemble stew pots.
One night, Jento asked Hasdai why he hummed.
He shrugged. His eyes shifted to me and away, an appeal for rescue.
I reached across the backgammon board for a sweet. “I often count. I know how many tiles there are in every room in the house, because I’ve counted them.”
“How many are there in here?” Jento said.
“There are one hundred and eighty-eight.”
“Why do you do it, Wife?”
Wife sounded strange whenever he said it.
Before I could answer, Jento said, “Todros and Beatriz look older than you. It’s funny you’re her husband.”
Hasdai just said, “My papá didn’t get tall until he was seventeen.”
His papá was a foot taller than mine. When Hasd
ai was seventeen and I was twenty and he’d gotten his growth, the difference in our ages might not seem important.
Jento repeated Hasdai’s question: “Why do you count?”
“It calms me.”
“That’s why I hum!” Hasdai sounded livelier than I’d ever heard him.
I smiled. “We’re alike that way.” But if he didn’t stop eventually, I’d be counting out loud to defend myself. We’d be the crazy couple of Naples.
When I was out with Hamdun, we often saw workmen at the synagogue, pacing the length of the walls and using their surveyors’ tools to measure their height. As soon as the aljama left, the synagogue would be refitted as a church.
I wondered what God thought of this. Was He angry at the priests? Angry at us for failing to prevent our expulsion?
On June 2, Papá told me about a priest’s announcement in synagogue that Don Solomon would be baptized on Friday, June 15, in Guadalupe, a month and a half before the Jews’ last day to be in Spain.
I thought he would already have been baptized, but Papá said, “The monarchs needed time. They think that if the ceremony is grand enough, more of us will decide to convert, too.”
A few families in our aljama were persuaded, but most weren’t.
In the judería, sorrow rang from every house. Wherever I was—in the kitchen, the courtyard, Papá’s study—I heard wails.
Once, on our way to an inn to try to collect a debt, Hamdun and I followed Señor Ezmel, a locksmith, toward the judería gate. He was walking a donkey loaded with satchels. His son, a boy of about nine, sat atop the pile.
Behind me, a moan rose to a howl. The locksmith’s wife heaved past me and snatched her son. Clutching him tight, she turned and started back. But her husband wrested the child away from her.
I understood. Señor Ezmel was converting, but his wife wasn’t. He was taking their son, and she wouldn’t be able to stop him.
Alcalá de Henares was just a little north of the middle of Spain. Portugal to the west and the sea to the east were equally distant. For a fee, the king of Portugal was willing to admit Spanish Jews for eight months.
Closest of all was the kingdom of Navarre, where the king agreed to take us in forever, if we chose to stay. North of Navarre lay France, where we were unwanted for even long enough to set down one foot.
A Ceiling Made of Eggshells Page 21