My Guardian Angel (3 page)

V

My dear Mazal,I can't write you, because I have no parchment, but I can still talk to you, espe- cially because I'm all by myself, which I hate. If I had a sister instead of a brother, it would be much less lonely.

Of all the work we women have to do, what I enjoy most is spinning wool. I like the rough, slightly greasy feel of the wool between my fingers, and its warm sheep smell. I take after my grandfather in that way. When I was small, he shared with me his pleasure in the scent of the damp earth after the rain, the delicate smell of apple blossoms in the spring, and even the odor of hides being tanned. He taught me to love the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, the pale light of winter, and the silvery glimmer of the full moon. My grandfather showed me thousands of ways to find happiness in everyday things. My father is completely the opposite: He is quite indifferent to the sky, the seasons, the reflection of trees in the river, and the beauty of the world that God has created. My father is only interested in studying the sacred texts.

Meanwhile, as I ply the wool between my fingers, turning it into thread, my mind is not on my spinning. My thoughts are free to wander where they will, over to my friend Muriel's, for instance. Muriel is so lucky. She lives in a house that overlooks the street . . . and what a street it is! Her father is a furrier, and their house, which is also their shop, is right on the street where most of the Jewish shops are. She can watch the world go by, unlike me.

Today I can't even go to the younger boys' school, as I often do, to listen to them read and translate the week's lesson. The text this week is especially difficult. It's about how to make the holy robes for the high priest and how to decorate the tabernacle. It has many words that I don't know.

Dear Mazal, I know you are always watching over me, and I'm sure you are laughing to yourself now. You think I'm trying to hide something from you that you already know. Learning the vocabulary of the tabernacle is not the only reason I like going to school, but I don't want to talk about it, not even to you. Anyway, it was probably you, Mazal, who worked things out so that I couldn't go to school this morning. No, that can't be true. After all, you were not the one who built the school right next to the synagogue and the Beth Midrash where my father teaches the older boys.

One thing is certain. If I did go to school today, I might run into my father. And after this morning's scene, I don't even want to think of such a thing. The fact is, I'm scared of Judah ben Nathan, my own father, even though he has never laid a hand on me. For whenever I make him angry, he looks at me so disdainfully, I wish I could disappear through a hole in the floor.

This morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Aunt Rachel and my mother went to see Tova and her baby, for Tova has neither mother nor sister to take care of her. Before leaving the house, they gave me the same instructions I have heard over and over for the last few days: “Lock the doors. Close the shutters. And don't go out, not even into the courtyard!”

“There's plenty for you to do,” my mother added. “Polish the Sabbath wine cup and tray, fold the laundry, and put it away in the chests. And there's a basket full of wool that needs spinning.”

My mother was shivering in spite of her heavy cloak and hood, and I knew in my heart that it wasn't because of the cold. No, it isn't the cold, but fear that makes us shiver this winter, for we Jews do not know what is in store for us.

I started off by polishing the Sabbath cup and the silver tray until they shone like mirrors. And I must say, I was pleased by the reflection I saw: an oval face, pink cheeks, and a fine nose that isn't red like some of my friends' noses. My hair is curly, with long, thick braids divided by a straight part. I don't have the blond braids of the ladies in the ballads, and my eyes are neither green nor periwinkle blue but more of a hazel brown. How I wish the silver tray were bigger! I have heard that rich ladies in castles have mirrors where they can admire themselves from head to toe!

Next came the laundry. What a bore! But I love the fresh scent of soap. My grandfather told me that in Germany, when he was a student, he saw women whiten their laundry by soaking it in dog dung for a day or two before washing it with soap. Every time I think of that, it makes me laugh. Maybe girls in Germany don't only have to hatch eggs but must pick up dogs' dung, too! So they are even worse off than I am!

I decided to sit and spin near the window, and despite my mother's orders, I left the shutter open. Mazal, you do understand, don't you? How could I spend the whole day in the dark with only a little lamp for company?

The courtyard is deserted. There is not a soul to be seen unless you count the cock and the two hens that the cat chases aimlessly from time to time. They make pathetic attempts to fly off, flapping their wings in a ridiculous fashion.

The wool runs between my fingers. It runs from my left hand to my right. The staff, wedged under my left arm, gets lighter as my spindle gets heavier. I will soon have finished all my work. Ten times, I have wondered what Muriel is doing today. Ten times, I have imagined I was rushing down the street, turning the corner, and running to Muriel's without even stopping in front of the cake stall with its delicious baking smells of hot cakes and buns wafting in the air . . . without stopping at the old basket weaver's. I don't even pause at the apothecary's to glance at the flasks filled with scorpions, vipers, and toads, or the tiny scales, perfect for weighing frogs' hearts and grasshoppers' eggs! My mother and I mostly use herbs and berries that we gather ourselves. We sometimes use bark from trees and fat from cows or chickens, but once or twice I have bought leeches from the apothecary. As I sit daydreaming, I imagine the hustle and bustle of the street. I hear the merchants hawking their wares, women laughing, and children playing. I hear the spice merchant enticing me with his, “Elvina, come in here a minute; smell this cinnamon. It comes all the way from the Holy Land. It's the best remedy for tired eyes. It would be good for your grandfather, Solomon ben Isaac, who is not getting any younger, may the Lord protect him. Here, taste this ginger. Go on, do me a favor, take a few dried figs. A pretty girl like you, you'll bring me good luck.”

I imagine the little donkey waiting patiently in front of the spice stall, and I see myself rubbing his ears as I eat the figs.

Mazal, who is sending me these daydreams? You, by any chance?

All I know is that I can't resist the temptation any longer. Out I go! I barely hear old Zipporah shouting out, “Elvina, where are you going? What will I tell your mother?”

“Tell her I went to take Muriel the bracelet she lent me. She wants it back.”

My clogs clip-clop on the frost-hardened ground. Way up above my head, huge cotton-white clouds chase along, running much faster than I. Where are they going? When I see them race across the sky, I forget that I'm walking in the familiar narrow street of my hometown. I forget how bored I have been all afternoon. It's as if the clouds are pulling me along after them. I feel as light and joyful as they are. On my wrist I feel Muriel's bracelet. What an excellent excuse for escaping from the house!

VI

Elvina is out of breath from running. When she finally bangs on Muriel's front door, she already knows that something is wrong. The street is deserted and deadly silent, yet it is the middle of the day. Elvina can't believe her eyes. No old basket weaver, no freshly baked buns, no apothecary, and no little donkey! There is nothing, not even the sound of voices. Doors and shutters are locked, and those that are usually open to display wares are sealed tight. A few dogs scavenge through piles of rubbish, delighted that for once nobody is chasing them away.

Muriel opens the door. She looks astonished. “Didn't they tell you not to go outside?” she asks.

“Yes, but I got bored. Look, I've brought you your bracelet.”

“How could you dare to leave home? Quick, come inside!”

As soon as Elvina enters, Muriel hastily bolts the door. She is with her cousins Bella, a plump dark girl of fourteen who thinks of nothing but her approaching wedding, and the twins Naomi and Rachel. The two ten-year-olds are exactly alike, with untidy wisps of curly hair escaping from their thick, dark braids. Their bright eyes sparkle with mischief, reflecting personalities to match. The four girls are busy embroidering belts and munching walnuts.

Elvina already regrets having come. “The men are all praying and fasting, and you are sitting here embroidering belts?”

“What else are we supposed to do?”

“For one thing, you could try reading this week's portion of the Torah.”

Muriel gives Elvina a look that makes her blush with shame. Muriel hardly knows how to read, and her cousins, who live in a tiny village, know even less than she does. Elvina should be criticizing herself, not the other girls! What stopped her from taking out one of her father's books this morning and reading a passage from the Bible or a psalm? That might have given her some comfort. It would have been better than running to her friend's house and making spiteful remarks!

Muriel turns to her cousins. “What did I tell you? Elvina is not satisfied with her lot. She would rather be a boy and spend her life at school. When she was little, her Aunt Rachel would do her chores for her while ‘Lady Elvina' learned to read and write. So now she's oh-so-proud of herself! At the synagogue, she understands when they read in Hebrew. She doesn't need to listen to the translation they read for poor ignorant folk like us. It's obvious she looks down on us.”

“I don't look down on you. It's just that in
my
family women study. That's all.”

Muriel is now so close to Elvina that their noses are almost touching. Her eyes narrow with anger. “You are proud, and you
do
look down on us. But you'll never find a husband. That's what my mother says.”

“That depends on what kind of husband, doesn't it? I shall marry a learned man!”

“What you mean is, you won't be like Bella, who is marrying a tradesman next summer!”

“I mean nothing of the sort!”

“And you won't marry a furrier like my father, either!”

“That's not what I mean!”

“Yes, it is!”

Rachel and Naomi are standing on each side of the warring friends, keeping the score.

“Watch out; they're going to have a fight!”

“Like those two housewives I saw in the market the other day!”

Elvina looks first at one of the girls, then at the other. She sees the mischief glinting in their eyes. Suddenly laughing, she pulls their braids.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but we will not give you the pleasure of watching two girls scratching each other's eyes out and pulling out clumps of hair.”

Muriel draws back, and then, in a voice dripping with honey, she meanly asks, “Where are your eggs? Have you broken them?”

The twins don't give Elvina time to answer. They each take her by the hand.

Naomi says, “This winter my mother gave us each a package of eggs for the first time. It was dreadful. We didn't dare run or even walk —”

Rachel interrupts, “But we had a brilliant idea. We put our eggs under Grandfather's blankets. He never leaves his bed. Our mother was too busy to notice, and one morning, three weeks later, Grandfather started yelling! Guess what? His bed was full of chicks!”

Naomi pulls a face. “Did we get a beating!”

The twins' sweet expressions inspire Elvina to give Muriel a kiss. “Shall we make up?” Elvina asks.

At first Muriel turns away, but then she can't help laughing along and kisses Elvina back. They have been friends forever, almost like sisters. They have quarreled and made up hundreds of times.

Elvina continues, “You guessed right. I did break my eggs, for a change. But tell me, what are Bella and the twins doing here?”

The twins are no longer laughing. In an instant, their faces seem shrunken, turning strained and pale. They huddle together and Rachel answers, “We were too scared in the village.”

“The Crusaders came to our place yesterday morning and stole all of our sheep. When my father begged them to leave us at least one ewe, they pushed him so hard he fell over, and then they insulted him,” Bella explains.

Naomi starts crying and Rachel joins her. Elvina takes them in her arms, strokes their tearstained cheeks, and dries their eyes with her sleeve.

“Couldn't he fight back?” she asks Bella.

“Fight back? How? You think Jews can fight back? There are thousands of Crusaders. They camp in our barns, in the forest, in the fields, on the roads. If they only steal our sheep without killing us, we can count ourselves lucky! That's what my father says.”

Muriel turns to Elvina. “The streets are deserted, as you have seen, but the houses are all bursting with people. The Jews in the countryside and the outskirts of Troyes are terrified. Last night Simonet brought his wife and daughters to our Uncle Nathan the tanner's, just three doors from here.”

She adds quietly, “Bella saw Peter the Hermit as close as I see you now, didn't you, Bella?”

Bella hesitates, and the twins reply for her, “She saw nothing at all. Tell the truth, Bella.”

“The truth is that our elder brother spoke to someone who did see him.”

Elvina is curious. “So what does he look like?”

“He looks like a donkey.”

“A donkey? Are you telling me the truth, Bella?”

“Yes. His face is thin and longer than most people's. He has a filthy long gray beard, and he's barefoot and ragged — like a beggar. And he rides a donkey.”

“Which looks exactly like him!” chorus the twins. They pause a second for effect, then cry, “And the donkey speaks as well as his master!”

The color has returned to their faces and their eyes are open wide, but whether in horror or in wonder it is hard to say.
Probably both,
thinks Elvina as she realizes how much she would like to have two little sisters like Rachel and Naomi, who change so easily from tears to laughter.

“What does the donkey say?” asks Elvina.

“That I can't tell you,” replies Bella.

“We can!” the twins burst out. “He preaches, when his master is too tired to do it himself.”

Elvina laughs. “You are just children, and people have been telling you stories. In our world, animals don't talk. In the Bible, there is a donkey that speaks to tell her master not to beat her. It is written that our Lord ‘opened' her mouth. But you'll say I'm being pretentious if I tell you about it.”

Naomi and Rachel draw close to Elvina. “Muriel and Bella said you were pretentious. We never did. Tell us the story of the donkey!” The twins look serious in a way Elvina has never noticed before. “Go on; tell us,” they beg. “We want to know.”

“It's the story of Balaam's she-ass,” Elvina begins. “She told Balaam that she had always been his faithful donkey and that he had ridden her every day since boyhood, so there was no need to beat her. You see, the Lord lent the donkey the power of speech to show Balaam that only He could decide whether a man or a beast should speak. Believe me, in our world here below, animals don't speak.”

“How do you know? Maybe Peter the Hermit's donkey can.”

Muriel comes to her young cousins' rescue. “That's what people are saying, Elvina. And it's not only the children.”

Elvina looks thoughtful. “And this barefoot man riding a donkey is about to lead thousands of people to the Holy Land! It seems he promises them everything under the sun: forgiveness for their sins, eternal life —”

Muriel interrupts, “What if they start by burning down our homes? Have you thought of that?”

“Of course I have, just like you. But I'm not so worried, because I also think that my grandfather will find a way to avoid catastrophe. My grandfather knows everything.”