15

Ledicia put her arm around my shoulder and held me while I sobbed. She said into my hair, “Belo can be a little selfish. Keeping you safe should be the most important thing.”

I just didn’t want him to be sick when we were away from home, with me not knowing what to do. When I finally finished weeping, I looked down at the wooden balcony floor and told Ledicia about the sick baby and everything I’d seen in the tents.

“Belo said the baby would die. He said babies aren’t hardy, and I remembered Haim and Soli. I couldn’t stop worrying about Todros and Beatriz and Jento and Jamila.”

Ledicia stroked my forehead. “Belo forgets how young you are, because you’re so clever.”

From now on, I’d have to be clever enough not to be my age.

That night in his study, while Fatima massaged his feet, Belo said, “You betrayed me, Loma.”

I said, “I want to keep traveling with you.”

“Then keep my secrets.”

I promised I would, but he was cold to me for two whole days. I could hardly bear it.

Belo and Papá didn’t speak to each other for a week. Then everything seemed to return to normal.

Belo had his way. In January 1487, I traveled alone with him to Sigüenza, where he tax-farmed for Cardinal de Mendoza, his great patron after the monarchs.

Papá told me what to do if Belo got sick again. If we were in the countryside, I was to leave him with one of the guards and ride with Hamdun and the other guards to the nearest town where Jews lived. If we were already in a judería, I was to stay there until someone in the family came for me or for both of us. I was not to travel with Belo after he’d been ill, no matter what he said.

I said I would, but Papá shouldn’t have believed me. He should have known I’d never leave Belo when he was sick.

Never mind. He stayed healthy, perhaps because he’d received word that the monarchs were making the town of Valmaseda take back its Jews.

“Loma, I did good by going there. My presence must have mattered to the king and queen.”

He didn’t mention the baby, and I guessed he’d forgotten.

In February, we visited Calahorra and Toledo. While we were away, both my brother Jento and my niece Jamila mastered the art of climbing stairs unaided. Baby Clara wailed whenever I approached.

Ledicia promised that her fear would pass. She laughed. “When they’re old enough, they’ll want you to leave so you can bring back presents.”

She saw my face.

“They love you! You’re Bela to them, even though you’re Tía Loma.” She sobered. “And you’re young, and you survived the plague, so they’ll have you for a lot longer.”

We all still missed Bela.

She added, “Beatriz wants to sleep in the snood you brought her.”

I smiled. It was pretty, a silver net sprinkled with tiny pearls.

Samuel turned thirteen. The entire family, including Yuda and Dueyna and my married sisters and their families, came for dinner.

How deep Samuel’s voice sounded when he thanked his well-wishers. As little as a week ago, it was still cracking sometimes. Perhaps God had waited for this day to entirely give him a man’s voice, a rabbi’s voice. Anyone would be rapt, hearing teachings delivered in such a voice.

Mamá, Ledicia, and Vellida balanced their babies on their laps. My lap felt empty, but my niece and nephew had clamored to sit next to me, six-year-old Beatriz on my left, and four-year-old Todros on my right.

Beatriz slipped her hand into mine and tilted up her chin. “Tía Loma, I—”

I whispered into her curls. “You don’t like meat. I know.”

She nodded solemnly. I glanced at Mamá, who was scolding Jento for wearing what she called an angry face. He began to wail. Papá took him, and he quieted.

Aljohar brought out the Sabbath stew, which I had prepared—Samuel’s favorite. The recipe came from Mamá’s mamá of blessed memory. I loved the spices—the saffron, pepper, ginger, and cinnamon—which made the lamb taste, to my mind, like gold, if gold were edible.

I’d prepared extra against gluttonous Yuda, so there would be enough for a big helping for Samuel. The bowl went around the table. When it reached me, I took enough for me and Beatriz and pushed the meat to the side.

Everyone but Belo gave the traditional compliments on my cooking: the flavors were perfect; nothing over- or undercooked; my husband would be lucky to get me; my children would thrive on such meals—though in Yuda’s mouth the words seemed to mock. Belo never praised my cooking, though he often praised Aljohar’s.

Papá announced that he had hired a scholar from Ocaña to teach Samuel.

Belo said, “I’d like your opinion of my essay on history, Samuel. I should hear what the future rabbi thinks.”

Samuel blushed and said he looked forward to it.

Belo added, “Come to my study after dinner.” He didn’t include me, which was right. This was Samuel’s day. Still, I felt left out.

After dinner, I descended to the courtyard and sat on a bench. The March sun was sweet, and the myrtle had buds. Samuel’s bar mitzvah had me thinking of my future. I was eleven. In as little as three years I might have my own baby.

I barely heard the footsteps. Yuda.

He sat next to me. “Dueyna is too timid with her spices, but I pay her the same compliments everyone paid you.”

That was disloyal to his wife, and he meant that some of my compliments hadn’t been sincere. He could stir up two kinds of discord in a single sentence.

“She may be barren. Mamá keeps asking about grandchildren. She doesn’t know the pain she causes.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Not painful to me. To Dueyna, who is a dutiful wife.”

What else would she be? Didn’t he want children?

“What does my clever sister think of Jesus?”

I frowned. “Me? I don’t think of Jesus.”

“Do you think God could have a Son?”

I shrugged.

He waited.

“God can do anything.” I shifted on the bench. “He could have a daughter.” The idea surprised me.

“He wouldn’t. Suppose He did have a Son, His Son would be a gift, like the Sabbath is. People who believed in His Son would be His people, don’t you think? God would be angry at anyone who didn’t believe. He takes better care of Christians than He does of us. We may be feeling His wrath.”

Why was he telling me this? “Do you believe in Jesus?”

“I don’t know. I asked you for wisdom.”

He didn’t mean that, but I tried to think of a wise answer. “God gave us His law.”

“And gave the Christians His Son.”

I could hardly bring out the words. “Are you going to convert?” Belo might have an attack again. Papá would be beyond grief.

“Maybe.” He stood and left.

A hoopoe pecked at a stripe of earth between two tiles. God made the hoopoe.

“Do you believe in Jesus?” I asked it.

It flew away.

Yuda would have relished knowing that his words poisoned my thoughts for a long while after we spoke. Were Jews wrong about everything? Would we all go to the hell the priests shrieked about?