2

Samuel had let my hand go, but I seized his and squeezed. I held the tears in, and, I believe, kept my face serene. That night, however, I sobbed in Bela’s arms.

“They were good kittens,” she said.

I hiccupped. “I wish they could have lived long enough to kill a rat. Just one.” I wasn’t greedy on their behalf.

She kissed my forehead. “Their mother lived. She’ll have other kittens.”

She wouldn’t have another Goliath, not exactly.

After Bela left, I was still awake. A few weeks earlier, an old woman in the aljama—our Jewish community in Alcalá de Henares, where we lived—had died. Belo had talked at dinner about what happens to dead people. He said no one knew for sure, except that they were with God, but that, according to legend, they couldn’t bend their elbows and so couldn’t feed themselves. If they were good, they fed each other. If they were bad, they starved.

Smiling, I pictured the kittens feeding each other.

The next morning, I woke up shivering under my sheet, with what seemed like spikes drilling into my skull. The bed was empty. My sisters had risen before me, which had never happened before.

Mamá came in, carrying blankets, which she tucked around me. “Now God does this to me. Your abuela will bring you broth.” She left, saying over her shoulder, “Your worthless brother is sick, too.”

She meant Yuda, who got the worst of her, more than I did, more than any of us.

Bela came in. “Drink, little fritter.” She propped me up in bed.

The broth had no flavor. I drank anyway, hoping to please her and make her look less stern.

“Good. Lift your arm for me, please.”

I did, even though it hurt. She breathed in sharply.

“What?” I said.

“A pimple. That’s all.” She removed her pendant and hung its velvet string around my neck.

I’d never seen her without the pendant, a triangle made of red stone set in silver, which now rested on my belly. Etched into the stone were four Hebrew letters that stood for God. She always wore another necklace, too—the Cantala family dressed well. Today, her other necklace was a string of pearls from which hung a sapphire set in a gold circle.

“The amulet gives the evil eye something to look at other than you.” She lay next to me, curling herself around me and spreading her arm across my chest. “Warm up, fritter. Pretend you’re in a frying pan, gently simmering, gently simmering, gently simmering.” The repetition took on the cadence of a prayer.

The frying pan failed to warm me. I passed into delirium.

It never snowed where we lived, but in my fevered dream, I stood in a shallow cave while a blizzard raged outside. At my feet, a weak fire wavered and kept me from freezing. Against the cave wall the kittens sat on their haunches and waved their front legs.

Brush grew at the mouth of the cave. I knew what I had to do and hurried back and forth, carrying twigs to feed the fire, certain that if it died I would, too. When I threw on the wood, I was aware of my elbows bending and straightening, meaning I still lived.

On my tenth trip, I glimpsed a figure beyond the cave—

Belo!

Snow mounded on his round cap and collected on his shoulders. He stood still, like a boulder, with only his eyes moving, searching. When they found me, they glared. I backed away.

But I didn’t want to die! So, despite my fear, I returned to the fire and continued my task. Eleven trips, twelve. Counting tied me to life, too.

A flame ignited in my chest, which I fed from glowing embers at the edge of the fire. Gradually, I warmed. And slept.

Fatima, our maid of all work, stood over our bed, bearing a tray.

“You’re awake?” she asked.

I was staring at her. Didn’t that mean I was awake? I swallowed. “Where’s Bela?” Probably busy. I tried to sit up but collapsed back. Bela’s amulet, which had been nestling in the hollow of my throat, slid lower on my chest.

Fatima’s eyes swam, as if she were close to tears. “Are you hungry?”

I discovered that I was and nodded.

She put the tray next to me on the bed and came around to the other side, where she raised me up, turned my pillow to vertical, and leaned it and me against the headboard.

She touched my cheek. “I’ll say you’re awake.”

“You’ll tell Bela?”

But she exited without answering, leaving the door open behind her.

My stomach grumbled. I turned to the tray, on which rested a shallow pewter bowl containing lentils, three hard-boiled eggs, and olives. We ate round food after someone died, but we also ate these foods when no one had died, so I didn’t think of death.

I poked the lentils with my fork and estimated forty-two. Then I counted them. Forty-two.

They were half burned, and I wondered why, since Aljohar was the best cook in the judería, the neighborhood where we Jews had to live. Bitter as the lentils were, I ate them all and everything else. I could have eaten as much again. With food in me, I was able to lean away from the pillow. I decided not to wait for someone to come and slid off the bed—

—onto the floor, because my legs wouldn’t support me. Though I tried to use the bed hangings to pull myself back up, I was too weak. I didn’t call out. No troubling anyone. No discord.

I heard birdsong from the myrtle bush outside our window and smelled its flowers. How long had I slept? Had Don Israel, the physician, been called for me? Would Yuda punish me for getting special attention?

The door opened, and Belo stood on the threshold. His eyes were always intent, but now they bored into me. What had I done? His beard was uncombed and his robe, a faded green one, had been torn on the right side of his chest. We Jews ripped our clothing when someone close to us died, to express our sadness. Was he mourning the kittens?

I didn’t ask. I couldn’t question Belo.

He shuffled to me like an old man, though he usually walked briskly. To my astonishment, he joined me on the floor, put an arm around my shoulders, and pulled me close. Ordinarily, he smelled of the almond oil Bela gave him for his beard, but now he smelled sour.

“Don Israel said no one could be as sick as you were and live.” He let go of my shoulders and cupped my cheeks in both his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I watched you. You hardened your face, as if you had work to do. Your hands and feet never stopped moving. Do you remember?”

I nodded, hoping I wouldn’t have to speak.

“What do you remember?”

I swallowed and told him about my dream. “I think I went back and forth to get twigs twenty-three times.”

“Ah. That’s what your hands and feet were doing. You were stubborn.” He kissed the top of my head. “Stubbornness in a Jew is a virtue. A necessity.” He let go of me, then tipped up my chin. “Your bela once said that she was just like you when she was your age.”

Really? That gave me the courage to say, “You were in my dream.”

“No wonder, since I was with you often. I sat with everyone.”

Who else was sick? But I didn’t ask, protecting myself. Instead, I said, “Thank you for mourning for the kittens.” It sounded silly, thanking someone for mourning.

“What kittens?”

It was rude not to answer, especially to Belo, but I couldn’t. My mind had stopped.

Belo didn’t speak, either. I heard the birds in the myrtle again.

“Oh. Kittens.” A strangled sound came from him. A moment later he was sobbing, his shoulders shaking.

I patted his hand. “Why are you sad, Belo?” I wished Bela would come in. She’d comfort him for being sad and me for being frightened by his grief.

Ledicia, my oldest sister, opened the door a crack and slipped in. She wasn’t weeping, but her eyes were red. I started to cry, though I wasn’t sure why. She knelt in front of me and Belo.

“Sh . . . sh . . .” Ledicia thought I knew about all the deaths. She stroked my arms. “Bela of blessed—”

“Hush,” Belo said.

But she’d said enough. Sobs shook me.