20

I swallowed hard and refused to cry.

Papá stood. “I’ll speak with your abuelo, Loma. Don’t worry.” He left but didn’t go downstairs. He liked discord no more than I did.

But he kept his promises. He’d talk to Belo.

In the silence, Todros said, “Tía Loma, if you get married and have your own babies, you won’t have time to play with us.”

I kissed the top of his head. “If I had a hundred babies, I’d find the time.”

Belo wanted me to have children and be happy, I was sure of it. He loved me.

But he must have insisted I wasn’t ready when Papá spoke to him, because days and weeks passed with no more mention of suitors. In August, Yuda completed his apprenticeship and set up his own shop four streets from our house, and he and Dueyna moved there from their first home.

We all went to see it. The shop filled half the first floor of the house. The upper window shutter, pulled out and supported by poles, created an awning; and the lower shutter, pulled out and held up by four legs, created a counter. There, on a length of velvet, Yuda had spread an assortment of his handiwork: buckles, rings, necklaces, clasps, and brooches. I picked up a pendant—a circle set with five emeralds.

“It’s marvelous,” I told him, meaning it.

But I didn’t return. I doubt that Belo, Mamá, my sisters, or Samuel did, either. Papá may have.

In September, Yose was betrothed to Gracia, the daughter of another wealthy family. Had he smiled at her, too, or had I been his real choice?

I wondered if Don Solomon’s great-grandson had also been betrothed by now.

Desperate to win Belo’s approval, which, a year earlier, had seemed my birthright, I worked on my cooking, my sewing, and my foot massaging. In his presence, I hardly spoke, because I feared I’d say something undercooked. Whenever he tasted a dish I’d prepared, the breath flew out of me, and I waited, empty, for his judgment—

—which didn’t come. He ate without commenting.

My appetite dwindled. I became less plump—a little less plump, because Aljohar noticed and plied me with treats.

Though my sisters had been betrothed quickly after their twelfth birthday, not all young women were, and families often waited a few years to make a match for their sons. A wife hadn’t been chosen for Samuel yet. I had a while before my single state would be gossiped about.

Finally, one evening in October, Belo remarked on my silence. “Loma, you’re like a deer lately, all eyes and no words. Have you stopped talking to your abuelo?”

We were playing backgammon in his study. Disconcerted by the question, I failed to send one of his counters to the penalty bar, and I suspected he’d brought up my silence only to gain an advantage in the game.

I shook my head and then remembered to speak. “I haven’t stopped.”

He moved two counters onto his home board.

“Belo? Did you like my honey fritters?” They’d been one of the desserts at dinner. Papá had called them balls of sweet gold.

While I waited, I took my turn throwing the dice and moving my counters.

“Loma, your cooking is fine. Excellent.” He smiled into my eyes. “You are my perfect granddaughter, and you have plenty of time to get married.”

How did he know that was what I meant?

He went on. “God willing, I’ll dandle your babies on my knees.”

He never dandled the current crop of babies. But maybe for the children of his favorite, he would. I smiled back at him, relieved.

“You are in early youth, but only the Almighty knows how many vigorous years I have left, and I’d like to keep you with me while I still can travel.”

Did he expect his spasms to get worse? I hoped he’d stay well!

But I wanted to get married. God, I thought, is that wrong?

In February 1489, Samuel was betrothed to the soft-spoken and sweet Josefina Bivach. I became the only adult child in the family not to be married or have a wedding planned. At dinner, I added my congratulations to everyone else’s and shrunk my envy into a speck in the corner of my heart.

When the meal was over, I hastened to my bedroom and then to the courtyard, hoping Samuel would join me. We used to study together there, and only he and I would come out in winter.

He came. I kept my hands behind my back.

“You’re happy for me, Loma?”

I nodded, smiling.

“What are you hiding?”

I brought out the prayer shawl I’d made for him for this occasion. I’d carded and woven the lamb’s wool for the lower part of the shawl. The silk collar I’d bought, but I’d sewn it on myself. “Do you like it?”

He draped it over one arm and examined it. “I’ve never seen one so marvelous.”

That couldn’t be true, but I accepted the compliment. “None made with so much pleasure.”

He took my hands. “God will make you as happy as I am, and your husband will be the luckiest man in Spain. Look what an angel you are to Belo, to this whole family.”

“Belo is my benefactor!”

“He used to be, but you’ve changed places.”

I didn’t know if I liked this idea.

Samuel went on. “God sees your goodness. We’ll both have happy lives.”

This was the first time I was praised for traveling with Belo but not the last. It was never said in Belo’s presence, but the same compliment came from Papá and Ledicia. Yuda, when he cornered me alone, called me Angelic Pitiable Lizard.

In March 1490, when I was nearing fourteen, our whole family drew pity. Yuda and his wife stealthily followed a priest after Sabbath services. I don’t know exactly how it fell out, but I imagined the scene:

They slip through the judería gate.

Yuda coughs wetly. A cheep of fear escapes Dueyna.

The priest turns and smiles. This has happened before. “Yes?” He recognizes that Yuda is a prize. He bows. “Yes, Don Yuda?”

“Weekly we hear your words—”

“Christ’s words.”

“I can withstand anything, but I don’t want eternal torment for my wife.”

He might have put it some other odious way. We knew nothing until a priest visited the house and delivered the terrible news. The priest came during dinner, so all of us received the shock at once.

Mamá ran out of the dining room, shrieking, “He’s always been a viper!”

Yuda was probably imagining this scene and grinning.

I hid it, but I wanted to do as Mamá did: scream, tear my hair, and spread blame. With a converso brother, who would marry me?