My Guardian Angel

by Sylvie Weil

  My heart was pounding. Something jumped down from the wall. I thought I’d die of fear. I even let out a scream. It was just a cat! What a relief. He padded toward me, mewing and rubbing himself against my leg. Even so, I brushed him off sharply.

  “Please, cat, now is not the time. Go away!”

  Luckily, my grandparents’ door was unbolted. The younger of the two servants lay curled up asleep on a pile of straw near the still-warm oven. She woke up with a start and turned toward me with puffy eyes.

  “Elvina, what’s wrong? What are you doing here? You know demons and ghosts come out at night!”

  “Shush!” I hissed. “Don’t mention such things. My grandfather says the light of the full moon is better protection than three men.”

  “I’ve heard that your friend Tova is having her baby tonight. Let’s pray she doesn’t give birth to a dog!”

  “Don’t be so stupid!” I said. “Why on earth should she give birth to a dog?”

  “They say if a woman looks at a dog . . . and only last week I saw Tova stroking one. . . .”

  “Leave me alone! Just go back to sleep,” I shot back before she could finish.

  The large room was empty and almost dark, except for a glimmer of light coming from the study. I tiptoed toward it, holding my breath. My grandfather was hunched over his table, writing. The lamp was burning gaily. It was the pretty oil lamp that my grandfather particularly likes, because you can see the flame through the glass top. Everything looked familiar and comforting. There was my grandfather, with his long gray beard dangling over the page. Now and again he brushed it out of the way with his hand.

  Above him were the dark wooden shelves filled with books. I could hear the soft sound of his pen scraping on the parchment. My anxiety melted away, and my impatience flew out the window! I had turned back into the happy, carefree little girl I used to be.

  I heard myself thinking, I’ll run toward him, nestle on his knee, and play with his beard. I’ll touch all those pieces of parchment on the table, the big ones and the tiny ones, with letters written all over them, up, down, and across, in every corner, so that not a single scrap of that expensive parchment should be wasted. Grandfather will get me to read words he has written. He’ll take a book down from the shelves, a real book with lots of thick pages sewn together between wooden bindings. Then I’ll say, “Show me your drawings,” and he’ll show me his plans of Solomon’s Temple and the huge drawing he made of its elegant candelabrum. I will laugh at the sketches that were made in the margins by Rabbi Shemaiah, who copies down my grandfather’s commentaries. There is wicked Haman with his three-cornered hat and Mordecai, as a handsome knight in chain mail. And I shall feel so proud. How many girls can boast of having the great Solomon of Troyes as their teacher! But I am, after all, his very own granddaughter.

  All these things ran through my mind very quickly. And just as quickly the little voice that only I can hear exclaimed, “Elvina, stop dreaming! You are no longer four years old!”

  A sudden panic seized me. What if my grandfather was angry to see me there in the middle of the night wearing nothing but my nightclothes and a blanket?

  As if in answer to my thoughts, he raised his head.

  “Elvina! You may be as quiet as a mouse, but I still know you are there.”

  “I can’t sleep,” I said. “I’m too worried.”

  “Did you cross the courtyard alone?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  I walked toward him. I am now too big to sit on his lap, but I took his hand and kissed it. It was icy cold from holding the pen all night, and I warmed it by rubbing it between my own hands. I wished I could also rub away the deep furrow in his forehead that I had noticed over the last few days.

  Under this furrow, his warm brown eyes started to twinkle.

  “It’s naughty of you to have left the house, Elvina, but it’s good of you to have come to warm up the heart and hands of your old grandfather, who has so many reasons to be sad tonight.”

  “Is it true,” I asked, “that Peter the Hermit wants to kill us and burn down our houses?”

  “We must pray, Elvina. We must pray, we must fast, and we must pray some more.”

  I had an idea. “Grandfather, isn’t there a way to persuade Peter the Hermit’s men to leave us in peace? I’ve heard that they are poor, wretched people. Maybe if we offered them food and money, we could convince them not to harm us?”

  Solomon’s eyes shone. “My granddaughter is very intelligent! That’s exactly what we are going to do. This very night at the synagogue, your father and your Uncle Meir are busy organizing a food collection for Peter the Hermit’s troops while they are in our region. Luckily we’ve had a good harvest! We’re going to give them vegetables, meat, and wine. . . . As for the money, once it’s collected, we’ll put it aside and give it to them when the time comes.”

  “When will the time come?”

  My grandfather shook his head. “When the time comes, we’ll know! You see these letters I’m writing? They are messages for our fellow Jews in Germany. We’re asking them to collect money urgently to sweeten up the Crusaders once they arrive there.”

  “I hope they’ll be gone by the time we celebrate Purim. Can we dress up and have fun as we usually do?”

  I was immediately sorry I had asked this stupid, selfish question, unworthy of a girl of nearly thirteen.

  My grandfather’s eyebrows narrowed, and his eyes clouded over. “Who knows?” he said. “But we have to avoid anything that might be misinterpreted by our Christian neighbors. For example, we won’t be burning any effigies of Haman in the street!”

  I wanted to make up for my stupid question by asking another, more intelligent one. “How come Esther married a man who wasn’t Jewish?” I asked.

  “She had no choice. Ahasuerus was the king of Persia, and she was his subject. Besides, her Uncle Mordecai had explained to her that the Eternal, blessed be His name, had chosen her for a special destiny. Through this marriage, she was to save the Jewish people. She was the only one who could foil the devilish plot of Haman, who wanted to massacre all the Jews. Now, go home, and go to sleep.”

  With these words, my grandfather took my head between his hands and blessed me.

  IV

  Her long silk dress is embroidered with gold thread; her bracelets jangle at her wrists. Her hair, twisted into thick braids, is oiled and perfumed. Her crown is so heavy with jewels that her head bends from the weight. Esther-Elvina walks slowly toward the throne room. The palace of Ahasuerus is immense, with its never-ending corridors. What will the king say when he sees that she has dared to come before him without summons? Will he rise from his throne, splendid in his royal robes of gold and precious stones? Will he take her tenderly into his arms? Or will he have her dragged outside and executed by his guards for having disobeyed his orders?

  Elvina’s heart is pounding. . . . The room resounds with each beat. . . . She hears the shamash, the syna-gogue caretaker, calling the faithful to morning prayers and realizes the thumping sound is really his banging on the wooden shutters. One opens and a man shouts something that Elvina cannot make out. She groans and hides her face under the covers. It isn’t even daytime yet, for the cock has not crowed.

  Hateful shamash! Horrible shamash whose name just happens to be Simcha, which means “joy”! He certainly is enjoying himself, tramping around, torch in hand, through the three streets that make up the Jewish neighborhood. What fun he has dragging everyone out of their warm, cozy beds so early in the freezing morning. Elvina stretches her arm out toward Rachel. Rachel’s place is warm but empty. Elvina has the bed to herself. She thrashes her legs in all directions, those long gazelle legs that, if truth be told, she is quite proud of. She tosses and turns under the covers, stretches out luxuriously, and bumps against a small bundle. She ignores it, and with her eyes still closed, she rolls over on top of it. An awful crunch startles her awake. The eggs! She has crushed them! She imagi
nes the disgusting little bodies of half-formed chicks making a slimy mess in the bed. The eggs are useless now; they can’t even be cooked. Maybe she will manage to give them to the cats without anyone noticing. Later she’ll confess to her mother.

  She picks up the water pitcher and bowl that Rachel left for her, washes her hands, and says her prayers. The floor is icy against her feet. Where are those thick slippers she threw off last night? She puts on her woolen dress, quickly plaits her hair, and gathers up the shapeless squashed package, shuddering with disgust.

  Downstairs her brother, cousin, and father are sitting around the table. No one sees Elvina at the bottom of the stairs. Yom Tov and Samuel are the only ones eating, hunched over a single bowl of porridge and dunking bread into it. In the silence, Elvina hears them chewing and swallowing noisily, as boys do. Rachel and Miriam are standing near the table. When Yom Tov has finally eaten enough, he turns his head toward the women with his self-important look.

  “Last night I dreamed that I was walking in the country and there were wicked men who came toward me and threatened me. I was scared. Then I looked up, and I saw birds —”

  Samuel interrupts him crying, “As birds fly, so will the Lord of all armies protect Israel!”

  Judah ben Nathan nods his approval. “You speak well, Samuel. You have transformed your cousin’s bad dream into a good one. Well done.”

  “I, too, had a dream,” says Samuel. “I saw a horse, a magnificent white horse galloping through the forest. That’s a good omen, isn’t it, Uncle?”

  “Yes, my son, it is.”

  The boys have caught sight of Elvina. Immediately they see the bundle she is trying to hide under her arm. They nudge each other, and Yom Tov cries, “You’ve broken your eggs again! I knew you would!”

  “They are not my eggs. I’m not a hen! And I’d like to see you and Samuel try it. You’d break them even sooner!”

  “We have more important things to do than sit and hatch eggs,” they reply in unison.

  “So do I!” Elvina retorts, though not very sure of herself as she feels her father’s gaze turning toward her.

  His harsh voice cracks like a whip. “What kind of girl are you? You know very well that in winter the henhouse is so cold that the eggs freeze, and we lose them.”

  “Yes, Father, I know.”

  Elvina wishes she could disappear underground. Anywhere to escape from the disdainful look on her father’s face. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” she adds in a small voice.

  Miriam and Rachel remain silent. Miriam looks upset, as she does whenever her husband gets angry for any reason. Elvina wonders whether, as she grows up, she will find herself adopting that meek smile she so hates to see on her mother’s face.

  Rachel stares at the birdcage swinging in the window. She has opened the shutter, and the birds have begun to sing. Elvina thinks they have no reason to seem so happy. The day, which has just begun, does not bode well.

  No one takes any more notice of her. Judah and the boys leave the table. Miriam waits until they have gone before turning to Elvina.

  “Haven’t you noticed how tired and worried your father looks? Haven’t you noticed he is fasting?”

  “Well, that didn’t stop the boys from stuffing themselves, did it?”

  “They are still a long way from their Bar Mitzvah. Your father doesn’t want you children to fast.”

  “Does he mean me, too?”

  “Of course he does; what do you think?”

  “What did he say exactly?”

  “He said, ‘I don’t want to force Elvina or the boys to fast. They are still children and need all their strength.’ Then he said, ‘Why make them suffer more than necessary, when we know that hard times are on the way?’”

  Rachel steps toward Elvina and strokes her hair, pressing a piece of warm bread into her hand. “Eat; you’ll feel better. I always used to break the eggs, too. Don’t you remember, Miriam?”

  Elvina’s mother starts to laugh. “Yes. And each time you would cry, ‘Poor little chicks! Poor little chicks. . . .’”

  “Whereas you, Miriam, our admirable elder sister . . .”

  Rachel turns back to Elvina. “Your mother never broke a single egg. I’m witness to that. She would go and see to milking the cows, she would sew, go down to draw the wine in the cellar, she would play with us all day long on the Sabbath, and those eggs never broke. Nobody knew how to keep them as safe and warm as she did. She used to wind a length of cloth around her waist to keep them secure against her body, didn’t you, Miriam?”

  Then Elvina starts to sob. She sobs in kind, sweet Rachel’s arms. Elvina is drowning in her tears. How she wishes she could stay in Aunt Rachel’s tender, comforting embrace forever, being consoled and caressed. At last she forces back her tears, raises her head slightly, and sniffs, “I hate chickens!”

  Suddenly she remembers her friend. “What about Tova?”

  “Tova had a little girl,” says her mother. “An ugly little girl who will give her nothing but trouble!”

  Miriam is grinning from ear to ear as she says this. It doesn’t do to attract the attention of mazzikim, those demons that are always lying in wait to attack defenseless newborn babies.

  “Poor Tova,” says Elvina. “Her husband hoped for a boy.”

  Miriam laughs and kisses Elvina. “Husbands always want boys, but for mothers, it’s much better to have girls! A girl is good company; a girl is a friend. You were my first child. When you were born, the neighbors all came around looking sympathetic, saying, ‘Poor Miriam, how disappointed you must be.’”

  “And what did you say?” asked Elvina.

  “I laughed and made fun of them. . . .”

  Elvina can’t believe her ears. “You made fun of them? But you are always so kind and polite.”

  “I was younger then. I wasn’t so kind in those days! But your grandfather said to me, ‘Let them talk. Let them think you are disappointed. That will keep them from being jealous, and they’ll wish you nothing but good.’”

  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.