A Ceiling Made of Eggshells

by Gail Carson Levine

“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.

  3

  The plague had killed my next oldest sister, Rica; my brother Haim, whose fists I’d kissed while we watched the kittens; Soli, the baby; and Bela. Both Papá and Belo were untouched, because they’d survived an earlier outbreak, and no one could suffer it twice. Mamá, Yuda, Vellida, Samuel, and I lived through it and would now be safe from it, too.

  The capricious plague, which hopped from certain houses to others, had skipped Ledicia’s home. She, her husband, and my niece and nephew were never sick at all.

  Of our household, a maid of all work and one of our menservants died. Aljohar, our cook, survived.

  I’d been told that death would last until the end of days, but, even so, I kept expecting to hear Haim’s chortle and to see him charge into my bedroom. I listened constantly for baby Soli’s wail or her happy cry, when she seemed bent on showing how much noise she could make. At night, I lay awake, waiting for Rica to thrash about and throw an arm across my chest in sleep as she often used to. Vellida was a quiet sleeper. I was glad to have her next to me, but two seemed almost as lonesome as one.

  The funerals took place while I was still delirious. Now, I had to stay in bed for two days. The plague had exhausted me, but it wasn’t only that. All of me felt heavy.

  I often had company. My family came, except for Yuda, who stayed away, perhaps because he didn’t want to be cruel and didn’t know how to be anything else.

  They meant well; probably even Mamá did. I heard her before she came in, often yelling at Yuda, because she always blamed someone for whatever trouble befell her, and he was the one to get the brunt of it.

  In my room, she sat on the green velvet settle across from the bed. A settle was a bench with arms and a back. This one was hinged between the back and the seat, and I used to open and close it and make creaking noises, which had delighted Haim.

  She sat quietly, except when she exploded with “Jupiter and Mars! Gemini!” and then fell silent again. She wasn’t weeping, but her eyes were red. After a few minutes, she kissed my forehead, pressing harder than I liked, and left.

  Papá came frequently, though I wished he’d stay away. Usually, I loved to be with him, because he was full of good humor. But now, he just sat on the bed with me, stroked my arm, and dripped tears.

  Best were my sisters and my brother Samuel, because, even though I was now the youngest, our losses were identical: grandmother, sisters, brother. They talked about who had come to pay their respects, what Belo or Papá or Mamá had said, what Yuda was doing with himself—and I listened, absorbed by their words and feeling a little less sad.

  My most frequent visitor was Belo, who always left when anyone else arrived. I imagined he came because of what he’d told me, that Bela thought I was like her. Gradually, I became less afraid of him.

  Sometimes he sat on the settle, never on the bed; sometimes he stood and looked at the street through my window. Our house faced north, which was supposed to discourage the plague from entering, though the protection had failed this time.

  Often, Belo prayed or just talked to God, and when he talked, he praised Bela, telling the Almighty what a good wife and mother she’d been and how beautiful she was. “She never stopped being beautiful. Age didn’t tarnish her.”

  That comforted me, even though she had looked old to me. I’d loved her face: the soft pouches under her eyes, her round cheeks, the wrinkles above her eyebrows.

  Once, Belo said, “She put herself aside for me, knowing that the Jews need me. Who will do that now?”

  She’d put herself aside for me, too, but I didn’t tell him or anyone else. It was my terrible secret. If Bela hadn’t given me her pendant, the evil eye would have seen me and not her. I would have been stubborn without its protection, but she had needed it.

  Or she might have given it to Soli or Haim or Rica, and they would have lived. Someone’s death was my fault.

  I’d taken the pendant off and pushed it under my pillow. As soon as I was strong enough to get out of bed and walk across the room, I hid it. Ferns grew in urns under the windows. I buried the pendant deep in the dirt around the biggest one.

  An hour later, I dug it out again. I may have caused Bela’s death, and now I was doubly guilty for getting her gift dirty. I wiped as much of the soil as I could off the velvet and put it back on, hiding it under the loose neck of my shift. The amulet came down almost to my belly button.

  On the third day after Bela’s funeral, I was allowed to leave the bedroom. Jews sit shiva after a death, which means we mourn at home for a week. Our house was worse hit than most, and Belo and Papá were prominent in the aljama and beyond, so we had a steady stream of visitors.

  I joined the rest of the family in the dining room, where people stood, or sat on benches or settles or in one of our two armchairs or on pillows on the floor. I stood in the doorway and watched. Through the open windows I heard the clip-clop of hooves, and the rumble of iron wagon wheels.

  Servants had put platters and tureens of food—bread, goat stew, lettuce-and-radish salad, and stuffed eggplant—out on the long trestle table covered with embroidered linen. Mealtimes weren’t observed during shiva. We ate whenever we were hungry.

  Along the wall between the archway to the stairs and one of the two windows that overlooked the street was a dark wood cabinet wonderfully carved with flowers, leaves, and berries. The cabinet stood on long legs that rested on sculpted lion’s feet with curling toes. When I was in a happy mood, I imagined the feet dancing in place.

  Yuda leaned against this cabinet, spearing stew meat from his bowl with a knife. Bowl to mouth; bowl to mouth, with never a pause. Glutton!

  But he had loved Bela, too. She was the only one he never smirked at.

  A knot of men stood in the middle of the room, reciting the morning prayers. Samuel was in front of Papá. Belo’s deep intonations rose from the center of the knot.

  No one noticed me. Bela would have. Haim would have come running. Rica, for all I loved her and she loved me, probably wouldn’t have.

  Mamá stood at the other window, looking out at the street, her bony shoulders raised, her hands making fists at her side. Vellida sat on a bench near the trestle table, balancing a bowl on her lap. I put a slice of bread and a helping of goat stew in a bowl and ate near her, standing up. Vellida reached out to squeeze my wrist, since both my hands were occupied.

  When prayers ended, Samuel, whose nose was red from crying, sat on a bench against the wall across from the table. I joined him. Of all my family, he and Papá reminded me most of Bela. After a minute of sitting
in silence, Samuel put his arm around my shoulder, and we leaned into each other. The room was warm from the heat of August and from the crowd, but we didn’t move apart. I heard his breath and synchronized mine to go along.

  Ledicia and her husband arrived with their two little ones. As soon as the greetings were over, two-year-old Beatriz made towers of the wooden blocks her mamá spilled from a sack for her. When her tower collapsed, she wailed. I hurried to help her start building again, which quieted her.

  Ledicia patted my shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Baby Todros, at eight months, crawled everywhere and put every small thing in his mouth. I trailed after him, extracting one of Samuel’s marbles and the sole of a shoe that must have come from one of our visitors. Once, I caught him before he slammed into the pole lantern and brought glass and brass crashing down on us.

  I picked him up.

  He crowed, “Lolo,” his baby name for me.

  Tired from my illness, I set him down and resumed following him.

  After an hour or so, Ledicia crouched and scooped him up. “Loma, do you mind watching him again when I come back?”

  “I like it.”

  “What a good mamá you’ll be, God willing.”

  I’ll be perfect, I thought.

  When she returned, I resumed my vigilance, confining him to the dining room, although I could have followed him all over the house. But I wanted to stay. Bad things seemed to happen when I wasn’t watching out. And I was wearing the amulet, which might protect the people near me.

  Early in the afternoon, several Christians stopped by, men and their wives who had business with our family. Some, I knew, had once been Jews themselves.

  When they left, Belo asked Don Ziza, the goldsmith, “How is it with the gentiles?”

  “More dead than we have, may they all rest in peace.” Don Ziza had Christian customers and often visited them in their houses, as Belo and Papá did, too, when our family wasn’t grieving.

  “Woe!” Mamá cried, at that news or out of her own sorrow.

  When evening came, Ledicia and her husband left with Beatriz and Todros. Unless the grown-ups forgot about me, someone would soon put me to bed, where I didn’t want to go.

  Maybe I could help them forget by becoming less visible. I scooted under the cabinet and sat there, cross-legged, hunched to keep from bumping my head. People continued to come, stay awhile, and leave. Samuel was sent to bed. He left, his head turned my way, probably envious.

  If Samuel had been aware of me, Yuda had to be, too, and he’d give me away as soon as he was sent to bed. My time in hiding was limited unless I could find a better place. The tablecloths over the trestle table, which hung almost to the floor, would hide me completely, but how would I get there without Yuda seeing?

  I watched him, hoping something would capture his attention, but he just continued to look bored, sitting between Papá and Mamá on the bench.

  Then a distraction came: shouts from the street and pounding feet on the cobblestones.

  Belo said, “Stay here, everyone. I’ll go.” He ran down the stairs.

  I had to go, too. I reasoned that I had to be nearby if my pendant was going to protect him.

  Mamá began a wail, which was cut off, probably by Papá. I slipped out of the room after Belo.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he flung open the door. I crept almost all the way down. Outside, torchlight flickered on the brick walls across the street and haloed Belo’s blocky shape.

  People—Christians!—shouted, “Hellfire or eternal life!” Most of the voices belonged to men, but a few higher-pitched notes mixed in.

  Someone cried, “Death to the Jews who poisoned the wells!” This sounded like a chant and was picked up by other voices.

  Belo didn’t move. I pulled Bela’s pendant out from under my gown so the evil eye would see it and not him or me.

  “Here!” a man yelled.

  The mob came to a noisy stop. A friar faced Belo, his features obscured by his hood. Only his jutting, clean-shaven chin caught the torchlight.

  For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Belo asked, “Do you believe it wise to murder me and my family?”

  I gripped Bela’s velvet string so hard my hand hurt.

  “Not murder, Don Joseph. Salvation! We’d rather save you.”

  “But if not . . .” Belo’s voice was dry and calm in all the uproar. “We’ll never convert. Do you think you’ll be honored for my death?”

  “God will reward me!” But he hesitated, then cried to the throng, “Follow me!” and ran down the street.

  Belo would see me when he turned!

  But he didn’t move. I saw Yuda and Samuel’s teacher, Señor Osua, and one of the aljama’s butchers pulled along with the mob. The teacher’s mouth was open in a scream that was lost in the clamor.

  Several minutes went by for the crowd to pass, three or four abreast through the narrow street, eighty-six people, according to my rough count. When they’d all gone, Belo ran the other way.

  If he got too far away, the evil eye would see him! I followed.

  4

  I hoped that the noise of the receding mob would cover the slap of my sandals. Bela’s amulet swung annoyingly from side to side with my steps.

  Belo was fast! His shape diminished ahead, but, luckily, the street was straight and the night bright. I counted steps as I ran. My breath came in gasps, and my legs burned. Illness had weakened me. I sweated in the warm night air.

  The houses looked taller in the dark, the slice of sky narrower. I wasn’t often in the street, except on holidays and celebrations. Jewish girls spent their days at home.

  Someone passed Belo, coming my way. I moved closer to the houses and kept running, hoping he’d go by.

  But the someone—a man—stopped. “What’s this?” His arm snaked out and pulled me in. He crouched, holding my shoulders. His breath smelled of wine and something else—pork, I supposed. I’d smelled the same scent on the breath of a few of our Christian guests.

  “A little Jewess. What’s your name, girl?”

  I couldn’t speak. My heart thudded against my ribs.

  Belo was getting away from the amulet’s protection.

  He softened his voice. “I won’t hurt you.”

  I calmed a little. “Loma.”

  He picked me up and tucked me under his arm. My terror rose again. I began a wail, which he muffled with his free hand. He started walking after Belo, much too slowly to catch up to him.

  I wriggled and kicked, but his gait didn’t change, and he didn’t drop me. Out of habit, despite my fright, I counted his steps.

  I recited the Shema in my mind: Hear, O Israel. The Lord is our God; the Lord is One.

  My captor passed through the gate of the judería, which the mob had left open, and turned right. Which way had Belo gone?

  The man turned again, and again. My mind ran on three tracks: counting steps, memorizing turns, and repeating the Shema.

  No. Four tracks, the fourth a channel of terror.

  After several minutes, he stopped at a door, just two wide boards, not carved or set with iron bands and studs like ours. He lifted the latch and pushed. “María! Light a lantern!” He carried me up a narrow flight of eighteen wooden steps.

  As we rose, a glow grew above us. In a moment, we entered a low-ceilinged room, where an oil lamp flared on a low table. I tried not to gag at the smell of rancid fat. A woman stood in her shift in the middle of the room.

  Her gaze flicked from her husband to me. “What’s this?”

  He set me down.

  Sobbing, I started to run, but he grabbed me—not trying to hurt me—and held me by my shoulders. “I found her running in the judería. We can save her and raise her. We’ll take her to the church at dawn.”

  The church! Only Christians went inside the church.

  Raise me? Keep me?

  My sobs threatened to choke me.

  “It would be a blessing for her.” The woman took my hand. “Co
me here, child.”

  She drew me close to the lantern. “Look, Mateo!” She fingered my sleeve. “Silk.”

  To me, she said, “Where’s your badge?”

  Jews had to wear a red badge on their right shoulder, but I’d never had to, and no one in our family wore one. I didn’t know why we didn’t, so I was silent.

  “She’s rich,” María said. “We can’t keep her. What’s this?” She raised Bela’s amulet to the light. “Silver, and the stone must be worth something, too.”

  Though I fought her, she lifted the ribbon over my head, then moved on to my hands and pulled off my two silver rings and one gold.

  “Leave her in the streets but not near us. It’s up to God what happens to her.”

  Señor Mateo didn’t argue. Outside, I kept track of steps and turns again. After perhaps ten minutes, he set me down on a street that looked just like his—winding, punctuated by simple doors.

  He patted my cheek. “I would have saved you from hell.” He hurried back down the street.

  Weeping, I retraced his steps. I had to go all the way to his street to know how to get home.

  How many of my steps would equal one of his? I made mine big but decided that even my longest steps were shorter than his, so I adjusted my counting.

  Belo would be furious that I’d lost the rings and Bela’s amulet—especially the amulet.

  I missed the pendant’s protection, which had kept me alive and saved me from being permanently stolen and having to enter a church. Now, I was at risk with every step. Would a different Christian door open? Would someone else snatch me, and would this person decide I could be kept?

  When I reached the judería at last, the gate was locked. I sat on the cobblestones in front of it, knees to my chest, drawn up as small as I could be. The night was quiet. Whatever had happened with the mob seemed to have ended.

  I fell asleep and woke when the gate groaned open, rolling me on my back. It was still night.

  “Loma!” Papá scooped me up in his arms.

  Belo was with him, so he was safe. Relief set off my tears as I was borne along, sobbing into Papá’s chest.