Belo a bishop? In a church? I realized he meant if we became Christians.
“My husband and I love your abuelo as if he were part of our family.” Queen Isabella let my left hand go and covered my right in hers. “Are you good, Paloma?”
I whispered, “I don’t know.” I thought of my heart-hatred for Yuda.
“Do you want to be good?”
“Yes.”
King Ferdinand chuckled. “It isn’t easy.”
“Sometimes,” his wife said, “it’s hard even to know what course is good, but Jesus and my confessor show me the way. Best of all, when I sin, my sins are forgiven.”
Ice seemed to run through me. Were they going to force baptism on us?
“Look at me, Paloma,” Queen Isabella said.
I did.
Her eyes were blue. “Tell me your latest good deed.”
What good deed? I obeyed and respected my parents and Belo, but those weren’t deeds. “Er . . .” I took three shallow breaths and remembered. “On the way here, I massaged my abuelo’s feet.”
After a moment of silence, a squeak escaped Queen Isabella. King Ferdinand cried, “Ho!”
I hoped I’d said something dreadful enough to make the queen stop wanting me for a Christian but not so awful that I’d be killed.
Then Papá laughed his boisterous laugh. An instant later, the king drowned him out with his own laughter, and Queen Isabella proved to have a gurgling laugh. She let go of my hand.
Belo didn’t laugh. I turned to see his beard jutting. He was angry—probably at me.
The queen wiped her eyes. “More of our guests should bring progeny. Don Joseph, I see why you prize your granddaughter so. Paloma, you may go back to your grandfather and father.”
I hurried to Papá, who put his arm around me and spoke for the first time. “Majesty, she’s a truthful child.”
Belo said, “Paloma is an unusual girl, but, my queen”—he swept a bow—“unusual females aren’t unprecedented.”
Queen Isabella nodded, and I decided that Belo had brought me on this trip just so he could say that sentence.
“Spain’s need is great.” King Ferdinand leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees. “It won’t be satisfied by a small sum.”
“Not if we are to defeat the infidel,” Queen Isabella said.
The infidel meant Muslims, who ruled in the south. The Christians had been fighting them for hundreds of years. Jews weren’t the infidel; we were the heretics. Just as bad.
The queen stood. “Dine with us tomorrow.”
The king stood, too. “Bring a proposal. Leave the child behind.”
12
At noon the next day, Belo and Papá dined privately with the monarchs, and Papá offered his proposal. Late in the afternoon, when they returned, the three of us sat on a stone bench in the courtyard that the rabbi shared with three other families.
On one side of me, Belo yawned. On the other side, Papá wriggled his shoulders. I sensed how relieved both of them felt.
Papá had suggested a new head tax, that is, a tax on every Christian who paid taxes (not nobles or church officials, who didn’t). Jews already paid a head tax.
The Church would increase its tithes, too. Tithes were a religious kind of tax. Most of the money went to the Church, but the monarchs got a share, which few people knew.
The monarchs had appointed Papá chief tax farmer for the new tax. He’d first have to give the monarchs the tax out of his own money—and Belo’s—and then farm (collect) it from their subjects. He’d be allowed to collect more than he had laid out and keep what was left over. But sometimes the tax farmer wouldn’t be able to collect as much as he’d given the king and queen, and then he’d lose money. The monarchs always got the amount they expected. Tax farming was risky!
“It was a good day,” Papá said.
I took advantage of how relaxed they were. “Why do any Jews become Christians when they aren’t forced to? Do they believe in Jesus?”
Papá said, “Some may. The Christians say Judaism is the way of the past and theirs is the way of the future. Some believe that.”
I wondered what conversion felt like: the baptismal water soaking my head, believing that God had a son, eating pork, marrying a Christian, having Christian children, not needing Bela’s amulet, because no one kidnapped Christian children.
Might I like it?
When we returned home, my nephew Todros was shy with me for a week. I had a lump in my throat the whole time.
In June, Yuda and Dueyna were married. This time, I spoke to Papá before the wedding. Whatever he did I don’t know, but Belo let me go to the celebration. I danced for hours, sometimes with my sisters, but mostly with Beatriz and Todros.
In August (a month after I turned eight), I went with both Belo and Papá to the city of Burgos, where Belo helped Papá be a tax farmer. Belo had me come along for another meal at an inn with a wealthy Old Christian and for a dinner at the home of a New Christian.
Before, I hadn’t realized there were two kinds of Christians. Old Christians had believed in Christ for a century or more, while New Christians, also called conversos, had for less than that—if they really did believe. Many New Christians had converted to keep from being killed by mobs, but if they went back to being Jews, they’d be executed.
At the inn with the Old Christians, we were served a dish of chicken baked with cheese. Belo and Papá ate, so I did, too, even though we were breaking Jewish law.
Afterward, Belo said, “If we can’t eat with the Christians, we can’t do business with them. The rabbis say it’s all right, if it’s good for the Jews.”
I didn’t mention how delicious I thought the dish had been.
At the New Christians’ house, however, dinner followed our law in every way, including prayers in Hebrew. The servants were Moors—Muslim, not Christian, as I could tell by the women’s pants and the men’s turbans—because the conversos were in constant danger of being discovered practicing Judaism, called “Judaizing.” Moors would be less likely to report them to priests than Christians would. If the conversos were caught, the Holy Inquisition—the Christian religious court—could make them pay a fine or take their belongings or even have them killed.
Back home, Mamá and Ledicia were growing big bellies. Hooray! I was going to be an aunt and an older sister again. I hugged Mamá, who tolerated my arms and yelled at Fatima for not dusting carefully enough.
The next Friday, I cooked the Sabbath stew myself—soaked the white beans, simmered the lamb and onion, added the beans, mixed the spices, stirred and stirred.
When he tasted it, Papá said, “Aljohar should be jealous.”
Aljohar smiled. “She’s a credit to Doña Violanta and me.”
Samuel said, “Your husband will be a lucky man.”
Belo said, “Esther used to put in extra garlic for me, the way I like it.”
Next time, I thought. I always wanted to please Belo.
But the next time, he said I’d made the stew too salty.
In November, Yuda was caught gambling again, this time with Zemah, the rabbi’s son, who was only eleven.
I don’t know what happened between Yuda and his wife and her family, but in our house, Mamá’s shouts resounded. She called Yuda a serpent from the moment he was born and blamed Papá for not supervising him more. “You can’t take your eyes off a serpent.”
Even though Papá had said he wouldn’t be able to once Yuda was a man, he and Belo did protect my brother as much as they could. Money was given to the synagogue and the aljama council. A gift went to Don Ziza, the goldsmith, to stop him from dismissing Yuda. Belo sent a heavy purse to chief constable Don Rodrigo to forestall punishment from the Christians. And a donation was made to the aljama poor, because gambling wasn’t a sin if the winnings went to the poor.
On the day following the discovery of the gambling, Samuel, Vellida, and I were included in a family meeting with Yuda in Belo’s study.
Belo sat in
his chair; Mamá and Papá shared a settle that had been carried in. Samuel, Vellida, and I sat on cushions. Yuda stood.
He resembled a camel’s head less than he used to. He’d grown plumper than I was, and now had a roll of fat that suggested a chin buried somewhere.
He wore gold and silver rings on every finger. Around his neck hung an emerald pendant—goldsmiths wore their wares to show what they could do. He produced silk packets from his pocket, which he distributed to Belo, Papá, and Mamá.
“What’s this?” Belo said.
“Rings I made for you. I was saving them for Hanukkah, but you’ve been so kind.” He turned to Samuel and me. “I’m going to make rings for you, too.”
Belo and Papá instantly gave them back without looking.
Mamá emptied her packet into her palm, revealing a pearl set in a silver ring, which she drew onto her index finger. “It’s little enough for all I’ve done for you.”
Belo’s eyes went to his bookshelves. I knew he wanted to get back to his books and his writing. “Tell us what happened.”
Yuda sat on a cushion. “Zemah begged me to teach him the rules of dicing”—he blushed—“which I barely remembered.”
It was Zemah’s fault?
He went on. “I just wanted him to enjoy himself, so we played for a few coins. It won’t happen again.”
“The sum doesn’t matter,” Papá said. “It was gambling. We’ve managed to keep you from being excommunicated.”
Excommunication for even a day was terrible. The whole aljama would shun the person.
Belo said, “You won’t be excommunicated, but you may be flogged.”
Yuda’s eyes filled. “I didn’t harm Zemah. I didn’t harm anyone.”
“The rabbi and the council will decide,” Papá said. “The aljama is angry. They don’t want a rich man’s son to be able to do whatever he wants.”
Samuel said, “Papá, why is gambling a sin, since God decides how the dice land?”
“There’s more than one opinion, son,” Papá began, “but—”
“Did Zemah expect to win from you, Yuda?” Belo said.
“I told him it could go either way, and he knew that anyway.”
Yes. I was only eight, and I knew. But I was sure Yuda had enticed Zemah with the likelihood of winning.
“Gamblers don’t expect to lose,” Belo said. “The winner is a thief, who steals the loser’s coin. Gambling is a sin because it’s thievery.” He could have stopped there, but he added, “Judaism is a light to the nations, but you, Yuda, are a darkness.”
It sounded like a curse.
Papá said mildly, “Son, I only want to be proud of you.”
His anger seemingly over, Belo said, “I want that, too. Nothing more.”
Yuda stood and kissed Belo and Papá on the cheek. “I hope to surprise you.”
That sounded ominous to me and to Samuel, too, from his glance at me, but both Belo and Papá took Yuda’s hands and pressed them.
Didn’t they see his malice?
13
A year earlier, in our courtyard, Yuda himself had described a flogging to Samuel and me, which he’d witnessed the day before in front of the synagogue.
“First Don Israel examined Señor Ezmel.”
Don Israel was a physician, and Señor Ezmel was a locksmith.
“What did Señor Ezmel do?” I said, sitting on a bench.
“Cheated customers. Don Israel said he was healthy, so he had to bend over and raise his shirt.”
Yuda told us the whip was a leather strap folded in half with a handle in the middle, so that both ends struck Señor Ezmel’s back.
Grinning, Yuda raised his arm and slashed down. “There was blood right away. Señor Ezmel yelled that he was sorry and he’d never do it again, so they stopped. I pity him.”
That night, during my worry time in bed, I tried not to picture the whip lashing Yuda’s pudgy back. Though I hated him, I didn’t want him to be flogged.
And he wasn’t. The next day, we learned that the aljama council, awash in gifts from Papá and Belo, decided that Yuda’s offense hadn’t been serious enough.
In February 1485, Mamá and Ledicia had their babies. Ledicia had a daughter, named Jamila, and Mamá had a son, named Jento.
Thanks to the Almighty, all lived and were healthy. I spent as much time as I could going back and forth between houses, hovering over one crib and then the other.
In March, Samuel turned eleven, and in April, Vellida married her Jacob.
I discovered, while dancing, that Beatriz, at age four, had begun to worry. She stumbled once, pulled her hand out of mine, and left the circle.
I followed her. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like to dance.”
She loved to dance! After coaxing, she told me she didn’t like to stumble when she danced. “I did it wrong, Tía Loma.”
“We don’t have to dance.”
“Good.”
But I wanted to, and I wanted to with her. I had an idea. “Watch.”
“Stay with me!”
But I joined the circle again, clasped hands with two women, and stumbled on purpose. The hands held me up. I kicked when you weren’t supposed to and failed to kick when you were. I added a jump that didn’t belong at all—
—and a laughing Beatriz broke into the circle. We danced together until the music finally stopped.
At the end of May, when the whole family went to the synagogue to celebrate Shavuot, a priest and a Christian scribe in a voluminous white robe leaned against the north wall. The congregation waited for the usual diatribe, but neither of them spoke, so the hazan began the service.
I missed the haranguing! At least that was routine—death, hellfire, demons—I hated it, but I was used to it. This was alarming because it was unusual. I put my arms around Beatriz and Todros. If they became frightened, I was ready to comfort them.
After the service came announcements by the head of the aljama council—of weddings, engagements, births. Flies buzzed. My scalp itched.
When the last announcement was made, the rabbi mounted to the tevah.
“I am told to say this: All the Jews of Spain are instructed by the grand inquisitor, Tomás de Torquemada, to report any Christians that you know of who are Judaizing. For instance, they may ask you how to observe the Sabbath, or when one of our holidays is. Anyone who doesn’t tell the priests”—his chest rose in a deep breath—“will be excommunicated. If you know such conversos, I urge you not to protect them. But any who accuse falsely will be punished by the Inquisition.” He left the tevah.
Belo and Papá knew Christians—New Christians—who Judaized, who were really secret Jews, as much as they could be. I knew them. Was I supposed to go to the Tribunal?
We weren’t the only ones who did business with conversos. Shopkeepers had New Christian customers. Artisans did, too. Yuda’s master, Don Ziza, did. The converso customers of Señor Lauda, the butcher, came to him for kosher meat. Every single one would be a Judaizer! Did he have to inform on them?
The priest ascended the tevah. “Do not add to your own heresy the sin of destroying Christian souls.” He began the usual speech but stopped after only a few demons had tormented us. His voice softened. “I’ve warned you many times, week after week, but you don’t believe in hellfire. You know excommunication, though, and the life of an outcast. I beg you, don’t bring that down on yourselves.” He left with the scribe.
If Belo, Papá, and I became outcasts, could we be outcasts together?
When we got home, Fatima was standing in the vestibule. She told us that a priest was waiting in Belo’s study. “He asked for Loma, too.”
Ai!
Papá kissed my forehead. “Don’t speak unless you must.”
Mamá said, “This is what comes of taking a child everywhere.”
Belo said, “‘I don’t know’ is an excellent answer, Loma.”
In the study, the priest had taken Belo’s chair. On Belo’s desk rested a p
late of dates, figs, and almonds, which a servant must have brought.
Servants had also carried in a settle. Belo and Papá bowed, and I curtsied. They didn’t sit, so I didn’t, either.
“Welcome to my house,” Belo said, which I knew he meant to be funny, because the priest was acting as if it were his house. “Please eat. The figs are especially good.”
The priest took a single date and a single almond.
“We’re honored by your visit,” Papá said.
“I’m visiting no one else.”
Did he mean we should feel honored or frightened?
Belo sat on the settle, and Papá and I did, too.
“Don Joseph, you serve the Church.”
Belo collected tithes for a cardinal, and he gave gifts to bishops and cardinals.
“And the monarchs.” Belo took two figs and passed the plate to Papá.
A breeze wafted in. Outside, hooves clip-clopped. Papá handed the plate to me, and I rested it in my lap, because I didn’t know what else to do with it. If I tried to swallow, I’d choke.
The priest waved away a fly. “You eat in the homes of New Christians. If they’re practicing Jewish rites, you would see.” He turned to me. “Child, you’ve been there. Have you seen it?”
Ai! I couldn’t ignore a question. And I had seen it.
“Child—”
“Her name is Paloma,” Belo said.
“Paloma, nothing will happen to you if you tell me.”
What would happen to Belo and Papá? “I d-don’t know.”
“Did they eat cheese and meat together?”
“I d-don’t know.”
“Did they serve bloody meat?” (Kosher meat was never bloody.)
I repeated that I didn’t know.
“What is the weather today?”
“I don’t— It’s hot and sunny.”
“Did they talk with your abuelo and Papá about the law?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don Joseph, I’m aware how dear this child is to you. Soon you may have to bring her to the baptismal font as the only way to save her. You can go, child.”
I looked at Belo. He nodded, and I fled.
The Holy Inquisition joined my list of nightly worries.
A Ceiling Made of Eggshells Page 7
