A Ceiling Made of Eggshells

by Gail Carson Levine

  The priest didn’t return to our house, and I wasn’t called to the Holy Tribunal, but Señor Lauda, the butcher, denounced three converso housewives for buying kosher meat. One lost half her property and had to spend six months in prison; another had to wear the sanbenito, a yellow tunic, and a tall conical cap, for a week; the third was found innocent. For informing falsely, Señor Lauda was sentenced to death by stoning and was killed.

  I heard about it when Mamá told Aljohar in the kitchen, where I was stirring bread into the stew to thicken it. The spoon slipped out of my hand.

  Aljohar, who bought the family’s meat, cried, “Woe!” After her lamentations, she added, “Such a kind man. And honest.”

  No one else from the aljama came forward to the Inquisition, but Old Christians informed on New. People were tried for what seemed to be minor failings. A man lost all his property for washing his hands before praying—a Christian prayer!

  In April 1486, when I was nine and three-quarters, the town council of Valmaseda, far in the north, expelled its Jews, despite the queen’s order that they not be expelled. Belo went to persuade the council to change its mind and took me, Hamdun, and six guards with him.

  I half didn’t want to go. Vellida was pregnant with her first, and the baby could come any day. Of course I did go. No one asked my opinion anyway.

  On the ride there, Belo was jubilant. “Loma . . .”

  “Yes, Belo?” I rode next to him, because I was old enough to be on my own mount, a mule for this trip since the terrain was mountainous.

  “Now we use our wealth.” The gold ducats in his saddlebag clinked softly. “We’ll spend whatever we need to to return the Jews to their synagogue before the gentiles can make it into a church.” Holding the reins loosely, he turned his hands palm up in his lap, as he did when he was about to bargain with someone. “Everyone will be delighted. Did I ever ask you this riddle?”

  “Which one?” We both loved riddles.

  “The wise men of Athens tested a rabbi by ordering him to show them the center of the world, so the rabbi pointed at the ground at his feet. ‘Down there.’ The wise men were amazed and made the rabbi say how he knew. How did he know, Loma?”

  That was the riddle? I laughed and admitted I had no idea.

  “Ah. The rabbi said to the wise men, ‘Prove me wrong.’” Belo started laughing, too. “They couldn’t!”

  That was the answer: they couldn’t. Clever rabbi! It became my favorite riddle.

  No other Jewish girl had my adventures. An hour later, I experienced snow up close. Snow! As in my plague delirium. Not coming down, but on the ground near the road. I dismounted and touched it, the coldest thing I’d ever felt.

  The next morning, the town councilors of Valmaseda met with Belo, and I was there. They didn’t want a new door for their church or a monument in their square, and they wouldn’t take money outright. They just wanted to be rid of their Jews.

  When we left them and crossed the town’s ancient bridge, Belo said, more to himself than to me, “How are people staying warm?”

  The breeze was chilly. I was snug in my heavy cloak, my hat, and my plumpness.

  The expelled Jews were camped in shabby tents in a green valley watered by the Cadagua River. A flock of thirty-five sheep grazed nearby.

  I counted fifteen tents and fifteen wavering fires. In sight were twenty people, tending the fires or gathering brush from the bushes along the river, but more people were probably in the tents, out of the wind.

  A straggle of seven Jews, four men and three women, ran toward us, led by a youngish man in a gray cloak and a knotted wool hat, who introduced himself as Rabbi Huda. Belo said who he was and who I was.

  The rabbi bowed and turned to his companions. “Don Joseph! God heard us! Do you come from the king and queen?”

  “Don Solomon Bohor is hurrying to them.” Belo dismounted from his mule.

  I dismounted, too. Don Solomon was Belo’s friend who’d visited us.

  Belo added, “Show us how you’re faring.”

  “Your granddaughter, too?”

  “Yes. She wants to come.”

  I did want to.

  The guards and Hamdun stayed behind. I noticed Hamdun’s sad face.

  As we walked to the tents, the rabbi said, “We have fish from the river, but not enough. We don’t dare slaughter any of the farmer’s sheep, even though we’d pay him back.” He pointed at a farmhouse perched on the hill above us. “Señor Diego hates Jews.”

  We stooped to enter the tent the rabbi led us to. I heard mewling and was transported into the past. A sick kitten!

  But the whimper turned out to come from a baby. In the back of the tent, a woman sat on a carpet with a blanket around her shoulders and a baby in her lap.

  The rabbi said, “Our son won’t nurse. We have no medicine, no physician.”

  I crouched by the mamá. How thin the baby’s arms were! And how big his eyes. Beautiful! “Can I hold him?”

  The woman shook her head. “I have him.”

  The rabbi led us to other tents. We saw a woman with a swollen leg, a man who hadn’t stopped weeping for two days, and a woman who was guarded by her husband because she kept trying to return on foot to Valmaseda, where her married daughter lived as a Christian.

  I could think only of the sick baby.

  Belo gave half our ducats to Rabbi Huda and told him to use the money to buy food and whatever the aljama needed to better their situation.

  The rabbi thanked him. “This will help us find new homes.”

  We left the camp to return to the city of Vitoria, which we had passed through on our way here. Belo prayed for half an hour. I felt comforted until he began to talk.

  “As soon as I saw those councilors, I knew we’d fail.”

  We? Had I failed?

  “But there must have been something we could have said—how much money we had. They probably didn’t think we had so much. Should we go back? I’ve already given the rabbi half, so we no longer have it. We shouldn’t go back.”

  “Why did you give the rabbi only half, Belo?”

  “Half was more than enough! Who knows what else our purse will be needed for tomorrow or next week?”

  “Oh.” I asked my most important question: “Belo? Is there a physician in Vitoria?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Can we send him to the rabbi’s baby?”

  “That baby is past saving.”

  He would die? I wept until I had no more tears.

  14

  As we rode, Belo continued going over what had happened. I’d never seen him so agitated. Finally, he said, “You’re quiet, Loma.”

  “What was wrong with the baby?”

  “Even a physician might not know. Babies aren’t hardy. Sometimes they die.”

  As my baby sister, Soli, and my brother Haim had during the plague. I wished Papá or one of my sisters or Samuel was here.

  Were baby Jento and Jamila all right? Had Vellida given birth to a healthy baby? Were all of them well? A noisy sob escaped.

  “Loma . . . your bela was always the one to comfort the children.”

  Meaning he didn’t know how.

  Hamdun maneuvered his mule close to mine. “Mistress, it’s very sad. Babies should live to grow up.”

  I nodded at him and felt a little comforted.

  It was dark when we reached the rabbi’s house in Vitoria. The guards and Hamdun stayed in the house next door. I slept in a bed with the rabbi’s twin daughters, who were three years old. When I woke once in the middle of the night, their easy breathing sent me back to sleep.

  Belo always wanted an early start, so I wasn’t surprised when the rabbi’s wife woke me at dawn. But he wasn’t in the dining room, and the rabbi’s wife said he wasn’t feeling well.

  “What’s wrong with him?” He was fine yesterday!

  “Don Shemaya is looking at him.”

  I understood that was the physician.

  “Have some food.” She cut me
a slice of bread and a wedge of cheese from a tray on the table and put them aside for me on the tablecloth.

  My stomach insisted I eat. I swallowed a bite of cheese. “Is he very sick?”

  “The doctor will tell us.”

  One of the twins wailed, and the rabbi’s wife ran to their bedroom. Alone in the dining room, I made myself concentrate: three open cupboards for platters and bowls: one for meat, one for dairy, and one for Passover. A silver menorah stood atop one of the shorter cabinets.

  Was Belo in pain?

  To quiet my fear, I counted the wooden floor planks, walking around the room so I wouldn’t miss any.

  “Paloma . . .”

  I turned. The rabbi and an old man stood under the archway to the room.

  The old man, Don Shemaya, said that Belo was resting. “I bled him and cupped him. He’s tired, but he asked for you.”

  I entered the bedroom, where Belo had spent the night. He was sitting, propped up by five pillows.

  He smiled at me—or meant to. His mouth went up only on the left side. His right eye seemed droopy but his left eye was as ever.

  “Lo . . . ma. Hard . . . to . . .” His mouth worked, but more words didn’t come.

  “A paroxysm,” Don Shemaya said. “I suspect he’s had them before. We have to see how he takes the treatment.”

  Belo’s good eye went from my face to his right. Did that mean anything? He did it again. And again. And tilted his head to the right, too.

  “Is he trying to say something?” I asked.

  Don Shemaya said, “I don’t know.”

  I walked to the side of the bed he’d tilted his head at and saw the saddlebag with the ducats on the floor. Did he want it? Did he want me to take it? The rabbi would never steal from him! Did he mean the saddlebag at all?

  Don Shemaya said, “I’ll stop by this afternoon to see how he’s doing.”

  Belo’s head became almost violent. “Lo . . . Lo . . .”

  The physician left.

  Belo squealed, “Lo!”

  I realized. “Wait!” I cried.

  Don Shemaya returned.

  How many ducats? Belo wouldn’t want me to give too many or too few. I took out five ducats, which jingled in my hand. Belo’s eye bulged.

  Too many. I dropped three back in. “Don Shemaya, thank you.” I held out my hand.

  He took one ducat. “Thank you. I’ll be back.”

  The rabbi left to go to the synagogue. The rabbi’s wife said she’d bring a tray of food for Belo, and she left, too.

  When we were alone, Belo started the morning prayers. I couldn’t understand him, but I recognized the cadence. I said the actual words along with him, enunciating each one especially clearly.

  The rabbi’s wife bustled back in, set a tray of bread, cheese, and dried figs on the bed, and slipped out.

  When Belo finished praying, he tried to pick up the wedge of cheese with his right hand, but it slid across the tray and knocked the food onto the blanket. I put everything back on the tray. He patted the bed next to him. I sat and watched anxiously, but he ate without difficulty, using his left hand.

  He chewed on that side for a few minutes but then began to chew on both sides. After he finished, he said, clearly, “I was hungry. Look!” He made a fist with his right hand, opened it, closed it. “It was just a spasm, Loma, an attack. This isn’t the first one. Leave me so I can dress.”

  Relieved and happy, I found my cloak in the living room and discovered the rabbi’s wife in the kitchen. “Belo is well again. Thank you for your hospitality. We’re leaving.”

  “No!” She ran out, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll get Don Shemaya. Don’t go until he comes.”

  I knew I couldn’t stop Belo, but dressing took him longer than usual. By the time he emerged from the bedroom, both Don Shemaya and the rabbi had come.

  Belo ignored the physician’s warnings that he should rest. After thanking him for the cure, he took my arm and led me outside. I doubt anyone could have seen that he was leaning heavily on me.

  He was frightening me, but I knocked on the neighbor’s door. Soon enough, the guards and Hamdun went for their mules and ours, and we were off.

  As we cantered out of the city, my hands squeezed the reins. I wondered if Belo had been close to death during the night, if he would have died without Don Shemaya’s treatment, if he might get sick again while we were traveling, miles from a house, miles from a doctor, where I wouldn’t know what to do.

  We arrived home safely, with Belo in seeming good health, and discovered that Vellida had given birth to a baby girl, named Clara.

  Blessed are You, Eternal One, Who brings us to this moment for blessing.

  I visited Vellida and the baby as soon as I could—half an hour after we got home. My sister looked radiant in her and Jacob’s big bed, propped up by a bolster, the baby against her stomach.

  Clara was beautiful, with gray eyes and a fuzz of brown hair. I put my finger to her tiny hand, and she held it. My heart beat wildly. Let her stay healthy! Let the Christians not harm her!

  “Isn’t she sweet?” Vellida said. “Her favorite thing to do is stare.”

  Clara’s eyes closed.

  “Next favorite is sleep.”

  At home, Jento had taught himself to walk a few steps. When he saw me, he trundled toward me, toppled, looked astonished, and then laughed. I threw myself on the floor with him and kissed his forehead and his lovely ears. His favorite activity, as I discovered when I returned to the rhythm of home, was to take stale bread cubes carefully out of a bowl onto a platter and then put them back in the bowl, eating as he went. I watched him while I worked in the kitchen. My eyes couldn’t get enough.

  I hated having the secret of Belo’s illness. What if he still needed to rest? What if he didn’t rest and he died?

  He had made me promise not to tell Papá that he’d been sick, but he didn’t say anything about Samuel, so I mastered my dislike of discord and told him. As I hoped, he reported the news to Papá, who went straight to Belo.

  Samuel and I heard the argument from the courtyard balcony, where he had been explaining his latest lesson to me, this one in Latin, the language of Christian prayers.

  From Belo’s study, Papá yelled the question I’d wondered about. “What would have happened to Loma if you’d died?”

  Samuel looked up from his book. I hunched my shoulders and stared down at it. Ledicia, who had come for the day, entered the balcony and joined us on our bench, sitting so that I was between her and Samuel.

  “Thank you for your concern for me.” Belo sounded sarcastic, as if Papá didn’t care about him. “Someone would have brought her home.”

  “Who? Nobody loves her as we do.”

  Ledicia put her hand on the back of my neck.

  “Where are the children?” I whispered.

  Ledicia tilted her head.

  Mamá cried from the living room, “Todros!”

  Belo yelled, “I care about her welfare more than anyone. I love her more than anyone.”

  “You can’t take her with you anymore unless I’m there, too.”

  I didn’t want to be left behind!

  “I can and I will. She’s a comfort to me.”

  “Loma . . . ,” Ledicia whispered in the silence that followed Belo’s declaration. “We all love Belo.”

  I knew that.

  Samuel put his book on the bench. “I’m hungry.” He left us.

  “Belo is good for our family,” Ledicia went on.

  “And for all the Jews.”

  “Yes, but . . .” She trailed off.

  From his study, Belo added, “Think before you cross me, Asher.”

  Papá’s voice rose in pitch. “Are you threatening me?”

  I started to cry. Did Papá and Belo hate each other now? Because of me?

  15

  Ledicia put her arm around my shoulder and held me while I sobbed. She said into my hair, “Belo can be a little selfish. Keeping you safe should be
the most important thing.”

  I just didn’t want him to be sick when we were away from home, with me not knowing what to do. When I finally finished weeping, I looked down at the wooden balcony floor and told Ledicia about the sick baby and everything I’d seen in the tents.

  “Belo said the baby would die. He said babies aren’t hardy, and I remembered Haim and Soli. I couldn’t stop worrying about Todros and Beatriz and Jento and Jamila.”

  Ledicia stroked my forehead. “Belo forgets how young you are, because you’re so clever.”

  From now on, I’d have to be clever enough not to be my age.

  That night in his study, while Fatima massaged his feet, Belo said, “You betrayed me, Loma.”

  I said, “I want to keep traveling with you.”

  “Then keep my secrets.”

  I promised I would, but he was cold to me for two whole days. I could hardly bear it.

  Belo and Papá didn’t speak to each other for a week. Then everything seemed to return to normal.

  Belo had his way. In January 1487, I traveled alone with him to Sigüenza, where he tax-farmed for Cardinal de Mendoza, his great patron after the monarchs.

  Papá told me what to do if Belo got sick again. If we were in the countryside, I was to leave him with one of the guards and ride with Hamdun and the other guards to the nearest town where Jews lived. If we were already in a judería, I was to stay there until someone in the family came for me or for both of us. I was not to travel with Belo after he’d been ill, no matter what he said.

  I said I would, but Papá shouldn’t have believed me. He should have known I’d never leave Belo when he was sick.

  Never mind. He stayed healthy, perhaps because he’d received word that the monarchs were making the town of Valmaseda take back its Jews.

  “Loma, I did good by going there. My presence must have mattered to the king and queen.”

  He didn’t mention the baby, and I guessed he’d forgotten.

  In February, we visited Calahorra and Toledo. While we were away, both my brother Jento and my niece Jamila mastered the art of climbing stairs unaided. Baby Clara wailed whenever I approached.

  Ledicia promised that her fear would pass. She laughed. “When they’re old enough, they’ll want you to leave so you can bring back presents.”