For protection against dangers from the Other Side, Rana would not leave her house for the first forty days after Miguel’s birth—the number of years Jews wandered in the wilderness and days of the Biblical flood. I replied, “When did you last hear from Samson?”
“I’ve had no word since Sunday. He was going to Little Jerusalem to buy fabric we needed for…” She nodded toward Miguel. “He was going to Simon Eanes’ store. You haven’t seen him or heard anything? Or spoken to Simon?”
“No, nothing. But I don’t think Simon made it.”
She turned to face the wall, and her lips mouthed prayers. I said, “There’s still a chance that he’s found safe haven. Samson was clever. And imposing. He’d frighten away many a Christian. Sure used to scare me when I was a kid. He may yet come back.” I gripped her arm to impart strength, realized I was really trying to convince myself that Judah could be safe.
“No,” she said. “If he were alive, he’d be back by now.”
“He could be in hiding.”
“Samson, in hiding? Beri, a father for the first time after fifty-seven years is not going to go into hiding when his child’s life may be in danger.”
Rana was one of those rare people who refused to lie to herself. It was why most people found her aggressive, even heartless. She nodded her resignation, rubbed her free hand through her curly brown hair. “If I must go it alone then…” Her words faded and she bit her lip to keep from crying. “All hunger and sleep,” she said of Miguel, trying to smile. Her nipple had slipped free of his mouth, and she pushed it back into place as he fidgeted with his arms. He made a warm, satisfied noise as he suckled. Rana looked up at me with hopeful eyes. “Beri, have you heard anything about my parents?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry. I should have checked before coming. I didn’t think.”
“It’s okay. I suspect they’ll come when they can…if they can.”
“Rana, I dropped by last Friday to get some wine. I took a cask and left a note.”
“Yes, we knew it was you because of the matzah.” She patted my arm. “How reassuring it is that some things never change. I must have been asleep. I don’t sleep much. But when it comes, I’m lost to the world. Except when Miguel cries. Then, it’s like a hunter has shot an arrow into my heart.”
“Listen, do you still have the letter I left that day?”
“Of course I do,” she answered. “Is it important?”
“I have to read it. Something Uncle may have told Samson… Where is it?”
“Taking care of Miguel has made me a bit absent-minded. But I’m sure it’s somewhere in the bedroom.”
“Can we take a look?”
“Hold him,” she said, lifting Miguel and handing him to me. As Rana looked through their chests and desks, I held the little boy in the cradle of my arms and remembered the tender feel of Judah. So many late nights Mordecai and I had spent walking with him to keep his tears away; he had not been an easy baby, had been burdened with fluid in his lungs that gave him a harsh cough. I closed my eyes and the feel of the baby’s soft skin tingled my fingertips.
To banish the dread descending over me, I engaged Rana in conversation as she searched. We talked of Miguel’s stomach problems. “His turds look like magpie droppings,” she said in a worried tone. “Dr. Montesinhos says it’s nothing to carry on about, so I suppose…”
“Forget it,” I said with a wave. “Judah’s did, too. I think all babies are part bird.”
She laughed, but the ensuing silence showed all the more clearly the sullen mood that weighted the air inside the house. We shared a look in which we acknowledged that Samson might never return, and she reached up to caress my face. “Dear Beri,” she said. “I miss the neighborhood.” Our gaze was linked by memories of demons banished together by our children’s army.
She went back to her hunt, headed to a chest of drawers by the bed. From a small wooden box with a metal lock, she lifted away a scroll. “Got it!” she said in triumph. She handed it to me. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I think so.” I placed Miguel into her arms. The scroll curled open into five sheets of paper.
As if inviting me to share an adventure, Rana said, “Listen, Beri, take a look at the note and I’ll get some challah bread and wine…no, of course, you must be reliving the Exodus. Just some wine, then? You can stay, can’t you? Till you finish the note, at least? You must stay.”
“I’ll stay till I finish it. Then I must go back to my family. But Rana, if you have
“No. We were waiting a little while longer to be safe.”
She led me back to her kitchen table, brought me a cup of wine, then took my free hand. Uncle’s note read:
Dearest Samson,
Miguel Ribeiro has refused. So I shall tell you a story. In it, you will find my hopes that you discover the need for all of us to make a sacrifice at this decisive moment. If we do not perform as Rabbi Graviel did during this present fulcrum in time, then all may be lost.
No matter that your belief is crumbling, it is your acts which count.
Shall Samael win the day?
At the top of the next page was written:
“What is it?” Rana asked, sensing my sudden agitation.
“A tale. Of Rabbi Graviel, one of my ancestors. Of how he had to suffer imprisonment in Spain in order for his daughter to survive. I think that my uncle saw in a vision that he’d have to make a great sacrifice as well. Yes… In order for the girl in the cellar to survive, he had to give up his life. He made a deal. But the murderer did not keep his word.”
“Beri, you mean your uncle… Oh dear, Oh my God.” Realizing for the first time that my master was dead, Rana’s shoulders jerked backward. She placed Miguel on the table, then stood up and covered her ears with her hands. She stared at me in horror.
When she began to shake, I went to her, peeled her hands down. “Rana! Rana!”
She looked at me as if trying to decipher my face, to learn my identity. In a monotone leached of apparent emotion, she said, “Samson…. And now Master Abraham… Esther, is she…?”
“No, she’s safe. With Mother and Cinfa. But Judah’s missing.”
I sat Rana at the table and fed her wine. She held both her hands around the cup like a child, gulped at the liquid, began rambling about the vineyard’s wells. When silence came to us again, I asked, “Did Samson mention any trouble in the threshing group?”
She shook her head.
“An argument with my uncle, perhaps?”
“Nothing,” she replied.
“But then why did Uncle mention Samson’s loss of faith? Was he in some sort of trouble?”
Rana gripped my arm and whispered, “Samson says the baby should be raised Christian, that it’s no good to be a Jew anymore. We won’t have Passover this year. Even if…” She opened the fold in Miguel’s swaddling clothes to show me the foreskin of his penis; he should have been circumcised on his eighth day. She closed her eyes to despair. Tears bathed her eyelashes. As if in solidarity with his mother, Miguel, too, began crying. I took him and rocked him gently to little avail. Rana’s words flew out suddenly as if tossed in different directions: “If I’d known… how could he change so? When we were married…and then the baby coming along. We were so…so good. Remember Passover as it was? Remember, Beri?! Before the…wait, let me show you something.”
From the alcove above her hearth, she grabbed a thick book. The intricate, lacy border on the cover identified it as a printed edition of the Old Testament produced when I was a boy by Eliezer Toledano. She held it
