My Guardian Angel

Text © 2001 by Sylvie Weil

Translation © 2004 by Gillian Rosner

All rights reserved. Published by the University of Nebraska Press as a Jewish Publication Society book. First Nebraska printing: 2014.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Weil, Sylvie.

[Mazal d'Elvina. English]

My guardian angel / Sylvie Weil; translated by Gillian Rosner.

pages cm

Originally published in New York by Arthur A. Levine Books, 2004.

ISBN
978-0-8276-1211-2 (paperback: alk. paper)

ISBN
978-0-8276-1187-0 (electronic: e-pub)

ISBN
978-0-8276-1188-7 (electronic: mobi)

1. Jews—France—History—11th century—Juvenile fiction. 2. Crusades—First, 1096–1099—Juvenile fiction. [1. Jews—France—History—11th century—Fiction. 2. Crusades—First, 1096–1099—Fiction. 3. Sex role—Fiction. 4. Identity—Fiction. 5. Rashi, 1040–1105—Fiction. 6. Troyes (France)—History—11th century—Fiction. 7. France—History—11th century—Fiction.] I. Rosner, Gill, translator. II. Title.

PZ
7.
W
4333
MY
2014

[Fic]—dc23

2014002222

Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Acknowledgements

Glossary

To Naomi and Rachel-

and For Dianne H.

on this side

of the ocean.

I

My grandfather says that all men have a Mazal: a celestial guide, a guardian angel who speaks up for them in heaven. That is what distinguishes men from animals, who, poor things, have none.

I once asked my grandfather if a girl could have a Mazal, too. At first he laughed and pinched my cheek as he always does, saying that girls don't really need the help of guardian angels, as they have no trouble speaking up for themselves! But then he grew serious and said that every single human being has one.

This means that even though there is nothing special about me, apart from being the granddaughter of the great teacher Solomon ben Isaac, I, Elvina, age twelve (nearly thirteen), have a Mazal of my own.

Perhaps my Mazal will guide me, and I certainly hope he will speak up for me. Why? Because I am unusual. You see, I like to write, and people say this is unnatural for a girl.

I learned to do this at the same time as my brother, Yom Tov, and my cousin Samuel. In my grandfather's house, all the women can read the Bible and write Hebrew, the sacred language of the Jewish people. It's not the custom for women to be able to do this, and some of our neighbors, Jews and non-Jews alike, point their fingers at us and stare as if we were strange. But we're used to that. My grandfather, who had no sons, saw nothing wrong with educating his daughters. If anyone disapproved, he would remind them that our Law does not forbid it.

My mother and her sisters only use this precious gift of writing to keep accounts when they go to market or to make lists of the herbs they need for their potions and dressings. For this, they use wax tablets.

But I, Elvina, am not content with just copying recipes or doing sums on wax tablets. What I love is to write — really write properly on parchment, using a fine quill and good-quality ink. In my grandfather's house, and in my father's house, too, no one can trim and sharpen goose quills as well as I can. My quills are fine and supple, and they don't make the ink sputter. My grandfather's students ask me for them every day.

Of course I keep some of these quills for myself. How could I bear to sharpen them with my own little knife and then dry them with such care and attention if I didn't use them? There is no pleasure, as far as I'm concerned, as great as that of filling smooth parchment with neat rows of perfectly formed letters that don't rub away like the ones hurriedly scratched onto wax tablets.

This morning I went to my beloved grandfather's cupboard and took out a piece of parchment, a well-sharpened goose quill, and some ink. I wrote down the recipe for a potion that I had just mixed by myself for the first time. To make sure the pen would glide easily and not catch, I smoothed out the parchment with my boar's tooth, a gift given to me by someone whose name I don't want to mention yet. Usually I write recipes on wax tablets, but this time the potion was a very important one. It was for my friend Tova, who is just about to give birth. The formula was complicated, and I worried that one day I might forget it. I can't depend on my mother to always be by my side to tell me such things.

Since there was some space left in the margins and at the bottom of the parchment, I added, “Elvina carefully prepared this potion on a freezing morning in the Hebrew month of Adar for her friend Tova.”

I allowed my writing to stretch around the borders of the page, as I've often seen Grandfather do, so as not to waste the slightest scrap. Parchment is very expensive! So is ink — good-quality ink made with gallnuts that doesn't fade or rub out easily. Ink and parchment are reserved for writing commentaries on the sacred texts. And that is what my father, Judah ben Nathan, and my grandfather use them for.

They can't afford the fine, smooth parchment I have seen in books that rich people order from Spain. The books on which my father and grandfather write their commentaries are made with parchment that is coarse to the touch, torn in places, and patched up with rough stitches. Not all of the pages are the same shape. Some have pieces missing. Once, when I was small and didn't know much, I mentioned this to my grandfather. He laughed warmly and jokingly replied, “You think I'm a king who can afford good parchment? Mine comes from Burgundy, where the sheep are fat. Their skins may not be so fine, but they cost less and are much stronger.”

I was writing along and remembering this conversation, when suddenly I heard a voice inside me cry out.

“How can you even dream of imitating Solomon ben Isaac! Who do you think you are, girl?”

Was this
you
talking to me, dear Mazal?

Oh, Mazal, Mazal, if only parchment were free, I would write you letters like the ones my grandfather dictates to me. But my letters would tell you all about
me.
I would use my best writing and tell you everything. That way, you would know me better, and you would be in a better position to stand up for me when I got into trouble.

Maybe you, too, are thinking that an insignificant little girl should not waste ink and parchment writing personal impressions that are unimportant and uninteresting. But I felt so much pleasure writing out my recipe and adding my own little sentence! I write in Hebrew characters, of course, even though I only know the names of the plants in our everyday French, the language spoken here in the land of our exile. I'm afraid that for the spelling I just have to use my imagination.

The Christians of this country write ballads that tell of the loves of gentle ladies and brave knights. Aunt Rachel adores them and has read some to me. But we Jews are only supposed to use our writing to interpret the sacred texts, as my grandfather does. People are always writing to him, often from very far away, with questions about Jewish traditions and laws.

Sometimes, when his eyes ache, he dictates one of his letters to me. I settle myself in the special high-backed armchair we use for writing, and I forget everything except Grandfather's warm, strong voice and the letters that are taking shape under my fingers.

I love to write more than anything in the world! Sometimes on my wax tablet, which I'm supposed to use for keeping accounts at the market, I start writing about something that has happened to me. I do this just for fun, but after a while I have to rub the tablet clean to write about a more recent event or to make one of my mother's shopping lists. There isn't much room on a wax tablet.

Tonight, for example, I would have loved to write you about how, at dusk, a servant rushed in breathlessly to tell my mother that Tova was feeling her first labor pains.

Immediately my mother cried out, “Quick, Elvina! Get the basket ready! It will soon be dark!”

There was not a minute to lose. Miriam, my mother, and Precious, my grandmother, were already wrapping themselves in their long, hooded cloaks. In their hands they held several little rolls of parchment tied with cord. These parchments were inscribed with verses from the Bible to ward off demons that haunt the night and others that are especially dangerous for young mothers and newborn babies. There was also an amulet containing the names of the three angels: Sanvai, Sansanvai, and Semanglof. They are the only ones with the power to protect the newborn against Lilith, the baby-snatching demon. I have heard my father and grandfather complain that we women use too many magic charms, but they have never actually forbidden us from using them.

I put everything needed for the birth into the basket, including the wolf's tooth for Tova to hang around her neck until the baby is born, and the dried agrimony with its yellow flowers, which will be tied to her thigh to ease the birth.

I added some rose oil to anoint the baby's eyelids, and a little boiled honey to smooth onto its lips. And, of course, I packed a little vial of oil mixed with essence of fenugreek, to bathe the baby's tiny, fragile body.

I carefully wrapped a piece of cloth around a bottle of my potion for Tova to drink as soon as the baby is born. I'm not yet thirteen, but all the women of Troyes, Jewish and Christian alike, know of my skill with potions, infusions, and dressings.

You might say I've been well trained! I had barely learned to walk when my mother and grandmother began taking me with them to gather herbs from the countryside. As I grew older, they entrusted me with more difficult tasks. And yet tonight they refused to bring me along.

“But Tova is my friend!” I pleaded miserably. “She's like a big sister to me! I
must
go!”

“Certainly not!” my mother bristled. “It's dark — and you know how dangerous things are these days.”

They instructed the servant to bolt and bar the door, and they bid Aunt Rachel and me good night. Then, without another word, my mother and my grandmother disappeared into the night.

II

Aunt Rachel,” Elvina whispers, “are you asleep? Talk to me! I've been lying here stiff as a corpse for hours and hours. I can't stand it any longer!”

Elvina has tried everything. She has said her prayers slowly, concentrating on every word. She has closed her eyes and kept perfectly still under the covers. But it's no good. Sleep will not come.

Usually Elvina likes to feel the coarse linen sheets against her skin through her nightdress. She likes to feel the heavy warm blankets on her body and the icy air on her cheeks and forehead. But not tonight. Tonight she feels that a century is passing, as she listens to her Aunt Rachel sniffling softly beside her and to the old servant Zipporah snoring away in the next bed as if she were gradually deflating: a loud wheeze followed by
pou-pou-pou!

Outside, an owl hoots, as if in answer to Zipporah! The moon is almost full and shines so brightly that its light seeps through the thick canvas stretched across the narrow window. This soft, milky light should be calming and reassuring for Elvina. But tonight it neither calms nor reassures her. She coughs, turns over, and feels more and more impatient.

“Aunt Rachel,” she pleads, “talk to me. I'm worried.”

Aunt Rachel turns over toward Elvina and rubs her shoulder tenderly. Even when Rachel is awakened in the middle of the night, she is gentle and kind. But her face is still drowned in sleep.

“Poor Gazelle,” she murmurs, her eyes still closed. “What are you worried about?”

Gazelle is the nickname Aunt Rachel gave to Elvina when she was little more than a baby, toddling after her mother and aunts as they gathered herbs in the fields. “What long legs our Elvina has,” Aunt Rachel would say. “She's a real gazelle!”

“I can't get these dark, dreadful images out of my mind,” Elvina wails. “I keep seeing my grandfather's troubled face. He has a deep furrow in his brow, and I'm sure it wasn't there three days ago. And my grandmother — she keeps crying and wringing her hands.

Aunt Rachel pats Elvina's shoulder. “As far as your grandmother is concerned, I can tell you, she has never missed an opportunity to cry and wring her hands. That's just the way she is.”

“But everyone seems so terrified! They drop whatever they're doing and spend the whole day plotting and planning,” Elvina goes on. “My Uncle Meir rode here at top speed from Ramerupt; my father paces around, looking downhearted and anxious. Did you see the horseman who arrived in our courtyard this morning? He handed my father a few letters and rode off immediately. He didn't even dismount. His poor horse was steaming with sweat in spite of the cold. When my father and uncle finished reading those letters, they looked even more worried. Rachel, my sweet Aunt Rachel, I can see real fear written on the faces of everyone I love. If it were only the women, I could understand. But my father and my uncle! And it's not only those things I have seen that are reeling in my mind. It's also everything I've been hearing for the last two days.”

Aunt Rachel stirs at last. “What have you heard?”

Elvina hugs her blanket to her chest. “I keep hearing that there are thousands of
them
spreading through the countryside like locusts. But I don't even know who
they
are!”

“
They
are the Crusaders.”

“What is a Crusader?”

“A Crusader is a man who goes to Jerusalem to reclaim the tomb of Jesus from the Muslims.” Aunt Rachel yawns and continues. “The pope has called on all Christians to go there and help.”

“People are saying their leader is a cruel, pitiless man called Peter the Hermit,” whispers Elvina. “He promises people eternal life if they follow him. And he hates the Jews.”

“Don't listen to such rumors, my little Gazelle.”

“He hates the Jews, and he's going to massacre us all.”

“Don't you listen. . . .” Aunt Rachel's voice is almost inaudible. She yawns again and sighs. This sigh means, “Please let me go back to sleep.”

Nothing ever stops Aunt Rachel from sleeping. Not her husband, who has threatened to send her back to her parents because she hasn't given him children, not Peter the Hermit's hordes who have infested the outskirts of Troyes and may at this very moment be plotting to burn down the Jewish district. Elvina resists the temptation to shake her aunt. Instead she cries out loud, “If only I were not a girl!”

“Shush . . .” Aunt Rachel murmurs. “God made you a girl. . . . He must have had a good reason. . . .”

Now Aunt Rachel is sound asleep, and Elvina feels horribly alone. She stretches out her hand and touches a small bundle under the covers near her. In the darkness she wrinkles her nose in disgust. The bundle is filled with eggs. Her mother, Miriam, has ordered Elvina to adopt them and keep them warm for three weeks until they hatch. All girls hatch eggs. It is considered a proper and profitable winter occupation for them, but for Elvina it is the height of humiliation. None of her friends can understand her attitude. Unlike Elvina, they feel love and pity for the unborn chicks and walk with motherly care to avoid shaking the eggs cradled in their aprons.

Bah! Such is the life of a girl!

If Elvina had not been a girl, she would at this very moment be across the street with her brother, Yom Tov, and her cousin Samuel. She would be in the school dormitory with all her father's and grandfather's students. The dormitory bustles with activity far into the night. If she were with the boys, she, too, would stay awake, hunched up on a mattress, wrapped in a blanket, and breathing in the acrid smoke from the pine torches. The smoke irritates your throat and makes you cough. But so what? Even though Samuel and Yom Tov are younger than she is, their lives are so much more interesting! How lucky they are to be able to spend whole nights awake, listening to the older students explaining Talmud passages from their morning class, hearing them read their notes aloud, and repeating the teacher's words. Studying keeps your mind busy and doesn't leave time for trouble to torment the soul. But poor Elvina! Even though she can read and write Hebrew better than many of the boys, she is trapped here stupidly between her Aunt Rachel and half a dozen eggs. What is she supposed to think about?

Somewhere in the distance, the convent bell tolls, calling the nuns to prayer. The familiar sound of this bell breaking the silence of the night had never disturbed Elvina before. On the contrary, she used to think the chimes sounded rather friendly. But right now, she finds them so terrifying that she cries out, “Aunt Rachel, did you hear that? It might be a signal! Maybe they're preparing to attack us!”

No reply from Rachel.

“Aunt Rachel! How can you sleep?”

Elvina leaps out of bed, slips on her thick sheepskin slippers, wraps a blanket around herself, and slips out the door.