flew open immediately. Elena threw herself into my arms.
“Thank God you’re home!” she cried. “Papa is sick!”
ELENA’S STORY
CHAPTER 17
I was sitting by the window of our shop waiting for customers, but none came. Most people stayed at home, hiding from the pestilence. Others spent their days and nights in public houses, drinking, singing and carousing as if the end of the world was upon us. Perhaps it was.
Vera had gone to visit her sister and Natan was at Rabbi Weltner’s house. Papa was resting in his room, still recovering from the aches and pains of the beating he had received at Kaspar’s hands. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, luxuriating in the silence. Immediately, all kinds of thoughts crowded unbidden into my head.
My Natan, strong and beautiful, is sitting beside me at the kitchen table. It’s dark, the only source of light themoonbeams sneaking through the high window. They cast deep shadows on his cheekbones. He lifts my hand and kisses my palm. Shivers run down my spine
.
“You’re cold,” he says, and pulls me closer
.
He lowers his head and our lips meet
.
“I love you,” he whispers
.
“I love you too,” I tell him
.
Suddenly, his shape shifts and he becomes Hans, with lanky hair and a greasy face. I push him away, revolted
.
“Who are you?” I ask. “Where is my Natan?”
“Don’t you know? I’m—”
Before I could hear his answer, a noise transported me back to reality. Papa was standing in the doorway, a tumbler of ale in his hand. His face was red and droplets of sweat dotted his brow.
“You should be in bed!” I scolded.
“I was thirsty. I came down to get some ale.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I’d have brought it upstairs. You’re flushed.” I put my hand over his brow as I would have done for a child. He was burning up. Fear squeezed my heart. “You’re feverish, Papa!”
He laughed. “It’s nothing. I must be coming down with the ague.”
“Let me help you back to bed and then I’ll batheyour forehead to cool you down.”
“You stay here. I’ll go upstairs by myself. I don’t need help.”
He started off, but then staggered and would have fallen if I hadn’t sprung up to support him. He leaned on me heavily, his arm around my neck, each step up the staircase a test of both our wills. I had to all but drag him up the steps. When we finally got to his bedchamber, he fell onto his pallet, breathing heavily with his eyes screwed shut.
I pulled a blanket over him and mopped his brow. It was then that I noticed the large red boil on his neck. As I lifted him to put a pillow beneath his head, his eyes fluttered open.
“Go away!” he groaned. “Don’t come close to me!”
I ran to the kitchen and prepared a cold compress. Please, God, don’t let it be the Black Death, I kept repeating to myself as I made my way back upstairs.
The boil on Papa’s neck was now the size of a baby’s head and had turned black. He was breathing heavily, and suddenly he began to retch. I rolled him over to his side and held a bowl for him. It was soon filled with vomit mixed with blood. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to leave him alone, but I had to go to fetch a surgeon. Everybody knew that bloodletting worked miracles.
Just then, there was a loud banging on our front door. I ran downstairs to open it. It was Natan. I threw myself into his arms.
“Thank God you’re home!” I cried. “Papa is sick!”
He accompanied me to my father’s room. I could see how affected he was by the way the color drained from his face.
“He looks terrible,” he whispered.
“You must get the surgeon,” I said. “He’ll balance Papa’s humors and restore his health.”
He shot me a pitying glance but said, “I’ll go right away.”
—
Dark stains had bloomed under the skin of Papa’s arms and legs by the time Natan and the surgeon appeared. The surgeon stood in the doorway, holding a scented handkerchief under his nose with one
“Thank God you’re home!” she cried. “Papa is sick!”
ELENA’S STORY
CHAPTER 17
I was sitting by the window of our shop waiting for customers, but none came. Most people stayed at home, hiding from the pestilence. Others spent their days and nights in public houses, drinking, singing and carousing as if the end of the world was upon us. Perhaps it was.
Vera had gone to visit her sister and Natan was at Rabbi Weltner’s house. Papa was resting in his room, still recovering from the aches and pains of the beating he had received at Kaspar’s hands. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, luxuriating in the silence. Immediately, all kinds of thoughts crowded unbidden into my head.
My Natan, strong and beautiful, is sitting beside me at the kitchen table. It’s dark, the only source of light themoonbeams sneaking through the high window. They cast deep shadows on his cheekbones. He lifts my hand and kisses my palm. Shivers run down my spine
.
“You’re cold,” he says, and pulls me closer
.
He lowers his head and our lips meet
.
“I love you,” he whispers
.
“I love you too,” I tell him
.
Suddenly, his shape shifts and he becomes Hans, with lanky hair and a greasy face. I push him away, revolted
.
“Who are you?” I ask. “Where is my Natan?”
“Don’t you know? I’m—”
Before I could hear his answer, a noise transported me back to reality. Papa was standing in the doorway, a tumbler of ale in his hand. His face was red and droplets of sweat dotted his brow.
“You should be in bed!” I scolded.
“I was thirsty. I came down to get some ale.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I’d have brought it upstairs. You’re flushed.” I put my hand over his brow as I would have done for a child. He was burning up. Fear squeezed my heart. “You’re feverish, Papa!”
He laughed. “It’s nothing. I must be coming down with the ague.”
“Let me help you back to bed and then I’ll batheyour forehead to cool you down.”
“You stay here. I’ll go upstairs by myself. I don’t need help.”
He started off, but then staggered and would have fallen if I hadn’t sprung up to support him. He leaned on me heavily, his arm around my neck, each step up the staircase a test of both our wills. I had to all but drag him up the steps. When we finally got to his bedchamber, he fell onto his pallet, breathing heavily with his eyes screwed shut.
I pulled a blanket over him and mopped his brow. It was then that I noticed the large red boil on his neck. As I lifted him to put a pillow beneath his head, his eyes fluttered open.
“Go away!” he groaned. “Don’t come close to me!”
I ran to the kitchen and prepared a cold compress. Please, God, don’t let it be the Black Death, I kept repeating to myself as I made my way back upstairs.
The boil on Papa’s neck was now the size of a baby’s head and had turned black. He was breathing heavily, and suddenly he began to retch. I rolled him over to his side and held a bowl for him. It was soon filled with vomit mixed with blood. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to leave him alone, but I had to go to fetch a surgeon. Everybody knew that bloodletting worked miracles.
Just then, there was a loud banging on our front door. I ran downstairs to open it. It was Natan. I threw myself into his arms.
“Thank God you’re home!” I cried. “Papa is sick!”
He accompanied me to my father’s room. I could see how affected he was by the way the color drained from his face.
“He looks terrible,” he whispered.
“You must get the surgeon,” I said. “He’ll balance Papa’s humors and restore his health.”
He shot me a pitying glance but said, “I’ll go right away.”
—
Dark stains had bloomed under the skin of Papa’s arms and legs by the time Natan and the surgeon appeared. The surgeon stood in the doorway, holding a scented handkerchief under his nose with one
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