“Hermando, no. Please. Hanna’s still a girl. She made a
mistake.” My mother appealed to my father even as she, too, made
preparations for our long journey. The air in the front room of our
home that served as our place of trade reeked with anger and
frustration. Despair replaced hope. Three months had passed since
the Edict of Expulsion on the thirty-first of Adar. Originally we
were to leave on the first day of Ab but the monarchs in their cruel
contempt gave us one more day.
“No!” my father shouted, gathering stacks of Byzantine silks and
flax linen. Furious, he stuffed them into large hemp bags. A swath
of crimson tapestry fell to the floor.
“But Hanna’s only fourteen.”
“Old enough not to be a fool. Pregnant by a common Marrano who
believes in their Holy Ghost? What kind of a Jew is that?”
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