My Guardian Angel by Sylvie Weil Page A

play chess. “How typical of you, Elvina,” they had said. “You want to make us play boys’ games. You are so pretentious!”
    It would be better to talk about frivolous things with them than to be all alone in this dull, deserted room! What a wonderful occupation, sitting here by a window staring at a courtyard! In the courtyard, a solitary chicken is pecking around, and even
it
looks bored! The two ewes, after stuffing themselves with fresh hay, must have gone to sleep in the stable, because no sound is coming from them, either. Rachel’s birds are twittering happily in their cage. Elvina looks out at two huge, heavy snow clouds that are wending their way slowly across the sky. What a comfortable, soft-looking sky! Elvina dozes off like old Zipporah!
    Suddenly she is awakened by the panic-stricken clucking of the hen. Three men have just entered the courtyard. They are not Jews and Elvina has never seen them before. Two of them are carrying the third, a young boy whose leg is bleeding profusely. They are heading for Elvina’s door. Her heart pounds so loudly that she hardly hears them knocking.
    What she hears loudest of all is the servant shouting, “Don’t open the door, mistress; they’re sure to be Peter the Hermit’s men!”
    â€œOpen the door!” Elvina orders. “One of them is wounded.”

X
    Tonight even old Zipporah found it hard to settle down to sleep. For the last hour I’ve heard her tossing and turning, moaning and imploring the heavens. She has called me at least ten times to make sure that I am really here. Where else could I be? Now, at last, she has fallen asleep.
    Mazal, dear Mazal, if I could write down everything that happened this Sabbath afternoon, which I thought would be so boring, there wouldn’t be room for it all on the three pieces of parchment my grandfather gave me. Anyway, I’m not sure I know how to write all the words I’d need to describe it in our holy language. And in our everyday language I don’t know the spelling. It isn’t a recipe, or a letter where I just have to reply to the same simple questions I’ve answered over and over again. What happened to me today is something that has never happened before!
    No sooner had I told Zipporah to open the door than I was seized with fear. I was so scared, I felt I might faint. But I didn’t. Maybe it was you, dear Mazal, who at that precise instant came down from the sky and whispered in my ear.
    â€œPull yourself together, girl; you only have yourself to count on!”
    I stood up and faced the three men. They certainly didn’t wait to be invited before entering the house and coming toward me. They were unkempt, their tunics were dirty, and their shoes and cloaks were covered with mud. The eldest of the three was the one who spoke.
    â€œWe were told that there are Jews here who know how to heal the sick. We met one in the street, but he refused to listen to us. He just mumbled something and ran away, the godforsaken dog! And what about you, girl? Have you lost your tongue?”
    The rough-looking man stared at me. His pale eyes shone under bushy eyebrows. No man had ever looked at me that way, but I kept my self-control.
    â€œI have not lost my tongue. Sit your wounded friend there, on the bench. Stretch out his leg, and take off his sock and shoe.”
    Among all the thoughts spinning around in my head there was one that stood out. I remembered hearing my grandfather say that if a non-Jew’s house catches fire on the Sabbath, a Jew is permitted to help put out the fire, because not doing so could have terrible consequences. Also, I must admit, I felt sorry for this wounded boy who was scarcely older than me. He was crying in pain, and I feared his wound might be dangerous. It is permitted to save a life, even on the Sabbath.
    Thinking of this, I felt perfectly sure of myself. “How did your friend get injured?” I