My Guardian Angel by Sylvie Weil Page B

asked.
    â€œHe was trying out a sword,” replied the man. “It seems he is more skillful with a pen than with weapons. Not that I can judge; I don’t know how to read or write myself. All I can say is that in the Holy Land a pen is not going to be much help fighting the infidels!”
    The wounded boy’s two friends laughed meanly, and I tried to ignore them as I knelt down to examine the young man’s wound. I sent Zipporah to fetch water, linen, herbs, an egg for the compress, and some wine for him to drink. Then, imitating my mother and grandmother, I said calmly, “Don’t worry. I’m going to clean the cut and put on a dressing. It isn’t very deep.”
    I added the last part because it’s the kind of thing my mother always says to reassure her patients. In fact, the flesh was cut so deep I could see all the way down to the bone. It was white and a little shiny. I had never dressed such a gash on my own before.
    Zipporah came back pale and trembling. She brought everything I had asked for, not forgetting the wine that the poor boy was in dire need of. I tried my hardest to do what my mother and grandmother would have done, starting by gently rinsing the skin around the wound. Still, I was shaking a little, rattled by the thought that if their friend’s leg did not heal, they could accuse me of harming him on purpose. And then, who knows, they might come back and kill my whole family and all our friends.
    As I poured a little wine on the open cut to cleanse it more thoroughly, the boy cried out, and the two men jumped toward me. I thought they were going to hit me, but they only laughed — they were always laughing — then they sat down again.
    â€œPeter will be pleased with us,” one of them said. “But believe me, we’re going to have our work cut out with those two captive Jew boys. We’re going to have to tame them.”
    â€œThey’re young,” the other replied. “Once they’ve been baptized, they’ll quiet down. I’ll teach them how to use weapons; then we’ll have two more Crusaders.” They began to laugh again.
    I was wondering who those two boys could be when suddenly I felt as though I had been punched in the chest. Where were Samuel and Yom Tov? Those young idiots had gone off for a walk in the country. Could they have fallen into the hands of the Cru-saders? I leaned over the wound so the men couldn’t see my face. As I was making up the compress with oil and herbs, I told myself to stay calm and, above all, not let them see that I was crazy with fear! I applied and secured the compress as slowly as I could, trying to play for time. How was I going to save my brother and cousin? Who could rescue them? What should I do?
    I had absolutely no idea.
    As I finished the dressing, the man with the bushy eyebrows watched me wind the clean bandages around the wounded leg.
    â€œYou wouldn’t by any chance be related to the two Jew boys we captured this afternoon?” he asked slyly.
    I stood up very calmly and with a steady voice I asked, “What are the two boys called?”
    â€œOne has an impossible name. The other refused to open his mouth at first, but later he told us his name was Samuel. The one with the impossible name spit at us, probably to show us how much he despised us . . . but that won’t last long.”
    â€œThey can’t be more than ten years old,” added the other man, “and they’re already arrogant like all you Jews are.”
    Samuel and Yom Tov’s fate was in my hands.
    Then I had an inspiration. With much effort, I managed to grin from ear to ear. “You have captured Yom Tov and Samuel, my little brother and my cousin. I have to tell you that Samuel is an idiot child, poor thing. He understands nothing and hardly knows how to talk. He is the family’s hopeless case. As for Yom Tov, whose name in our