were drought years in Castile. Our small garden dried up, we had only a few onions to show for our trouble, and we grew sick of thin soups flavored with nothing more than a sliver of salted pork.
Plague as well as famine emptied half the houses of Quintanapalla. Persons whose faith was strong said it was God’s right to watch or not watch over the people, and only He knew why such blights came upon the faithful. And those whose faith was weak, if they were smart they kept their mouths shut, lest the black carriage of the Inquisition come silently one night to take them away to a place where they would be encouraged to voice their opinions to a scribe.
We heard rumors that in Madrid whole quarters of the city were abandoned to the plague. The rich people left first, piling whatever they could into their carriages and whipping their horses north to where the air was better. Whatever beggars still lived moved into the empty houses of rich men, ate cured meats from their plates and drank wine from their cellars, only to die weeks later in their beds.
The dreaded white avenues of death. My mama’s papa had briefly held the job of spreading lime in the gutters of cordoned-off streets. A soap maker by trade, his business evaporated when plague came, people foolishly caring more for godliness than cleanliness. “Wash yourselves!” he would yell at people in the plaza. “Save yourselves!” But the people hurried past, his wares went unsold, and he was forced to hire himself to the city of Madrid, which paid him well for his work. There was a choice of occupations offered by the desperate city: to spread lime from a cart, to ride a donkey and check the cordons blocking off diseased areas, or to go on foot catching the contaminating rats with a prong and dropping them dead or as good asdead into a wheeled barrel of vinegar. My grandfather determined that the farther he was above the dirty streets the safer he would be, so he signed on as a lime thrower and he stood up on the driver’s seat of the lime cart. Every night he washed himself with his own soap, as much as four times from head to foot, but still, he died after a few months, black spots like coins—the Devil’s currency—all over his limbs. He took handfuls of lime from the sack and rubbed it on his skin until he burned as if he were in hell already, but it did no good.
Plague ravaged all of Castile, and the death of so many workers meant that fields and fields of wheat rotted. Flour costs rose so high that for the first time in Dolores’s and my remembrance we found ourselves hungry at night—not so much that we starved, but when we lay down in the dark we felt empty and when we slept we dreamed of eating.
My papa came home one evening from the market and set his basket of toys on the hearth. “Concepción,” he said, and he went to my mama; and when she turned around he put his large hands on her cheeks and held her lovely face between them. “Concepción, I have been with Enrique, and he has told me how their family gets by with Ilena now taking in children from the orphanage in Madrid. She suckles foundlings, and the family gets good money for their care.”
Sweat made a dark shadow around the brim of Papa’s hat, and he smelled of wood smoke and the Portuguese wine he drank with Enrique. My mama’s black eyebrows came together as she waited to hear what else he would say. She took his hands from her face and she held them as she looked at him.
One after another, things had gone wrong for my papa. To discourage evil spirits, we slipped charms under his pillow at night as he slept, we filled his shoes with clover. But nothing helped. His fortunes had turned sour, perhaps, Mama said to us, because he had not respected his father. Not long before, our last pig had escaped into the woods, and while trying to chase it home, Papa had been treed by wolves eager to make dinner of both him and the pig.
After watching the wolves eat up our winter provisions,
Plague as well as famine emptied half the houses of Quintanapalla. Persons whose faith was strong said it was God’s right to watch or not watch over the people, and only He knew why such blights came upon the faithful. And those whose faith was weak, if they were smart they kept their mouths shut, lest the black carriage of the Inquisition come silently one night to take them away to a place where they would be encouraged to voice their opinions to a scribe.
We heard rumors that in Madrid whole quarters of the city were abandoned to the plague. The rich people left first, piling whatever they could into their carriages and whipping their horses north to where the air was better. Whatever beggars still lived moved into the empty houses of rich men, ate cured meats from their plates and drank wine from their cellars, only to die weeks later in their beds.
The dreaded white avenues of death. My mama’s papa had briefly held the job of spreading lime in the gutters of cordoned-off streets. A soap maker by trade, his business evaporated when plague came, people foolishly caring more for godliness than cleanliness. “Wash yourselves!” he would yell at people in the plaza. “Save yourselves!” But the people hurried past, his wares went unsold, and he was forced to hire himself to the city of Madrid, which paid him well for his work. There was a choice of occupations offered by the desperate city: to spread lime from a cart, to ride a donkey and check the cordons blocking off diseased areas, or to go on foot catching the contaminating rats with a prong and dropping them dead or as good asdead into a wheeled barrel of vinegar. My grandfather determined that the farther he was above the dirty streets the safer he would be, so he signed on as a lime thrower and he stood up on the driver’s seat of the lime cart. Every night he washed himself with his own soap, as much as four times from head to foot, but still, he died after a few months, black spots like coins—the Devil’s currency—all over his limbs. He took handfuls of lime from the sack and rubbed it on his skin until he burned as if he were in hell already, but it did no good.
Plague ravaged all of Castile, and the death of so many workers meant that fields and fields of wheat rotted. Flour costs rose so high that for the first time in Dolores’s and my remembrance we found ourselves hungry at night—not so much that we starved, but when we lay down in the dark we felt empty and when we slept we dreamed of eating.
My papa came home one evening from the market and set his basket of toys on the hearth. “Concepción,” he said, and he went to my mama; and when she turned around he put his large hands on her cheeks and held her lovely face between them. “Concepción, I have been with Enrique, and he has told me how their family gets by with Ilena now taking in children from the orphanage in Madrid. She suckles foundlings, and the family gets good money for their care.”
Sweat made a dark shadow around the brim of Papa’s hat, and he smelled of wood smoke and the Portuguese wine he drank with Enrique. My mama’s black eyebrows came together as she waited to hear what else he would say. She took his hands from her face and she held them as she looked at him.
One after another, things had gone wrong for my papa. To discourage evil spirits, we slipped charms under his pillow at night as he slept, we filled his shoes with clover. But nothing helped. His fortunes had turned sour, perhaps, Mama said to us, because he had not respected his father. Not long before, our last pig had escaped into the woods, and while trying to chase it home, Papa had been treed by wolves eager to make dinner of both him and the pig.
After watching the wolves eat up our winter provisions,
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