The Silver Cup by Constance Leeds Page B

shouting, “Death to the Christ killers” and then Emich declared, “No one shall fight with me until he has killed a Jew.”
    Anna held the woolen cloth to her nose, but as they climbed the cathedral’s hill, the stench grew until the smell of smoke and worse slammed into them, and they had to stop. Nothing prepared them for what they saw in front of St. Peter’s. Father and daughter fell to their knees and vomited. They retched until each was emptied of everything. Anna’s chest ached, and her throat burned, and she began to shake. She felt cold, cold though the day had brightened to a summer morning.
    She had to look. Shirtless men were hauling naked bodies from the cathedral and heaving them onto carts. These were people, not some vicious race of monsters, not goats nor devils with tails. People. So many people. Men and women, fat and thin, children, babies—all naked and bloodied like butchered animals flung into piles on the street, into the carts, with no care. Below, at the back side of the hill, an unholy pyre roared and consumed some of the dead. Dogs and crows picked at the piles of bodies waiting for the carters . And everywhere, there were flies.
    Anna shivered, and her father clutched her to him. She felt him shudder, and she began to cry. They stumbled downhill from the cathedral, along the edge of the deserted marketplace and sat on some casks that were stacked on the far side. Anna was empty, wrung, and her eyes stung from the smoke and from crying. She gulped down mouthfuls of air and felt as cold as January. After a while, Gunther handed her some bread from home and some ale he had carried in his flagon. She had no appetite, but he insisted. Anna nibbled at the bread.
    â€œAnna, I would leave, but I have these swords for the silversmith.”
    Gunther looked around and added, “Perhaps he’s fled. I fear Samuel needed them a few days ago. You should have stayed with Hagan.”
    Anna shrugged. Her head was filled with sounds but no words. Gunther patted the swords in the packet slung over his shoulder and shook his head. Anna saw that he was unsure.
    â€œI should try,” he said.
    They walked north to what remained of the Jewish quarter. Burned and destroyed, very few houses stood. All was quiet except for the snap of ebbing fires and the crack of wood settling.
    â€œIt’s gone. Everything, everyone,” said Gunther as he turned in a slow circle.
    All that remained of the silversmith’s house was the hearth and a part of the back wall where the window had been. Anna looked about, gazing across at discarded, broken crates and casks.
    Then Anna saw her. She was crouched behind the rubble, squeezed against the remains of a wall.
    Anna turned and said softly, “Father, there’s a girl hiding behind that wall.”
    â€œI wouldn’t doubt that,” said Gunther. “This city has always been plagued with starving scavengers. Magpies who steal bits and scraps.”
    â€œI didn’t finish my bread. I’ll give it to her.”
    â€œShe may be diseased or mad, and she’ll surely have lice. Just throw the bread, and let’s leave this monstrous place.”
    Anna meant to obey, but as she approached, she heard muffled sobs. Not the sound of madness, but of such grief that she did not throw the bread. Instead, she began to push aside the rubble. The girl’s face was not visible for she had balled herself tightly, clutching her knees against her chest.
    But she was not dressed like a beggar. Her shoes, though stained, were of soft buff leather and fine, and her dress was of elegant cloth and dyed a honey color Anna had never seen before. This was no child of the street.
    Anna spoke gently, but the trembling girl did not look up. When Anna tried to draw her out, Gunther hastened to pull Anna away. He, too, was surprised by the dress.
    â€œShe must be a Jew’s child. Save your bread. She won’t take it.