My Guardian Angel by Sylvie Weil Page B

terra-cotta lamp, its flame flickering and spluttering as if it might go out at any minute. Jeanne leads Elvina close to the stove, where there is a roaring fire.
    â€œYou have come to visit us on a day that is hardly better than the night. We lit the lamp, but the wick won’t burn as it should; it only gives out a tiny bit of light and we have to weave our baskets by feel, as if we were blind!”
    â€œDo you have any salt?” Elvina asks her friend.
    â€œOf course we do!” answers Marguerite.
    â€œBring me a pinch.”
    The three sisters watch Elvina as she cautiously lifts the cover of the lamp and throws the salt into the hollow that contains the oil. Immediately the wick catches and a bright flame appears. “There you are!” cries Elvina triumphantly.
    She turns around to face her friends, delighted at her success. Their silence and the expression on their now clearly visible faces turn her blood to ice. She forces herself to keep smiling. “Aren’t you pleased? You are looking at me as if you’ve never set eyes upon me before! What’s the matter?”
    â€œThe matter is that we find witchcraft scary,” replies Marguerite.
    â€œWhat witchcraft?” asks Elvina in disbelief. “That’s not witchcraft! The salt clears the oil, so the wick catches more easily and burns with a stronger flame. My grandfather taught me that when I was small. It’s in our books.”
    Jeanne stands directly in front of Elvina and takes her by the shoulders. “That’s just it,” she begins accusingly. “Those books of yours. You said it yourself. My cousin, the priest, told us all about them. You Jews always have your heads bent over those big books of yours because they give you special powers. And of course you don’t want to give them up, and that’s why you’re so frightened of the Crusaders. If you would only get baptized and give up your books, you could be just like everyone else.”
    â€œBut we
are
like everyone else!” cries Elvina, scarcely able to believe her ears. “Don’t you remember when we were little, how we liked the same games and played with the same dolls? We used to gather flowers to make crowns; we ate hazelnuts together. . . .”
    â€œEven so, you are different. What about your wine that Christians aren’t allowed to touch? That, by the way, is very upsetting for us. And your synagogue where you go every Saturday instead of going to church on Sundays? What do you do in your synagogue anyway? Everyone wonders. And even you yourself are different. You know how to read and write . . . and there are your ointments and potions. . . .”
    Hardly able to speak, Elvina murmurs, “But your sister just asked me to give her some medicine for you!”
    â€œI like your infusions and they do me good, but I’m not telling you anything new when I say that people around here whisper about your family. They say that all of you know a little too much about witchcraft.”
    Elvina is speechless. She wants to run away but has no idea how to go about it. She tries to extricate herself from Jeanne’s grasp, but Jeanne is stronger than she is. Jeanne keeps her grip on Elvina, and now that she has started nothing stops her. “How can you explain that your mother and grandmother managed to save Thibault’s wife last year, when she was practically given up for dead?”
    â€œThey know the herbs,” counters Elvina. “They know when to pick them and how to use them; that’s all. Anyone can learn that.”
    â€œWhat about your grandfather, who cured our cows of that sickness that was killing them off? I was only a little girl, but I remember it. People talked about it.”
    â€œYou’re lying,” replied Elvina furiously. “Everyone respects my grandfather.”
    â€œI’m only repeating what I’ve