They were nothings. Nothings. Nothings. Just trodden-in-the-mud Jews. Just girls, dependent on fathers and brothers for their safety
All her body aches. Yesterday, it was the hair. Today, she kneeled on the floor and scrubbed, inch by inch, until gray and brown disappeared and the tiles shone.
Diamenta had looked around and clapped her hands. Then, using a soap-and-sand mixture Fortuna had given her, she had rubbed the outside, inside, and handles of all but one of Diamenta’s pots. Tomorrow, the grease will have dissolved, and she will haul some water from the well and clean them.
As she had worked, she had given Rahel and her brother rags, and they had worked alongside her, chattering away in Ladino, along with a few French words for her benefit. It had really been quite companionable. But now she is tired.
The only thing she wants to do is to eat a plate of Fortuna’s freshly baked bread with some egg and one of those little pastes that Becca can’t identify that put her tongue on fire and at the same time satisfy something deep inside.
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