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the other boys, silent and solemn, hurried to gather around them. Gabriel looked terrified; his older brother Alonso was already abbot of San Pablo by then, and Fray Alonso and don Jerónimo would punish him severely for any harm done to a monk. Gabriel kept glancing over his shoulder at his father’s shaded second-floor balcony, as if expecting to hear don Jerónimo’s angry voice any instant.
    The street had grown so hushed I could hear Gabriel’s voice break with nerves as he extended his hand to the fallen man. “Brother?” he asked timidly. “Forgive me. Are you injured?”
    For an instant, the old man lay as still as the dead. But soon he began to move again, slowly, gathering his arms and legs beneath him and pushing himself up. With Gabriel holding his hands, he struggled to his knees, and when he finally stood up and the black hood slipped down to reveal his face, gasps escaped the onlookers. I stood up and strained against the north corner of the balcony railing; the old man’s long white beard, streaked with black, hung to his waist, and long white waves of hair fell from his balding crown to well past his shoulders.
    In those days, Christian men kept their hair short and their faces shaved so as not to be mistaken for what the old man was.
    Miguel, who was in the midst of proffering the old man his wooden stick, drew it back suddenly as the man reached for it; this movement brought the latter’s oddly flat profile into my view. Only his large, dark eyes were visible above a dark scarf, which he had tied behind his head to cover his nose, mouth and chin.
    “He’s a Jew!” Miguel shouted, in a tone that conveyed anger, scorn, and delight. With one hand, he pulled the black cloak from the man’s shoulders. Beneath it, his tunic—of the same worn, coarse black cloth—sported a red disc cut from fabric and pinned over the heart.
    “A filthy Jew!” Miguel bellowed again. “One who breaks the law by trying to hide what he is!” The latter statement was true; the old man should have pinned the badge of shame to his cloak, but I saw forgetfulness, not sinister intent, in the act. “And worse, covering his face like a bandit!”
    As the old man reached vainly for his walking stick, Miguel taunted him with it, keeping it just out of reach.
    The other youths began to hurl insults and accusations. “Stinking Jew!” “Christ killer!” “Did you come here to poison the wells?” “Look at him, sneaking around our neighborhood in disguise!” “He’s looking for a Christian baby to murder!”
    I felt a sickening prickle of heat on my cheeks and neck. By then, I was well aware that Jews were an object of scorn—a fact that ashamed me, since I had overheard others call my mother a conversa and had realized that Jewish blood ran in my veins, too, and that the fact somehow made me different from the other children in our neighborhood.
    Gabriel, who had been supporting the man’s elbow in an effort to keep him upright, let go and turned back toward the crowd, his expression reluctant and perplexed. Clearly, he didn’t want to do what his teammates expected of him, yet he was obviously swayed by their opinion.
    “Get the Jew!” one of the older Lions shouted at his captain. “He cost us a goal! Uncover his face! What is he doing in this barrio on a Sunday, anyway?”
    “Get the Jew! Get the Jew!” the crowd began to chant. Gabriel squared his shoulders and hardened his expression.
    At the same instant, Miguel gripped the base of the walking stick with both hands, swung it back over his right shoulder, then brought it down upon the Jew’s stooped back. The old man took a wobbly step forward and sank to his knees as the onlookers roared with approval.
    For Gabriel, it was as though a sign had been given; he fell upon the Jew with his huge fists and knocked him to the ground.
    I shrieked at him, as if he could somehow hear me over the roars and cheers and curses in the street below. “Stop it! Gabriel,