The Last Song

and cool when Mama and I walked to the cathedral, the Church of Santo Tome. Yussuf led the way, making way for us through the streets. We found Tia Juana and Brianda waiting at the church, in the midst of an excited crowd. Their manservant was with them, making sure that nobody jostled them.
    “What’s happening here?” Mama asked.
    “Three heretics are trying to enter the house of our Lord,” Tia Juana said. “The crowd won’t let them go inside.”
    “Perhaps we should go home,” Mama suggested. “I don’t think it’s safe here.”
    “I don’t want to miss mass! It’s Christmas next week.”
    Mama slapped her forehead with her palm. “You are right, Juana. I forgot for a moment. Let’s wait a little longer and see what happens.”
    I was standing close enough to hear the little sigh that had escaped her. “You may leave us, Yussuf,” Mama said. “Ahmed will see us home safely.”
    Tia Juana’s burly slave nodded his head.
    “There are so many people here, Doña Catarina,” Yussuf protested.
    “Don’t worry. We will wait beside the entrance until everybody has gone inside.”
    The Moor reluctantly bid us good-bye and left.
    The people around us began to jeer when the three young men in the sambenitos tried to fight their way through the mob, only to be pushed back, again and again. One of them fell, but his friends saved him from being trampled by quickly pulling him to his feet. The boy turned around and – for the first time – I saw his face. It was Alberto from Yonah’s Torah class in the basement of the bakery. His nose was bleeding and one of his eyes was starting to swell shut. His elegant clothes were in tatters. His eyes widened when he saw me, but he turned his head away. I felt certain that he had recognized me.
    I took a step toward him, but Mama pulled me back. She was right to do so. What could I do against the anger of so many people? There was no way I could help Alberto.
    “These boys should go home,” I told Mama. “This crowd will never let them into the church.”
    “They can’t go home,” Mama said in an expressionless voice. “The Inquisition ordered them to confesstheir sins publicly in church every Sunday. They must listen to Father Juan’s sermons in order to learn the teachings of our Lord. If they don’t follow the rulings of the Inquisition, they will be punished.”
    “The holy office should have ordered them to be burned at the stake! They are Marranos who commit heresy.” Tia Juana spat on the ground. I was shocked not only because of her crude behavior, but because I didn’t recognize the aunt I knew, always ready for jollity, always full of compliments. “Look at what they are doing.” She pointed her fan at the desperate young men.
    Alberto had torn off his sambenito and was twirling it over his head. The crowd parted in horror, leaving an open path to the church.
    “Go away! Don’t touch us with that sambenito! Keep it away from us!” they cried.
    Alberto kept twirling it around and around. He was grinning as he and the other penitents rushed into the church. The people surrounding them streamed in after them, careful to keep their distance. We were the last to enter. The carved wooden pews at the front, where we always sat, were waiting for us. The boys knelt in front of the altar, loudly confessing their sins.
    “Repent!” cried a fat senora beside me.
    “Give yourself up to Christ or you won’t be saved,”Father Juan said to them as he came to stand at the pulpit.
    He began his sermon. I tried to pay attention, but my eyes became heavier and heavier. They flew open when I felt Brianda’s elbow in my side.
    “Thank you!” I whispered.
    I looked around to keep awake. The church’s walls were festooned with the sambenitos of the heretics who had been burned alive at the stake during different autos-de-fé.
    “So many sambenitos,” I whispered to Mama. “They should take them off the wall.”
    She rolled her eyes. “They are supposed to be reminders to the families of the condemned heretics. They are warnings to them not to follow in the footsteps of their relatives,” she whispered. “They are a warning to us all.”
    Her words filled me with fear.
    The sermon was finally over. Organ music filled the church, entering my soul. The smell of incense was pungent and familiar. When it was my turn to kneel before Father Juan to receive the sacraments, the wine tasted sour in my mouth and the host was bitter. I thought that my