“But listen: The Jews of Malaga sailed from the ports of Malaga and Almuñecar. The date they set sail was the 31st of July, 1492”

IT

was a weary but cheerful company that disembarked from the plane in Malaga airport. There were a few injuries, but most of the boys, now that they were on firm ground, were inclined to downplay their earlier panic and even boast about their heroism.

“You were terrified — but I wasn’t.”

“Ha! You were crying.”

“No, I wasn’t! You were. I saw.”

And so on.

Only one boy refused to recover from his ordeal, and that was Zvi Leader. His pinched face looked quite ghostly, and he clung to Danny and his luggage as if they were his only hope of survival.

As for Yitz Green, a scan of his head proved him to be in remarkably healthy condition, and sporting a bandage across his forehead like a World War I ace pilot, his standing among the younger boys rose even higher.

The camp spent the night in Malaga, bedding down on the floor of a kosher hostel where they were provided with blankets and food. Most of the boys fell into an exhausted sleep, but Danny, after tossing and turning for a while, sat up and switched on his flashlight to read.

“Psst,” said Yanky. “What’s up?”

“My grandmother gave me an atlas of Jewish history.”

There was a rude laugh from a mound under a blanket.