Transgression

by R. S. Ingermanson

  But was it compassion only that he felt? Suddenly, he realized it was something more.

  “Brother Baruch, you are wise,” said Brother Yonatan. “Tell us what you think should be done with this zonah.”

  Something broke deep within Baruch’s soul. He felt an anger rising within his heart—a righteous anger, the anger of Yeshua at injustice.

  “I will tell you what must be done,” Baruch said. “We must find a husband for her.”

  Dead silence ran around the circle. Brother Yonatan’s fat lips fell open in disbelief. Brother Yoseph’s eyes bulged out. Hana laughed out loud, mocking Baruch. “That is foolishness. I am a zonah, a wicked sinner. Who would be fool enough to take me?”

  Words formed inside Baruch’s head, molded his tongue, poured out of his mouth. Even as he spoke the words, he could not believe his own spectacular folly. “I will take you, Hana.”

  Hana stared at him.

  A nervous snicker escaped Brother Yonatan. “That is a foolish joke, Brother Baruch! Do not say such things, even in jest.”

  Baruch swallowed hard. Brother Yonatan had just offered him a way out. But he could not take it. “It is no jest. Hana, I ask you to be my wife.”

  “You have lost your wits!” Brother Yoseph said.

  Brother Yonatan licked his thick lips. “You have an evil spirit.”

  Behind him, Brother Ari whispered in his ear. “What kind of trick are you playing, Brother Baruch? This is craziness.”

  Hana jutted her chin at him. “You are playing me for the fool.” She hesitated, and a secretive smile crossed her face.

  Now she will tell them all about my sin. Baruch shuddered. And I deserve whatever humiliation she heaps on me.

  Abruptly, she turned her head away from him and folded her arms across her chest. “But I have made up my mind. I will go back to my own house and not trouble you righteous people anymore, lest I contaminate you. If the bad man kills me, it will not matter, since I am only a wicked zonah.” She stepped backward.

  The men behind her leaped out of the way.

  Baruch was sweating now. Fury raced through his veins. Why would they not believe him? “Stop it, all of you!” he shouted. “You are mocking me, and I will not have it!” He stepped out of his house. “Hana!”

  She stopped and turned to look at him.

  “Hana, I am speaking the truth before HaShem. I am not lying. Now make your decision. Will you be my wife?”

  Hana’s eyes bored into his for a long moment. Then she looked around the circle at the others, and her face hardened into a sarcastic smile. “No. Only a witless man would marry a zonah, and I would never marry a fool.”

  She turned and stalked away down the street.

  Baruch felt his ears burning. How dare she humiliate him?

  Uneasiness hung like thick fog over the group. Brother Yonatan studied something in the dirt, all the while taking tiny steps backward. Brother Yoseph cleared his throat several times and then looked away down the street. Sister Miryam seemed ready to say something, but she kept silent.

  “Friends,” Brother Ari said, “I must speak to Brother Baruch in private.” He took hold of Baruch’s shoulders and gently pulled him back into the house.

  Relief showed on every face. Then Brother Ari shut the door. Baruch collapsed onto the floor. He had not known he loved Hana until he had asked her to marry him. Now he knew it all the way to his marrow. And he also knew that he would never have her.

  He clutched his beard and began to wail.

  Chapter 33

  Rivka

  AFTER WAITING AN HOUR, RIVKA began to get tired. How long would this take? She hadn’t counted on standing out in the hot sun all day.

  An old woman marched briskly up the street. In one hand, she carried a lump of goat cheese. In the other, a loaf of flat bread. She stopped at the door of Gamaliel’s house.

  “Shalom!” Rivka called. “Are you the grandmother of Gamaliel?” What had Yohanan said her name was? Oh, yes—Marta.

  The old woman turned and looked at her suspiciously. “Who are you?”

  Rivka hesitated. “I am a friend of Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai.” Instantly, she realized she had just made two blunders.

  “A friend?” Marta said, her face openly skeptical. “And is he calling himself Rabban now? Old fool.”

  “No…I mean, it was my idea to call him that,” Rivka said. “And actually, he’s a distant relative.” He’s Jewish. I’m Jewish. So we’re related, right?

  Marta cackled. “Oh, now he’s your relative, is he? When he gets to be your nephew, let me know.”

  Rivka felt her cheeks burning. She had really fouled this one up in a hurry. She decided to change the subject. “I need to speak to Gamaliel.”

  Marta took a key from her belt and unlocked her front door. “Perhaps you are Gamaliel’s cousin? His sister? If so, then you have a right to see him. Otherwise, no. He is sick and must sleep. Two days ago, he was near death.”

  Rivka gasped. “What sickness is he suffering from?”

  Marta stepped inside the house. “The summer fever. Now go away.” The door thudded shut behind her.

  The summer fever. It sounded harmless, but Rivka knew better. Modern scholars weren’t quite sure of its identity. Malaria, maybe. Or typhus fever. Something dangerous. People died from it.

  If Gamaliel had the summer fever, then he was in big trouble.

  And therefore, Paul was in big trouble. Somewhere in this city, a group of forty or so young men had taken an oath to kill Paul. They planned to kill him tomorrow when the high priest summoned him to a second hearing.

  The Book of Acts wasn’t quite clear, but the Greek text seemed to say that Paul’s nephew was one of the conspirators. Most English translations didn’t even allude to that possibility, but the better commentaries mentioned it.

  Conspirator or not, tonight Gamaliel was supposed to go tell Paul about the plot. By 9 P.M. Paul would be on his way out of town with several hundred Romans guarding him.

  But if Gamaliel didn’t do his task, those forty young men would kill Paul. Dr. West wouldn’t have to lift a finger. Rivka didn’t have a clue how she could stop forty young zealots armed with stones and clubs and daggers.

  If Gamaliel was as sick as Marta said, then he wouldn’t go anywhere tonight.

  Rivka began pacing outside the house, sick with worry. Please, God, heal Gamaliel!

  * * *

  Hana

  Hana’s eyes blurred as she rushed down the hill toward her house. He was cruel. She had thought Baruch was a kind man, but he was cruel. Why else would he have played such a game on her, taunting her with an empty promise of marriage?

  Until now, she had respected him. He had shown great kindness to Rivka, had probably saved her life. And he had allowed Hana to stay with Miryam, even knowing she was a zonah. Until now, she had thought him a righteous man. He was changed from a year ago, when his appetite for her had twisted him into evil.

  But now, she could see it was all a farce. He had mocked her before his friends, waiting for her to accept his false offer of marriage. Then he would withdraw it, and they would make sport of her and drive her away.

  If the bad man returned, he would kill her, and she no longer cared. Better to die than to live the life of a zonah. She could no longer tolerate this life, constantly having men violate her, eating the strange herbs that stopped the seed from growing inside her, that caused her body to feel so restless. No more.

  The easy way to die would be to find the bad man. He would kill her at once, and her suffering would end. Hana passed her own house and continued walking toward the house where the bad man lived.

  When she reached it, she pounded on the door.

  No answer.

  She beat on it again.

  Still nothing.

  Hana stepped back and waited. Some moments passed before she realized why she waited. Ordinarily, the truth-tellers would tell her what to do.

  But the truth-tellers were gone. Baruch
had banished them. He had chased them away.

  Baruch had power over the evil spirits. He had meant it as a kindness, but now she was alone—powerless and without knowledge in an evil world pitted against her.

  At last, Hana gave up. The house of the bad man was empty, and the truth-tellers were silent. Uncertainly, she turned and trudged back toward her own house.

  Baruch had power over the evil spirits. Only HaShem could give a man that power. So perhaps Baruch was truly a good man. Then why had he mocked her?

  But what if he had not mocked her? What if he had told the truth?

  Would a good man swear falsely? No. That was not possible.

  Then was it possible that he really wanted her? But why? For the pleasure she could give him? If so, why did he not merely pay for an hour and be done with it?

  No, it was not simply for the pleasure.

  Then why?

  He was a compassionate man—that was it. He must be thinking to do her good.

  But what man would make such a sacrifice as to marry a zonah? What foolishness was this? And besides, he had sworn that he loved her. A good man would not swear falsely. Baruch was a good man. Therefore, he must love her.

  He would have been a good husband.

  But she would have been a very bad wife. She would have loved him, of course. He was a good man, a kind man, a gentle man. But still, she was a zonah. He would live his life in humiliation before his friends, and so she would also. She could not bear such a life.

  No, that was not true. She could bear it, because she had been bearing it. All her neighbors knew what sort of woman she was, and they despised her for it and scolded their men for looking at her with hunger in their eyes.

  Hana could bear such a life. But Baruch could not.

  He was a good man. She could not allow him to live his life married to a zonah. It was best that she had humiliated him. He would come to his senses before he ruined his life.

  By the time she reached her house, Hana was crying again.

  * * *

  Ari

  “Brother Baruch, if I may make a suggestion—”

  “No!” Baruch shouted. “I do not want your suggestions. Just…leave me in peace.”

  “Very well then.” Ari went to the door and stepped out. A minute later, he was striding down the hill.

  You are meddling, Ari Kazan. This is a job for a woman, not for you. Who are you to interfere in the lives of these two people?

  Ari hushed the voices of dissent in his mind. All his life, he had been too ready to do nothing. Take the passive road, the path of zero resistance. And that was wrong. Rivka did no such thing. When she thought a thing right, she did it, at the risk of her own life. He admired that. He did not deserve such a woman as Rivka. And now here was a small task, a woman’s job, and he feared to do it.

  Ari Kazan, you are a mouse!

  No more. He would no longer live his life in fear. Brother Baruch was not afraid to do a generous thing. Nor Rivka. Nor Hana. He was not worthy of such friends.

  Today, just one time, he would not think about himself. He would think about doing what was right.

  The sun hung high and warm overhead, and he did not hurry. There was no point in hurrying, anyway. No clocks troubled this city. The watch on his wrist was now worthless. Life in this century was not measured in the microseconds of the computer age, but in hours and days, in months and years, the slow turning of HaShem’s time in the city of HaShem.

  Except that it would not be HaShem’s city much longer. In less than ten years, a war would begin here. It would end in the destruction of the Temple, the death of many tens of thousands, the exile of those unlucky enough to survive.

  And he would live through it. Rivka perhaps still had some hope that they would yet be rescued by a second wormhole. Ari knew better. They could not get back. They would live and die here.

  When he reached the street where Hana lived, he saw her fumbling at the door, tears streaming down her face.

  He stopped. Should he interfere?

  Because of him, Baruch and Hana had already been reintroduced. He had already interfered. Nothing he could do would make things worse. He had nothing to lose by trying.

  “Sister Hana!” he called.

  Just then, Hana managed to get her door open. Her head spun around to look at him. She said nothing, only stared blankly.

  “Sister Hana, may I speak with you?”

  She shrugged. “If you wish.”

  Ari suddenly realized he did not know what to say. He had been so afraid of actually doing this that he had not thought through what he intended to tell her. They went into the house. Hana shut the door and they sat down on the floor.

  He said the first thing that came into his head. “Tell me how you feel.” Immediately, he knew it was the wrong thing to say.

  But Hana began talking anyway.

  Ari had a hard time following her. He was still not very fluent in Aramaic. But what did it matter, as long as she talked?

  She talked for a quarter of an hour. Baruch was a good man. A kind man. But his friends were not good, not kind. They did not look at the heart; they looked only on the outside of a person. Baruch could see into her heart. Baruch knew she was not wicked. If it were not for his friends, she would be only too happy to marry him.

  But his friends would make life a misery for her. And worse, they would make Baruch’s life a misery. It would be a torment for him. His friends would see to that.

  Ari let her talk and talk and talk, until she finished.

  When she stopped, Ari simply sat quietly for some time. “He is a good man,” he said at last.

  Hana nodded, and again launched into a long monologue on what a good man Baruch was.

  When she wound down, Ari again said nothing for a long time. Finally, he asked, “Do you love him?”

  This prompted another outburst. Ari had a very hard time understanding any of this, but one thing was clear. Yes, she did love Baruch. Loved him too much to allow him to suffer on her account.

  “So you love him, but you do not love his friends?”

  Hana sniffled and buried her face in her hands.

  Ari repeated the question.

  “Yes,” she said in a hollow voice.

  “He loves you,” Ari said. “It seems that he also loves his friends, although I do not see why. But it may be that he loves you more than his friends. Suppose he were willing to move to a different place, far from his friends?”

  Hana uncovered her face. Slowly, she raised her head and looked up at him. “Would he do that for me?”

  In truth, Ari did not know. A surge of panic nearly choked him. To speak at all would be to lie. “Yes, Brother Baruch would do that.” May HaShem forgive me if I have guessed wrong.

  Hana’s eyes filled with uncertainty. By that, Ari knew that she had really lost her “truth-tellers.” It seemed inconceivable to him that such things as evil spirits could really exist. What did it even mean to talk about disembodied personifications of evil? If they had no physical existence, how could they interact with material beings such as humans? And yet, something had caused those voices in Hana, had given her knowledge she should not have. Now that knowledge was gone.

  He sighed. There was a limit, perhaps, to what physics could tell him.

  “I am afraid,” Hana said. “I am not sure that he really loves me more than his friends.”

  “Then come with me, and we shall ask him.” Ari’s heart skipped a beat. Had he really said that? What if Brother Baruch refused? What if—?

  Stop it.

  Ari could not say with certainty what Brother Baruch would do. And yet he knew Baruch. His knowledge of his friend’s character gave him faith in how Baruch would act.

  Ari stood up. “Come with me to the house of Brother Baruch and I will prove it to you.”

  Hana remained motionless, looking at him with enormous eyes.

  Ari found that he could not breathe.

  Then she stood up.

>   They went out of the house. While Hana locked the door, a meek little old woman hobbled down the street toward them. As she passed by, she spat at Ari’s feet.

  A wave of humiliation slapped Ari in the face. Did that woman honestly believe that he had...done business with Hana?

  Obviously, yes. Hana was a zonah. Ari was a man. He had been alone with her in her own house.

  Brother Baruch would get this sort of treatment all his life—or worse. Infinitely worse to know your friends talked behind your back about your filthy wife, the zonah.

  Ari shuddered. Was he crazy to be taking her back to Brother Baruch?

  Hana put the key in her belt.

  “Let us hurry,” Ari said.

  They walked in silence back up the hill.

  The closer they drew to Brother Baruch’s house, the more dread filled Ari’s heart. It was foolishness to think that this could work.

  He knew from his own experience how Hana must feel. He had felt the same way about HaShem. Like Brother Baruch, HaShem had friends Ari loathed. The Haredim—those joyless men wearing black, so quick to hate others who did not observe Torah in exact accordance with their tradition. The Muslim fanatics who bought a ticket to Paradise with a suicide bomb strapped to their backs. And especially the Christians—ever quick with the cross, and quicker with the sword and the stake and the oven.

  All these were friends of HaShem, but they were not friends of Ari. How could HaShem tolerate such friends?

  How could Brother Baruch tolerate his friends? Ari knew the answer as soon as he asked himself the question. Brother Baruch was a compassionate man. For that reason, he loved his friends. For that reason, he had taken Ari, a stranger, in off the street.

  So, too, HaShem. He had healed Ari, who had kept himself a stranger all his life. Was it possible that HaShem also loved the Haredim? And the Muslim bombers? And…the Christians who had killed Jews in his name down the long ages?

  They reached the house of Brother Baruch. Ari knocked at once, fearing that he would back out if he took time to think about it.