The Light of the Midnight Stars

by Rena Rossner

  Soon they file out of the synagogue and stare up at the moon in the sky, prayer books in hand. I follow them.

  Eema and Nagmama don’t go to the beit knesset except when they have to—on holidays like Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. But Abba knows I have a special connection to the stars—to everything that lights up the sky. He says there is much he needs to teach me and I wonder if this is the week we begin.

  I walk over and stand beside him as he leads the men in prayer.

  “To bless the moon at the proper time is like greeting the Shechina…” Abba’s baritone voice intones, sing-song in its timbre. “Like running outside to greet a king! The king of all kings.” He closes his eyes and raises his hands to the sky. “But on kiddush levana nights, the moon comes out to greet us.”

  The men are all still filing out of synagogue, waiting for the dark clouds to pass so the moon can be at its brightest.

  He turns to me—me! In front of all his congregants.

  “You are the brightest moon in our sky, Levana,” he says to me. “You were born on a night like this one. I heard your cry right after I’d finished reciting kiddush levana. It was like you picked the name yourself.” His eyes glint with moonlight as he turns back to the men.

  “Every month, as we near the seventh day, when the moon is brightest, that’s when we bless it. Joseph the dreamer saw his brothers bowing down to him in the heavens. He dreamed of a ladder of angels, but even Joseph jumped to conclusions about what he saw, and that got him into trouble.”

  Abba winks at me.

  “But our mitzvot are not in the skies. Our work is down here, on earth. We bathe in the light of the moon to let its intentions enter our actions.”

  I hear a chorus of amens answering him.

  “Tonight, we sanctify the moon—tomorrow, we begin the real work.” We look up. It’s still dark. The moon is covered by cloud. Abba claps his hands and it sounds like a clap of thunder. The black clouds clear.

  I hold the white orb of the moon in my eyes—a lamp lighting up the heavens.

  The men begin singing: “Halleluyah, praise God from the skies, praise Him in the heavens…”

  The sun, the moon, and the stars all join to praise God. “Blessed be our God, ruler of space and time, who created galaxies…” My heart beats in time with the words Abba says.

  “And God said to the moon—the Levana—” He looks at me. “—renew yourself!” The stars and the moon are reflected in his eyes and in all that majesty, I see myself.

  Soon the men around him are jumping and singing, dancing and clapping, looking up at the moon and saying, “David, king of Israel, lives and endures!”

  David—the father of Solomon.

  “All who bless the new moon in its time, it’s as if they received the presence of the Shechina—the divine light,” Abba says and the men repeat it after him.

  I repeat it after him too, and I feel it—the presence of the Shechina is bright within me like the light of the moon and the stars.

  Everyone is still looking up at the moon. My father’s sonorous voice is singing beside me, and for the first time I am a part of something larger than myself—larger perhaps than the sky.

  I think about Eema’s story and wonder if I am destined for something greater than myself too—like Abraham. I close my eyes and let the light of the moon wash over me.

  When I open my eyes, there is one star I see. It shines a little brighter, and then blinks out as the dark clouds return.

  Hannah

  1 Cheshvan 5120

  Tonight was truly one of the strangest (and most exciting!) nights of my life. I’m not writing this from my room or even from our home—but I’m getting ahead of myself and I must put things down here as they happened.

  Two candles were lit at the window as I sat next to Abba earlier, a quill and parchment before me. We were sitting in his study, a room only large enough for a desk and two chairs.

  “Write this down,” he said.

  “I am, Abba,” I replied. It frustrates me when he doesn’t trust me, when he doesn’t think I know exactly what to do. I’m not irresponsible like Sarah, or easily distracted like Levana. The thought of either of them in here, helping Abba the way I do, is laughable.

  “This is composed by the keeper of The Book of the Solomonars.” He turned to me and said, “There can be ten Solomonars active and alive at the same time. Just like it is said that there are only thirty-six righteous men in the world at one time. Together, we hold up the pillars of the earth. If at any moment there are less than ten Solomonars, or less than thirty-six tzaddikim—the very foundation upon which the world rests will collapse.”

  “Should I write that down too, Abba?” I asked him. It felt important in a way that other things he’s taught me didn’t—like these words carried more weight than other things he’d said.

  “No, no.” He twisted a strand of his red bushy beard between his fingertips, and stared at the door to the room as though he could see something on the other side of it. So now I add that to my ever-running list of strange things that keep happening.

  “The secrets of Solomon are entrusted to a Solomonar and to his family—his direct descendants. The candles we light at the window are a sign—a symbol that we are a sanctuary of Solomon—a home where Jews the world over are welcome. We publicize the miracle of God’s light all year long, like all Jews do on Hanukkah. And now, our light is more important than ever. We are beacons of light in the darkness, Hannah—never forget that.”

  “Yes, Abba.” I wondered what this light meant in the face of the Black Mist, if he felt it like I do—the strange sense of foreboding in the air, the dark taint in the soil that keeps getting worse.

  “Let’s get back to the book,” he said.

  I’ve decided to write down all his words here as I remember them. Who knows if I may have need of them again someday?

  “With Rabbi Gottlieb murdered in his bed so recently—may his memory protect us—we must preserve our precious customs. I will not cower in the forest or hide in a cave. The fire of Solomon runs in our veins. I must write down the customs of our people in a book—The Book of the Solomonars—into a bound volume for all future generations.”

  “Yes, Abba,” I said again, and committed his words to memory.

  He paused and looked at me.

  “Do you remember the story of Honi HaMeagel?”

  I shook my head no, because even though I did remember the story, it’s rare that Abba tells it. I also know when he gets into this kind of mood, he’s going to tell the story whether I like it or not. I settled in to listen carefully.

  It was a time of drought for the Jewish people in the Land of Israel, so Honi drew a circle in the dust and stood inside it. He dug his toes into the ground and told God he wouldn’t move from the circle until He sent rain.

  When it began to rain, Honi told God it wasn’t enough—he wanted rain that would fill wells and pools and caves. It began to pour so hard that each drop of rain filled a barrel. Honi told God it was too much, that the rain He was sending would destroy the world, the earth needed something in between—a rain of blessing. But it rained for so long that everyone had to evacuate the holy temple because of flooding and Honi was asked to make the rain stop completely.

  Honi said one should never pray for the removal of a blessing, but nevertheless he asked God. He said, “Our nation cannot survive with too much suffering or too much blessing. May it be your will that you should ease their suffering now and stop the rain.” He nearly got put into cherem by Shimon Ben Shetach for the way in which he spoke to God. But it worked. God listened. And after that he was always known as Honi the circle-drawer…

  Abba continued staring at the door. A few minutes went by. Then he turned his attention back to me. “With your steady hand, I need you to write. That’s the first step towards acquiring wisdom—writing, then learning, and only then, turning words into action.” His words made me question why he doesn’t make Sarah write things down, wh
y he doesn’t force Levana.

  “We all strive to leave a memory of our presence in this world,” he continued. “What we remember of the world and what the world remembers of us is often the same. But I don’t worry about you, my eldest. In Pirkei Avot, it says there are four types of students in this world: the sponge, the funnel, the strainer and the sieve. You are like a sponge, my daughter: you absorb everything.” I wondered what my sisters were—which one the funnel, which one the sieve?

  As the candles by the window burned low, there was a knock at the door.

  I lifted my head from the page. All night it seemed as though Abba had been expecting company. I could hear the wind rustling through the trees and it sounded like the forest was breathing. I also heard branches crack and the sounds of small animals creeping through the underbrush. The knock was loud and bold against the soft drama of the forest that I knew, even now, was shrouded in Black Mist.

  Abba nudged his nose in the direction of the door and I got up to open it. There was a young man there, dressed in heavy furs that clearly marked him as part of some kind of nobility. His eyes were a piercing blue—the color of frost.

  “Your grace.” Abba stood up immediately. “How may we be of service?”

  The Black Mist crept in and he closed the door quickly. I saw how the light in the window repelled whatever had entered, and felt safe by Abba’s side. Protected.

  I bowed my head in a show of respect, then looked back at my father. “Should I go?”

  The young man put his hand on my shoulder.

  I startled and looked up into his ice-blue eyes. I’d truly never seen eyes so striking before.

  “And your name is?” he asked me.

  “Hannah,” I whispered, still feeling the weight and warmth of his hand through my dress and shawl.

  “Stay,” he said. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  I couldn’t help but think he was the handsomest man I’d ever seen.

  But then he became short of breath and started to cough. I looked over at Abba with worry in my eyes.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m not ill, I swear it.” He glanced at Abba, then back at me, as though he was hoping we’d believe him.

  More and more people in town are falling sick. They say the Black Mist is a plague. We hear stories from other cities, other towns. It starts in the sky—a dark cloud cover, which then drifts into the forest, leaches into the soil, and from there, it slowly creeps up the walls of houses and in through chimneys.

  Abba says it’s a spiritual sickness. That the lungs inside us are like angel wings—connected to the heavens, and if every breath we take and every word we speak is connected to holiness, our lungs stay white and blemish-free. It’s why we check the lungs of animals before we eat them. Diseased lungs can be a sign of a diseased soul.

  Abba gestured for him to sit.

  “Can I get you something hot to drink?” I offered, thinking I could brew him something for his cough.

  “My daughter brews the best healing teas in town,” Abba said with pride, and I smiled. His praise means so much to me.

  “Some horehound perhaps, for your cough?” I said.

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I am Jakob, son of the dowager duchess, as I’m sure you know.” He cleared his throat and coughed again. “And heir apparent to the throne,” he said more softly, with a rasp. “What I have to say will only take a moment.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Abba said. “We insist.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I bowed, and left the room to tell Eema, though I couldn’t help but pause to listen at the door.

  “I’m here to ask for assistance. I know I can count on your discretion. My mother is ill. It is the croup—not the plague.” He coughed again. “She cannot be rid of it; the cough wracks her body day and night. She is older now, and frail. We need a healer. My mother told me I was delivered by a Jewess who was skilled in the healing arts.”

  “Yes,” Abba said. “I believe that was my wife.”

  “I’ve come to ask for your help—a charm, a prayer, a poultice, anything you think might ease her suffering. I was not aware you had a daughter…”

  “Three daughters,” Abba says.

  I raced into the house. When I told Eema, her eyes went wide. Thank God she had water already heated on the stove. I didn’t have time to speak to her, but I could tell she was worried, scared even, because as I took a tray back with me, laden with mugs and a teapot filled with herbs, rushing through the Black Mist as fast as I could, I saw her take out her prayer book and start to pray. My mother reads her prayer book as others might read fortunes. I wish I knew what she saw in its pages in that moment.

  Jakob looked at me as I entered and his eyes lit up.

  “I brought tea,” I said.

  “I don’t suppose your daughter is as skilled in the healing arts as your wife?” he said to Abba.

  “I am,” I answered without thinking as I set the tray down and poured tea. I looked up as I handed Abba a mug, and he scowled at me.

  “My apologies,” I said, chastened. “I spoke out of turn.”

  “No, you spoke well. Clearly God has sent you to me, an angel for my mother in her time of distress. Rabbi Isaac, we will pay you handsomely. Will you help us?”

  But Abba was shaking his head. He was most certainly going to say no.

  In that moment, I didn’t care. Something was twisting and turning inside me, an ache I’d never felt before. It urged me forward. I knew then, with certainty I’d never felt before, this was a path I needed to follow—a task I needed to see through.

  Abba and Eema have always taught me that we never turn away someone in need.

  “Some things cannot be healed…” Abba said, and I knew he was thinking of the Black Mist. “I will need to consult my wife—”

  Jakob interrupted him. “Please, rabbi, there isn’t time.”

  I could tell Abba saw something else in his eyes, because I saw it too—fear.

  It’s against the code of everything Abba is as a Solomonar to deny life, to deny healing in situations where there might be hope, this much I know—a truth at the root of my bones. As a community leader, he had no choice. Rabbi Gottlieb was found stabbed to death in his bed just one month ago with a note beside him blaming the Black Mist on the Jews. God forbid something like that should happen again—that something like that should happen here.

  The potential for retaliation against us is too great.

  “Hannah, go get your mother, she can—” I could tell he regretted his words the moment he saw Jakob’s face fall.

  He closed his eyes, then opened them and looked at me. I’m only fifteen, but I’m ready in every way and right to take on my birthright. I’ve been transferring flame since my bat mitzvah, and my ability to heal and make things grow has far surpassed Eema’s abilities. I’ve never been given a chance to do something this important.

  “Go see if your mother can pack you a bag of everything you’ll need.”

  My heart leapt in my chest. “Yes, Abba!”

  I rushed out of the small room again, afraid he’d change his mind. But then I stopped again and paused outside the door. I knew my life was about to change forever. Despite the mist, I didn’t want to miss a word.

  “Is Hannah of marriageable age?”

  I gasped, hand over my mouth. Of all the boys and men in town I kept waiting for and thinking of—this, I never expected.

  “My daughter is not for you,” Abba said. It sounded like a growl.

  “She’s promised to another?” Jakob asked.

  Abba grunted, and I couldn’t hear anything else.

  Then I heard Jakob say, “You haven’t answered me.”

  “She will marry a Jew, an outstanding scholar,” Abba replied.

  “I see,” Jakob said. “Someone you’ve already chosen for her?”

  My heart thumped in my chest so loud I was certain they could hear me.

  “No,” Abba said. “You see nothing. Our ways are not y
our ways. I am entrusting my most precious possession into your care—please see that I do not regret it.”

  “No harm will come to your daughter. I swear it.”

  “Good,” Abba replied. “I’m glad we have an understanding.”

  I quickly ran inside to tell Eema what happened, but I didn’t tell her everything I overheard. She helped me fill her healing satchel with some things—remedies both physical and spiritual—then she pressed a kiss to my forehead and gave it to me.

  “Remember that sometimes the shortest prayer can be the most effective. Focus on what is right, and don’t be distracted by finery. Remember it could be a demon, or the evil eye, and if that’s what it is—there’s not much you can do. Remember to tie knots in the madder root in the right order, rub oil and salt on her hands and feet, and I’ve placed several preservation stones in there.” She paused. Then she said, “And remember the story of Jacob.”

  I furrowed my brow. I didn’t remember telling her his name.

  “Jacob struggled with the angel and won,” she said.

  I nodded, my eyes held steady in her gaze.

  “The stories say it was Esau’s angel he wrestled with. Beware of false angels—don’t wrestle with ones we don’t know. Remember the words of Jeremiah—God has created something new on this earth, nekevah tesovev gever—and woman will encircle man.” She pulled me into a fierce embrace.

  Her words were so cryptic, I still don’t understand them now. She didn’t have time to tell me more, and I didn’t have time to listen. Perhaps their meaning will become clear to me in time.

  “I promise I won’t disappoint you,” I said. I went back out to the small study, excited and out of breath. “I’m ready.”

  Jakob grinned, his eyes impossibly bright. “My horse awaits.”

  Abba followed us outside. He hugged me goodbye as he whispered in my ear, “Protect your soul, my daughter.”

  I replied in one of the phrases of the Solomonars, something that’s painted on the wall of our synagogue. I’d never had cause to use the words before. “When the bows of mighty men are broken, those that stumble are girded with strength.”