One Night With the King: A Special Movie Edition of the Bestselling Novel, Hadassah by Tommy Tenney;Mark Andrew Olsen

by Tommy Tenney;Mark Andrew Olsen

  She bent down and peered at the names. The first almost assaulted her with its immediacy, for it was the signature of her own mother. Strangely, the sight of such familiar handwriting in this place startled her, caused her heart to skip a beat and her eyes to moisten. It seemed for a moment that Momma was not dead and buried in some faraway grave but standing beside her, steadying herself with that fragile hand she had laid upon Hadassah's shoulder so many times in her later years.

  The museum attendant cleared her throat and shifted her feet from side to side.

  Hadassah ignored her, wiped her eyes and started to read the names above her mother's. Ruth Sarason, her grandmother's maiden name. Elizabeth Prensky, her great-grandmother's. On and on: aunts, cousins. Names she did not know but which sounded distantly, vaguely familiar. She blinked away more tears and looked even farther-the parchment was now growing crowded with increasingly faded and ancient names. She became overpowered by the feeling that she was some impudent interloper getting ready to deface an item of infinite value and age.

  She looked even farther and saw where the signatures began and the actual text ended-faded and barely discernible, archaic Hebrew script traced in a sure and graceful hand.

  “We bring you here to honor the tradition,” her grandmother said, breaking the spell with her trembling voice. “But we also have a modern Hebrew translation of this letter printed in book form for you to take home.”

  Her father had bent over and now struggled to hold up a richly embossed, thick leather tome.

  “Do I have to read it now?”

  The women laughed. “No, dear,” her father answered, cradling the volume in his arms. “Just take it home and read it over a few days like you would any good book. Like the others did whose signatures you see.”

  She thought for a long moment and then turned to the whole group, her voice sounding weak and small to her own ears. “Am I a royal bride?”

  Aunt Rose answered. “You are, sweetie. We took a vote,” she said kindly. “You are a bride fit for a king.”

  Hadassah turned away, as much to hide her tears as anything else, and started to cross the room back toward where the document, under its glass protection, ended.

  “Men of our family have died to preserve this,” her father said beside her in a voice still thick with emotion. “My father missed his boat to America so he could take the time to store it in a basement in Amsterdam.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, remembering her grandfather's death at the Nazi camp Treblinka, then looked down at the first line.

  “Just sign,” he said softly, his face now quivering freely. He struck the book's cover with a dull tap. “Then you can read it all.”

  She nodded, moved to the end of the glass cabinet, and sat down before the faded document. She lifted the pen with trembling fingers, bent toward the glass, took a deep breath and signed.

  Hadassah Kesselman.

  Dear Candidate for Bride of the King,

  I am sure this letter will come as a great surprise, as I have never actually spoken to you, let alone given any indication that I wished private communication between us. However, the truth is that I have much information of the highest importance to share with you.

  Please do not tell anyone of this letter. Certainly tell none of the other girls. The only one you can trust in your harem is the one who gave you this: the King's chief eunuch. You know him as the Chamberlain. If you cannot read, he will read it for you, and he is trustworthy beyond life itself. I should know.

  But I write you, my dear girl, on the eve of your own time in history, with vital information to impart.

  I saw something in you when you first appeared at the harem, something that others must have seen in me almost thirty years ago.

  Even among the crowd of young women I noticed a peculiar gleam in the eye, a regal hold of the head, an uprightness of posture, an unusual poise and self-possession.

  Now, I know that such qualities are mere features of one's outward appearance. And even less significant perhaps-they can be mere habits of disposition. But what they appear to say about you, about your character, is far more profound. I believe I discerned an integrity, a depth, in you that set you apart from the other young, beautiful maidens brought in from the provinces for the King.

  More important still, I spotted you praying in the Palace orchard yesterday morning, and besides reminding me indelibly of myself, it sealed one thing for me. From the manner of your prayer I'm convinced you must be a follower of YHWVH, like me. That you are a Jewess and follow the living G-d is the supreme factor in my decision to contact you in this manner. (You will notice throughout this memoir I use the traditional Hebrew abbreviated forms in referring to Deity out of reverence for the Almighty One.)

  What I have to tell you can be introduced this way. Some years ago I was exactly where you are now. I, too, was a royal concubine in training. I, too, possessed certain qualities that gained me favor with those in authority. But you do not seem to have what I had and sorely relied on: a godly mentor.

  I would be that for you: if you will heed my words.

  I will start by saying this. Shortly you will be ushered into the King's bedroom, and potentially into his life. In all likelihood, you will never come this close again to such an opportunity for this kind of power and influence. You must treat this time with him as the most precious and pivotal hours you will ever spend. You have no idea what all could result from that one night. I myself, despite spending a year in its preparation, tended to undervalue that time as mere competition, never fully understanding at that time how my success or failure could change the course of history.

  Danger often lurks where destiny beckons. That is why the right approach demands even more than just prudence or solemnity. It calls for G-d's anointing and a healthy dose of wisdom gleaned from the Sacred Texts. There is, in fact, a specific protocol to approaching the King's presence. Most who come to him never know this, and this ignorance dooms their most valuable time in his company to insignificance. I would teach you this protocol, for it is both simple and a great source of inspiration and blessing. And besides, I want you to be the Queen. I want my former place of influence occupied by another child of YHWH, someone who will stand for righteousness and mercy in the Empire when times call for it. I want your night with the King to prove as successful and providential as my own.

  I have no idea how much you know of my story or the events that surrounded it. I can only hope that you know me as more than the slightly stooped figure who waved at your group the morning of your arrival at the harem. If you've been blessed with some schooling or you come from an observant Jewish family, as I believe you do, then you may know me as the legendary past-Queen. I was once a most powerful figure at court.

  But do you know my story? My whole story? The whole breathtaking account of what the G-d of my fathers wrought through the events of my life?

  I do not ask this because of some old woman's penchant for storytelling or recognition. I ask you this because telling my story may be the only way of impressing upon you the utter importance of what lies ahead for you.

  There are parts of my story that I did not know at the time they were occurring. The historical background with which I begin my tale is found in the Sacred Texts. I have only been able to reconstruct the whole over much time and many conversations with those who were there-or those who knew someone who was there.

  Horrible deaths occurred while my story unfolded. Our whole people could have been wiped out forever had I not listened to the voice of G-d and those He sent to counsel me in preparation for my night with the King. In fact, you yourself would not be alive if I had not heeded the sage advice of my own mentor, along with the inner voice of G-d's Spirit.

  I have no idea whether your evening with the King will involve as much intrigue, as incredibly high stakes, as mine did. I hope for your sake it is more peaceful.

  But I do know one truth for certain.

  One night with the King chan
ges everything.

  BABYLON-CIRCA 492 B.C.

  ne early, horrific event punctuates my memory of childhood. Most likely it is my earliest because it is the worst-because its horror drowned out every childish whimsy that came before it.

  My family was on an extended trip to Babylon, a visit with my aunt and uncle's family to celebrate my seventh birthday. In fact, it was the last conversation I ever had with my father and mother. It concerned my receiving the gift, a gleaming golden medallion engraved with the pattern of a six-pointed star. I remember crying out in delight and holding the luminous gift up to the light.

  “Oh, Poppa, did you make this for me?” I asked.

  “No, my dear. This has been precious to our family for many years. In fact, your great-grandmother brought it with her from the Promised Land.”

  “You mean Israel?”

  “Yes, Hadassah. That is what I mean.”

  At those words, I clasped the pendant even tighter to my breast and gazed at my father in wonder. I remember that my mother laughed her warmest, kindest laugh and reached out to ruffle my hair. “It is a star, Hadassah, and we gave it to you because you are our bright star and because we want you to carry on this family legacy and all it stands for. You can put it on, dearest, but you'll have to wait awhile before keeping it on for good. This is a woman's neckpiece.”

  “Oh, I know-but can I wear it tonight? Just for tonight?”

  I remember that my parents exchanged a glance to consider my request and that in my mind's eye I thought I spied a gleam in both their eyes, a twinkle of love for me and of affection they held for each other. My mother looked back at me and smiled again. “Yes, my dear. You may wear it tonight.”

  So I slipped the medallion around my neck and immediately snuggled down to sleep on my blanket, anxious to begin my night with my newly beloved treasure, this family heritage of which I had only the barest understanding.

  I was startled awake in the night to screaming and a thrashing frenzy of movement in my family's room. And a flash of light: the glimmer of moonlight from the open door upon the curved blade of a raised scimitar.

  The sword did not stay raised for long. It swept down with a swift confidence, an utter ferocity of purpose whose motion alone has haunted me for years. Thank G-d the darkness hid what came next, for now that I recall it from an adult's perspective, the sound was fully sufficient to tell me what was taking place. A long, glistening arc of light, a whistle of sound, and the strangle of a breath escaping my mother's lungs. The impact close by told me she had fallen hard, right next to where I lay on my pallet on the floor.

  I rolled out of my blanket to her side, and I suppose the reflex saved my life, for in the dark and confusion, I blended into my mother's silhouette. I remember feeling a jarringly opposite pair of sensations: at once the known-the usual outlines of her torso, the curve of her shoulder, the smell of her person-and secondly, the sheer lifeless weight of these once-familiar limbs. By now I was in shock and, thank G-d, completely incapable of uttering a sound. There was something else-a viscous liquid coating her clothes and mine that had not been there just seconds ago.

  Knowing what I know now about children, I cannot believe I did not cry out. What seven-year-old lives through such terror and does not scream? The Lord must have stilled my tongue. Especially given what came next. In trying to make my mother speak and comfort me, I traced up her shoulder, but I could not find her face.

  My exploring fingers located a warm ring of flesh and sinew.

  I recoiled-not necessarily from a full mental understanding of what had happened to her, but from the sheer strangeness of it, the sudden change in a body that at that age I knew better than my own. An icy flood of combined dread and bewilderment cascaded down my senses. I knew, somehow, that something profoundly mine, the anchor of my being, was forever changed.

  As I write this years later from a thorough understanding of the tragic horror of it all, I grieve once more for that long-ago lost child, almost as if she is someone other than myself. On the other hand, I also can relive the personal anguish even though my awareness at that time, thankfully, was limited.

  Next to me, the shouting and slashing and falling continued. A pair of men was slaughtering my family. My nose was filled with overpowering and terrifying scents-an earthy aroma that I would later learn was blood, the sweaty odor of the attackers, even the goatish, salty smell of my own all-encompassing fear.

  Over the screams of my brother and father I distinctly remember hearing the throaty male laughter of the intruders. It was low in timbre, more bass than I'd ever heard in my father's voice, even in the morning at his gruffest. And it had a quality I had never heard before and have never heard since. All I can say is that it reminded me of animals: a combination of baying dogs and the howling of hyenas.

  I must have stayed too traumatized to even draw in a breath, let alone exhale to utter a cry, because they never heard me or saw my prone form in the blood beside my mother's body. Or perhaps they thought me dead, which, considering the state of my mind, probably was not too far from the truth.

  I will say more later on about the massacre of my family and that of Mordecai, for it is certainly the dominating event of my childhood-perhaps even of my life, although clearly that is debatable considering what came next. But the reason I subjected you to this account is to show you that I of all people have cause to lament the violent taking of life.

  Which is why I find such irony in subsequent events. I have discovered that the hatred at the heart of this story originated in a beheading that should have taken place almost five hundred years previous to this time. That botched execution led, through the years, to the butchery I've just described and, even later, to the entire story at hand. I know this sounds mysterious, so let me explain and trace for you the terrible influence of this long-ago event into the present day.

  THE NEGEV DESERT-1039 B.C.

  t first sight, King Saul thought the warrior might be injured by the way he stumbled and swayed toward him. Granted, the barren desert plain between them lay knee-deep in corpses and the jumbled detritus of battle. And yes, the sun shone high overhead in a summer's cloudless sky. Yet it seemed clear that the figure approaching him labored with some unusual burden. Saul stood, raised his hand to his forehead to shade the sun and saw.

  The soldier was dragging a man by the hair. Toward him.

  Saul sighed, turned away and spit into the merciless Negev dust. The liquid actually caused a faint sizzle and the daintiest release of steam from the hot sand under his sandals.

  True, he welcomed his subjects' enthusiasm for warfare. But it also wearied him that their battle lust caused them to forget an order so straightforward and simple. He had made it clear to his unit commanders that they were to kill every Amalekite, man, woman and child. These weren't even his orders, to be frank. In fact, Samuel had told him that G-d wanted the enemy's livestock killed, as well. But now it looked like the old custom of taking spoils and capturing enemy leaders seemed to have supplanted his direct orders.

  So be it. Ever since Samuel had appointed him king, Saul had become convinced that the old prophet was burning with an inner fire born of jealousy and hate. It seemed obvious that Samuel had relished a little too strongly his previous years as ruling judge of Israel, for he had certainly approached the choosing of a king with mouthful after mouthful of grumbling and dire warnings.

  G-d did not want this, Samuel had muttered. You'll regret this. You'll pay. G-d wants the direct link between himself and the people left intact. He had gone on and on and on. Even the people had become convinced of Samuel's self-interest, which was one reason they had so lightly regarded his warnings when Saul became king.

  On account of my height, Saul reminded himself as he stooped down to reenter his tent for a moment of respite from sun and heat-and responsibility. My accursed oversized height, he thought again for the thousandth time.

  Saul had never wanted to be king. He had always felt selfconscious about hi
s size, and now the mere length of his limbs made him a perennial object of withering and burdensome attention. No one would understand what an ordeal that was, despite the obvious appeals of being monarch.

  And then there were the military campaigns. Saul definitely harbored mixed feelings about the incessant circuit of death Samuel had made him embark on since coronation. Granted, the aversion had dimmed after his armies' recent unbroken string of victories. He had to admit that the people's sudden adulation had soothed his discomfort, even warmed his relationship with Samuel. But often the sheer horror and drudgery of war, not to mention the lingering possibility of defeat, made it almost unbearable. He would rather have stayed home planning the construction of a proper royal abode or summoning the kingdom's fairest maidens for consideration as possible Queen.

  But now comes this prisoner. Saul sighed wearily. He would surely be forced to rebuke a soldier whose actions he inwardly did not oppose, all for the sake of appeasing that cantankerous old priest. He left his tent and steeled himself for the task.