by Angela Hunt
Another refugee family told us about women who were tortured and paraded through the city streets with their dead, circumcised infants hung around their necks. “People have left a naming ceremony and gone straight to the authorities to report a circumcision,” we were told. “No one is safe. Neighbors are betraying neighbors, students are turning in their teachers, and young people are denouncing their parents.”
One traveler leaned toward me and confessed that he had been hoping to peacefully coexist with the Gentile king. “I thought we would worship quietly, at home,” he said, his eyes reddened by grief. “I thought no one would know that we were not eating pork. But you can no longer be a secret Torah-keeper in Jerusalem. You must sin, and sin openly, to be accepted by the Hellenes, and they are everywhere. When they came for my wife—because she did not buy pork at the market—I knew I had to take the children and leave the city. My wife is doomed, but I hope to save our little ones.”
I glanced out the window when he had finished speaking, wondering how many of our fellow villagers would crumble beneath the ever-present pressure to conform to the king’s laws. Few men were as stalwart or as stubborn as my father.
Through our visitors we learned that the governor Apollonius was building a citadel on the knoll of Millo, a strategic point that overlooked the Temple. “To make matters worse,” one man told us, “the tower is being built by the king’s men and a group of Jews who have gone over to the enemy. We are betrayed by many of our own people.”
Simon forced his breath through his teeth in a hiss of exasperation. “Hellenes.”
The visitor nodded. “They are everywhere, prospering, while righteous Jews are tortured and killed. I often wonder if any who still follow the Law remain in Jerusalem.”
Father accepted this news in surprising silence, then withdrew and kept to himself for most of the next day.
But that night he called for a family meeting. When we had all assembled inside his house, he lifted his hands for our attention:
“My sons, my family, what I feared has come to pass. We weep for Jerusalem, but if the truth be known, she is reaping what she has sown. Did we not tell our people not to adopt the ways of outsiders? Did we not warn those who visited their heathen gymnasium, who wore Greek garments and imitated Greek customs, and those who set aside our native tongue in order to speak Greek? Many of our own people rejoiced to see theaters, pagan temples, racecourses, and public baths in the cities of Judea. Caught up in the ecstasy of newfound love, they offered sacrifices at pagan altars and ate swine in the homes of Gentiles. They abandoned the holy and righteous worship of Adonai, and they forgot and neglected His commandments. So it is not surprising that Jerusalem has been given over to this pagan king and his soldiers. Jerusalem has forgotten her righteous King and followed another. So HaShem has brought her to her knees.”
That night, as Leah and I walked back to our house, she slid her hand into mine. “My parents are in Jerusalem,” she said, her voice breaking. “How can I know if they survived the recent trouble?”
My conscience smote me. I had been so caught up in my father’s words that I had not given a thought to my wife’s family. The cheesemaker was not a righteous man, and Leah had not said a word about missing her parents, but after hearing about the carnage in Jerusalem, what kind of daughter would she be if she was not concerned?
“Would you like me to look for them?” I slipped my fingers under her chin and lifted her face to mine. “I will take a wagon and leave at sunrise, if you wish it. And if I find your parents in Jerusalem, I will bring them with me when I return to you.”
Her forehead furrowed. “My mother would not leave without my father,” she said, “and if he still lives, he would not leave out of sheer stubbornness. He will say he is too old to start over, and his business is in Jerusalem.”
“But if Jerusalem lies in ruins—”
“He has long been willing to eat swine.” She dropped her forehead to my chest, rubbed her arms, and shivered. “Go. Bring them back if you can. I hope you find them alive and well.”
I wrapped her in my arms and promised to return without delay.
Chapter Fourteen
Leah
Did I want Judah to fetch my parents? No, no, a hundred times no. I had married him to escape my family, and bringing them to Modein would only thrust me back into that prison they called a home. My marriage to Judah would not solve the root problem—my father’s criticisms, his faultfinding, and his violence would infiltrate this peaceful community, and soon they would all be watching me with critical eyes, especially Judah, who would begin to wonder why he married me in the first place.
But what could I do? I could not say these things aloud without seeming like an ungrateful, unrighteous daughter, and Judah would wonder what sort of evil gripped my heart. He had never known a brutish parent, so how could he understand?
I slept little that night because I kept imagining Father glaring at me from across Rosana’s table, and my mother, pale and withdrawn, working with the women and being too afraid to offer a word. If they came to Modein, everyone in my new family would know how backward I was, how sordid my past.
I finally fell into a deep sleep. When I woke, Judah was gone.
With Judah away, I had little to do but pray for his safety, make cheese, and help the other women of his family. And while I helped Rosana grind grain and played with Morit’s little son, I thought about the man I had married.
In Modein, I had discovered an aspect of Judah I never imagined. I desired the marriage because I was convinced he could keep me safe forever, yet a part of me had wondered about the fighter in him. I had seen his righteous anger when he went after the Hellenes who taunted me and Miriam, and despite my gratitude, the passionate heat of his anger had frightened me. I had seen no sign of that anger since, but the question remained at the back of my mind, hideous and alluring—what if Judah’s kindness and gentleness were only temporary aspects? What if they faded over time and he became a man like my father?
One afternoon not long after our arrival in Modein, we were walking to his parents’ home when we saw two village boys fighting by the well. Judah lengthened his stride so he reached the boys ahead of me, then he thrust a meaty arm between them and asked why they were squabbling. After hearing the story—something about one boy insulting the other’s mother—I fully expected Judah to tell the offended boy to take a punch at the offender. Instead, Judah knelt until he was eye to eye with both boys and told them they should live in peace because the world already held too much strife. Then he asked the boys to shake hands. They did, a little reluctantly, grinned, and walked off together.
I smiled when Judah stood to join me. “That is not what my father would have told them.”
“Really?” His brow quirked. “I suppose he would have had them slug it out?”
“He would have hit them both—one, for causing the trouble, and the other for not beating the other boy immediately.”
Judah slipped his arm around my shoulder. “I am glad you were born a girl,” he said. “One less bully for me to reckon with.”
We walked a short distance, then I looked up at him. “Did you fight a lot as a child?”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Most times I didn’t start it—but a lot of young fools tried to take me on.”
“Because you were strong?”
“Because I was big. Everyone fancied themselves David, and me Goliath. They all wanted to prove themselves, even my brothers.”
I digested this information and then peeked up at him again. “Do you think our sons will be urged to fight?”
His eyes widened. “Do you—are you—?”
I felt my cheeks burn. “No, I mean, I don’t know. I was only thinking about the future.”
“Ah.” He calmed himself with a deep breath. “If our sons are big, they will probably have to fight. But we will teach them how to be gentle.”
They will probably have to fight. The words echoed in the
space around us and would not leave my ears.
Why did some men love violence? Why did they become professional soldiers, killers, executioners? What was it that made little boys want to pummel each other? Was it the same quality that made some men want to beat their women?
Pondering these questions, I tried to frame an unselfish prayer that would beg HaShem to bring Judah home alone. I made several attempts, but could never find words that did not make me feel ashamed and guilty.
So I gave up and decided to wait without praying. When Judah returned, I would see what HaShem had done.
Chapter Fifteen
Judah
At daybreak I had brought a mule out of the pasture, hitched her to a wagon, and set out for the City of David. Mother reacted with joy and fear when I announced I was going back to Jerusalem—she worried I might be attacked in the war-torn city, yet she hoped I would be able to bring back a report on her friends who still lived there. I kissed her good-bye, then stopped at my house to take one last look at my sleeping bride. If I were to die on this trip, I wanted to carry Leah’s image with me into the afterlife.
She did not wake when I opened the door, so I studied the shape of her young face, then backed out as quietly as I had entered. The sooner I began my journey, the sooner I could return.
The well-worn track led me down a rocky slope to the plain, where the residents of Modein had planted olive groves and vineyards. A little farther on, pastures teemed with goats and sheep. All seemed peaceful in the bright light of early morning.
Yet worry bedeviled me as I rode—what would I tell Leah if I found her parents dead? She was a quiet girl, and I still knew so little about her. She had seemed pleased to wed me and she was an obedient wife, but was she happy? What did she want from life, and from me? The questions felt too personal to ask aloud, and she had never offered to share her dreams.
Did she even have any?
An approaching caravan snapped my thoughts back to reality. I was not alone on the road. I met several caravans coming from the port at Joppa, wagons and camels laden with goods from Egypt, Rome, and Tyre. Several red-caped Roman soldiers rode with the caravans, undoubtedly guarding the richly dressed merchants. A tax collector, recognizable by the stylus hanging from his belt, rode atop a lanky camel, counting coins in his palm even as he rocked with the ponderous beast.
I also passed refugees coming from what remained of the holy city. Entire families traveled on the road, their feet gray with dust and their faces marked by runnels of sweat. Mothers with their infants tied to their backs or carrying toddlers in their arms. Few of them rode in wagons, and fewer still traveled with supplies. They had fled with their most precious possessions, their children, and their lives.
Finally I caught a glimpse of Jerusalem. The great wall that had rimmed the holy city lay in pieces on the hillside like blocks tossed by a giant. Two of the wall’s distinctive towers had been torn down, and smoke still drifted upward from a nearby valley. As I rode closer, I recognized the unforgettable scent of burning bodies and realized that the governor’s men were burning the dead.
I entered at the Joppa Gate amid a flock of bleating sheep. With the stink of death in my nostrils, I turned the mule away from the shepherd and his flock. I left the beast and wagon at a stable and made my way through burned-out buildings to the Tyropoeon Valley, home of the cheesemakers, the only home Leah had ever known. The valley lay between Mount Moriah and Mount Zion, and the buildings in that area appeared to have escaped the flames.
The marketplace was but a shadow of what it had been when we left, but a few valiant merchants had set up booths to feed the city’s starving survivors. I walked past baskets of dried figs, a bakery offering hard loaves, and a merchant selling soot-covered jars of Arabian spices. Not enough to make a meal, perhaps, but something to fill the belly.
Then I reached Leah’s booth . . . and found it empty. I turned, not knowing if I should keep searching the market or make my way to her house.
A sharp voice cut into my thoughts. “If you’re looking for the cheesemaker, he’s dead.” I turned and saw a woman with brazen red hair leaning against a post.
“What happened to him?”
The woman groaned. “Didn’t I say it would happen sooner or later? He dined and drank with the Seleucids, that’s what happened. Apparently he got into an argument and pulled a knife on one of the king’s men. He always had a temper, and now he is dead.”
I considered this news, and felt relief. “What about his wife?”
The woman—surely a harlot, to have hair that unnatural—lifted a meaty shoulder and shrugged. “Haven’t seen her. But nobody has been in that booth since the governor’s men came through the gate.”
I nodded my thanks and set out for Leah’s house.
I found my wife’s former home without much trouble. The fires had not touched this part of the valley, and the little house appeared deserted—the door hung askew on its leather hinges and a jagged bit of fabric dangled from a window.
I moved closer to the rough wooden door. I heard no sound from within, but the door was closed, so someone might still be inside. I knocked and heard nothing. Leah’s mother must have fled, especially if she no longer had a husband to protect her. But where would she go?
I was about to leave when a neighbor across the street thrust his head out of a window. “She’s in there,” he said, pointing to Leah’s door. “Aren’t you the big fellow who married their daughter?”
I nodded.
“Then have a care and take Sabra out of here. She’ll die unless someone takes her away. The governor’s men knocked her around before they killed her husband. Left her for dead, I’d wager.”
Without waiting to hear more, I pushed at the unbarred door and entered the house. The small table had been overturned, the bench tipped over. A female form, covered only by a thin piece of wool, occupied a straw mattress.
I knew a man should not look at a woman who was not his wife, so I turned my eyes away. But that quick glance assured me that the neighbor had spoken the truth—Leah’s mother would not live long without proper care.
“I’m going to find some food for you,” I said, hoping she could hear me. “And then I will take you to your daughter in Modein. You will live with my family from this day forward. Our home is not large, but you are welcome in it.”
She did not speak, yet when I glanced her way again, I saw an uplifted hand and fluttering fingers. She was still alive.
I hurried out the door, determined that I would not have to tell my wife that both her parents were dead.
For three drachmas I hired a woman to remain in the house and care for Sabra until she was strong enough to travel. By sunset of the second day Leah’s mother had regained her voice, and her first words to me were a question: “Is my daughter well?”
“She is.”
“Is she happy?”
I knelt by the woman’s side and observed the mottled bruises on her arms and face. “I believe so. I know I am happy with her. Life is good in Modein—our village is so small, the king’s men do not bother with us.”
A ghost of a smile flickered at the edges of Sabra’s mouth, then she closed her eyes and slept.
On the morning of the fourth day, I carefully lifted my mother-in-law and carried her to the wagon where I had padded the bare boards with a few blankets and other fabrics I found in the house. Traveling with a sick woman and a stubborn mule would not grant me a speedy journey, but my bride would be happy to learn she had not been orphaned.
We were half a day’s journey past the ruined city walls when I spotted a man and his horse on the side of the road. The beast, a magnificent Arabian, was refusing to lower his foreleg while the rider struggled to calm the high-strung animal.
After glancing at my passenger to make sure she slept, I stopped the mule and climbed down from the wagon. The balding man wore the colorful robes of a Seleucid diplomat, and his clean-cut face assured me he was not Jewish.
Th
inking of Jerusalem, which lay in ruins and ashes because of this fellow’s king, I approached cautiously. “Is your horse lame?”
The man pulled himself up in a vain attempt to look me in the eye. “I have nothing against Jews,” he began, “and I had nothing to do with what happened back there.”
I frowned. “Did I accuse you?”
“Well—” He blew out a breath. “I don’t know horses, you see, and this creature nearly threw me before he stopped.”
“He’s not yours, then.”
“Rented.”
“Ah. Well, he’s a magnificent beast. My brother would love this animal.” As the stallion tossed his head, I caught the reins and held them, then rubbed my hand over the animal’s jawline. The stallion’s eyes were wild with pain, and his breath came fast and heavy through his wide nostrils. “Have you examined his hoof?”
The foreigner, who barely came up to my breastbone, gave me a sheepish look. “I am a man of letters, friend. I would examine his foot, but he makes me nervous. What if he were to kick all the letters out of my head?”
“He might,” I admitted, suppressing a smile, “if you make him nervous.”
I murmured soft shushing sounds and handed the reins to the little man. “Hold them firmly, with no sudden movements.” With the horse’s head secure, I ran my hand down the stallion’s foreleg, then bent the leg to examine the hoof. Bracing my shoulder against the stallion’s side, I spotted a pebble embedded in the tender flesh inside the hard outer surface. I clucked in quiet sympathy as I tried to slip my finger into the space, but the pebble was too deeply embedded.
“I see the problem,” I said, easing the leg back down, “but I will need a tool to solve it.”
