by Alan Gold
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of gunfire somewhere beyond the walls of the Old City. Or maybe it was just some car backfiring. Either way, it wasn’t his concern. Just days ago the Palestinian kid was the only one that Eliahu and his operatives would have had to deal with. But now there were three loose ends to tie up.
* * *
539 BCE
JOSHUA’S DEEP INNER THOUGHTS were suddenly interrupted by his wife, Shoshanna, who was concerned that he had been sitting outside of the house where they were staying, with his head in his hands. He’d recently returned from the home of the merchant, Reuven, and had said nothing to her.
She approached him cautiously. “So, husband, thinking?”
Joshua nodded.
“You’re troubled by what Reuven said? Was it about this council his wife mentioned?”
Again Joshua nodded. Softly and in despair he said, “He and others want to destroy us. They want to cut us off from Adonai, our Lord and God. Some of our people will remain here in Damascus, others will come, but who knows what will happen when we arrive in Jerusalem?”
She said quietly, “If the people have lost their way, if their faith in the Lord is weakening, what is it that will lead them on?”
Joshua searched for an answer but could only say, “Prayer. They must pray to Adonai for strength.”
Shoshanna smiled. “You know, husband, when the men leading the camels of a caravan are tired from the journey and want to make camp before the sun sets, the leader of the caravan can demand that they continue until the light fails. That would reward him, but what would it do for the camel drivers other than make them resentful? He could warn them of the punishment they’d suffer by whipping their backsides, but that would make them surly and vengeful. Or he could offer them a reward, and then they would continue, knowing that good things will be available beyond the horizon. So when the journey is long and difficult, good leaders give their men rewards, and they trudge on despite their exhaustion, because they know that it’s in their own interests.”
Joshua shrugged. “But what can I offer thousands of my people? I’m not a rich man.”
“Who is the richest of us all? Who has more wealth than all the kings and all the empires on the face of the earth?”
Joshua stared at her.
“The Lord our God, husband. He is the richest of all.”
“But through prayers?”
“Prayers will help, but the people need more; they need another reason to leave the comforts and seductions of Damascus for Jerusalem. They need a reason not to follow Reuven and the others who have set up this council. Give them the reason. Promise them untold rewards in Israel. Swear an oath that in Jerusalem will be riches beyond their imaginations.”
“How can I promise that, woman? How can I say what will be there when I don’t know?”
“Then how do you know there won’t be immense riches in Israel? Stand before the multitudes tomorrow morning and promise them that their lives will be richer and rewarded when they get to the land promised to the Jewish people by God. Tell them that in a dream you’ve seen gold in the streets, soaring temples, ample food and drink, and everything they will find in Damascus and Babylon, but more so—much more.”
“I can’t lie, Shoshanna.”
“How do you know it’s a lie? Have you been to Jerusalem?”
“It’s a pile of stones that we have to rebuild with our own hands.”
“And beneath the stones? Do you know what lies underneath the rubble? Perhaps it’s gold and silver, onyx and alabaster. How do you know that these things aren’t to be found?”
Joshua remained silent. “But it would be a lie. I can’t lie or bear false witness. The laws of Father Moses . . .”
“Then tell them that in your prayers the Lord has promised that He will provide, and the riches of Damascus and Babylon, of Egypt and Persia, will be theirs provided they finish the journey and use their hearts and heads to rebuild the land. Inspire them, Joshua. Use your voice to raise the people up.”
And Joshua suddenly realized that, as the leader of the Jews, he could no longer be a counselor or an adviser, a healer and a comforter, a man of God distant from his congregation. Shoshanna, his wife, was right. People had followed Joshua and Zerubbabel because of the promise of returning to their ancestral homeland and becoming a free people once again. Nobody had followed Joshua because he had said that returning was the right thing, the Jewish thing, to do.
Yet, now, when doubts and hardships were pressing on his congregation, he had to become more than a rabbi, more than a counselor and healer. He had to become a leader. She was right. It had taken a wife to tell Joshua what to do and how to behave. And tomorrow he would call all of his people into the nearby valley outside the walls and tell them the story of Jerusalem. He would build such a magnificent temple through images in their minds, create such a gleaming white city on a hill, that his people would want to leave Damascus there and then.
He wouldn’t lie, as she had suggested, nor would he tell his people that the streets were paved with gold; but he would tell them of the prosperity they could enjoy, the peace and harmony and security they would feel, when the work was done. Some might want to remain behind in Damascus, and if they did, Joshua would bless them and wish them well. And he’d tell them that it was only a walk south to Jerusalem, and they, as Jews, would be welcome there at any time.
Yes! He would write magnificent words to help them envision it, create a landscape on which his people, Israel, could build their houses in the air, see and smell and feel the walls and matting, the cooking hearths and tiled roofs. He would ask them to close their eyes and imagine the streets that led from the Valley of Kidron through the walls of the city, up the hill, past the market stalls laden with food and drink, and up, always up, past the king’s palace, to the resting place of Adonai, the very Temple of Solomon itself. He would describe, as his father had described to him, what the temple had once looked like and how it would look again when the Jews rebuilt it. He would do all that tomorrow. He would stand on a plinth and speak across the heads of the multitudes. He would speak loudly so all could hear. His voice would be commanding, strong, and vibrant, and his words would be put into his mouth by the Lord God Himself.
“Husband?”
Joshua opened his eyes and saw Shoshanna looking strangely at him.
“Joshua, are you all right? You were mumbling. You seemed to be in a daze.”
Joshua smiled. “Dearest wife. I’m a rabbi, a man of God, and a healer. In His own way, and through your presence, the Lord God, Adonai, has opened my eyes and allowed me to see further than I’ve ever seen before.”
She looked closely at her husband and wondered if he was drunk.
He reached over, placed his hand on Shoshanna’s head, and blessed her. “Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha’Olam . . .”
* * *
“WHEN WILL WE BE THERE?” asked Shoshanna, Rabbi Joshua’s wife. She had run forward to the head of the column of Israelites to where her husband and Zerubbabel were leading their people home on the road south. They were following the tops of the hills from Shiloh to the city of Ai, and then on to Jerusalem.
He looked at her, red-faced from running and concern in her eyes, and asked, “Why?”
“Somebody is sick and needs rest.”
“Who?” he asked urgently.
Shoshanna didn’t reply. Joshua knew immediately who it was. “Is Naomi worse this morning?”
His wife nodded. “She is much weaker, and now she is showing signs of the fever. She drinks water and vomits it up again immediately. I’m worried for her.”
Joshua nodded. He said softly, “When we reach the top of this hill, I’m told by our advance guards that the city will be in sight. Then it’s just across the valley and up the hill to our new home—our Jerusalem.”
Shoshanna sighed. Since Damascus, since Reuven and the others who had tried to convince the Israelites that they should be a ruling coun
cil, Joshua hadn’t spoken a word to the merchant. And Reuven, who had been soundly rejected by the people of Israel after Joshua’s stirring speech about the glories under God that awaited them, had lain low, rarely being seen in the company of others. Since Damascus, his wife had grown frailer and weaker, and now that she was suffering a fever in the last weeks of her pregnancy, Shoshanna was frightened that her body would be spent by the time they reached the broken walls of the ruined city.
Shoshanna walked beside her husband. “Last night we thought that the baby would be born, but the birth women told me that her body is not yet beginning to open and the pains are what must be expected because of the sins of Adam’s wife, Eve. But why should Naomi, who is a good and gentle woman, suffer because of Eve? Why should she suffer because of her husband’s blasphemy?”
Joshua looked at her but knew that this wasn’t the time for a discussion of Jewish law and customs. “God will provide all the comforts that she needs,” he said.
“Comforts? The birth women say that she still has two weeks to go before the baby will be full term. Yet, this fever is burning her body and the women fear that it will infect the child unless the baby is delivered immediately.”
“Can nothing be done?” asked Joshua.
“The women have given her herbs that should bring the birth to fulfillment. They have bathed her with cold water, which will help to bring down her body’s heat. But no matter what they do, Naomi is still burning with fever. One of the women says she won’t reach Jerusalem. Reuven told me that he’d rather the infant died than his wife leave him. Joshua, if the baby dies inside her womb, she will be inconsolable, especially after the rigors of the journey and how close we are now. Every day she prays to God to allow her to see the rocks and stones of Jerusalem. And every day we draw closer, she becomes weaker and sicker. Is God playing a game with her? Is Adonai punishing her because Reuven turned away from Him?”
“Woman, our god is a proud god, but not a vengeful one. He hears our prayers, so if ever you believed in the power of prayer to beg Adonai to help her, now is the time for you to ask Him to intercede. Pray, wife, with all your heart and all your soul and all your might.”
“Husband, I’ve been praying for her from the time we left Damascus, yet God doesn’t hear my prayers. What can I do?” she asked, her voice close to tears.
Joshua felt utterly helpless. “It’s just two days before we reach God’s city. Surely, after all this distance and time, she can travel the last part and see the golden walls of the city. Can’t she?”
Shoshanna shook her head. “I don’t know. God knows, but I don’t. I’m fearful, Joshua. If the baby dies, I think Naomi will go mad. If she dies, then I fear for Reuven’s soul.”
“Reuven’s soul is in God’s hands, and I’m afraid that he will be punished for his thoughts. So it’s even more important that you pray hard for God’s mercy toward them. Pray now, Shoshanna. Pray for God’s help for your friend.”
When her prayers were ended, Joshua decided to ride back to meet the wagon carrying Naomi and the birth women who were tending to her needs. But when he arrived at the wagon, he could see by their grave faces that things had gotten worse since his wife’s visit.
Reuven looked in surprise at Joshua.
“You!” he said.
“Your wife is sick. I’ve come to offer my prayers, my help.”
Joshua anticipated a sharp rebuke, a snarl, and being told to leave, but instead Reuven nodded and said softly, “Thank you, Rabbi.”
“You look exhausted, Reuven.”
“I haven’t slept since we left Damascus, Joshua. My wife said we should remain, but after the people wanted you and Zerubbabel to lead them, and not my group of elders of the community, I knew I had to come to ensure—”
“To ensure that Jerusalem is rebuilt properly?”
Reuven nodded. He reflected for a moment and then said, “Many months ago, in Babylon, you said to me my reason for coming to Jerusalem had nothing to do with Naomi or my baby; it had everything to do with greed. Much of what you accused me of, Rabbi, was correct, but in this regard you’re wrong. I want my son to be born in Israel. Since I began this journey, I think more and more that Israel must be rebuilt, must prosper, and must be renewed to become one of the most important nations. Why shouldn’t we be as great as Babylon, as Damascus, as Pithom and Carcamesh? Isn’t Jerusalem as great as any of these?”
“Jerusalem is great, Reuven, because our temple is the home of the one true God, Adonai Elohim. All the other cities were built because of the desire of ordinary men, of kings and rulers, to show the rest of the world how powerful they were. But Jerusalem is powerful not because of its buildings or treasures but because it is the house of the Lord.
“Allow me to pray over Naomi, so that she recovers and is strong enough to see your son born and circumcised on the mountain where God tested Abraham before telling him to spare the life of Isaac, his beloved son.”
Their prayers ended, Joshua returned to his tent at the head of the column, just on the other side of a mountain from whose summit could be seen the destroyed city of Jerusalem.
The cold night passed and Naomi was able to sip some warm vegetable broth that one of the birth women made beside the campfire. Reuven was sitting beside her, watching her drink from the cup. He smiled and she spoke softly, weakly, to him. He had to lean close to her to hear what she was saying. And as his face nearly touched hers, he was shocked by the smell of death.
Naomi never woke up. She died of a raging fever during the night. As soon as the birthing women realized that she was dead, they slit open her body, burst the warm waters, and took the baby from her womb, slapped him hard on his bottom, breathed into his mouth to give air to his lungs, swaddled the boy in cloth, cleaned his mouth and nose, and ran to one of the young birth mothers, paying her to breast-feed the baby.
Bereft, Reuven joined Joshua in mourning prayers in the dawn light. They stood on top of the hill and looked over the valley to the opposite hill, where the sun was lighting up the stones that had once stood one on top of the other as the city of Jerusalem.
And when the prayers had been said, Joshua arranged for Naomi’s body to be buried in the caves on the eastern hill opposite the city. And he and Reuven carried the healthy and placid infant up the hill and through the broken archway that led the column of returning Jews into Jerusalem.
* * *
November 2, 2007
HASSAN KHOURI’S CAR BACKFIRED as it strained to climb out of the lower reaches of the village of Bayt al Gizah. He bent over the steering wheel as if to urge it forward. It was early morning, and dozens of men and women, walking the streets to go to work or to the local shops, looked around in shock at the sudden noise. Explosions, gunfire, and detonations were the terrifying currency of Israeli and Palestinian streets, and every unusual or loud noise caused a shock and people in the vicinity to take notice. Normally a nation that lived at the extremes of life—from despair to unbridled exultation—recent exchanges with the Hamas terrorists of Gaza, culminating in a series of vicious border clashes and rockets, had made all Israelis nervous.
Hassan wasn’t aware that people on the sidewalks were looking at him as his car continued to backfire as it climbed the steep hills that led out of Jerusalem. He drove toward the periphery of the city, past hospitals, museums, and television buildings, and soon arrived on the road north from the city to the Sea of Galilee.
Hassan had recently returned from Peki’in, where he’d followed the doctor, Yael, from place to place. Why was the damn woman interfering? Didn’t she know her place? Hassan had told the imam of her visits, of the times he’d seen her suspiciously talking to people. And the imam was worried by her activities. Although he didn’t discuss it with Hassan, the young man knew that it must have something to do with Bilal, with what he’d told her.
When he’d informed his imam of what the Jew doctor was doing, the decision that she must be killed was made. Prayers were said, thanks were given
to Allah, and Hassan was ordered to return and continue what he had begun. The doctor knew too much.
The first time was a scouting expedition. Her image, her hair, her face, were now known so well to him. He had been given a high-velocity rifle, a handgun, and ammunition. He had been told that if the circumstances permitted it—if there was nobody else around and the escape path was clear—he should use the handgun, shooting the young woman in the chest or the head. If he couldn’t get close enough because she was surrounded by friends, he should hide behind a tree or a building while she was sitting outdoors at a table or somewhere and use the rifle to kill her. In all the screaming and confusion, Hassan would have time to dismantle the rifle, pack it into a bag, and walk away as though he were a local villager.
The imam had assured him that from the moment the girl fell dead to the floor to the time he was in his car and far away, the police would only just be arriving at the scene of her death. Hassan would be on the road to Bayt al Gizah and safety well before the police had time to set up roadblocks. The imam had told him that on his way back from the scene of the crime he should pull up in a quiet spot on the northern fringes of the Sea of Galilee and throw the gun and the rifle as far from the shore as he possibly could. Then he was to strip naked, walk into the water, and swim for a few minutes. That, the imam said, would remove all trace of the gunpowder residue so that in the unlikely event that he was stopped at a random Israeli roadblock, the police dogs wouldn’t smell anything on his hands. Hassan had packed a change of underwear and clothes so that when he emerged from the water, he could dress himself in trousers and a top that had never been in contact with guns. He would dump the clothes he’d worn to travel to Nahariya in a trash can somewhere along the way.
