by Maggie Anton
Father, accepting that children would be too excited to concentrate on their studies and that the boys would likely be performing this task themselves in several years, sent us up to the roof. “You are excused from your lessons today and may watch the workers instead.” He turned to the nurses and admonished them, “Keep your charges well away from the fermenting troughs.”
Excited at finally seeing how dates turned into beer, I hurried to stake out a spot above the eastern wall. I watched with anticipation as cartloads of dates were dumped into the troughs, filling each about half-full. I thought adding water would come next, but I was wrong. Instead, three men, including my brothers, climbed down into each of the troughs and began pushing the stone cylinders. Keshisha looked puny next to tall Nachman and stocky Hanan, but I could understand why he refused to be left out. Judging by my brothers’ grunts and red faces, those huge rocks must have been very heavy, and it took some time before they began to move.
Slowly at first, but faster as the crushed dates provided lubrication, the men rolled the cylinders back and forth over the dates. Soon only two men were necessary to do the pushing, and Keshisha shifted to the task of raking whole dates into the stone’s path and moving the crushed fruit away. It was still a strenuous, messy exercise, so much so that the men wore only loincloths on this warm day. It was also dangerous, as wayward feet could be crushed as easily as the dates.
Noon brought only a pause to the rolling and crushing. Determined not to miss a thing, I grabbed my spindle along with some flax and resumed my watchful perch. I was not alone for long. First to arrive were Achti and Rahel, also equipped with spindles and baskets of flax. Mariamme and Beloria soon followed, each carrying a partly woven basket and an armful of young reeds. Both women were short and birdlike, although Mariamme resembled a plump hen while Beloria was as skinny as a sandpiper.
It was no coincidence that we had all brought work that could be done without looking at it, for we were mesmerized by the activity below. In the morning I’d been interested in the process rather than in the workers themselves, but this time my sisters-in-laws’ appreciation for the nearly naked men below made me see them in a new way.
Of course I’d seen naked men before; after all, I had seven older brothers. But this was different in a way I couldn’t explain. Sweating, with muscles bulging as they strove to roll the heavy stones, the men, or rather their sturdy bodies, captivated my sisters-in-law. One after another would stop distractedly in the middle of the conversation, until she was prodded to continue speaking. Occasionally Beloria or Mariamme let out a squeal, having poked their own hands with a sharp reed.
Their enthrallment was contagious, and I sensed that some new feeling had awakened within me. None of us dared to comment directly on what we saw or how the sight affected us. It was as if we had come upon a jar of honey that someone had left behind by accident and were silently stuffing ourselves before anyone arrived to take our prize away.
So it came as a shock to hear Mother saying, “I do have some very attractive sons, don’t I?”
I could feel my face blushing. I was focused on the six men who weren’t my brothers, plus trying to imagine what Rami would look like if he were working with the dates.
Achti, who looked most like Nachman, giggled and opined that he was the best looking of her brothers. Since his wife, Shayla, was not among us, it was a safe thing to say.
A chorus of female voices followed as each sister-in-law defended her own husband’s appearance, causing Mother to shake her head and chuckle. “Yet none of them can compare to their father. When Hisda was young…” She broke off with a sigh.
“So that’s where you all went.” Shayla’s shrill tone made her censure clear. “At least you’re pretending to get some work done.”
“Do you need something, Shayla?” Mother’s own disapproval was barely discernable.
Flustered to find Mother on the roof too, Shayla muttered something about all the looms sitting empty and went back downstairs.
“How long will it take to crush all the dates, Mother?” I asked. Maybe Rami would return in time to help.
“Only a day. Just before sunset they’ll fill the troughs with water and stir the contents to start the fermentation.”
“Oh,” I said slowly. After today there wouldn’t be anything interesting to watch.
Mother must have heard my disappointment because she added, “Some men will keep stirring up the dates and water all week, until fermentation stops and the first batch of beer is ready.”
Achti and Rahel didn’t know any more about brewing date beer than I did, and our curious expressions encouraged Mother to elaborate. “Then we siphon off the beer, add fresh water to the dates, and the brewing process begins again.”
“Nachman says that sometimes we’ve gotten as many as six batches of beer from a single trough of dates,” Mariamme said, her head nodding like a hen pecking for bugs.
Beloria had to show that she too knew about brewing. “I hope beer brewed with fresh well water won’t leave us with awful headaches the next day the way beer made from canal water does.” She grimaced at the memory.
Once the men were relegated to stirring the fermenting date and water mixture, they began wearing tunics again, and my sisters-in-law resumed their responsibilities in the house or inner courtyard. I liked watching the bubbling troughs, with their heady aroma that tickled my nose, though not enough to stare at them all day. Besides, Father’s students had returned. I had to help Grandfather remember Mishna, I told myself, for I felt embarrassed about wanting to spend those hours with Rami.
Now that he’d been chosen as my betrothed, my reaction bewildered me. As much as it gave me pleasure to see him, and to listen to his resonant voice, Heaven forbid that anyone, especially my brothers, should discover this. Despite all my hours in Father’s classroom, I now felt unaccountably shy in Rami’s presence. And though I enjoyed having him gaze at me, I would blush furiously whenever our eyes met.
Watching the fermentation was a soothing escape from my confused feelings. When the fizzing slowed, it was time to clean the beer storage jars and check them for cracks. Rahel, who hadn’t found a sufficiently skilled slave potter yet, was busy from sunrise to sunset with these plus her own pottery. It was inevitable that some ceramics would get broken, but nobody expected Rahel to be injured.
So we all came running when we heard her scream.
“My hand, my hand!” she wailed, wrapping it in her skirt. “I thought this pot had cooled.” Pieces of the shattered pot lay at her feet, just outside the kiln’s door.
Shayla raced up with the medicine basket. “Are you just burned or are you bleeding too? Let me see.”
Tears of pain streamed down Rahel’s cheeks as she slowly opened her wounded palm to Shayla’s scrutiny. Mother joined the pair and made her own inspection.
“The burn will likely blister,” Mother reported, “but at least the shards did not cut her.”
Shayla motioned to the nearest slave, who was grinding wheat. “Girl, bring me a bucket of water fresh from the well.” To one who’d stopped working to watch the incident, she demanded, “You. Stop staring and bring us sesame oil and some clean rags.”
The bucket arrived sooner than the rags, and as Mother whispered healing prayers, Rahel plunged her burned hand into the cool water. This must have helped somewhat, because although Rahel wore a pained expression, she was no longer crying. She yelped as Shayla anointed the wound with oil, but after that merely gritted her teeth while Shayla bound her hand with long strips of linen.
“How often do you think the bandage should be checked?” Mother asked anxiously. “We must not disturb her wound by checking too often, but we need to be sure it doesn’t fester.”
“We’ll look this afternoon, before sunset,” Shayla replied. “If the pain doesn’t worsen in the night, we can wait until first light to check again.” She turned to Rahel and added, “You should try to keep your arm elevated for a few days, maybe sleep wi
th it on a cushion.”
“An incantation to heal blisters would be appropriate,” Mother said.
“By all means,” Shayla replied. “Use whichever one you think is best.”
Her presence no longer needed, Shayla set an example for the onlookers and returned to the house. As annoying as I found her on occasion, I felt grateful that we had such a capable healer in our family. I would have gone with her, except that Grandfather wanted to use the privy. So when Achti lingered to hear what Mother had to say, I did too.
Mother took Rahel’s injured hand in hers, closed her eyes, and murmured, “An unsheathed sword and a readied slingshot—its name is not Yochav, painful injuries.” She repeated the bizarre words twice more before lowering Rahel’s hand.
“I can say it myself from now on,” Rahel said.
“Once the blisters form, you will need to be careful not to break them,” Mother said. “But if all goes well and our voices are heard, you should be able to remove the bandage and have full use of your hand again in about three weeks.”
“Three weeks!” Rahel gasped. “I have clients who need their bowls before then. I have to be able to write.”
“Maybe Achti can help you.”
I knew Rahel’s pottery was popular, but I was surprised that decorating it was so important that Mother would suggest Achti for the task when Achti’s wedding day was fast approaching.
Rahel beckoned to my sister. “See that cup? Take this quill and write something on the inside of it.”
Achti picked up the small bowl and awkwardly tried to hold the quill steady. “What shall I write?”
“Anything, just make the letters as small as you can.”
Achti started writing the alphabet, but Rahel stopped her after mem, muttering, “This won’t do, your letters are too big.”
Before Achti could protest, I blurted out, “Let me try. My hands are smaller than hers.”
Rahel rolled her eyes, but Mother took the cup and quill from Achti and gave them to me. I wanted to write something better than random letters and settled on the first line of the Targum, the Aramaic translation of Torah. It was a challenge to write the letters so tiny yet still have them legible, especially with both Mother and now Grandfather watching.
I had written three lines when Mother stopped me and handed the cup to Rahel. “I think this will do nicely.” Mother lowered her voice and added, “Hisdadukh also has the advantage of not becoming dashtana and interrupting your work.”
Rahel let out a sigh of relief. “Very well, Dada. From now until my hand is healed, your priority is to write what I tell you on my bowls. If you finish before sunset, which I doubt, then your time is your own.”
I’d be glad to give up arithmetic and spinning linen thread, for this was the first time I’d done anything better than Achti. But I looked at Grandfather sadly, for there would likely be no Mishna study for at least three weeks.
“I’m sure we can manage a little review in the evenings,” he said, and I could hear the pride in his voice.
The next morning Rahel had me carry several wide flattish bowls to the garden, where a table with quills and an ink pot was set up next to some benches. It was a lovely autumn day, its heat mitigated by a gentle north wind. Butterflies and bees flitted from one flowering plant to another.
“I hope your hand is better,” I said politely.
Her response was curt. “It isn’t worse, which is apparently the best I can hope for at this time.”
I looked at her with what I hoped was an attentive expression and waited for instructions. Part of me wanted to impress her while another part hoped I’d soon be back in Father’s classroom.
“I hear that you have a good memory, which is fortunate, for you shall certainly need it.” She showed me a bowl whose interior was covered with concentric circles made up of letters too small to read from where I stood. “Your job will be to write what I say, exactly what I say, on the inside of these vessels, in such a way that the letters cover the entire surface.”
“Can I write them on a wax tablet first or do I have to memorize them?” Surely the text couldn’t be too long if it had to fit on the inside of a bowl. But what if it wasn’t words at all, just random letters?
“Use a wax tablet if you must, but you’ll be done sooner without it.”
“I’ll start without one, then,” I said. No watching butterflies for me; I’d have to concentrate fully.
“You will practice on these first, using any quill you like. They’re cheap vessels, not for any particular client, so it doesn’t matter if you make mistakes.”
I nodded and picked up a quill at random, doubtful that the brisk and efficient Rahel would be a patient teacher. Thankfully, I’d be working outside where the light was good.
“This is a short incantation to begin with, using your sister as an example so the names are familiar to you,” Rahel said. “Most will be longer, some much longer. Listen carefully and then repeat it back to me.”
I startled at the word “incantation.” I’d assumed that I’d be writing poetry or perhaps some verses from Torah. But I didn’t dare ask for an explanation. I just hoped that Rahel would talk slower when she got to the text itself.
“Sealed and doubly sealed are the house and threshold of Achti bat Haviva from all foul plagues, from all evil spirits, from monsters, from liliths, and from all demons and harmers,” Rahel said slowly and distinctly. “So they will not come near to her, to her house, and to the threshold of Achti bat Haviva, who is sealed with the three signet rings and doubly sealed with the seven seals from all foul plagues and from all evil spirits and from all species of liliths and from all demons. Amen and Amen. Selah.”
Relieved that the words weren’t too difficult, I repeated them back to Rahel with only a few stumbles, which she gently corrected. She had me repeat it twice more. Then, satisfied that I didn’t need a wax tablet, she urged me to look at a bowl carefully and plan how I would make all the words fit inside.
I ran out of room in the first bowl, and the second one had too much empty space left when I finished. When I proudly managed to make the words fit to Rahel’s satisfaction in the fourth bowl, she gave me another protective incantation, similar to the first but slightly longer, and told me I should practice for the rest of the day, writing the two versions on different-size vessels. She had to leave to install the bowl that she’d showed me earlier. She would check my work when she returned.
As I wrote one incantation and then another, my mind whirled with the import of what I was doing. I now understood why all those women came to visit Rahel, why her pottery was so popular. These vessels weren’t regular soup or serving bowls, they were kasa d’charasha, enchanted bowls, which meant Rahel was an enchantress, a charasheta, maybe even a kashafa.
But how could that be? I remembered Grandfather’s words: “The Torah says we do not allow a kashafa to live.” Yet Rahel was living right in our house. She was married to my brother Mari, who was so pious that the prophet Elijah visited his dreams.
I stopped writing and gazed around the garden, hoping its peacefulness would soothe me. Rahel couldn’t be a kashafa. Kashafot were wicked. They cast evil spells, while hers were for protection from demons and other foul spirits. Why, one of her incantations was against evil spells and harmers, in other words, against kashafot. Besides, Mother knew about Rahel’s kasa d’charasha and she would never have let my brother marry a kashafa. Maybe my brother and Father didn’t know though.
No matter how much I wanted to convince myself that there was nothing wrong with being Rahel’s temporary assistant, deep inside I was afraid.
A week later, the fermentation had slowed in the brewing troughs. It was time to draw off the first batch of beer and add more water to the remaining date mush. Father’s tradition was that nobody tasted the new beer until the final batch was in its jars, at which time we sampled them all. This year my family was especially anxious. Though our income for the coming year depended on it, we had no inkling
of how much beer, and of what quality, these dates would produce before their fermentation finally ran out.
I had my own reasons for anxiety. I had sprouted two pubic hairs, the first sign of my impending womanhood. Mother told me that negotiations with Rami’s mother and brother were complete, and that my betrothal ceremony would take place after Rahel’s hand was healed. In addition, little more than a week after Rahel burned her hand, she had me inscribing bowls for real clients instead of just for practice.
Two weeks later, jars labeled “aleph” and “bet” held the first two batches of date beer, and the third fermentation was bubbling strongly. But instead of looking forward to the end of my work with Rahel, I found myself dreading the day when her hand healed and I would be dismissed, leaving me with a skill I’d struggled to learn but could no longer practice. It seemed especially unfair that after inscribing all these vessels, I would never see what Rahel did with them.
When Shayla examined Rahel’s hand and told her the bandage could come off for Shabbat, I became desperate.
I waited until Rahel praised me for my most recent project, bowls inscribed with an incantation to protect a pregnant woman. “Rahel, I know you won’t need my help starting next week.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “While I was merely doing my duty and don’t deserve a reward, I beg you to grant me one request.”
Rahel looked at me in surprise. “What reward do you want? A special bowl for your betrothal?”
“I want to go with you when you do whatever it is you do with the bowls,” I blurted out. “I want to see them in use.”
She chuckled softly, an inscrutable expression on her face. “I will gladly grant you that. You may accompany me tomorrow morning.”
