by Maggie Anton
His moon face flushed with anger. “Very well, pay me what you think is appropriate.”
Mother attempted to mollify him. “I also need a maidservant for my daughter.” Mother pointed at me. “Do you have anyone relatively young with experience in hairdressing and makeup? She needn’t be a virgin, but it would help if she could weave.”
His expression brightened. “You are in luck. One of Sura’s most prominent matrons just sold me one of her own personal slaves. Apparently her husband found the girl too attractive.”
Mother and Rahel exchanged glances, and the slave dealer quickly added, “She had only praise for the girl’s work and assured me that the fault was entirely her husband’s. Indeed, she was quite distraught about selling her.”
“Let’s see her, then,” Mother said, “in addition to any others you have with those qualifications.”
As soon as we entered the slave dealer’s courtyard, my initial enthusiasm was replaced by fear and revulsion. The slaves for sale were a piteous bunch who looked at us for the most part with longing or loathing, although some merely stared with vacant eyes. My heart broke for the poor potter and her young virgin daughter, and I couldn’t wait to get away from this horrible place.
Rahel took my hand, and we followed Mother and the dealer to where the younger females were kept. I couldn’t bring myself to look, but after examining samples of their spun thread, Mother instructed three of them to undo my hair and style it anew.
Without a mirror, I had no idea how I looked, but Rahel shrugged and said to Mother, “I don’t think there’s any question which is the best hairdresser.”
“Hisda would prefer someone less attractive in our home,” Mother replied. “Not such a distraction for his students.”
I forced my eyes up, and I knew immediately which one they meant. She was about Achti’s age and had similar coloring, but her features were just different enough to make her a beauty while my sister was merely pretty. Her eyes pleaded with me, begged me to rescue her.
“I like her, Mother,” I announced. At least there was one slave here I could help.
Mother hesitated, and I added, “Rahel said she’s the best.”
“If she’s not too expensive,” Mother finally agreed.
So we ended up with three new slaves—two for Rahel and one for me. Rahel’s were Imarta and her daughter, Haruta. Mine was called Zahra.
During the walk home, I took the opportunity to ask Rahel, “Why don’t the men in Sura wear tefillin? You said that nearly everyone who lives here is Jewish.”
“Only men in rabbinic families wear tefillin,” she replied. “That’s how people can recognize a rabbi when they see him.”
Since I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup or a fancy hairstyle yet, having a personal maidservant wasn’t much different from having a nurse. Zahra slept with me, helped me dress, served my meals, and accompanied me nearly everyplace I went. When Zahra wasn’t serving me, she was either spinning thread or weaving it nearby. The one place she did not join me was Father’s lessons, where her beauty would be sure to distract his students.
My presence in his classroom still seemed to be ignored, thank Heaven, and I tried to remain unobtrusive. However, shortly before we celebrated my betrothal to Rami, Father announced that he would teach a section of Mishna from Tractate Pesachim that dealt with betrothal feasts. As always, he quoted the text and made sure everyone understood the Hebrew words.
“If he is on the way to slaughter his Pesach offering, or to circumcise his son, or to eat the betrothal meal at his father-in-law’s, and he remembers that he left hametz at home…,” Father began. “If he can go back and remove it, let him do that. But if not, he annuls it in his heart. However, if he is traveling for an optional purpose, he must return at once to remove it.”
“Who is the ‘he’ the Mishna is talking about?” My brother Keshisha asked, apparently having forgotten that he’d learned this passage earlier from his tutor.
I could see the annoyance in Father’s eyes, but he patiently replied, “Because the Mishna tells us that the feast is at his father-in-law’s house, we know we are dealing with the bridegroom himself, whose betrothal will lead him to fulfill the commandment to be fruitful and multiply.”
What neither Father nor any student asked was why someone would schedule a betrothal feast during Pesach, when it was forbidden to eat hametz. It wouldn’t be much of a feast without leavened bread, pastries, or cakes.
But there were no other questions, and I couldn’t ask mine, so Father looked at Rami, smiled, and asked, “Why are a betrothal feast, Pesach sacrifice, and circumcision listed together as different from an optional purpose?”
Normally I was too timid to openly watch Rami in class, though I did steal glances at him from time to time. Today I was emboldened to give him an encouraging smile. After all, this discussion was in honor of our own betrothal feast. He didn’t look directly at me when he replied, but I knew the twinkle in his eye was for me.
“The Pesach sacrifice and circumcising one’s son are mitzvot that must be performed at a specific time.” His voice was strong and confident. “Our Mishna teaches that celebrating a betrothal is a similar mitzvah that must not be delayed.”
Leave it to Abba bar Joseph to find a problem. “But we have a Baraita that contradicts our Mishna.” I gritted my teeth as he objected, “It says: If he is going to eat the betrothal meal at his father-in-law’s or traveling for an optional purpose, he must return at once.” Abba repeated it several times for the class’s benefit, each time in a more commanding tone.
Obviously this Baraita’s author did not consider betrothal an important mitzvah, even for the bridegroom, and thus his teaching explicitly contradicted the Mishna. I did not see how anyone could resolve such a clear conflict, not even Father.
I was thankful when my brother Nachman spoke in Rami’s defense. “There is no difficulty. That Baraita is the view of Rabbi Yehuda, and the Mishna of Rabbi Yose.” He cleared his throat while the students considered this. “For we have another Baraita that states: A betrothal feast is optional, these are the words of Rabbi Yehuda; but Rabbi Yose says it is a mitzvah.”
It is true, I reminded myself, that not all contradictions can be resolved. Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Yose were two Sages from the West who regularly disagreed. But because they had equal authority, Jews might follow either interpretation, the Mishna or the Baraita. In other words, both were correct.
But Father shook his head. “While my son’s Baraita appears to resolve the problem, in truth the dispute between Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Yose concerns the second betrothal feast, when the bridegroom brings his gifts. All agree that the first feast, when the betrothal contract is witnessed, is a mitzvah.”
He waited for questions or any other attempt to explain the contradiction. When there were none, he continued, staring right at Abba. “You might want to argue that both our Mishna and the first Baraita follow Rabbi Yehuda,” he said. “But even then there is no difficulty, for we can reply that our Mishna refers to the first betrothal feast and the Baraita to the second.”
Rami now supported Father against Abba. “I know another Baraita where Rabbi Yehuda says, ‘I have heard that a betrothal feast is a mitzvah, but not the feast of gifts,’ while Rabbi Yose says, ‘I have heard that the feast of betrothal and of gifts are both mitzvot.’”
Now it was Rami’s turn to repeat his Baraita as many times as the class needed to memorize it. His eyes met mine as he did, and I allowed my face to display my pleasure and pride at his triumph. Not only was his the final argument, but it was one that agreed with Father. I was also proud that, unlike some lessons, I had understood the entire discussion.
But I did not like how Abba scowled at Rami after his argument lost.
Father arranged my betrothal feast for after the autumn harvest but before the winter rains typically began. At first I was disappointed. I’d hoped for my first silk tunic and trousers but received a linen outfit trimmed in silk instead. Zahr
a did my hair in fashionable ringlets, yet the only makeup I was allowed was a trace of blue kohl to outline my eyes. I had imagined the celebration would be like a wedding, with dancing until late at night, and many people, including children, in attendance. But our guests went home at sunset, and the children ate separately.
Yet this being my first adult meal made it special. My place between Father and Mother was a privileged position. Rami sat at Father’s right, beside his brother, Ukva. Seated next were three older men, whom Mother told me were Father’s colleagues—Rav Huna, Rav Sheshet, and Rav Nachman—two of whom would witness the betrothal agreement. Except for my brothers and Father’s students, those on the men’s side were strangers.
To Mother’s left was Rami’s mother, Pushbi, then Achti, followed by my sisters-in-law and the other female guests. I noticed the two local women who had been visiting Mother the day I became Rahel’s apprentice, plus other women I knew from synagogue. But there were some I’d never seen before. I could tell the most honored guests because they—like my parents, Rami, and I—sat on three cushions. Other adults sat on two, and those with the least status, like the students, had only one.
I wasn’t expecting to play a large part in the proceedings, and I didn’t. When everyone was seated at their small tables and Father blessed the wine, Rami handed the betrothal document and a small ring to Rav Huna and Rav Nachman. I suddenly realized that Rav Sheshet had been excluded as a witness because he was blind. I knew there was no reason to worry, but I still watched anxiously as the two rabbis examined both items. I sighed with relief when they signed the document and gave it to Father.
Father stood up and addressed the room. “In Tractate Avot, Rabbi Shimon ben Yochai teaches that if three eat at one table and speak words of Torah over it, it is as if they have eaten from the Holy One’s own table.”
Immediately, even the women’s chatter ceased. He continued, “We learn from a Baraita that if the husband-to-be wrote for the girl’s father ‘your daughter is sanctified to me, your daughter is betrothed to me,’ or ‘your daughter is a wife for me,’ then the girl is betrothed.”
Rami spoke next, and I was impressed at how confident he sounded, his voice not wavering the slightest despite the large and distinguished audience. “You might think that the father should write the document himself, as he does if he sells her as a slave.” Rami waited for everyone to recognize the conflict. “But it is written in Torah, ‘when a man takes a wife,’ which clearly makes the husband the active agent.”
“And Rami has written here,” Father held up the parchment, “Hisdadukh bat Rav Hisda haKohen is betrothed to me, Rami bar Chama.” Then he placed Rami’s ring on my finger and again quoted Torah, “I have given this man my daughter as wife.”
I gazed at the plain gold band in awe and exultation. I was betrothed—properly and legally betrothed. Yet tonight was the only time I’d wear my betrothal ring until our wedding. Until that day, it would sit in Mother’s jewelry case for protection, and after that it would stay in mine. I was only a minor, so my consent wasn’t necessary, and in fact I could repudiate the betrothal when I came of age. But I still smiled at Rami and nodded.
With the short ceremony concluded, our slaves served the celebratory meal. The food was better than on Shabbat or festivals. Roasted beef and kid, plus stews made from poultry and doves. No banquet would be complete without fried fishes and fish sauces for our bread. And what bread it was—baked from the finest flour, triple sifted. Some loaves were flavored with wine, oil, eggs, honey, plus various spices. My nose was overwhelmed with the wonderful smells.
We all knew that Father didn’t like to eat vegetables, no matter how good Cook made them taste. He regularly told us how he’d only had vegetables to eat when he was a poor youth, and he’d hated to eat them because they just whetted his appetite. Now he said, “Where vegetables may enter, let fish and meat enter instead.”
Still, there were squashes, cabbages, and beets, well seasoned with onions, leeks, and garlic, but also with expensive saffron and cumin. There was even a pungent mushroom dish. But what really made this a feast was the old wine, fat meat, and desserts. I had never drunk so much wine before, and I could feel the giddiness coming on. Rami and I each had our own honeycomb, and we could scarcely take our eyes off each other as we ate them—grinning and even giggling as we endeavored to keep the honey from dripping down our chins.
Then I realized that our guests might consider me too brazen. So instead of continuing to gaze at Rami, I focused my attention on Pushbi and tried to figure out exactly what it was that made me dislike her even though I’d only just met her.
SIX
Achti had told me that Pushbi was a widow who received most of her husband’s property as payment for her ketuba when he died. Though Ukva and Rami were already of age, there was little left in Chama’s estate for them to inherit. So they continued to live with their mother. But that was no reason to dislike my future mother-in-law. Other widows and their sons lived under similar circumstances.
I tried to observe her without catching her eye. Pushbi had to be at least ten years younger than Mother, yet her skin was wrinkled and her hair streaked with gray while Mother’s face was unlined and only the hair at her temples had lost their color. Pushbi’s dark-green tunic seemed faded, but she was most likely planning to wear a new silk outfit for Ukva and Achti’s wedding. In any case, I chided myself, how she looked shouldn’t influence whether I liked her or not.
It did irritate me that when Pushbi was speaking with Achti, she must have said three or four words to my sister’s one, but that wasn’t enough to explain the intense antipathy I felt. As the evening progressed, I began to think that maybe it was normal for a girl to dislike her future mother-in-law for no reason. It was only late in the meal, when Zahra brought me more sliced meat, that I realized what Pushbi did that upset me.
Father taught that it was cruel to make a slave serve food throughout a lengthy meal, smelling all those delicious aromas, without giving him anything to eat. A pious man fed his slave from every course. My brother Mari was so pious that he gave his slave some of each course as he received it, not after he’d finished with it, and Father said this was the reason Elijah visited Mari’s dreams.
So that was why I disliked Pushbi. As long as I watched her, she didn’t give her slave any food at all. Never mind that it wasn’t Pushbi’s food—it was my family’s, and we had more than enough for all the guests and their servants. Even if slaves had no more rights than animals, there was no reason to treat them harshly unless they deserved it.
Abandoning any attempt at modest behavior, I observed Rami continuously until I was reassured that he was sharing his meal with his server each time my father did.
When there was more talking than eating, the musicians switched to a livelier tempo. I wasn’t surprise when Mother jumped up to be the first to dance, but I was taken aback when she beckoned me to her side. Mother was an excellent dancer, and I knew I’d look awkward in comparison. Everyone agreed that she was the finest dancer in Kafri, and I expected that she was the best in Sura too.
As she spun and swayed, her silks swirling around her lithe body, Father paused in his conversation to gaze at her. It was no secret in our family that long ago he’d seen her dancing at a wedding and immediately sought to marry her. Grandfather had not been enthusiastic about a match between this poor, young student and his only living child. But Chaldean astrologers had predicted that Father would be a great teacher, in addition to siring seven sons, so Grandfather acquiesced.
I tried to imitate Mother’s moves and dance more elegantly, but I doubted my performance would similarly endear me to Rami. It wasn’t long before Achti and my sisters-in-law were dancing with us, and soon almost all the women had joined in, making the room a rainbow of shimmering silks. Even Pushbi was a decent dancer, although not with anything like Mother’s skill.
One by one the women tired, leaving only Mother and me on our feet when the song ended.
It was the men’s turn, and there was much clapping and shouting for Rami and Ukva to start them off. Now I could admire Rami for as long as I liked. Pushbi may not have bought new clothes for herself, but both brothers wore colorfully striped silk tunics and trousers. Few would expect a youth of sixteen years to dance gracefully, and Rami didn’t, but I was proud of how well he acquitted himself.
Ukva and my brothers were all energetic dancers, but to my surprise Rav Nachman outshined them all. I asked Mother to point out his wife, but she said that Yalta hadn’t come with Rav Nachman and perhaps I would meet her at Achti’s wedding. Mother’s tone was disapproving, but I didn’t see what was wrong with Rav Nachman attending by himself. Rav Sheshet hadn’t brought a wife either.
It was only when Achti and I were in bed that I thought of asking her why Mother might have been angry about Rav Nachman’s wife not being there.
Achti’s snort of disgust made me even more curious. “Rav Nachman often travels alone. And when he arrives in a new city, he asks them to find him a wife for the time he’ll be there.”
“Rav Nachman marries a new wife in each city?” Had I understood correctly? “Ha-Elohim! He must have lots of wives.”
“No, he doesn’t. He divorces each one when he leaves.”
I was speechless. How could any man, let alone a rabbi, be so profligate? “What woman would agree to marry him for only a few days?”
“A poor widow or divorcée,” Achti said. “Because Rav Nachman will pay her the standard ketuba. He considers it a way of giving them charity.” Achti’s sarcastic tone made it clear that she didn’t approve of this arrangement.
It didn’t seem right to me either. Couldn’t he give these poor women charity without making them marry him for it? Being a wife for a few days wouldn’t be much better than being a harlot.
