by Maggie Anton
“Mother told me his wife was named Yalta,” I said. “Is that his Sura wife’s name?”
“I have no idea who his Sura wife is. Yalta is his regular wife, who lives with him in Nehardea.” Achti’s voice, already a whisper, softened until I could barely hear her. “Yalta is the exilarch’s daughter.”
I fell asleep wondering what Yalta thought about her husband having all these other wives. Mother said the exilarch himself had many wives, so maybe Yalta was used to the practice. But Father and my brothers only had one wife each, though they could surely afford more. I was pretty sure that was the way Mother wanted it.
But what about Rami? What would I do if he wanted another wife? What could I do? Torah and Mishna agreed that a man could marry more than one wife, especially if the first one was barren.
Being betrothed brought mostly good changes to my life. I ate with the adults instead of with the children, which made me privy to information that I would never have learned before, or at least not right away. So I was worried to hear that, unlike during the tolerant reign of the late king Shapur, King Bahram allowed his ruthless high priest Kartir to harass Persia’s religious minorities. None of my family seemed concerned, probably because the Zoroastrian priests didn’t persecute Jews as they did the followers of Jesus or Mani. And while some fanatical Magi might insist on protecting the sanctity of fire, no one had heard of such incidents in Sura. Still, Father declared that we would light our Hanukah lamps inside the villa walls this year rather than risk a confrontation.
Because Imarta and Haruta were still manufacturing beer jars, I knew that, even months after the first batch was siphoned into jars and sealed, fermentation was still going. But mealtime was where I learned that we’d brewed more batches than anticipated. Neither Hanan nor Pinchas would hazard a guess as to when the dates’ sugar content would be exhausted, so Father decided to delay Achti’s wedding until the week before Pesach instead of the middle of winter. Achti might be disappointed, but I was relieved that she wouldn’t be moving away so soon.
Another nice effect of being betrothed was attending synagogue on weekdays with Mother, Achti, and my sisters-in-law. Between my brothers and Father’s students, there was nearly always a minyan of ten men in our house, giving them the quorum necessary to hold a service that took minimal time away from Torah study. Women weren’t forbidden to pray with the men in our home, but I never saw any of them doing so. Our custom was for women to go to synagogue.
Rather than attending the famous synagogue of the prophet Ezekiel, we frequented one closer to our villa. It wasn’t as old or venerated as Ezekiel’s, but it had beautiful mosaic floors and frescoes on the walls depicting scenes from the Bible. Worshippers could sit on benches or cushions, men in the middle and women around the sides, as an elderly man chanted the service in a surprisingly strong voice. Slaves stood in the back, making themselves inconspicuous until it was time to leave.
While I never doubted that Elohim would hear my prayers at home, I felt more confident of them rising to Heaven when accompanied by the congregation’s.
I was thrust into a new world populated by women who weren’t related to me, and soon learned that for them synagogue was equal parts praying and socializing. Each of my sisters-in-law had her own circle of friends or colleagues, while Achti giggled and gossiped with other maidens who were soon to be wed. Only one girl appeared to be as young as I was, and for the first few weeks, she and I merely exchanged awkward glances, until Achti finally introduced us.
“This is my sister, Hisdadukh.” Achti pushed me toward the girl. “She just became betrothed to Rami bar Chama.”
The girl’s kohl-rimmed eyes opened wide and her red lips smiled broadly. “My name is Newandukh. I’m going to marry my mother’s younger brother.”
My grin mirrored hers. “You’re the first girl I’ve met with a Persian name too.”
“And you are also the first for me.” She took my hand and confided, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”
“And I to meeting you.” I had to chuckle. “To think that I’ve been waiting for you to greet me, since I was new here.”
Newandukh giggled in return. “And I thought that you should greet me because your father is so prominent.”
Our conversation had barely progressed beyond describing our family members—a short process for her, with only a younger brother, and a longer one for me—when Mother put on her cloak and veil in preparation to leave.
I followed suit and bid Newandukh farewell until next time. As we walked home I wondered what it would be like to have an acquaintance my own age, and when Mother would let me wear lip rouge and black kohl like Newandukh did. But mostly I worried how I would find time to attend synagogue, train as Rahel’s apprentice, and study Mishna with Grandfather.
The betrothal change I enjoyed most was my new responsibility for washing Rami’s hands and feet when he arrived and removed his shoes, just as Mother performed this duty for Father, and my sisters-in-law for my brothers. Of course a wife wasn’t always available when her husband came in from outdoors. Then slaves did the washing, as they did for visitors. Until my betrothal, I washed my brother Keshisha’s feet, not that I objected, since it gave me an unparalleled opportunity to tickle him, but afterward, my maidservant, Zahra, washed his feet in addition to mine.
The first time I washed Rami’s feet, I was glad for all the practice I’d had on Keshisha. For I was exquisitely aware that this pair of feet belonged to my future husband. I was terrified that my shaking hands would spill the water, my ragged nails might scratch him, or a hundred other disasters that I had not anticipated could occur. Despite the act’s intimacy, or perhaps because of it, I was too shy to look at him, let alone talk to him—at least at the beginning.
If it had been up to me to initiate a conversation, I might still have been washing his feet in silence six months later. But after we’d been betrothed a week, I’d no sooner picked up the pitcher than I heard Rami clear his throat, followed by a horse whisper. “Uh…Hisdadukh…,” he trailed off.
I nearly spilled the water, but keeping my eyes focused on his feet, I managed to reply, “Yes, Rami.”
He hesitated for so long that I began to think something was wrong. But eventually he continued. “I noticed…that your brothers…uh, they don’t…” His sentence ended in a rush of words. “They don’t call you Hisdadukh.”
What was the matter with Rami? He spoke perfectly well in class, yet now he could scarcely string three words together. I looked up and saw that his face was bright pink, a color that only deepened as his eyes met mine.
I promptly looked down again. “Only my parents and grandfather call me that.” I could feel my face blushing in return. “The rest of my family calls me Dada for short.”
“What…What should I call you?” He swallowed and then corrected himself. “I mean…uh, what do you…want me to call you?”
I had never given this any thought. “I guess you could call me Dada too,” I said uncertainly.
“Would you…Would you mind?” He paused again, but this time I started washing his feet while I waited for him to finish what he wanted to say. “Uh…I’d rather call you…Dodi.”
After my initial surprise, I felt myself warming with pleasure. Dodi was Hebrew for “my beloved,” a word I knew from the Song of Songs in Torah, and I felt certain that Rami’s choice of names was not an impulsive one. Wondering how long he’d been thinking of me as his beloved, I looked up and smiled. “I would like that.”
He sighed in relief and his whole body relaxed.
I finished his feet and moved up to wash his hands. “Is there anything special you want me to call you?”
Immediately he tensed up again. “Uh, no…nothing special.” He paused to think. “I mean…you can still call me…uh, Rami.”
. . .
By the following week, I was confident enough in my actions to notice how smooth and soft the skin on the top of Rami’s feet felt compare
d to the calluses on his heels and how pale his palms looked compared to the skin on the backs of his hands. I also noticed that he seemed a little more relaxed than during the first few days, when my slightest touch made him jump.
But it was excruciatingly difficult to talk with him. He hesitated and then repeated himself and seemed to become tongue-tied at the simplest question. Yet it felt as though that he wanted to talk to me, and figuring that it should be easier for him to discuss Torah, I asked where he’d studied before and what he’d learned there. I soon discovered that Rami’s father had been one of his first teachers, and though Rav Chama had died five years ago, Rami still missed him terribly.
So I encouraged Rami to talk about his father as I washed his feet. I told myself that I wanted to be diligent, to ensure that not a speck of dirt or a drop of rinse water remained when I was finished, and that’s why I drew out the process, not because my heart beat faster at Rami’s nearness and I wanted to prolong the feeling. I sensed that Rami appreciated a lighter touch, and I wanted to please him, so I tried to stroke his hands and feet rather than scrub them.
Until he told me later, after our wedding, I was too innocent to realize what effect my efforts might be having on other parts of his body. For me, pleasure came from the moments when our hands touched as I washed his, and especially at the dazzling smile Rami bestowed on me when I gave his hands a gentle squeeze to signal that I was done.
If only Keshisha hadn’t told me about the jealous scowl Abba wore whenever I was washing Rami’s hands and feet. After my betrothal to Rami, the other students paid no attention to my presence at Father’s lectures, or at least they convincingly pretended to do so. But not Abba. I often sensed him gazing at me in class or at meals, no matter how determined I was to ignore him.
It was well after Hanukah when the tenth and final fermentation was siphoned into the last of Imarta’s jars. Mother made a small celebration out of our first tasting, and we all got to drink as much of the different batches as we liked. Despite Beloria’s hopes, however, the good water from our wells made little difference in how badly anyone’s head ached the next morning. I resolved to drink my beer diluted with plenty of water from then on.
I couldn’t tell the difference between any of the batches; they all tasted good to me. Father and my brothers could though, and after a long discussion, they finally agreed on how much to charge for each. Beer was cheapest in the fall, when it was most plentiful, and the price gradually rose as the supply dwindled. Hanan and Pinchas preferred to sell our beer in the spring, but they couldn’t turn away the Sura dealers whose carts lined up outside our gate that week. Good news traveled fast.
That night I was startled awake while it was still dark. “Wake up, wake up!” Zahra was pushing my shoulder, her voice urgent in my ear. “Hurry, we must go outside right away.”
My head still hurting from too much strong beer, I reluctantly cracked an eye open. A lamp was burning in the kiton, but otherwise it was pitch black. My heart began to pound. “What’s the matter? Is there a fire?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Achti called out. “The canal is blocked and we need to hurry to collect the fish.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and let Zahra pull my tunic into place and lace my sandals. Then we ran downstairs, jostling others on the staircase. Beloria handed us each a basket, and we hurried out the courtyard gate. The winter sky was pinkish gray with the approaching dawn and I shivered.
Zahra took my hand and urged me to move faster. “Don’t worry. You’ll soon be too busy to feel the cold.”
“What’s happening? Why is everyone in such a rush?”
“Your canals never got stopped up in Kafri?” she asked in disbelief.
“I don’t know. We didn’t live next to one.”
“All canals get blocked with debris eventually,” she explained. “If it’s downstream, the canal overflows its banks, leaving fish all over the fields.”
Suddenly one of our slaves ran past me, a basket full of squirming fish in her arms.
“Oh no! They’re tossing up fish from in the canal itself,” Zahra said. “It must be blocked upstream.”
“What’s wrong with that?” At least I wouldn’t be slogging through a muddy field.
“It’s dangerous for those in the canal. When the debris is cleared upstream, a giant wave will come rushing down.”
The sky had lightened sufficiently that I could make out the slight rise of the embankment ahead. Zahra had just bent down to scoop up a fish when, splat, a large one landed at my feet. Ashamed of standing around watching while everyone was working so hard, I quickly threw it in my basket and set about gathering more.
Zahra was right about not feeling cold. Between running to pick up fish and then racing home with them, I was in constant motion. The sun was just peeking over the date palms when a woman on the embankment shouted, “The canal is cleared. Hurry, the water is coming!”
Men raced to help our workers out of the muddy canal. Our lookout must have had keen eyesight, because it was several moments before I could distinguish, in the early morning light, the approaching brown water from the equally brown mud.
Some of our crew delayed, to grab just one more fish, until Father began yelling, “Everyone out now!”
I watched with increasing anxiety as several men struggled to wrench their legs from the ooze that kept sucking them down. Hands reached out and a chain of men strained to pull their comrades free. I could hear the gushing water closing in when the last of our workers scrambled up the embankment and collapsed at the top. I let out my breath in relief to see that my brothers and Father’s students, especially Rami, were safe.
Once back in the courtyard, we waited silently near the wells while slaves brought us warm bread and washed our muddy hands and feet. Our work with the fish wasn’t finished, however; they still needed to be gutted, cleaned, salted, and dried. The best fish disappeared whole into the kitchen, where they would undoubtedly become ingredients in the next few days’ meals.
When it was time to carry the clean fish halves up to the roof, Father, his students, and my brothers made a hasty exit. The courtyard cats, whom I thought would have eaten their fill of fish entrails, headed to the roof, winding between the legs of those going upstairs. Since even Mother was hefting baskets of fish on her shoulders, I knew I wouldn’t be excused yet.
Once on the roof, I saw that someone had anticipated our task by laying out woven hemp mats and covering them with salt. Zahra was already seated, placing the fish tightly together on the salt until the mat was completely covered. Then Shayla poured more salt over the fish, and Zahra began another layer. Though nobody fed the cats, they circled the mats and meowed hopefully.
Finally I had a task that didn’t involve running. I sat down opposite Zahra and began depositing fish at the mat’s far end, but instead of adding more salt when we finished that layer, this time a new hemp mat went on first. And so it went: mat, salt, fish, salt, fish, and then another mat. The process repeated until the stack of fish and salt reached our chests, at which time heavy boards were hefted on top to press out the brine and close any gaps. Imarta and Haruta built another pile next to us, and with all the women working together, the roof was almost completely covered with towers of salted fish when it came time for our evening meal.
Thankfully, my job was finished. The piles stood outside for a week, after which they were turned over to cure longer. Then kitchen slaves hung the salted fish to dry until the moisture, and the fishy smell, evaporated. This took weeks in the rainy season, and only then was the cured salt fish stored away. By that time it was almost spring.
The week before Achti’s wedding, Father surprised me by including me in his premarital-advice lecture to Achti in the garden, where the land was verdant with new growth. The roses weren’t blooming yet, but tulips and buttercups put on a colorful show.
“Your mother and I have been blessed with a good and fruitful marriage,” he began. “From all our years together, I hav
e acquired some wisdom on the subject, which I hope will benefit you and your husbands.”
“Yes, Father,” Achti replied, while I merely nodded.
“It is important that a man not come to desire another woman, especially when he and his wife are in bed together.”
Achti blushed at his mention of the marital bed, and I felt my face warming too. Surely Father didn’t intend to discuss sexual matters with us. Not that I was innocent of these things. I had seen our goats mating.
“Thus you should be careful that he does not find anything repulsive about you.” His tone was so serious that I began to worry about what examples he would tell us next.
“Do not eat herbs at night, lest your husband smell your foul breath. Nor drink beer, which will make you flatulent.” Achti let out a nervous giggle, while I barely managed to suppress mine. “Don’t eat dates or other dried fruit at night, lest you suffer diarrhea. For your husband will certainly be disgusted when he hears you using the chamber pot.”
Naturally Father found those things repulsive. He was so fastidious that while most scholars would pray once they were four cubits away from excrement in the street, Father insisted on standing four cubits away from where the air no longer stank.
Sure enough, Father added, “And if you need to relieve yourself outdoors, do it where your husband will see neither you nor any trace of your excrement.”
Was Father only going to talk about how to avoid repulsing our husbands? Maybe he noticed that we were viewing him with anxiety, because he said, “A wife also needs to make herself attractive to her husband in addition to not offending him.”
Achti and I looked at him with more interest. “A woman should always be modest before her husband, keeping parts of her body hidden,” he said. “So he will not become too familiar with her and take her for granted.”
“I don’t understand,” Achti said. “I thought we aren’t supposed to use the bed in our clothes like the Persians do.”
I was both impressed and shocked that my sister knew what Persians did in their beds. Father, however, answered her in the same calm and serious tone he’d been using. “You are quite correct that a husband and wife should perform the holy deed naked, but that doesn’t mean she flaunts her body before him.”
