by Maggie Anton
He reached into his purse and pulled out a large pearl in his right hand. “Here is an example to explain what I mean.”
Achti and I crowded close to see it. “It’s beautiful,” she said, while I merely sighed with delight.
Then he put his left hand into his purse, but kept his fist clenched when he removed it.
“What do you have there, Father?” Achti asked eagerly. “Is it another pearl?”
Father smiled and kept his hand closed. “Maybe it’s a different jewel?” I said, wondering if it was a ruby or a sapphire. “Won’t you let us see it?”
He waited until we were begging to see the treasure in his hand. Then abruptly he acquiesced, but on his open palm sat a lump of charcoal.
As we gave voice to our disappointment and irritation, Father chuckled. “In your eagerness to see what I had hidden, though it was merely an ugly piece of burnt wood, you ignored the beautiful pearl that was sitting right in plain sight.”
“Oh.” Achti’s eyes open wide as she nodded.
I too understood his lesson. “A husband may come to disregard even the most beautiful wife if she is always on display,” I said.
“And he may come to covet another woman, even an ugly one, who hides herself from him,” Achti continued.
“Exactly,” Father said. “Now you must learn how much to conceal or reveal, and when, so your husband will desire you and only you.”
First he tossed the charcoal into the bushes. Then he turned to Achti and placed the pearl in her hand. “This is my wedding present to you, so you should remember my advice whenever you see it.”
As soon as Achti and I went upstairs, I was determined to hear how she learned what the Persians did in bed.
“Some women at synagogue are converts,” she replied. “And I know lots more than that.”
“What do you mean?” Had Achti been with Ukva already?
“You’re not the only one who likes to spy on people from the roof. I’ve seen Timonus with the head laundress, as well as our nephews’ tutors with the kitchen slaves.”
Too shocked to question her further, I closed my eyes and said my evening prayers. It didn’t seem fair that just when Achti was starting to talk to me like an equal, she’d be getting married and living somewhere else.
For a moment a terrible thought assailed me. What if I weren’t allowed to attend her wedding at Ukva’s? After all, children almost never went to banquets away from home, for fear that some stranger would admire them and, Heaven forbid, provoke the Evil Eye against them.
Everyone knew that the Evil Eye was responsible for a great deal of misery in the world. Rav, Father’s teacher, once went to a cemetery and cast a spell that let him talk to the dead. Ninety-nine told him they’d died from the Evil Eye, and only one from bad air.
SEVEN
THIRTEENTH YEAR OF KING BAHRAM II’S REIGN
• 286 CE •
Just as my betrothal brought me into other adult venues, it privileged me to attend Achti’s wonderful wedding. My fun started when mother let Zahra make my hair and makeup as fancy as she liked, then continued with the arrival of musicians who accompanied the wedding party all the way from our house to Ukva’s. As the sun slowly set behind us, Achti rode in a litter like a princess, while the rest of us walked with torches.
There were so many people that even the courtyard was crowded, and their laughter and banter filled the air. The women dressed in gorgeous silks, and most of the men too. Achti and Ukva disappeared under the bridal canopy soon after the mitzvah meal, and then the dancing really got lively. I thought my feet were going to melt and it wasn’t yet midnight. I wanted to celebrate until dawn, like my brothers, but I was so tired that I went home early in the litter with Rahel, who was so hugely pregnant that everyone was surprised to see her there.
The next day, however, I learned that my parents didn’t find the wedding so wonderful at all. And since most of the family, and all Father’s students, were still asleep, he and Mother felt no need to censor their criticism.
“Ha-Elohim! I have never been so ashamed in my life.” Father shuddered. “To think that they almost ran out of food at my daughter’s wedding.”
“I thought we’d given more than our share by supplying the beer, kids, and poultry,” Mother said. “Thank Heaven I noticed the dearth of meat and had time to send for more kids.”
Father brandished a piece of flatbread at Mother. “There was scarcely sufficient old wine for the groom’s blessings.”
“Perhaps Pushbi didn’t realize how many guests would attend because of your prominence, Father.” For Rami’s sake, I felt I should make some defense of his mother. “She’s never had a wedding at her house before.”
“It’s generous of you to make excuses for her,” Father said. “But Sura is a big city, and I’m sure Pushbi has attended many weddings here.”
Mother shook her head and frowned. “Enough to know that the bride’s musicians only play for the procession from her house to her husband’s. The groom’s musicians are supposed to be responsible for accompanying the dancing.”
“Except there weren’t any groom’s musicians.” Father slapped his hand on the table, causing both of them to wince at the sudden noise. “It is well that we had those extra fermentations of beer this year—to pay for our musicians to stay all night.”
“And for the extra food,” Mother added. “Plus we’ll likely have to host a brit milah banquet in less than a month, although I hope the baby can wait long enough that we won’t have to host it during Pesach.”
I gazed at her in amazement. “How do you know Rahel is having a boy? Did she ask the Chaldeans?”
This made my parents smile and exchange knowing glances. “There was no need consult astrologers,” Father said with just a hint of pride. “Boys tend to run in our family.”
Now that he mentioned it, I not only had seven brothers compared with one sister, but I also had quite a few more nephews than nieces. I continued eating in silence while my parents muttered about how Pushbi’s beef was tough and lean, her bread baked from coarsely sifted flour, her desserts of insufficient variety, and made a myriad of other complaints. I didn’t know if I should be worried about my future in her household or if no one could meet my parents’ impossibly high standards.
Finally Mother let out a sigh. “At least Ukva performed his marital duty well. Achti was quite satisfied with his efforts in that area.”
Before they could say more on that subject, Rav Nachman shuffled in and sat by Father, followed by his wife Yalta, who sank onto the cushion next to Mother. Both appeared to be in their midthirties, and somehow they reminded me of a pair of sleek, well-fed cats. Immediately a pair of slaves brought out washing bowls, a second pair set up their tables, and another brought out bread and wine to start their meal. I felt proud that our family knew how to host such prominent guests.
Nachman groaned and, careful not to mess his well-oiled hairstyle, held his head in his hands. “I must have drank too much wine last night.”
To my surprise, Yalta interrupted him. “You didn’t drink too much. The wine they served wasn’t old enough. That’s why your head hurts.” I’d never heard a woman speak to her husband with such authority, but, then, Yalta was a princess.
Mother raised an eyebrow at Father and quickly filled Yalta’s wine cup. “We mix our wine with water from our own well, which everyone agrees is exceptionally sweet.”
“And is this lovely girl your younger daughter?” Yalta was at once charming and patronizing. “Or a granddaughter?”
“Hisdadukh is our youngest child,” Mother said. “She was recently betrothed to Rami bar Chama, Ukva’s brother.”
With a sly grin, Yalta moved her cushion closer to Mother. Though Yalta lowered her voice, I was able to make out enough words to understand the gist of the gossip she was imparting. “Pushbi…full of herself…bragging…daughters-in-law…family…rich…scholars…priests…exilarch…her control.”
Mother’s eyes
blazed. “Not if I can help it.”
If Yalta had any more to say, I didn’t get to hear it because we were joined by Grandfather and Keshisha, and then, slowly but surely, the rest of my brothers and their wives. Last to arrive were Father’s students, who had slept at Ukva’s house. I decided to follow Father’s advice about not being on constant display, so just when Rami sat down, I excused myself to work on a kasa d’charasha that I’d started the day before.
I was surprised to find Rahel already up. She was sitting awkwardly on a bench and telling Imarta and Haruta what types of pottery they should produce next.
She interrupted her instructions and waved at me to come closer. “Once the baby comes, I won’t be able to write or install any bowls until I’ve stopped bleeding and then immersed,” she told me.
“Do you want me to write them?” I asked, wondering if perhaps another charasheta would do the installations.
She looked me in the eye. “You said you wanted to learn magic, so I’ve arranged for you to study with an amulet scribe.”
Attending synagogue, I’d noticed that many women, and nearly all children, wore amulets around their necks or wrists. Curious, I’d asked Newandukh to show me hers, which was a small bronze cylinder hanging on a red silken ribbon. Newandukh admitted not knowing what was written on the papyrus inside, only that its purpose was to protect her from demons. She used to have a different amulet when she was sick, but after she recovered, her mother placed it under the ark that held the synagogue’s Torah scrolls for thanksgiving.
When I asked Mother why nobody in our household wore amulets, she assured me that Heaven protected Torah scholars and their families. In fact, wearing one would be tantamount to declaring our lack of faith in the power of Torah study.
“Rahel, who is going to teach me about amulets?” I could hardly contain my enthusiasm. “Will she come here or will I go to her home? How long will I study with her?” Of course the amulet maker would be a woman. A man would never be allowed to teach a betrothed maiden like myself.
“I’m glad you’re so eager to begin your studies,” she said. “You’ll go to Kimchit’s shop to begin with, but once you’ve mastered the process, I expect you’ll be able to inscribe them here. You’re too young for installing kasa d’charasha, but your age is irrelevant if your amulets prove effective.”
“When will I go there?”
“It depends. Usually after synagogue.”
“Will Kimchit’s daughters-in-law be teaching me too?”
“Not likely. Neither of them can read or write.” Rahel must have noticed my surprise, because she added, “You may be a Torah scholar, Dada, but there is still so much you don’t know about the world. For instance, it’s a rare woman who can even tell an aleph from a bet.”
I blinked in astonishment. “But the Torah commands Israel to teach these words diligently to your children.”
“Most Jews think that means teaching them to your sons, not to your daughters. Your father is unusual in this regard.”
“How did you learn to read and write?”
“I don’t have any brothers, so in order to fulfill the commandment, my father taught me and my sister,” she said. “But even in sophisticated Machoza, what he did is uncommon.”
It took me quite some time to realize the enormity of what Rahel said—that nearly every Jewish woman in Bavel was illiterate and thus could only learn things they were told.
To everyone’s relief, Rahel was still pregnant on the eve of Pesach. Preparing for the festive meal with all its ritual foods was a major undertaking, with the kitchen slaves up before dawn to make sufficient matzah for the feast. The day before it had taken them hours to cleanse the house of hametz. Others took almost as long to chop the nuts, dates, and dried fruits like figs, peaches, and apricots that went into Cook’s special haroset. Several heads of lettuce had been allowed to go to seed and their bitter leaves harvested. Two large hearths in the courtyard had been burning for hours, producing a hotbed of coals beneath their still-empty grills.
With the sun approaching the horizon on the Fourteenth of Nissan, the men in our family had ritually immersed in the canal, and all the foodstuffs except the most important were ready. Shayla led in the two yearling male kids she’d been fattening for just this purpose. Nachman and Hanan, the most expert among my brothers at kosher slaughter, dispatched the two kids and carefully collected their blood as commanded in the Torah. Then, while the other children and I watched, Father dipped some hyssop sprigs into the blood and outlined the doorway with it. When we turned around, the kitchen slaves had already skinned the kids and started roasting them.
We followed Father into the traklin, where the appetizers were waiting. The children, eagerly anticipating the festive meal, settled noisily on their cushions. Already the savory aroma of roasting meat wafted in from the courtyard, making my mouth water. Slaves brought out pitchers and bowls to wash our hands, and Father blessed the first cup of wine. Next they served us the bitter lettuce, dipped in salt water. Then the fun began.
Instead of slaves serving us the matzah, which were piled up on trays before us, Father picked up a piece and tossed it at Tachlifa, who caught it one-handed and tossed it to Keshisha while Grandfather tossed one to me. The next instant the room was filled with laughter as my brothers and their wives not only threw matzah at their children and one another but, once the trays were empty, proceeded to snatch away matzah from whomever they sat next to. This went on until Father signaled the slaves to serve the haroset.
Now came my favorite part. Father, in that tone of voice an adult uses to address children, asked the room, “What is different tonight compared to other nights?”
We waited for the littlest to go first. A few of the older children, familiar with the procedure and impatient for their turns, whispered hints to their younger siblings until one of them piped up, “Where’s the bread? Why do we only have matzah?”
Another soon asked, “Why do we eat old bitter lettuce instead of young leaves?” followed by, “And why dip them in salt water instead of something tasty?”
The questions came faster: Why don’t we get any stews to eat? Why only roasted meat? Why did you put the blood on the doorposts? Why are we wearing shoes when we eat? What are all those staffs for?
Finally I asked my favorite. “Why can’t we have haroset more than once a year? It tastes so good.”
Father beamed with pride. “So many good questions. Now listen carefully while I tell you a story that answers them.”
He proceeded to recount the history of the Exodus from Egypt, emphasizing how Elohim commanded us to commemorate our freedom from slavery by slaughtering a yearling kid at twilight on this day. “We mark our doorposts with its blood to protect us from evil spirits, as our ancestors marked theirs so the tenth plague would kill only the Egyptian firstborn,” he explained solemnly.
Yenuka interjected, “So we can drink as much wine as we like without worrying about whether we’ve had an even or odd number of cups.” I knew that drinking pairs left a person vulnerable to demonic attack, but the younger children might not.
Father ignored my brother’s irreverent interruption. “We are further commanded to eat the meat roasted, not cooked in water, along with unleavened bread and bitter herbs, the latter dipped in salt water because the Egyptians embittered our ancestors’ lives as slaves in Egypt.” He gestured toward the staffs leaning against the wall. “And to remind us of how hurriedly they fled, Elohim commanded us to eat quickly, with sandals on our feet and staffs in our hands.”
“However, for safety’s sake we keep our staffs at hand instead,” Grandfather said. It had happened before I was born, but he’d told me about the debacle that ensued when Father allowed my brothers to each have his own staff at the meal.
Mother held up the haroset. “We serve haroset only on Pesach so you’ll look forward to eating it, and then appreciate it all the more.”
“But why do we all throw the matzah at one another?” my
eldest niece, Guria, asked. “That isn’t in the Torah.”
“But the Torah does say: ‘When your children ask you about this ritual, you shall tell them it is because Elohim passed over the Israelites’ dwellings when He smote the Egyptians, but saved ours,’” Father replied. “Thus we do many odd things tonight to encourage children to ask questions.”
The slaves were quick to serve the roasted kid and the rest of the festival meal when Father completed his narrative. “Our Sages teach that because reclining while eating is the sign of a free man, we are all required to recline tonight, at a minimum while eating an olive’s worth of matzah.”
As always, this was when Timonus would ask, “Even a slave in the presence of his master and a woman in the presence of her husband?”
And Father would answer, “Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi teaches that both slaves and women are required to recline, at least for the time it takes to eat their matzah.”
This was the signal for our slaves to sit down for a little while to eat, even the laundresses and others who weren’t normally involved in serving meals. As Zahra ate her portion, she whispered how grateful Father’s slaves were that they weren’t making bricks in Egypt instead.
The younger children went to bed when we began singing the psalms that made up Hallel, and nearly all were asleep when the last verse was sung. I was determined to stay awake long enough to hear the men discuss some of the laws of Pesach, even if I wouldn’t be able to last until they finished after midnight.
Rahel had her baby two days later, and it was indeed a boy. A week after that, I was awake every time he cried during the night, not because he was particularly noisy, but because I was so excited about starting my amulet education in the morning. I immediately found that my schedule at Kimchit’s would be quite erratic. Though we might inscribe Rahel’s bowls anytime except on Shabbat, there were strict rules about when amulets could be written.
