by Maggie Anton
We chuckled at our simultaneous questions. “His wife is niddah and he knew Father was due back today,” I murmured.
“Can you believe it? The exilarch came for the wedding and most of the banquets.” There was awe in Rami’s voice. “Naturally your parents couldn’t leave until he did.”
I wasn’t quite so amazed that the exilarch had attended my brother’s wedding. After all, his winter palace was in Kafri and Mother was his cousin. “And you couldn’t wait until he was gone,” I said with a grin. I was so happy Rami was back.
His expression darkened. “If I had known Abba was here, I would have taken an earlier boat even if it meant traveling alone.”
Rami’s stomach grumbled and I led him to the traklin, where slaves waited to serve the food. “Tell me about the wedding while you eat.”
“Just let me look at you, Dodi,” he said between bites. “There are two hungers I’m eager to satisfy, and the sooner the first is sated, the sooner we can attend to the second.”
The desire in his eyes was enough to kindle a matching fire in me. My sisters-in-law had warned me that pregnancy sometimes makes a woman repulsive to her husband, and he to her, but this was not the case with us. I reached down and stroked Rami’s thigh so he’d know I was eager too.
The next morning all the women could talk about was Keshisha’s wedding.
Shayla blew on her porridge to cool it. “Poor Mother, imagine her shock when we learned that the exilarch was coming.”
Mariamme groaned. “The merchants charged us double for the extra food and wine we needed at the last moment.”
Since everyone recommended them for pregnant women, I helped myself to a handful of dates and dried figs. “It must have been quite an honor for Yenuka.”
Pazi nodded. “And for Guria. All her life she’ll enjoy the distinction of having had the exilarch at her wedding.”
I lowered my voice. “So how was the wedding night?”
Pazi winked at me. “No complaints that I’m aware of.”
Rahel sniffed the porridge before swallowing a mouthful. “It’s not as though your little brother was inexperienced.”
I turned to Achti. “Did he ask about Zahra and the baby or has he forgotten about her?”
“He didn’t mention her,” Achti said. “So I didn’t either.”
Mostly relieved at this, but also a little annoyed, I asked, “How did Keshisha get along with Father?”
“Fine, by all appearances,” Shayla said. “Devora told me that he’d reformed completely since last spring.”
“Hanan said that once Keshisha didn’t have to study anymore and could concentrate on brewing beer…” Mariamme lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Once he didn’t have Father to rebel against, he settled down nicely.”
So much for Keshisha’s great affection for my maidservant, I thought with disgust. I was suddenly less interested in what jewels and silks the wedding guests wore and turned my attention to what the men were saying.
They were deep in discussions of whether the Magi would stop bothering the Jews now that the high priest Kartir was dying or might be bribed to do so. Rami caught my eye, and when I gestured that he should join me, he sat down beside me.
“I have to tell you about an incident with Rav Huna, Rav Hisda, and the exilarch,” he whispered.
I leaned closer to hear better.
“When Guria entered with a crown of flowers on her head, while Keshisha was bareheaded, the exilarch asked Rav Huna why the groom didn’t also wear a crown.”
“And what did he say?”
“Rav Huna answered that it’s in the Mishna, that when the Temple was destroyed, the Rabbis prohibited crowns on bridegrooms.”
Familiar with that Mishna from Tractate Gittin, I nodded.
Rami’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Then when Rav Huna left to use the privy, your father told the exilarch that there was a Torah verse to support the ban, from Ezekiel,” he said. “Thus says Adonai Elohim: Remove the miter and take off the crown.”
“What?” I had never heard this.
“Your father explained that the verse taught that when the high priest wears the miter any man may wear a crown. But when the high priest’s miter is removed, then no man may wear one.”
My eyes widened in astonishment. Though Father had been the exilarch’s teacher in Kafri, it was audacious of him to imply, to the exilarch’s face, that kings shouldn’t have a crown until the Temple was rebuilt and priests regained their authority. Yet to publicly disagree with one’s own teacher was worse.
“Father actually contradicted Rav Huna?” I asked.
“He did,” Rami replied. “When Rav Huna heard what your father had said, he turned red and told the exilarch, ‘Ha-Elohim, it is a rabbinic decree.’ Then he admonished your father by saying, ‘As Hisda is your name, so your words are hisdain.”
“Amiable? You’re sure Rav Huna was being sarcastic?” True that Rav Huna and Father were more rivals than friends, but even so, they must have consumed a great deal of wine to have displayed their animosity so openly.
Rami’s slave poured him a cup of ispargus, the fermented vegetable drink that was therapeutic first thing in the morning. “Absolutely. His eyes were shooting arrows at Rav Hisda.”
I thought ispargus stank worse than flax water, so I waved the slave away. But he gave me some nevertheless. “What about the exilarch? Was he upset with Father?”
Rami shook his head. “I don’t think he understood the subtlety of your father’s amiable words.” Rami emphasized the word “amiable.”
“What could have made Father so irritable?”
“I didn’t hear the argument, but your brothers were talking about it,” Rami said. “Rav Hisda must have expected Keshisha to beg for forgiveness and promise to return to his studies.”
“Father probably wasn’t happy about Yenuka offering him refuge either.”
Father definitely wasn’t happy about something, although I couldn’t tell whether it was Grandfather’s death, disappointment with Keshisha, or perhaps even anxiety over my impending childbirth. He no longer smiled during lessons, his answers to the students’ questions were short and curt, and even his small grandchildren’s antics didn’t make him laugh.
I had decided that he must still be upset with Keshisha, when he announced to the class that he had an important question for them, probably the most important question of all. “Why study Torah?” he asked simply. “Other than to qualify for employment from the exilarch as a judge or market inspector.”
We all looked at him dumbfounded. Each of us, even me, had grown up with Torah study as the highest virtue. It was a rabbi’s very purpose. How could Father ask such a question, even if his youngest son had preferred beer making to scholarship?
As the silence continued, Father added, “There is no right or wrong answer, but I hope each of you will give me your thoughts on the subject.”
My pious brother Mari began by quoting Mishna from Pirkei Avot. “One who studies Torah for its own sake, he is deserving of the whole world and is beloved of Elohim.”
This encouraged Abaye to also quote Pirkei Avot. “Great is Torah study, for it gives life both in this world and in the world to come,” he declared fervently. “Torah learning is greater than priesthood or kingship.”
Zeira chose to quote from a Mishna in Tractate Kiddushin: “The one who knows scripture and Mishna will not easily fall into sin,” he said solemnly, and the other students nodded vigorously.
I would have thought that these were more than sufficient incentives to study Torah, but now it was becoming a competition to find even more. I was thankful that, judging by the enthusiasm on the students’ faces, the contest would be a friendly one.
“Rav taught that Torah study is better than rebuilding the Temple,” Rabbah bar Huna said. This was followed by a smattering of applause, and Rabbah bowed in appreciation.
Nachman replied next, “The Holy One Himself told King David that a single day devoted to T
orah study was better than a thousand Temple sacrifices.” This prompted more applause.
“It is taught in a Baraita that the study of Torah is more important than performing mitzvot,” Rami said. “Plus we have a Mishna from Tractate Peah that teaches, ‘These are the things whose fruits are enjoyed in this world while the capital remains for him in the world to come—honoring one’s father and mother, performing acts of kindness, and making peace between a man and his fellow—but the study of Torah is equal to them all.’” He paused and added, “For it leads to them all.” His two sources brought forth a few cheers from his increasingly excited classmates.
Abba had to have the last word. But first he glanced at me and nodded almost imperceptibly. “We learn from another Baraita that the verse from Proverbs ‘A mitzvah is a lamp and the Torah is light’ means that just as a lamp burns only for a limited time, so fulfilling a mitzvah protects from sin only temporarily. But light itself, created by Elohim, is eternal, and so too Torah study protects forever.”
As the other students shouted their approval, I marveled at the surprise Abba had given me. Not only had he recalled our discussion of women’s merit from studying Torah, but he had also supported Rami’s statement that it was better to study Torah than to perform mitzvot.
Father sighed and held up his hand for silence. “Pleasing Elohim, long life, protection from sin, the greatness of Torah—these are all very good reasons to study Torah,” he said. “But they are all statements of our Sages, who became rabbis precisely because they already accepted the preeminence of Torah study.”
I had never spoken in class before, but I thought I knew what Father was looking for. So I raised my hand tentatively and waited to see if he would allow me to speak.
The other students were taken aback when he called on me, but I was ready. I stood up and quoted from the Torah itself. “Elohim commanded us to ‘Teach these words diligently to your children, recite them when you sit in your house and when you walk on the road, when you lie down and when you rise up…that your days and the days of your children may increase.’” I paused before concluding, “We study Torah because Elohim commanded us to.”
Rami, Abba, and my brothers applauded gingerly, but the others just gaped at me. Father, however, smiled and walked over to throw his arm around me. “Though she is not so commanded, my daughter speaks well.”
One might think that Purim, the holiday that commemorated how Esther saved Persian Jewry, and was honored with a book of scripture named after her, would be a favorite among Babylonian Jewish women. The mitzvot of Purim included giving gifts of food to the poor and publicly reading the Megillah, the book of Esther. Both of these involved women, but it was the men who usually celebrated excessively.
Women performed the gift giving, although for rabbinic families in Sura the custom was to send gifts only to the small minority of similar households and to give alms to the poor am-ha’aretz. True, everyone, including children, listened to the Megillah reading and feasted afterward. However, the little ones were quickly sent to bed, after which the men seemingly vied to see who could drink himself into a stupor the fastest. At least that’s what Mother told me when she encouraged me to leave shortly after the banquet.
When the midday meal was served the next day, the men in my family were still, along with Father’s students, sleeping off their drunken revelry. My sisters-in-law grumbled about their husbands’ juvenile behavior and refused to show them any sympathy. But I had heard these complaints for years and knew they were as much a part of celebrating Purim as the men’s overindulgence and the vats of ispargus they later drank to remedy their inevitable headaches.
Though I hadn’t eaten much the evening before, I had little appetite for the light fare Cook prepared. I was still at my table when I felt the first pain. It was stronger than I expected, since everyone said early labor was usually mild compared to what came later. The next pain was so sharp that I grabbed my belly and yelped, causing every face in the room to turn in my direction.
Shayla stood up and said calmly, “It’s about time, Dada. Let’s get you upstairs where I can examine you.”
Never having suffered a severe injury, I had no idea how to judge my level of discomfort. I just knew the contractions were too painful for me to walk unaided. Rahel held my arm as we followed Shayla and Mother to the small room where women slept when they were niddah. My sisters-in-law were right behind us, and Tazi pulled the doorway curtain closed behind her.
My labor pangs soon became so agonizing that I couldn’t imagine how women endured them. I moaned and cried as Shayla examined me, feeling both shame at how I was unable to bear what other mothers managed to tolerate and terror at knowing that what I already considered torture was only going to get worse.
“Ha-Elohim!” Shayla exclaimed in astonishment. “Her womb is fully open already. I can feel the head.”
Mother’s fingers confirmed Shayla’s opinion. “I can hardly believe it, but this baby will likely be born within the hour.”
The women sprang into action, helping me out of my clothes and into the bed. After that I had no notion of what else they were doing to prepare for the impending birth. My eyes were clenched shut as I lay there dreading the next cramp’s onset. I tried to concentrate on the psalms they chanted, but it was no use. Time lost meaning as my anguish increased when one contraction lengthened into the next.
“Make it stop, Mother!” I screamed. “Make it stop!”
Suddenly I felt, beyond the pain, an overwhelming need to push. Shayla, recognizing that something had changed, encouraged me to start pushing. I bore down with a strength that seemed to come from outside me, not that I could have resisted that instinctive urge.
Mother’s soothing voice penetrated the cloud of agony. “It will be over very soon, Daughter. Just a little longer.”
Women on either side held my hands and supported my back, while I surrendered and let my body push of its own volition. I could feel the sweat pouring down me, when abruptly I was seized with such torment that all the previous pain seemed as naught, and I was sure my pelvic bones were breaking. Shrieks tore from my throat until the torture abruptly ceased.
“The head is out,” Shayla called to me. “One more push for the body, not so forceful as the others, and then a little one for the placenta.”
I thought I was pushing with less force, but the baby shot from my body into Shayla’s capable hands. “A boy!” she yelled.
The other women promptly took up the delighted cry. As eager as I was to see my son, I could only sink back in exhaustion as the placenta was delivered. Cool cloths wiped my forehead and soft voices congratulated me on the swiftness of my labor and how bravely I’d endured it. I was assured the next one would be easier.
“My husband.” I opened my eyes wide when I remembered Rami. “Where is Rami? Has anyone told him?”
Mother chuckled. “I believe he and the others are still asleep. Although at times I thought your screams might wake the dead.”
My screams had woken someone, because I could hear male voices outside, voices that quickly changed from worried to celebratory. A small squirming bundle was placed in my arms, and Mother helped me maneuver my nipple into the tiny mouth barely visible through an opening in the swaddling.
It took some time until the baby figured out what to do, but I was soon filled with a sense of love and contentment that somehow eclipsed the pain I’d suffered earlier. My son, I thought, gazing in awe at the small shock of dark hair. My son.
Rami told me later that both the baby and I were asleep when he’d finally been allowed to see us. By that time, despite my usually excellent memory, I was completely unable to recall the severity of my labor pains.
Eight days later, Father hosted yet another banquet, this time for my son’s circumcision. Pushbi’s litter arrived late, just in time for her to learn that we had named the baby Chama, after Rami’s father. Being from a priestly family, baby Chama did not need to be redeemed at thirty days, but Pus
hbi would tolerate no risk to her first grandson and insisted that we stay out the month with Father. She would have plenty of time to enjoy Chama after Pesach.
To avoid provoking the Evil Eye, I said nothing, but I was convinced that Chama was the perfect baby. He had no difficulty nursing, seldom cried, and when he woke during the night, he went back to sleep almost immediately after eating. Rami seemed equally delighted with the child and would have taken him to class if it hadn’t so visibly disturbed Abba. Not that Rami cared if Chama’s presence made Abba jealous, but Father quietly suggested that it was cruel to flaunt the boy before a man whose wife was still barren.
Once Chama entered the covenant at his brit milah, he and I were supposed to be safe from the various liliths and ruchim that preyed on newborns and their mothers. But that didn’t stop me from worrying about him. Not a nap went by during which I didn’t check several times to make sure he was still breathing, and every time he spit up, I was terrified that this was the first symptom of the plague. As I was still bleeding, I refrained from writing any amulets or kasa d’charasha, which left me little to do while Chama napped, except weave silk.
Thus Tazi and Pazi were my usual companions, and I came to realize that their husbands, Samuel and my brother Tachlifa, had not returned to Sura as expected from their most recent business trip. Even before I married Rami, I was ignorant of Tachlifa’s travels. I knew only that he was a merchant who journeyed to distant lands, not when he was due to leave or arrive.
As the first Pesach meal drew closer, the twins’ anxiety became evident. They made mistakes in their weaving, and in the middle of a conversation would stare off into space, and tears would suddenly fill their eyes.
It was only when Tazi started crying while we were strolling through the garden that I could no longer keep silent. I shifted Chama to my shoulder so I could put my arm around her. “What is the matter with you two?”
Pazi wiped her eyes and tried to talk, but she could only get a few words out at a time. “Tachlifa and Samuel…were due to…be home…by Purim…but now it’s…almost Pesach.”
