by Maggie Anton
“He thought the Mishna referred to a case where the animal’s owner benefits and the food owner loses, while in our case the squatter benefits but the property owner loses nothing.”
“But the Mishna does apply, for anyone who drops food on the road has surely abandoned it,” I insisted. “So he loses nothing when an animal eats it.”
Rami stifled a yawn. “It wasn’t that simple. After a long discussion, with several conflicting Baraitot and other cases where no one loses, the Sages couldn’t agree whether the one who benefits must pay or not. It depends on the situation.”
“Considering all that you have benefited, and all that Abba has lost,” I whispered when I got up to nurse Chama before going to sleep, “you should try not to let him upset you so much.”
Rami had a question for me. “I’ve been meaning to ask you this for some time,” he began, and then cleared his throat. “When your father asked you whether you wanted to marry me or Abba, why did you say both?”
I hesitated as well, for I hadn’t thought about it in years. Yet the shame I felt at recalling all the fuss my family had made over my strange reply was as strong as ever. Evidently I’d found something attractive in each of them at the time, although the nasty way Abba had been acting recently, I couldn’t imagine what I’d seen in him.
I didn’t want to say anything to hurt my husband’s feelings. “I don’t remember,” I lied. “It was a long time ago.”
“You know Mishna that you learned back then. Can’t you try to remember?”
The urgency in his voice meant I had to find an answer for him. “I couldn’t understand why Father was giving me a choice. I thought it was all arranged for me to marry you.” I tried to think like a scholar. “He must have had an offer from Rav Joseph, Abba’s father, and didn’t want to insult him. But I didn’t want to shame either of you, especially in front of the other students, so I forced Father to make the decision I knew he had already made.” While this was certainly true, it was by no means the entire explanation.
Before Rami could challenge me by asking how a mere child could figure out such a complex response, I asked, “What did you think when I said both?”
“I was terrified. I too thought the match was already made, and I couldn’t understand why Rav Hisda had changed his mind,” he said. “You can’t imagine my relief when Abba gave you up.”
“But he only said that you could have me first.”
“And I intend to live a long, fruitful life, Dodi.” He yawned widely. “I suppose I might be generous and let Abba have you when he’s eighty.”
I continued to nurse Chama in silence. As far as I was concerned, I would have to be old and very senile before I agreed to marry Abba bar Joseph.
For the next six months, Rami did not complain even once about Abba bothering him. Yet each Shabbat that Abba spent in Sura, it became clearer that his wife, Choran, was barren. Achti suffered another miscarriage just after Yom Kippur, after which Pushbi told Rami that she was gifting him with her entire estate at her death.
But these things barely penetrated the circle that surrounded Rami, me, and Chama. Our son’s every new development fascinated and reassured me: I watched as he sat up, crawled, and explored our home. I would never tell anyone, but it filled me with a selfish pride that, although we bought a slave to care for him, Chama preferred my company to anyone else’s.
By Chama’s second Pesach, he and Yehezkel looked like brothers and acted like them. Each would search for the other if he couldn’t see him, and despite my preference that Chama continue to sleep with me and Rami, the two boys made such a fuss if they couldn’t sleep together that I gave in and allowed Chama to share a bed with Yehezkel and their nurses.
Rami certainly enjoyed having me to himself at night, and after a while, I had to admit that I appreciated the freedom that came from using the bed without fear of interruption.
Chama and Yehezkel looked similar, but their personalities were not. Yehezkel was timid and easily frightened, while Chama, oblivious to danger, was eager to investigate everything. Chama insisted on tasting anything that he saw others eating, but Yehezkel ate only a few favorite foods, and he had to be coaxed to try something different.
Pushbi seldom saw the children now, partly because she spent most of the day sleeping, but mostly because they would not stay still for her to hold. Each day she seemed more in the next world than in this one, and occasionally she talked with her deceased husband as if he were in the room with her.
So it was no surprise when she did not wake up from one of her frequent naps. Thankfully, her funeral was uneventful. Tachlifa’s rumors had proved correct, and now that Shapur’s youngest son, Narseh, had deposed Bahram III, the Magi in Sura were more focused on which faction would take power than on preventing Jewish corpses from polluting the pure earth.
Apparently this was the case in Pumbedita, for Abaye told a bizarre tale when he came to our home to console Ukva and Rami.
“Last year, after Rav Tuvi bar Masna died, a magus came to exhume his corpse,” Abaye began. “But while he was doing so, Rav Tuvi reached up from the grave and grabbed hold of his beard.”
Ukva’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “He’d been buried alive?”
“Rav Tuvi was certainly dead.” Abaye shuddered at the memory. “It was his corpse that seized the magus and wouldn’t let go.”
Rami’s eyes opened wide. “Then what happened?”
“I heard the magus calling for help, so I ran to the grave and persuaded Rav Tuvi to release him,” Abaye said. “But the magus returned a few months later, and Rav Tuvi, his body even further decomposed than before, grasped his beard again.”
I gasped at how hideous the scene must have looked.
“So the magus needed your help again,” Ukva said.
Abaye nodded. “I pleaded for Rav Tuvi to let go, but to no avail. Nothing I said would persuade the corpse to free the magus this time, so I finally had to fetch some scissors and cut off his beard.”
Despite the sad occasion, it was all I could do not to giggle at the thought of that magus without his beard.
“Did Rav Tuvi’s corpse finally rest in peace?” Rami asked.
“I hope so,” Abaye replied. “For nobody asked me to aid any Magi in the cemetery after that.”
“So King Narseh has the Magi under his control,” Ukva said.
“Thank Heaven,” I said, recalling all the trouble we endured to bury my grandfather.
After the first thirty days of mourning were over, Rami brought me Pushbi’s jewelry case and asked me to wear a piece from it as a memorial to her.
But when I came down to the evening meal, Achti scowled. “Who gave you permission to wear Pushbi’s necklace?”
I looked helplessly at Rami, who said, “Mother gave me all her possessions before she died.”
Ukva stood up and took a step toward Rami. “But Mother gave them all to me.”
It didn’t take long to discover that she had gifted her things to Rami only a few days before she changed her mind and gifted them to Ukva.
“I’m asking Rav Sheshet for a ruling on which of us is entitled to Mother’s property,” Rami announced.
“And I’m going to ask Rav Nachman,” Ukva retorted.
I was thankful that neither was going to Father.
Rami and Ukva continued to argue until Yehezkel’s and Chama’s bawling drowned out the men’s angry voices. Achti and I looked at each other in dismay as we tried to comfort the boys. Already I had decided that, for the sake of peace in the house, I would share Pushbi’s jewelry and clothes with my sister if Rami’s case prevailed. And should Ukva win, I would be content for Achti to keep them.
When our husbands had gone to present their cases to their respective judges, I told Achti as much. “I don’t want all her things after what I did to her.”
“Don’t feel guilty,” Achti insisted. “It was my idea, remember, and it’s not as though we injured Pushbi in any way or caused her pain.”
Achti’s expression hardened. “Leave it to that old kashafa to make trouble for us even after she died.”
I considered saying that Achti might be able to bear a child now that Pushbi was dead, but thought the better of it. “Would you like to go through her jewelry and see what you want?”
Achti jumped at the opportunity, and we quickly distributed the contents between us. None of Pushbi’s jewels were as fine as Mother’s, but I took a few items.
“Do you want any of her clothes?” I didn’t. My trousseau was practically new and just the thought of wearing Pushbi’s clothing made my skin crawl.
Achti shuddered. “Heavens, no! Give everything except her silks to the slaves. We can save those for the boys.”
But it wasn’t so simple to divide the rest of her things, because Rav Sheshet confirmed that Pushbi’s possessions belonged to Rami, while Rav Nachman ruled that they were Ukva’s.
“So Rav Sheshet went to Rav Nachman to discuss the matter,” Rami told me the night that he and Ukva returned.
“What did they say?”
“Rav Sheshet insisted that a person cannot retract a deathbed gift,” Rami said. “Only an ill person who recovers can retract.”
“Certainly your mother died of her illness,” I agreed.
“However, Rav Nachman quoted Shmuel as teaching that an ill person may renege on his gift whether he recovers or not,” he continued. “After which Rav Sheshet objected that Shmuel was discussing a case where the ill person reneged in order to regain his property for himself.”
Thus far both arguments sounded reasonable to me. “What did Rav Nachman say to that?”
“He insisted that Shmuel taught that an ill person may retract his gift, either for himself or for another.”
I squeezed Rami’s hand sympathetically. “So all your mother’s property goes to Ukva.”
Rami shrugged. “I still have an inheritance from my father. And Ukva will allow us to live here rent-free as before.”
Let Ukva receive Pushbi’s possessions, I thought. Let it be a consolation for Rami having a son while Ukva doesn’t. And let it be a just penalty for my part in cursing her.
When Rosh Hashana passed without Achti conceiving, I had to accept that Pushbi’s curse, if any, had not died with her. Rami confided that he preferred a son to his mother’s property any day. And when Abba’s wife still remained barren two years after their wedding, Rami told me proudly that he no longer allowed Abba’s sarcasm or criticism to upset him.
It was not long after the students returned from celebrating Hanukah that Rami bounded into the house, grabbed Chama, and tossed him into the air. Chama squealed with delight and held out his arms for more, but when Rami offered Yehezkel a turn, the boy hid in Achti’s tunic.
“What makes you so joyful?” I asked Rami when he went back to playing with Chama.
“Abba insulted me today with his favorite expression about my quick mind, and I not only hid my annoyance but I calmly refuted his argument.”
“Tell me,” I urged him. “Tell me all about it.”
“We were discussing a Mishna in the eighth chapter of Bava Batra,” he began. “The one that teaches: ‘Whoever takes precedence in inheritance, his descendants take precedence, and a father takes precedence over all of his descendants.’”
Achti and Ukva looked up with interest. The Mishna’s rules of inheritance applied to every Jew.
“So I asked about someone survived by his father’s father and his father’s brother, such as Abraham and Yishmael with Isaac’s son Esau’s estate.” Rami turned to us and asked, “Who inherits?”
I smiled inwardly at how Rami had cleverly used the names of the first Hebrew family mentioned in scripture as examples: our patriarch Abraham, his son Isaac, and Isaac’s twin sons, Jacob and Esau. It was easier to grasp the relationship between the potential heirs this way.
“Since the father takes precedence, then surely the father’s father does too,” Ukva said.
“You’re right. And that’s when Abba made his snide remark,” Rami said. “But actually my mind was too quick, because what I wanted to ask was about a man without children who is survived by his father’s father and his own brother, like Esau’s estate but with Abraham and Jacob instead.”
“What did Abba say to that?” I asked.
“He quoted the Mishna just as I did, to prove that Abraham would inherit rather than Jacob.” Rami smiled proudly. “But I argued that the Mishna means that a father inherits before his other children, but not if his son has children.”
“I don’t understand,” said Achti.
“Let’s go back to Esau’s estate,” Rami said. “If his father, Isaac, were alive, certainly Isaac would inherit, and not his grandfather Abraham. But if Isaac is no longer alive, his other son, Jacob, inherits.”
“If all the man’s own offspring are dead, we go back a generation to his father, and if he’s dead, we look for the father’s descendants?” I suggested.
Rami nodded. “We only look to the grandfather and his descendants if the father himself has none.”
Ukva summed it up for Achti. “A man’s primary heirs are his sons and grandsons, followed by his daughters and their children if he has no sons, and his father if he has no descendants at all.” Ukva waited for her questions, but she had none. “Then come the man’s brothers and their children, or his sisters and hers, and finally the father’s father and his descendants.”
Achti and I exchanged glances. No wonder Mother had arranged for us to receive Grandfather’s property. With seven brothers, all of whom have children, neither of us would ever inherit from our parents. We wouldn’t inherit from our husbands or sons either. According to Jewish Law, wives and mothers didn’t appear anywhere in the chain of inheritance.
By Shavuot I had woven a sufficient number of thin, brightly colored silk ribbons that Achti was able to trade for nearly all of the produce we needed.
“I had no idea they were so valuable,” I said.
“Everyone wants them for Tiragan, so the price rises this time of year,” Achti explained.
“Maybe I should stop weaving the thicker ones altogether. Then we’d have plenty for Tiragan.”
“Speaking of Tiragan…” Achti cleared her throat before addressing me again. “Zahra suggested taking the boys to celebrate the festival this year. She says they’re old enough to enjoy it.”
This seemingly innocent request left me speechless. It was one thing for Zahra to take a Jewish slave boy to play in the water and wave ribbons on a Persian holiday, even if he didn’t wear a slave collar. But how could Achti imagine that I would allow Chama, son of a rabbi and grandson of a judge on Sura’s beit din, to join them in this idolatrous practice?
Achti was prepared for my objections. “We won’t be worshipping any idols. In truth, there are no foreign gods involved at all.”
“So what is involved, then?” I asked acerbically.
“Just some splashing around at the shallow edges of the canals.” Achti was trying to sound casual, but there was an edge of pressure to her voice. “And when the wind blows, we untie our ribbon bracelets and let them float into the sky.”
“Tiragan is one of my fondest memories from childhood,” Zahra added. “Even the Jewish family who used to own me celebrated it with their children.”
“Just come with us and watch,” Achti urged me. “You know that Chama will be upset if he has to stay home while Yehezkel goes.”
That was true. And perhaps I’d been too hasty in judging Tiragan to be idolatry. I felt my opposition melting when faced with my son’s unhappiness. “We’ll go with you, then,” I said reluctantly. “But I’m only going to watch and make sure Chama isn’t hurt.”
As it turned out, I had to do more than watch to prevent Chama from injury. As I anticipated, my son loved playing in the water with all the other children. But I did not anticipate th
at there would be so many of them, most of whom were older and bigger. Yehezkel remained timidly at the canal’s edge, but Chama eagerly ran to imitate his elders, who were shrieking with glee as they ran through the shallows, the ribbons at their wrists flying behind as they splashed everyone they passed.
My son had no fear of the deeper water, and I had no choice but to chase after him and pick him up whenever he ventured in too far. Soon my tunic was dripping wet, though between the wind and heat, it didn’t take long to dry. The weather was hotter than usual for this time of year, which made the cool water all the more refreshing.
Against my better judgment, I found myself enjoying the festival. Yehezkel eventually joined in, and the sun was high when we were finally able to coax the boys from the water to eat our midday picnic. After that it was back in the canal for a short time to cool off before we finally untied their ribbons and let them flutter away in the breeze. I feared that Chama might cry at having to leave, but he was so tired that he lifted up his arms to be carried and was asleep against my shoulder before we’d walked ten cubits.
I had to admit that Achti was right—nothing about Tiragan involved worshipping foreign gods. Yet when Achti didn’t mention Tiragan to Ukva at the evening meal, I said nothing to Rami either.
Rami had no trouble with Abba in class all summer. When the students returned after going home for Sukkot, however, Rami reported that Abba was suddenly worse than ever.
“I don’t understand why he does it.” Rami shook his head sadly as we got into bed. “He not only taunts me but today he also tried to shame your brother Nachman.”
“First tell me what he said to you.”
“It was early in the week, when we were discussing the first Mishna in the ninth chapter of Tractate Eruvin,” he replied, “about whether a person may carry something from one roof to another if the first roof is over a house and the second over a walkway.”
“It sounds like a complicated debate.” Tractate Eruvin was full of intricate rules concerning how people could arrange to carry things from one domain to another on Shabbat. I hoped Rami wouldn’t go into details about the argument; I was too tired to think about such complexities and still wanted to hear about my brother.
