by Angela Hunt
By the time the scuffle was over, Jael lay mortally wounded in the dirt, and our Father stood upright, the dagger still in his trembling hand.
The king’s men spun into action. The first man came toward Father, his lips bared like a snarling dog’s. “You will surely die for your obstinacy, priest.” He must have thought he could easily handle a thin old man, but Father was stronger than he looked. When the first man lifted his hands to attack, Father cut his throat, then whirled and used the knife handle to knock the second man to the ground with a sharp rap to the temple. As the second man groaned and attempted to rise, Father cut his throat, spilling blood on the thirsty ground. The third emissary fumbled at his waist for a sword belt he had neglected to wear, then ran for the horses.
My brothers and I reacted in concert, for we knew the man could not leave the village alive. He would run straight to the governor, and soldiers would invade our village within hours, intent on burning our homes and slaughtering our people.
We surrounded the remaining envoy before he could mount a horse, then I took one arm and Eleazar the other. The man’s panicked gaze slid over each of us. He bent forward, seeming to melt under our combined stares, and closed his eyes as Father lacerated his throat, then fell forward onto Simon, who caught the dying man and gently lowered him to the ground.
The villagers watched in stunned silence as Father backed away. Before the wide eyes of his neighbors, his bony shoulders braced and broadened as he accepted the consequences of his actions. “We will not stand and wait for the king’s men to arrest us,” Father said, his eyes snapping at the center of his blood-splashed visage. “If any of you wish to serve this Gentile king and his false god, you are welcome to leave Modein. This village shall remain holy to HaShem.”
My pulse pounded as the people of Modein stared at the carnage and allowed Father’s words to sink into their hearts. Then Uncle Ehud shouted and ran toward the well, leaving his family in his mad rush toward the makeshift altar.
For an instant I feared he would attack my father, but he threw his energy into dismantling the pile of rocks. Other men joined him, their callused hands lifting the stacked stones and hurling them into the clearing until nothing remained of the heathen altar but dust and a dead dove.
“Let the king send others,” Ehud said, passion sparking in his eyes, “and we will do the same to them.”
My brothers and I stood motionless, not knowing what we should do next. Should we bury the bodies? Tie them to their horses and send them away?
Father read the questions on our faces. “Leave them where they fell,” he said. “Those who come searching will read the scene and understand what happened here. They will learn that the people of Modein will not sacrifice to a false god, nor will we obey a king who would force us to ignore the Law of Moses.”
Simon raked his hand through his hair. “But Father, when they find these men, they will also find us—”
Father showed his teeth in an expression that was not a smile. “They will not. Go home, all of you, pack your possessions and load the wagons.”
“Where are we going?” Mother asked, appearing as surprised as everyone else.
“The wilderness.” Father reached for her hand and twined his fingers through hers. “We knew this day would come. There is a time for everything, and this is the time for leaving. At sunset we will meet to discuss our departure.”
As he led Mother away, Father raised his free arm and shouted in triumph. As one, my brothers and I responded in kind, and so did the other men of Modein.
Not until much later did I realize that our women had remained wide-eyed and silent.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Leah
When the unthinkable happened, I did not wonder whether Mattathias was right or wrong to kill the king’s men. I did not think at all. I simply sat on my bench and stared as wave after wave of shock slapped at me.
But as the blood of four men seeped into the dirt, I knew my father-in-law’s actions had forever changed our lives. When the king heard about this, he would seek revenge. He would publicly punish us to demonstrate the high cost of rebellion. We might run, but we could never be anonymous. Everyone knew Mattathias, the priest with five sons, and soon everyone would know what he had done in Modein.
We might run, but we would never be able to hide.
The king would send his men, and next time they would not come with turtledoves and wearing fancy clothes, but with swords and armor. They would not ask us to comply; they would kill us without discussion. They would execute not only the priest, but anyone affiliated with the village of Modein.
The pleasant, safe life I had enjoyed since my marriage was over.
With the other women, I walked home without speaking. Morit walked with me, her hand never leaving the mound of her pregnant belly. Even if by some miracle she survived whatever the king had in store for our family, the king’s edict would forbid her to circumcise her son. But how could she refuse circumcision when she was Mattathias’s daughter-in-law? She would take a knife in her hand and do it. The king’s men would find her and they would kill her and her baby, probably in full view of everyone.
Overcome by a wave of gratitude because Judah and I had not yet conceived a child, I went weak-kneed and nearly stumbled.
Ona caught my arm. “Are you all right?”
I blinked at her. “Are you?”
“Perhaps . . . perhaps things are not as bad as we think they are.”
I glanced at Morit, who kept her head low, then looked back at Ona. “What are your thoughts?”
“I’m thinking”—she lowered her voice—“that I will have to leave our home and my flax field, that we will wander like the Israelites of old, and I will not be able to take my loom.”
“And you think that is not so bad?”
“Alive is always better than dead.”
I swallowed and looked back at the village center, empty now but for the four dead men, three horses, and Jael’s wife, who wept over his body.
“I am sure we will all make sacrifices,” I answered, thinking of the dusty soil I had hoed and the many buckets of milk I had carried from the goat pen. “But will we be safe? We are a small group of people, and the king has an army—”
“Mattathias is an old man.” Neta stepped closer and cut into the conversation. “If he is captured and executed by the king’s men, then he is reaping what he has sown. He has already lived a full life and sired five sons. He may choose to sacrifice his life, but we do not have to be captured with him. Our husbands do not have to fight for him.”
I winced, taken aback by her attitude. “I—I am not sure I agree with what he did here today, but I would never wish him ill.”
“I do not wish him dead.” Neta shrugged. “But sometimes the old are inflexible and unable to change their ways. Did you hear about Eliezer of Jerusalem?”
Morit, Ona, and I shook our heads.
“The old man was a scribe,” Neta said, speaking quietly. “Some of the king’s officials invited him to a feast. They served meat from the sacrifice offered to the king, and Eliezer took a bite and spat it out when he learned he was eating swine’s flesh. The king’s men took note of it and were eager to punish him, but other Jews took Eliezer aside and begged him to get some lawful meat and eat it, pretending that he was eating from the king’s sacrifice. If he would do so, the king’s men could not accuse him.”
“Good advice,” I said, considering. “He could maintain his conscience and save his life.”
“Yet some people cannot recognize good counsel.” Neta frowned. “Eliezer considered their words, measured them against the Law of Moses, and then told the other Jews to send him straightway to the grave. He said it wouldn’t be right for a ninety-year-old man to pretend to be eating pig because young people might think he had left the worship of Adonai in his advanced age. He said he’d be a hypocrite to pretend, and while it might keep him from being killed by the king’s men, it would not allow him to escap
e the hand of Adonai. So he chose to leave a good example by refusing to eat, saying he would die willingly and courageously for the holy laws.”
“He would not listen to them?” I asked, aghast. “When he could have saved himself so easily?”
Neta gave a taut jerk of her head. “And thus a wise old man became a fool,” she said. “And those who had been his friends became his enemies. When he was ready to die, he said he was content to suffer being beaten and killed because he feared God.”
“So he died for nothing,” I finished, guessing the end of the tale. “Leaving his story as an example of courage and virtue to all who would throw their lives away.”
Neta nodded in agreement, Morit’s eyes widened in alarm, and Ona chewed on her thumbnail. We were all wondering if Mattathias would follow the example of the old scribe . . . and lead us to certain death. Would our husbands insist on following their father? Would we perish in the desert or die at the hands of a Seleucid executioner?
One thing was clear—we had no time to consider such questions. The patriarch of my husband’s family had sent us to pack. I would obey, but not because I believed in his cause.
I would pack because to remain in Modein almost certainly meant death.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Judah
We must not linger in Modein,” Father told the villagers at his hastily arranged meeting. “We cannot go about our work and wait for the king’s authorities to come.”
“Perhaps we should send someone to Jerusalem to listen for rumors,” Simon suggested. “The story will probably reach that city before nightfall tomorrow. All it will take is one traveler to stop here for water.”
“We could hide the bodies,” Johanan suggested. “Bury them in the sand. That would grant us time.”
“Not much,” I pointed out. “Those three men have friends who will wonder what happened to them. They will come here and ask questions.”
“What about those who remain in the village?” Eleazar asked. “What of our wives and our livestock?”
“Our children are young,” Simon said. “They cannot travel far, and they cannot travel quickly.”
Mattathias lifted his hand, silencing the debate. “We will leave Modein at sunrise tomorrow,” he said. “All of us. We will drive our livestock before us and travel across the watershed to the Desert of Beth-haven. There we can hide our women and children in the caves. We can hunt for meat and eat wild herbs.”
I glanced at Leah, who met my gaze with a tight look around her eyes. She had been expecting this news, but the expectation had not made it easier to hear.
“How long?” Simon asked, looking at his pregnant wife. “How long must we remain in the wilderness?”
Mattathias shook his head. “As long as the Lord wills. Until the king relents.”
My mind vibrated with a thousand thoughts, none of them terribly clear. “If we go to the wilderness,” I said, thinking of our forefathers who spent forty years in the desert, “we must not behave like victims. We will put our women and children out of harm’s way, but we men must fight for freedom. We can hasten the end of our exile by harassing the king’s representatives wherever and whenever we can. We can sabotage the work of the governor’s men. We can raid apostate villages and pull down heathen altars.”
A smile gathered up the wrinkles by Father’s lined mouth. “We will not remain a small group,” he said, tenting his hands. “Others will certainly join us. Most of the Hasidim still revere Adonai’s laws. They will join us in the struggle, and HaShem will give us the strength and wisdom we need. And He will provide the men.”
“No matter what, we will firmly adhere to the Law of the Lord,” I added. “We will not eat swine. We will circumcise our sons on the eighth day. And we will honor and observe the Sabbath.”
“Wait.” Father shot me a warning glance. “We cannot forget that Jerusalem was attacked on the Sabbath. Neither can we forget the other group who was pursued by the king’s soldiers because they refused to sacrifice to him in their village. When the Sabbath came, they hid in a cave, and when they were discovered, they refused to come out, for that would have violated the Sabbath laws.”
Emotions moved beneath the surface of Father’s face, like a hidden spring struggling to break through. “Though over a thousand men, women, and children sheltered in the cavern, the king’s men built a fire at the entrance and killed them all.”
After a collective gasp, the debates began once more.
“How can we violate the Law?”
“How can we lie down to die?”
Protestations and angry buzzing rose from the assembly until my father lifted his hand again.
“Consider this, my brothers—HaShem did not tell us to rest on the Sabbath for His sake, for He does not need to rest. He created a day of rest for our sakes, but a man cannot rest when his family is under attack. In a time like this, we must make an exception to the Law regarding the Sabbath, or the Gentiles will take advantage of our obedience and our people will be utterly destroyed.”
“So,” Simon said, staring thoughtfully at Father, “we will allow for self-defense on the Sabbath. We will not attack on the seventh day, but if they come for us, we will be free to defend our people.”
We fell silent, most of us recognizing the irony in the words. We were fighting for the right to observe the Law of Moses, but in order to do that we would have to make an exception where none had been granted before. We would have to bear arms on the day of rest, knowing that hundreds of our people had died rather than do what we were planning to do.
But Father was right. If we did not deviate from the Law in this situation, the Gentiles would simply attack on the seventh day, knowing we would meet them like meek and defenseless sheep.
“So be it,” I said, meeting Father’s gaze. “We will modify the Law in order to preserve the Law . . . and our people along with it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Leah
I drifted between wakefulness and sleep, the hours of darkness filling with images that played on the backs of my eyelids. I saw myself hiding in the courtyard, drawn into a knot beneath the window as my father raved inside the house, his shouts punctuated by the occasional curse or crack of his hand on my mother’s flesh. I saw the four dead men in the village square—the first deaths my eyes had ever witnessed. I saw my strong, resolute husband with blood spatters on his face and bloody wounds on his limbs.
I woke shivering in the night and slid over to be warmed by Judah’s body. Feeling me next to him, he turned and drew me into the circle of his arms where I finally slept soundly.
The next morning I rose before sunrise, lit a lamp, and plaited my hair into a single braid. I slipped on a cool tunic and my most comfortable sandals, leaving my ornamented pair beneath the bed. Let the rats have them—I should only need one pair of shoes. I tiptoed around the house, touching objects as I considered them. Would I need my brass kettle? Probably. It was light and easy to carry. The bread pot? I would leave it behind. Clay was heavy, easily broken, and unnecessary. I could bake bread in heated sand. The resulting loaf would have a crusty skin that could be peeled away or even eaten, if one didn’t mind grit between one’s teeth.
I picked up a sharp blade and wrapped it and a wooden stirrer in a square cloth. I would need the blade for cutting herbs and skinning animals, and every stew needed a stir stick to prevent burning at the bottom. I would need my water jar, the wineskin, some cloth for straining cheese and, if necessary, for wrapping injuries. If the men honestly intended to fight, I’d need bandages and medicinal herbs and a bowl to hold clean water.
By sunrise we had all finished packing. Simon parked a wagon and mule outside the house, and Morit and I loaded it with necessary items. Judah insisted we would be able to get supplies from devout Hasidim in other villages, but apparently Neta did not believe him. She brought over a wooden chest stuffed with garments, sandals, and girdles, and only when Johanan caught Morit rolling her eyes did he force his wif
e to leave the chest of luxuries behind.
“But I can’t wear the same tunic every day!” she wailed.
“You can bring one other,” he told her, his voice unusually stern. “But only one. Look at the other women—are they carrying trunks? Even Morit travels with little more than the clothes she’s wearing, and she has a child.”
Neta thrust out her lower lip, but left the trunk in her house and secured the door on her way out. I shook my head when I saw the knot that held the door shut. “What’s so funny?” she asked.
“You,” I answered. “As if a simple knot would stop anyone who wanted to ransack the place.”
As I loaded the last of our things into the wagon, I glanced toward Mattathias’s house and saw my mother standing in the shade. I caught her eye and nodded, a gesture she acknowledged with a slight lift of her chin. She did not look happy.
I strode toward her, determined to know the cause of her unhappiness. “Mother—do you have everything you need?”
“Rosana and I have packed the necessities.”
“Good. It should be a fine day for travel. The breeze will keep us cool despite the sun.”
“We should not be leaving this place.”
I tilted my head, not certain I had heard her correctly. “We have to go. After what happened yesterday—”
“That should not have happened, and you know it.” She narrowed her eyes. “You grew up in your father’s house, so surely you remember what violence is like. What did you see there—a place of joy and freedom?”
