by Maggie Anton
“Naturally, nobody would expect you to make good wine from bad grapes,” Isaac said soothingly. “Now here’s my offer.” He paused, the eyes of the room upon him. “I’ll find a suitable source of grapes and provide all the Jewish workers you need. For my effort I get half the wine made from those grapes. You can keep the other half, as well as any wine coming from your own vineyard.”
Salomon’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “You will assume the entire monetary risk for half the profits?” When Isaac nodded his confirmation, Salomon grinned at the others and joked, “If I had known he was so desperate for good wine, I would have bargained harder.”
Joheved couldn’t ignore her full bladder any longer. A flustered whisper to Mama and then Johanna was motioning for a maidservant, who quickly led Joheved through the kitchen and past the garden. And not a moment too soon, Joheved thought with relief, as she closed the door and sank onto the privy’s seat.
When she was finished, she let out an impressed “Oh.” On the seat next to her sat a basket of the softest moss she had ever felt. Johanna must send servants a good distance out along the river to find it so fresh and velvety. At home, Marie didn’t have much time to search out moss for the privy, and sometimes the riverbank was picked over already when she arrived. It was even worse in the winter, when all they had was straw. Joheved was sure the Parnas’s family never used straw.
She went back into the kitchen to wash her hands. Dark and disgusting places usually harbored evil spirits, and one demon in particular, the Shaydshel Betkisay, was known to inhabit privies. People who neglected to wash after doing their business might inadvertently allow the demon into one of their body’s openings. Heaven forbid she should touch her eye and induce blindness or wipe her mouth and bring on the flux.
When Joheved returned to the table, Joseph was speaking, and she helped herself to another pie. “Our entire Jewish community is desperate for good kosher wine and probably most of northern France as well,” he said. “If Troyes had such wine for sale, we could entice more merchants to our Champagne fairs.”
He glanced nervously at his wife and continued hurriedly, “You know, Count Thibault is so eager to enlarge the fairs that he has offered to completely indemnify anyone who is robbed on his roads. Not only that, anyone waylaid outside of Champagne must be reimbursed by the local lord or else Thibault will forbid that district’s merchants from trading in Troyes.”
Johanna was frowning at her husband. He swallowed a few times before taking a last look at his wife’s stern visage. “Rav Salomon, I have an offer for you as well. I’d like you to tutor Menachem and Ephraim. I would pay you ten livres a year.”
The twins froze as Salomon stared at them. Joheved shot her mother a worried glance. What was wrong with these boys that Joseph would offer ten times the going rate to teach them?
“My sons are smart, perhaps a little too smart for their own good,” Joseph said, almost pleading. “They question and question and question. Their teacher complains that they do not respect him, so he beats them.” He turned around and frowned at the boys. “Things have gotten so bad lately that they refuse to go to school at all, and their teacher merely responds ‘Good riddance!’”
Salomon smiled to himself as he listened to Joseph’s appeal. They didn’t need to bribe him. He would have jumped at an opportunity to have students again, even such young, and possibly rebellious, ones. “I accept your offer, Joseph. I’m sure I can turn these two into scholars.” He grinned at the twins. “Anyone who asks so many questions is already on the proper path.”
When Salomon announced his acceptance, Rivka nearly wept with relief. Ten livres would lift them out of poverty, and if the wine business went well, they could hire another servant to help care for Leah. At the very least there would be linen for new chemises and wool to knit new stockings.
Suddenly the baby started to fuss. Rivka tried to rock her youngest daughter to sleep, but this only succeeded in agitating her further. As the baby’s cries grew louder, Rivka looked around helplessly, her gaze shifting from Rachel to Salomon and then back to the baby again. At this juncture Johanna earned her distraught guest’s eternal gratitude by announcing that she’d like to accompany Rivka home and help her carry back a few gifts of food.
Joheved hoped she and Miriam wouldn’t be forced to leave with the women, and when nobody made that suggestion, she remained seated at the table. Miriam was torn; she had enjoyed the women’s conversation, and Johanna had answered her questions about the twins’ birth without condescension. But if she left now, only Joheved would get to hear whatever the men talked about when the women were absent. Miriam decided to stay as well.
Isaac haParnas was pleased that Salomon’s daughters had remained. He had noted how intently Joheved had followed the men’s conversation during disner and he intended to make her his accomplice for his final proposal to the scholar. His dark eyes met her blue ones and he asked her gently, “Joheved, you are Salomon’s oldest child, oui?”
Joheved was so surprised to be addressed by her host that all she could do was nod. “I believe you to be a clever girl,” he continued, “so I’d like to tell you a little story, more like a parable, and you can tell me what you think when I’m done.”
Joheved swallowed nervously and nodded. What did Isaac want from her?
“Joheved,” Isaac began speaking with the same tone of voice parents use when they tell bedtime stories. Mama told her and Miriam tales of Reynard the Fox and his animal associates, while Grandmama told them stories about the people in the Bible, but they both used the same kind of voice.
“Let’s say you were a merchant and you came to a new town just before the Sabbath. The inhabitants welcomed you and gave you hospitality. You saw that they were well dressed and had fine homes. What would you think about doing business with them?”
An easy question, thank goodness. “I’d think the town might be a good place to do business. Since the people looked prosperous, they could probably afford to buy things from me.”
Isaac beamed his approval and motioned for a servant to refill the wine cups. “The next morning, you went with them to synagogue. But when they removed the Torah scroll from the ark, you saw that the Torah’s mantel was not made of fine material with beautiful embroidery, but was torn and shabby.” Isaac shook his head disapprovingly. “And there were no silver ornaments to decorate it, no adornment of any kind. Now what would you think about doing business there?”
Joheved smiled. “I’d think that since these people didn’t honor the Torah scroll, they might not honor what was in the Torah. They might cheat or steal. I probably wouldn’t be so eager to trade with them after all.”
Again, the Parnas questioned her. “Let’s say you go to a town with a great Torah scholar. You want to study with him, and you also think that you might do some business there. The residents are well dressed, except for the scholar, whose clothes are old and worn.” The grey caterpillars that were his eyebrows rose and he nodded slightly at her, urging her to speak quickly.
Joheved knew she’d better answer before her father objected. “I’d think that the townspeople didn’t respect Torah scholarship. Otherwise they’d see to it that their scholar had enough business to support himself.” Of course, that was why the Parnas had offered Papa a business partnership. She took a gulp of wine and, feeling a little tipsy, grinned boldly at Isaac. “I would especially think this if his wife and children weren’t well dressed, because a true scholar might be too absorbed in Torah study to care about his own clothes.”
Isaac may have been pleased with her reply, but Salomon was livid. “Now, listen you two. First of all, I am not the great Talmud scholar you believe me to be, and it is an insult to my maîtres in Mayence to suggest that I am even remotely their equal. Second, I have every intention of buying my family new clothes in time for Rosh Hashanah. I am not too absorbed in study to care about their looks.”
As Joheved shrank back in her seat, Isaac frowned and Salomon apparently realized that
he had protested too strongly. He gave a small bow in Isaac’s direction and added, “I know your intentions are good, but I am not worthy of such honor.”
Isaac saw no point telling Salomon about the many merchants who had attended last year’s fairs, stayed after services to study Talmud, and asked him again and again if this new chacham would be there this year. These merchants, the ones he hoped would form the core of a yeshiva in Troyes, would soon be here for the Hot Fair. New clothes at the New Year would be too late.
Despite her father’s anger, Joheved thought about how wonderful it was to study Talmud with him. What if some of the Jewish merchants felt the same way? Like her, they couldn’t go to a yeshiva. Maybe studying during the fairs was their only chance. She knew what she needed to say, what might make her father see how important he was.
Isaac saw the sudden eagerness in Joheved’s eyes, and he hoped that she might safely say to her father what he could not. “What is it, Joheved?”
“Papa, surely there are Jewish merchants who love Talmud but can’t go to Mayence to study with your maîtres there. At least when they come to our fairs, they can study with you. And wouldn’t all that trade be good for Troyes?”
Hearing the passion in her voice reminded Salomon of their study sessions. Joheved was right. Even great scholars left the yeshiva eventually to earn a living. Perhaps he could attract a few intelligent minds to his city; then they would attract more, and soon there might even be a center of learning here, at least during the Hot Fair months of July and August and again for the Cold Fair in November and December.
“Very well, Isaac, I will accept that you and my daughter think I’m a talmid chacham because you don’t know any better. And I’ll grant that perhaps some merchants who come to the fairs to study Talmud will be disappointed if my family and I are not dressed in the latest fashion.”
“Salomon, every Jew in Troyes will thank you.” Isaac slapped him on the back. “You see, Thibault forbids any foreign merchant from selling directly to another at his fairs. All transactions must be handled by a local middleman.”
“With a portion of the sale going into the count’s coffers, as well,” Joseph added, winking at Salomon as he drained his cup. Still, if all these learned foreign merchants came to Troyes, there would be plenty of profit to go around.
Isaac lifted his cup in Joheved’s direction and drank it down. “Salomon, your daughter has a mind like a jewel,” he said. “What a wife she will make for some lucky man.”
Isaac was about to suggest that he would be happy to help Salomon find a bridegroom for Joheved among the merchants and their sons at the upcoming Hot Fair, when the air was split by the first note in the clangorous dialogue of bells that kept time in Troyes. The Cathedral of Saint Pierre, the bishop’s church, had the right to ring first, then the count’s chapel, followed by the Abbey of Saint Loup. Only after these three finished could the bells at the numerous other churches and abbeys chime in. No one could speak over the din.
When the echoes of bells ringing in their heads had finally quieted, Salomon stood up. “Where has the time gone? Here it is midday already and I have work to do in the vineyard.”
Isaac took Salomon’s arm and walked them to the door. “I’ll let you know when I find a source of grapes for your inspection.”
Joseph added, “I will bring the boys to you after services on Sunday, while the moon is still waxing.” Everyone knew that the waxing moon advanced growth and development, just as the waning moon promoted decay. It went without saying that no student began lessons with a new teacher on a Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday.
Salomon and his two daughters walked home in silence. Like the meal they had just shared, that morning’s surprising events needed time to be digested. Just before they reached their street, a whiff of noxious fumes from the tannery district blew past them, and Miriam remembered that they had been asked to help make parchment.
“Joheved, what are we going to do about Catharina?” she whispered. “Now that Papa has a teaching job and a wine partner, he’ll probably be able to buy all the parchment he wants.”
“I don’t know. Did we actually promise to help or did we only say we’d ask Papa?”
“Ask Papa what?” Salomon interrupted her. Embarrassed at being overheard, they had no choice but to explain their dilemma. He made his decision quickly. “You must certainly help make parchment if you said you would.”
There was enough distrust between the Jews and Edomites as it was; he didn’t want anyone saying that his daughters had made an agreement and then broke it. “I believe I will help as well. The parchment maker has been kind to us, and now I can return the favor. And I am curious to see how the stuff is made. After all, Torah scrolls are made of parchment.”
four
That evening, Rivka was still wide awake after feeding the baby, so she decided to kiss her daughters good night. Finding their bed empty, and annoyed at her husband for allowing them to stay up so late, she went downstairs to complain. It took only a few moments of listening to realize what Salomon was discussing with her daughters, and she could not restrain her temper.
“Salomon, are you out of your mind? How can you consider teaching our daughters Talmud? What will everybody think?”
Joheved and Miriam sat in stunned silence as she ranted on. “Once you get them studying Talmud, they won’t have any time to learn how to run a household—they won’t even want to learn how to run a household.” Her voice rose even higher. “Don’t you realize that no man will want to marry a girl who is more learned than he is? We’ll never find them husbands!” Rivka put her hands on her hips and stared stonily at Salomon. “I won’t tolerate it; I tell you, I won’t.”
At first Salomon was just as shocked as the girls. But whatever misgivings he had about this endeavor, he was not about to be cowed by his wife. “If I want to teach my daughters Talmud, I will teach them Talmud!” he thundered, banging his fist down on the table. “It doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks.”
Rivka cringed and slowly backed away. “It obviously doesn’t matter what I think,” she muttered as she stormed off to bed.
Too upset to study any more, Joheved and Miriam quietly let Salomon tuck them in. He admonished them to be sure that their chores were done before they studied, so their mother could find no fault with them. Miriam eventually drifted off to sleep, remembering the wonderful meal they had shared with Isaac haParnas that afternoon, but Joheved lay awake.
It hurt when Papa and Mama argued. Would they get along better now if they hadn’t lived apart all those years? She remembered how anxious Mama always became as the festivals approached, and how relieved Mama acted after Papa finally left. Probably she’d feel that way too if her husband spent most of his time at a yeshiva far away and came home only three times a year…except she didn’t want a marriage like her parents’. But she had to marry somebody, and who else but a scholar would agree to marry a girl who studied Talmud?
CLANG! CRASH! Joheved had just finished braiding her hair the next morning when she heard the violent sounds coming from the kitchen below. Uh oh, Mama was banging the pots around something awful. She must be really angry.
The clanging sounded even louder as Joheved cautiously entered the kitchen. Miriam was already inside, trying to calm the fretful baby, while at the other end of the room, their mother brandished two copper skillets as if they were weapons. Just as Joheved reached her sister’s side, Salomon burst in.
He still had on his tefillin, the small boxes containing words of Torah that pious Jewish men wear when they say their morning prayers, and his face was bright red against the black leather box tied to his forehead. Joheved and Miriam shrank from his furious presence.
“Would you mind keeping quiet? I’m trying to pray.” He stood stiff as a statue, his fists tightly clenched.
Rivka’s reply was defiant. “I’m trying to make breakfast.”
Salomon took several steps in his wife’s direction and raised his right hand. S
he in turn held the pans up between them. As his daughters watched in dread, he stopped and stared at the tefillin box tied on his biceps and its leather straps that wound up his arm. Then he lowered his hand and said in a voice as hard as steel, “Woman, you can bang your pots as much as you like, but I will not stop teaching my daughters Talmud!” He pounded his left hand on the table, sending the crockery skittering across it.
Rivka burst into tears. Joheved could barely keep from crying herself. Had her parents been possessed by demons? In desperation she gave the baby a pinch, and the room was immediately filled with the infant’s howls.
Salomon could see that he would be surrounded by weeping females if he didn’t soften his stance. He inwardly cursed his short temper and remembered a saying from Tractate Taanit:
When Rabbi Adda bar Ahavah was asked to what he attributed his long life, he replied that he had never lost his temper in the midst of his family.
Salomon watched his wife fumbling at her chemise, trying to quiet little Rachel with her breast, and he felt ashamed. He knew she’d have to calm herself in order to nurse properly, so he waited until the baby was sucking before he spoke again. “Rivka, I can’t stop teaching our daughters now that I know how eager they are to learn.” He paused and stroked his beard. “How can I explain it to you?
“Ah, I have it.” He hurried over to the chest and pulled out a book of Talmud. “This is Tractate Pesachim, and what I want to show you is near the end.” Joheved and Miriam craned their necks to look, but Rivka stared stonily down at the baby.
Salomon held out his hands to her. “Even while jailed by the Romans for teaching Torah, Rabbi Akiva continued to instruct his students. When asked why he taught despite the danger,
‘Rabbi Akiva said to his pupil: More than a calf wishes to suck does the cow desire to suckle.’”
Rivka was a nursing mother herself; surely she would understand.
