Rashi’s Daughters Book I: Joheved

by Maggie Anton

  “I mean, of course, that your father should not dispose of more than half the wine coming from his own vineyard until you hear from me again.” Bernard abruptly rose from the table and bid the family, “Bonjour.” He was already trying to figure out some way to obtain the abbey’s wine; it was nearly as good as the Jewish vineyard’s product.

  Rivka couldn’t wait to report the morning’s events to Salomon when he returned from services. “Joheved was wonderful. While I was nearly mute with fright, she stood her ground against Count Thibault’s cellarer and outwitted him too.”

  “But I was lucky,” Joheved admitted, her face coloring. “I didn’t realize the abbey’s wine was exempt from their tithes. I only hoped to save a few barrels for the abbot’s personal use.”

  “It doesn’t matter how much Thibault wants.” Filled with pride at his daughter’s success, Salomon was philosophical about the loss. “Our creditors have been paid, we have enough for our own use, and I’m sure the Jewish community will not make our family bear more than our fair share of the wedding’s cost.”

  He turned to Joheved and continued, “I want you to go with me to the fair this afternoon. We must settle our accounts now that the merchants are leaving, and we also need to buy a Hanukkah present for Meir.”

  “A present for Meir?”

  “Isaac reminded me that it’s customary for the bridegroom-elect and the father of a betrothed maiden to exchange gifts,” Salomon explained. “A supply of parchment is waiting for me on Rue de la Petite Tannerie, so I should reciprocate. I thought you could help pick out something appropriate. It’s for your fiancé.”

  “I’d love to go shopping with you, Papa.” Everything with the wine had worked out so well, Joheved wanted to celebrate.

  And in a way, Meir’s family had given her a Hanukkah present as well. After the betrothal, Marona had sent over so much raw wool that Mama had been able to weave a new blanket out of the thread that Joheved and Miriam had spun from it. That reminded her—“May Miriam come too?”

  So the three of them spent the afternoon at the Cold Fair. “Maybe we could find Meir some silk hose, like the new ones Papa has,” Miriam suggested.

  “What about a wine goblet?” Joheved remembered the fine ones that Isaac and Joseph had given her parents.

  “That would make an excellent gift, but probably more appropriate for a wedding present,” Salomon replied, his gaze sweeping over the merchandise as they walked along.

  They continued past the booths and listened to the merchants’ extravagant descriptions of their wares. “You would think they’re giving things away at the fair’s closing, their prices are such bargains,” Salomon said, clearly not impressed.

  Finally they passed a table with a few leather items left on it, including a beautifully worked belt. Joheved stopped to admire the intricate pattern.

  The merchant immediately began his litany. “This beautiful belt was made in Spain, of the finest Cordovan leather. Look how fine the workmanship is.” He picked up the belt and thrust it at Salomon. “It’s my mistake that I have not sold this excellent piece already—it’s too small for most men. After all, the men who can afford this kind of merchandise are too prosperous and plump to wear it. You can have it for a ridiculously low amount.” And he named a figure that was actually reasonable.

  “Meir is pretty skinny,” Miriam said, trying the belt around her own tiny waist. “I bet it would fit him.”

  Once the merchant saw he had a potential customer, bargaining began in earnest, and the sale was quickly made. They would send the belt with some merchants going through Mayence after leaving the Cold Fair. Meir was not likely to expect a gift and shouldn’t mind receiving it after Hanukkah was over.

  nine

  A week after Hanukkah ended, when Salomon asked Joheved to procure some fresh parchment for him, she was reluctant to go. Yet if Miriam went in her place, her sister and Catharina would surely gossip about her betrothal. So Joheved set off for Rue de la Petite Tannerie, determined to remain calm and unaffected no matter how much her friend teased her.

  Catharina was helping a bald, brown-robed monk examine some parchment in the storage room, and her face lit up when she saw Joheved come in.

  “Congratulations.” She hurried over to give Joheved a hug. “I hear everything worked out between your father and Lord Samuel. My brother says we are to give you as much parchment as you want.”

  “Merci.” Joheved returned the hug. At least Catharina hadn’t teased her immediately. “Samuel’s betrothal gift was very generous. For our part, my father only has to give him a cask of wine each year at Passover.”

  Before they could continue their conversation, the monk came over and, to their surprise, addressed Joheved. “Excuse me.” His voice was gentle, yet he spoke with authority. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You are the daughter of the Jewish winemaker?”

  “Oui, I am.” Joheved cast a questioning look at Catharina, who shrugged her shoulders in reply. But Joheved didn’t want the strange monk to think that Papa was only a vintner. “My father is also a scholar. He needs parchment for the commentary he’s writing on the Bible.”

  “I am Robert, prior of the Abbey of Montier-la-Celle.” While his posture didn’t change, he somehow gave the impression of bowing to them. “I owe your father a debt of gratitude for the excellent wine he produced from our grapes this year.”

  “Oh.” Joheved relaxed at the monk’s kind words. “Even Count Thibault’s cellarer said the vintage is one of the best he’s ever tasted. We are grateful to you as well, for sharing your grapes.” She could see that Robert wasn’t really bald; his hair was such a pale blond that his short tonsure only made it appear that way.

  “Your father is writing a commentary on the Hebrew scriptures?” he asked, his pale brows furrowed in thought. “There are some passages that confound me, and perhaps he might spare a few moments to help me understand them better.”

  Joheved suspected that her father would rather not discuss Torah with the heretics who worshipped the Hanged One, but she merely suggested, “Perhaps you should ask him your questions when you come to get the abbey’s wine.” After all, Papa wouldn’t want to antagonize anyone important at Montier-la-Celle.

  “Give your father my regards and tell him I’ll be visiting him soon,” Robert said. Then he turned to Catharina and added, “Give your father my regards as well, and inform him that the abbey needs six more folios. Count Thibault has commissioned an illuminated psalter as a wedding present for his new bride.” He left them with that delightful piece of news.

  “It must be nice when somebody wants to marry you,” Catharina said wistfully, thinking of Samuel’s gift of parchment and Thibault’s psalter. “But then look at you, you have new clothes on too. I’m glad things are going so well for you.”

  “You are a true friend to be happy in my good fortune.” Joheved hugged her again and sighed. Now that Miriam was an apprentice midwife, the Jewish girls all wanted to be friends with her, but Catharina was still the only friend Joheved had.

  “What’s the matter?” Catharina could see the sadness in Joheved’s face. “Is there something wrong with your fiancé?”

  “No, no.” Joheved made an effort to look more cheerful. “There’s nothing the matter with Meir; that’s his name, by the way. He’s not handsome, but he’s not ugly either, and he seems nice enough. He’s a scholar, which is what Papa wanted, and his family is well off, which makes Mama happy. I just wish things could work out well for you too.”

  “I don’t know about me.” Catharina gathered up several sheaves of folded parchment and handed them to her friend. “But I bet my brother is thinking of getting married. He spends a lot of time with the daughter of one of the leather tanners on the next street. At least she’ll be used to the stink.”

  “I’ll pray for the Holy One to send you a good husband.” Joheved took her parchment and walked home slowly, feeling guilty that her future looked so bright compared to Catharina’s.

>   Her spirits brightened when Salomon announced that it was time to resume their nightly Talmud sessions. Since the holiday was still fresh in their minds, they would study the section in Tractate Shabbat that explained the laws of Hanukkah.

  As always, the sages Shammai and Hillel were arguing over some point of law. This time the subject was exactly how one should light the Hanukkah lamp.

  For those who fervently pursue mitzvot, the School of Shammai says that on the first day of Hanukkah one kindles eight lights, and then continuously decreases the amount; but the School of Hillel says to kindle one light on the first day and continuously increase…Hillel’s reason for a continual increase is that in sacred matters we elevate, not lower, the level of holiness.

  Miriam and Joheved stared at their father in surprise. “That means Shammai starts with eight lights the first night, seven on the second night, and ends with just one light,” Miriam said.

  Salomon nodded. “That’s right.”

  “But why light them backwards like that?” Joheved asked. Who would have imagined that other Jews did things so differently?

  “Shammai believes this publicizes the true nature of the miracle, the single flask of oil that gradually diminished over eight days,” he said.

  “Everybody here does it like Hillel…I think,” Miriam said.

  “That’s true; no one follows Shammai anymore,” Salomon agreed.

  Joheved continued reading.

  What is Hanukkah?

  “Don’t they know what Hanukkah is?” Miriam interrupted. “They’ve been discussing it for pages.”

  “Maybe they’re asking how we know to celebrate Hanukkah,” Joheved said. “It’s not mentioned in Torah at all, not like our other holidays.” She glowed with pride when her father said she was right.

  Miriam continued reading, and there was the story of the miraculous small flask of oil that burned for eight days. When she finished, Salomon asked if there was anything in the Gemara about Hanukkah that puzzled them.

  “Why did it take eight days to get new oil?” Miriam asked. “That seems like a long time.”

  “And why did the Sages make an eight-day festival?” Joheved frowned. “I mean, since the flask started with enough oil for one night, didn’t the miracle really occur the next seven nights?”

  “Those are both good questions.” Salomon nodded in approval. “Miriam, some sages say the nearest pure oil was a four-day journey away. Others say that the Jews were impure due to contact with corpses, because of the fighting, and it took seven days for their purification. Then they needed one more day to press the olives into oil.”

  “Joheved, many scholars have asked your question,” he said with a smile. “Some answer that the flask of oil remained full after the lamp was filled, so it was evident even on the first night that a miracle was occurring. Others suggest that they divided the oil into eight parts and only poured that small amount into the menorah, yet the lamp burned the entire night. Thus a miracle did happen each day.”

  They continued studying Tractate Shabbat for months, the Gemara’s debates over the minutiae of observance becoming increasingly overwhelming. One night, after an arduous day working in the vineyard, Miriam refused to spend another moment reviewing Talmud with her sister.

  “Joheved, I’m too tired to study. Let’s just go to sleep.” Miriam yawned and pulled the covers over her head.

  “But we have to review every day or we’ll forget.” Joheved pulled the covers back. “And we’ve worked so hard to learn it.”

  “I know. But this Gemara is too hard. And it isn’t as interesting as Berachot was.”

  “You don’t want to study Talmud anymore because it’s too difficult?” Joheved was stunned. If Miriam abandoned their nightly ritual, she’d never find out what was in all those other tractates. “But you mustn’t give up; I can’t do it alone.”

  “Joheved, I didn’t say that I wanted to stop altogether, but we never play hide and seek anymore, or make the kittens chase strings, or do anything fun. Don’t you want to do anything except talk about Talmud?”

  “I like learning Talmud, and I thought you did too.” A cold fear gripped Joheved. It would be like going back to stirabout for every meal after eating meat. “Maybe we could tell Papa we want to study Berachot again.”

  Miriam might have been kinder if she hadn’t been so tired. “Don’t you realize that no matter how much Gemara we learn, Papa will still wish he had sons instead of daughters?”

  There was nothing Joheved could say to that. She put the pillow over her head and cried herself to sleep.

  During their next session, Salomon was astute enough to see that his students’ enthusiasm was flagging. He didn’t fault them; it was his responsibility to make sure his lessons were challenging without being onerous.

  “Joheved, did you know that Tractate Shabbat isn’t usually studied until a student has been in yeshiva for several years?” he praised them. “And Miriam, some of the boys are almost twice your age. You two are doing an excellent job learning such advanced material. I’m very proud of you.”

  “Merci, Papa.” They surreptitiously exchanged glances. Had he overheard their conversation last night?

  Joheved looked back at him and quickly answered, “Tractate Shabbat isn’t that hard, Papa; we can learn it.”

  “Even so, I intend to go back to Berachot after we finish this section on Hanukkah,” Salomon said. “Be patient for now. There’s only a few pages left about Hanukkah, and soon we will come to a part that you’ll find particularly interesting.”

  It was Joheved’s turn to read when they got to the discussion he meant.

  A woman may certainly kindle the Hanukkah light. Rav Yehoshua ben Levi said: Women are obligated in the mitzvah of Hanukkah for they were involved in that miracle.

  Joheved’s voice rose with excitement. This was the first time she’d read about women’s ritual observance in the Talmud.

  Now Miriam leaned forward eagerly. “Papa, how were women involved in the Hanukkah miracle?”

  “The Greek oppression affected Jewish women uniquely, since every bride had to submit to the local Greek commander,” he replied. “In addition, as you know, a woman was an instrument of their deliverance—the high priest’s daughter who killed the Greek general.”

  Thus they continued all winter long, studying Talmud at night and pruning the vineyard during the day. Joheved tried to learn pruning techniques with the same determination she applied to learning Gemara, because she doubted that Grandmama would be able to instruct them next year. Last winter Leah had confidently directed her granddaughters; every cut came with an explanation of why it was best for this particular vine.

  “Cane pruning requires the most skill, but spur pruning is quicker,” she had told them. “Remember that shoots farthest from the stock bear the most, and that sunlight on the woody parts, especially the new canes, makes a more fruitful vine. Cut short, leaving only two or three buds, if the plant appears weak, aiming for quality over quantity. Cut long, three or four buds to a branch, when the plant seems vigorous and you want a more plentiful harvest.”

  Leah used to be indefatigable when it came to such knowledge, but now she volunteered little. She answered questions the girls put to her, but the fountain of her knowledge was a well they had to bucket water from, not a gushing stream. Joheved and Miriam asked any question they could think of, to try to learn everything Leah knew and also because her silence so distressed them.

  “Grandmama, why do we have to cut the vines so close to the ground?” Joheved was tall enough now that it hurt to stoop over the low vines all afternoon.

  Leah might appear frail, but she chopped off the branch in front of her as easily as slicing a piece of cheese. “Here in the north, dear, the closer the grapes are to the ground, provided they do not actually touch it, the better they will mature.”

  “How do we know when to finish the pruning?” Miriam asked.

  “You can tell that the vines have completed the
ir winter rest when they start to discharge sap from the pruning wounds. Be careful; these ‘tears of the vine’ are sticky.” Leah held up the cut branch for them to inspect, but it was still dry. “Some say the sap has medicinal properties, and I try to take a little each year as a spring tonic.”

  This year when the sap rose, it was raining heavily, and no one would brave the muddy vineyard to harvest it. Leah never did get any sap that spring, because the rain continued for months. At first people were happy with the abundant rainfall. But too much wet weather and even those few crops that germinated would fail to grow properly.

  If it rained into summer, rivers would become impassable and roads too muddy for merchant wagons to travel. Already one heard complaints in the synagogue that few were willing to endure such hardships to attend the spring fair in Provins. On the bright side, fewer anticipated guests had forced Count Thibault to scale back his wedding festivities, which meant lower taxes.

  For Joheved and Miriam, the continual downpour meant far too many days indoors keeping Grandmama Leah company. To pass the time, they began to ask her about their father’s childhood. To their disappointment, she told the same stories over and over again, mostly along the lines of what a prodigy he had been in school, instead of stories of his mischievous boyhood adventures. She also told them a particularly bizarre tale.

  “For years after I married your grandfather, I was barren. One day, he acquired a valuable pearl that the bishop wanted for the cathedral. My pious husband—may his merit protect us—refused to allow such a jewel to be used for the heretics’ idolatry, and he cast it into the Seine. Soon afterwards, there was a solar eclipse and he dreamed of an angel who told him that because of his sacrifice, he would be rewarded with a son who would become a great scholar,” Leah said proudly. “Six months later, our little Salomon was born.”