by Maggie Anton
Joheved and Miriam didn’t know what to make of such a story. Their grandmother did occasionally make up something rather than admit she didn’t remember the answer to a question. At first it had been funny when she gave them different answers to the same query, but now her mental lapses were painful to hear.
When they asked Papa about his father’s pearl and the angel dream, he shook his head and said, “She probably dreamed the thing herself. So now she thinks it’s true.” Yet Grandmama told them the strange story several times, and it never varied.
One especially rainy day, a terrible new tale emerged. When Miriam asked, “What was Papa like as a baby?” Grandmama Leah sat transfixed for what seemed an eternity. Then her face became distorted with pain and she began to cry.
“Please, Mon Dieu, make the rain stop. Are you sending another flood to kill us all? What sins have we committed that you sent this famine? Wasn’t it enough that my poor husband died last year of starvation? Please don’t take away my baby, my little Salomon. We would fast for penance, but we have been fasting for two years already. What more do you want of us?” Leah stared into space, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The girls listened in confused horror. What was Grandmama Leah talking about? Grandpapa Isaac didn’t die before Papa was born, and he certainly didn’t die of starvation. Papa had told them several times, when warning them about the sharp pruning knives, how his father had cut himself while trimming back the grapevines. The wound had festered, killing him before the month was over. Papa was only a boy then, but he was old enough to understand his father’s death.
But their grandmother wasn’t done with her tale of woe. “Finally, the rains stop, but it’s too late for my poor baby. I have no more milk for you, my poor little Salomon, and I tried so hard to save you. Soon you’ll be in the Garden of Eden with your father, brother and sister. How can I go on living without you?” Leah covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
Joheved had heard enough. Desperate to find Papa and bring him to Grandmama Leah, to prove to her that she was having some sort of terrible dream, Joheved raced down the circular stairway so fast that she was dizzy at the bottom. Salomon, who had been working on his Torah commentary, jumped up to meet her.
“Papa, Papa! You’ve got to come upstairs right away! Grandmama Leah—”
“What is it? What’s happened to her?” He didn’t wait for her answer, but bounded up the stairs to his mother’s room.
“Grandmama Leah is having some sort of nightmare.” Joheved caught up with him just as he entered Leah’s room. “She kept telling us how you died as a baby, and that your father and her other children all died in a famine. It was awful!”
Salomon didn’t know what disaster he’d find when he walked through the door, but he didn’t expect to see his mother sitting calmly on her bed, Miriam holding her hand and asking how to make wine from fruit other than grapes. As Leah explained how she occasionally fermented blackberries along with grapes, especially in a year when such berries were plentiful, Miriam put a finger to her lips and shot them a pleading glance. Joheved, amazed at Leah’s sudden transformation, held her tongue. Whoever would have thought that Grandmama’s poor memory could be a blessing?
Despite his daughters’ insistent questioning, Salomon could confirm nothing of his mother’s traumatic story other than to say that his father, Isaac, had been her second husband. As for siblings, his parents had often told him that they had nearly given up on having children until he was born.
Joheved wondered if Isaac haParnas could enlighten them. After all, he was nearly as old as Grandmama Leah. Joheved and Miriam waited until he came to watch as they inventoried the wine remaining after Passover. Then, in the privacy of the cellar, he was more than willing to describe the great famine of his youth.
“It was about forty years ago, when I was a student in Worms,” Isaac began. “I remember that rain was still falling after Passover, and I was disappointed that what should have been an exciting journey was reduced to a fruitless effort to keep dry and prevent the wagons from getting stuck on the muddy roads. Then, a year later, my parents surprised me by arriving in Worms to celebrate Passover there instead of bringing me home.”
He paused for a moment and his eyes focused on something far away. “You see, it was still raining in France and my father hoped to spend the summer traveling to a place where grain was plentiful, so he could buy wheat and bring it back to Troyes.”
“So it was still raining in Troyes a year later,” Joheved said as she exchanged a sober nod with her sister. “No wonder Grandmama got so upset with all the rain this spring.”
“And that year, there was famine in France.” Isaac sighed heavily. “Even though we had grain, it was impossible to return until the flooded rivers receded and the quagmires became passable roads again.”
“So what did you do?” Joheved asked.
“We had to wait until summer. My father was determined that his seed wheat reach Troyes in time for autumn planting, so the Jews of Worms warned us to hire additional men-at-arms.” Isaac’s bushy brows narrowed in pain as he continued his tale. “Perhaps our well-guarded convoy deterred attack, for we met only beggars on the road, and I have never seen such pathetic creatures in my life. I pleaded with my father to help them, but he refused.”
Miriam stared at him in horror. “You left them to starve?”
Isaac nodded. “We had no idea how bad things would be in Troyes, how long we might need to live off our provisions.”
“And what happened when you got home?” Joheved wanted to get past the misery to the story’s end.
“Everyone in Troyes was so relieved to see us, to see what wonderful cargo we carried,” Isaac said. “But they had suffered too much grief to be happy. Even though they made my father the new Parnas, it was difficult for my parents to find a girl my age for me to wed. I ended up marrying a young widow, who, like your grandmother, lost her husband and children during the famine.”
Joheved sighed sadly when she realized Isaac’s tale was over. Poor Grandmama Leah, no wonder she’d never told them about her first family. She gazed up at the blue sky with new appreciation. She should be more thankful for her family’s good fortune. Yet life was so uncertain; even during good times, people died unexpectedly. It had happened to her grandfather.
Now in services Joheved prayed with special fervor when she got to the part that went “We thank You for our lives which are in Your hand, for Your wondrous providence, and Your continuous goodness which You bestow upon us day by day.” She never made a conscious decision to keep Isaac’s tale a secret from her parents, but somehow there was never a good time to tell them. And once the rains stopped, everyone was far too busy.
Besides the vineyard, which required daily attention, both Leah and Rachel needed supervision. Rivka was sure the baby would toddle into the hearth or garbage pit the moment nobody was watching. The days when Rachel could spend hours sitting contentedly in Grandmama Leah’s lap were but a pleasant memory.
By necessity, Salomon began keeping his youngest daughter with him while he taught. Much to her sisters’ surprise, Rachel’s behavior in the classroom was exemplary. She cruised from one bench to the next, smiling up at whoever was near. Sometimes she sat on the floor next to her sisters, playing with the small scraps of colored fabric left over from making last year’s clothes or with the smooth, shiny pebbles that the boys collected near the river for her. Salomon discovered, to his delight, that she was satisfied to sit on his lap and watch as he dipped the long goose quill pen into the ink holder made of a cow’s horn, and then wrote his letters or kuntres.
Salomon’s time was increasingly spent writing. Besides expounding the deeper meaning of biblical texts to his students, he wrote down his explanations as well. Now anyone new could catch up with his other pupils. He continued to expand his Talmud notes, and he let Joheved and Miriam read his writings whenever they wanted, partly for them to proofread and partly to make up for his having less
time to study with them.
He also wrote regularly to Meir in Mayence. Meir had begun their correspondence with a letter of thanks after he received his Hanukkah present. He filled the rest of the parchment with news of the yeshiva, and included regards to Joheved. Salomon had responded in kind and encouraged his daughter to add a few lines of her own. Meir’s letters kept the old yeshiva world alive for him, and he was thankful for that tenuous connection.
That was until the most recent letter arrived. Meir wrote that Isaac haLevi had enacted an edict restricting how kosher cattle could be slaughtered. But the forbidden practice was precisely that used by French butchers, and Salomon was expected to retract his approval of it.
Joheved was usually eager to read Meir’s letters after her father was done, but when she saw his clenched jaw and red face, she backed away. What had Meir said to cause such anger? She overcame her urge to run away and forced herself to wait for an explanation. It was not long in coming.
Salomon threw the letter down on the table and grabbed for parchment and ink. As he wrote, he put his wrath into speech as well. “Will our teacher please refrain from adding to the number of ‘forbidden foods’? For it would be impossible to accept this; otherwise we in France would never be able to eat meat. We are unable to stop this practice—unless we are willing to pay for the entire cow, whether it is found fit to eat or not.”
He took a deep breath to compose himself and continued writing. “If you wish to erect a ‘fence around the law’—yours is the great court and you are worthy to enact restrictive measures. We prefer, however, that our teacher stand by the accepted law and not forbid doubtful cases.”
Salomon saw that Joheved was watching him. “That one was a public letter for my teachers. This one is just for Meir.” He took a fresh piece of parchment and began another letter.
“I, Salomon, your devoted, inform you that I have not retracted so far and do not intend to retract in the future. I do not find the words of my teachers fully convincing, their arguments were but superficial, and I shall reveal my view to you, my very discreet student. Were it not for the calamity that overwhelmed my family, I would teach them my position in person, even if they would not abide by it. For I cannot adopt a view that would cause the loss of money to Jews in a matter that is so obviously permitted.”
He finished with a suggestion. “I urge you to relocate from Mayence to Worms. It is important to study with different masters, to learn the material each teacher knows. I myself studied almost ten years in Worms before moving to Mayence.”
Now that Salomon had written down his fury, he seemed calmer. Joheved didn’t understand why he was so angry and took the risk of asking, “Papa, what do the butchers in Troyes do that your old teachers don’t like?”
He stroked his beard for a moment before replying, “None of the butchers in Troyes are Jewish. We slaughter our meat in cooperation with them, so that if the animal is found to be not kosher, the butcher can still sell it. But of course, Edomites do not want to buy meat that Jews have rejected, so the butchers make it look like the animal was slaughtered in the usual way. Isaac haLevi forbids this, even though he knows I permit it. He thinks I would not dare to contradict him, but I rely fully on my own judgment to advocate the more lenient view.”
“Of course, Papa. Who would slaughter an animal if he couldn’t eat or sell the meat?” It didn’t seem right for the rabbis so far away to make eating meat difficult for Jews in Troyes. Then she thought of something else Papa had written.
“Papa, when you wrote to Meir about our family’s calamity, did you mean Grandmama Leah, that she can’t remember things anymore?”
Salomon nodded sadly. “I’m afraid that Potach has her firmly in his clutches.” He sighed heavily and wiped away some tears. “My mother will never be able to run the vineyard without me.”
He quickly added an incantation of protection against the demon. “I adjure you, Potach, Prince of Forgetfulness, that you remove from me a fool’s heart, in the name of the holy names, Arimas, Arimimas, Anisisi’el and Petah’el.” He looked down at the letters he had written and sighed again. “I doubt that I will ever study with my old teachers again. My life is in Troyes now.”
ten
Spring 4831 (1071 C.E.)
Had the idea of starting his own yeshiva first come to him after writing that letter to Meir? Or had it been there earlier? Salomon knew only that enough merchants had approached him about teaching their sons that he’d agreed to open a modest yeshiva. He insisted on taking only those candidates just starting to study Talmud, like his current pupils.
The week after Passover, Salomon had four new students, beardless, bewildered youths just past their thirteenth birthdays. There was a vintner’s son from Rheims, a pair of cousins from Provins, and a pudgy boy from Bar-sur-Aube with relatives in Troyes. The first three intended to lodge with Salomon, so Joheved and Miriam helped outfit the attic as quarters for them.
Marie and the girls swept the floors and covered them with fresh rushes. Then they brought up sweet hay for the boys’ bedding, and a few benches as well. Getting things up to the top floor was difficult. The circular staircase inside the house extended only to the second floor; one reached the attic by means of a ladder in the courtyard below.
The larger household consumed so many eggs that Rivka bought some hens of their own, and Miriam found that she enjoyed hunting for eggs hidden in the courtyard grass. Joheved was still begging for a few more moments of sleep while Miriam was already outside, searching out the hens’ secret nests. Benjamin ben Reuben, the new student from Rheims, was often there to help her.
Wavy hair was a common Jewish trait, but Benjamin’s sandy hair was even curlier than Rachel’s. Miriam liked to toy with the baby’s curls by stretching one to its complete length and then letting it bounce back, and she felt a strange desire to similarly play with Benjamin’s light brown ringlets.
“Merci, Benjamin,” she thanked him as he handed her another egg. “You’re a good egg hunter. You can find two eggs for every one of mine.”
“I ought to be.” He grinned back at her. “My mother keeps poultry too, and since I’m the youngest, collecting eggs is my job.” Suddenly Benjamin’s expression changed from cheerful to forlorn, and his grey-blue eyes filled with tears.
Miriam could see that he was fighting to control his sorrow. “Benjamin, what’s the matter?”
He leaned against the apple tree and tried to shield his face with his arm. “I miss my family. I miss my mother.”
Miriam watched helplessly as the tears rolled down the homesick boy’s cheeks. “Do you want to go home?”
“I don’t mean to complain,” he said. “Your father is a wonderful teacher, and during the day, I’m usually fine. But it’s different at night. I remember how far away my parents are, and I feel so alone. My roommates must think I’m a big baby.”
The poor fellow, no wonder he was unhappy. Miriam tried to think of something comforting to say. “Did you know that my father left his mother, his only relative, at the same age as you, and traveled all the way to Worms? At least you’re still in France; you don’t have to learn a new language.”
“Thanks for your encouragement.” He smiled wanly at her and started searching for eggs again. “I’ll try to keep it in mind.”
“Benjamin, I’m sorry you’re so unhappy.” What could she do to make him less miserable? “Maybe if you save some tidbits at meals and share them with one of the cats, you could entice it to sleep with you in the attic. Then you won’t feel alone at night.”
“I suppose that might help,” he said skeptically.
Miriam knew that Benjamin was several years older than she was, but he hadn’t started growing yet and still looked more like a boy than a youth on the verge of manhood. It didn’t occur to her that they shouldn’t be alone together; to Miriam they were both still children.
She ran over to him, scattering the chickens. “I know, let’s pretend that I’m your sister. Then it w
on’t be like you’re separated from all your family. What do you think?”
Benjamin’s demeanor brightened immediately. He grabbed her hand and gave it a quick kiss, exactly as he had done with his parents hundreds of times. Miriam had kissed her share of palms, especially her grandmother’s, but nobody had ever kissed hers before. In the nights that followed, she remembered the sensation of Benjamin’s lips on her hand and marveled at the feeling.
After evaluating his new students’ capabilities, Salomon decided to teach them Mishnah from Tractate Pesachim. After all, they had recently celebrated Passover, and its rituals should be fresh in their memories. Eager to study this Mishnah, yet unsure what the new pupils would think, Joheved and Miriam took up their spindles and settled unobtrusively in the back of the salle.
Salomon held up the leather-bound volume. “Every Mishnah has pages of Gemara, so you can be sure our Sages had many questions. Now I want you all to think about what questions they might have asked about our Mishnah.” He paused to let this sink in. “Remember, if you don’t understand something, it’s likely that one of the rabbis shared your difficulty.”
Salomon directed Ephraim to read. “We will begin with the last chapter, which I’m sure you’ll have no trouble learning. To study Mishnah, you chant the words with a special melody, which makes it easier to remember. When we get to a certain part,” he smiled mysteriously at the class, “you will find that you already know this tune, and you can all chant it for us.”
When Ephraim began reading, Joheved listened carefully for the special section.
They poured the second cup of wine and the son asks his father…Why is this night different?
He looked up triumphantly. “It’s the ‘Ma Nishtana,’ the Four Questions! I’m the youngest son, so I have to ask them every Passover at our Seder.” He shot his twin brother, older by moments, a resentful glance.
