by Maggie Anton
nineteen
Troyes
Summer 4834 (1074 C.E.)
In early June Joheved persuaded her new husband to visit the flowering vineyard. Meir agreed that the blooms smelled very nice, but he didn’t need any aphrodisiacs other than his wife’s unclothed body in bed with him. He thought himself the most blessed of men; by day he prayed, studied Torah and helped with the vines, while at night he fervently tried to fulfill the Creator’s commandment to procreate, with a partner whose yetzer hara seemed every bit as strong as his own.
Times were sweet for Joheved as well. She enjoyed showing Meir how to care for the vineyard, and at night she studied Talmud with Miriam until he returned from the synagogue. No one had ever intimated to her that getting married could be so wonderful, and she suspected that it had not been so for Mama or Aunt Sarah.
Joheved’s contentment that summer would have been complete but for an incident at the Hot Fair. Now that Joheved was a married woman, she needed to have her own medicine box, stocked with all the remedies her family might require. Aunt Sarah offered to help her two nieces shop for them.
There were several merchants who sold herbs and potions, but Aunt Sarah preferred to deal with an old man named Ben Yochai. His origin was unknown, as was his first name. Some said that he came from lands east of the Saracens, while others said he lived south of the Mediterranean Sea. He was reputed to be a sorcerer as well as a merchant and scholar, with knowledge of esoteric and mystical texts.
The three women arrived at his stall to find the oldest man Joheved had ever seen, as well as the most oddly dressed. Most men wore bright colors, but the robe that covered Ben Yochai from shoulder to ankle appeared to be pure black. It was only when she got closer that she could see it was actually a deep, midnight blue. Instead of the flat, round hats that men usually wore, Ben Yochai’s was tall and conical, the same dark blue as his côte.
“If it weren’t for his hat,” Miriam whispered to her sister, “he’d be shorter than I am.”
Sharp, intelligent eyes squinted out at them from beneath bushy, white eyebrows. “Shalom aleichem,” Ben Yochai said, his voice surprisingly young. “I may be a stranger to you, but at synagogue Rav Salomon pointed you out to me as his daughters.”
He turned to Joheved. “I congratulate you on your recent nuptials.” He spoke with a strange accent, similar to Hiyya ibn Ezra’s. “When the time comes, I can provide you with an excellent selection of birth amulets.”
“That’s very well, Ben Yochai, but what Joheved needs now is more mundane,” Sarah said. For her nieces’ benefit, she described the uses of each herb she wanted. “We’ll take some cowslip flowers—its tea is excellent for headaches and insomnia—ginger to treat colds, horehound for coughs, and of course, comfrey, both root and leaf. Joheved, are you listening?”
Joheved, who had been reviewing a Talmud lesson in her mind, quickly looked up and Aunt Sarah continued, “Moistened comfrey root, when applied around a broken limb, sets it like plaster, and its leaves make an excellent poultice for all sorts of wounds.”
Ben Yochai produced the herbs that Joheved’s kit lacked and then took Aunt Sarah and Miriam aside to describe some contraceptives. Bored, Joheved wandered over to the nearby square, where two acrobats were balancing on a tightrope. She might as well wait there for Miriam and enjoy the entertainment. But before the show was over, Miriam joined her, complaining that Aunt Sarah had dismissed her when the subject turned to love potions. Suddenly Miriam gasped with dismay.
Joheved followed her sister’s gaze and was shocked to see Catharina, the parchment maker’s daughter, leaning boldly against a wall. Her hair was uncovered and her neckline was cut so low that the swelling of her breasts was exposed. There could be no doubt; their old friend had become a common woman, a prostitute.
Their first impulse was to pretend they hadn’t noticed her. After all, they had hardly seen her since Baruch and Anna came to live with them. The reputation of the alleys between the two Rues de la Tannerie was as unsavory as their odor, and Salomon had been quick to make procuring parchment his manservant’s assignment. Yet they couldn’t leave without finding out how she had come to this lamentable state.
They started off towards their friend, but when they were about halfway there, perhaps aware that she was being stalked, Catharina saw them. Her initial happy expression abruptly changed to one of shame. Joheved worried that she might try to avoid them by slipping into one of the alleys branching out from St. Jean’s square, but she dejectedly walked forward to intercept them.
“Miriam, it’s good to see you. I trust your family is well,” she said quickly, forestalling the questions they were sure to have for her. She turned to Joheved, “I heard you finally married the sheep rancher’s son. Does wedded life agree with you?”
Even her concern for Catharina’s fate couldn’t hide the joy Joheved felt when she thought about being married. But when her face lit up, Catharina’s eyes filled with tears.
Eventually Catharina stopped crying long enough to tell her story. “Two years ago my father died,” she said, waving her hands to ward off her friends’ proffered sympathy, “and my brother took over the business. At first things seemed the same. I helped my brother make the parchment and my sister-in-law take care of the house. I told myself it didn’t matter if I never married. I had food to eat and a roof over my head.”
“But last year my brother brought his wife’s younger brother into the shop. The brute immediately had eyes for me, and I foolishly imagined that he might marry me.”
She laughed derisively, not a happy sound. “But he intended no such thing. Why should he marry me when another woman would bring a dowry with her? But that didn’t keep him away from me. Oh no. Whenever we were alone he was after me, making lewd remarks, his hands groping my body. I never had a moment’s peace. When I finally complained to my brother, he got angry and said it must be my fault for encouraging the fellow.”
Catharina’s face hardened in anger. “Well, that was all the villain needed to hear. He increased his disagreeable advances, and I began sleeping in the workroom, near where we kept the knives. One night, I awoke to his unwelcome presence. I tried to grab a knife, but he caught hold of my hand and nearly crushed it. He said that if I tried to call my brother, he’d tell them that I was a tease and a slut, that I’d invited him to my bed only to reject him. I was trapped; no one would believe the truth.” A sob escaped her, but she stifled it quickly.
Her voice became louder. “He didn’t care about hurting me, and probably thought it was amusing to watch me hobble around the next day and tell my brother that I had tripped going down the stairs. Still, I hoped that once he’d ruined me, he’d leave me alone. That’s how little I knew of men. He was back the next night, and the next. The following Sunday, I told my brother I was sick and waited for them to leave for church. Then I took my things and found a merchant going to the Mai Fair de Provins.”
Catharina paused and surveyed her audience. So far they had listened quietly, their expressions sympathetic. But how would they feel after hearing what she was about to recount? “It was simple to pay the merchant to take me with him with the same commodity my brother-in-law wanted, the same commodity all men want. Many in Provins were willing to pay too, and I did so well that I decided to come back and try my luck at the Hot Fair.”
Joheved and Miriam stared at each other in dismay. Catharina sounded almost proud of herself.
“Catharina, just because your brother-in-law forced you doesn’t mean you have to keep doing this.” Joheved was filled with pity. Her friend would never know how wonderful it could be with a husband who was considerate and gentle.
“People are always looking for good servants,” Miriam said. “You could save your wages and get married like our Marie did.”
“I’m sure you’re trying to be kind,” Catharina said obdurately. “But in one season of Champagne fairs, I can earn more money than your maidservant does in years.” Catharina’s defiant ex
pression softened and she sighed. “Well, it’s been nice seeing you again. I wish you both very happy futures.”
She turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Joheved and Miriam to walk dejectedly back to the herb dealer.
It was autumn when Joheved and Meir encountered the first thorn in their marital bed of roses. The Days of Awe were over, and the new vintage was sealed in casks and undergoing its final fermentation in the cellar. Salomon was working on his kuntres for Tractate Rosh Hashanah, which he planned to teach when his students returned, when the thought came to him that he needn’t give up teaching Talmud to his daughters just because one of them was married. Meir could join them.
When Joheved saw her husband walk in and sit down next to her and Miriam, her stomach tightened into a knot. Yet as desperately as she wanted to escape, Joheved couldn’t get up and leave Meir to study alone with Miriam and Papa.
Salomon had no idea anything was troubling Joheved. He began with a section at the end of the third chapter that dealt with the commandment of shofar blowing. The shofar, or ram’s horn, was sounded each day during the month before Rosh Hashanah, and several times on the holy day itself. The Sages were debating whether one who heard the shofar, but without the intent of fulfilling the mitzvah, had indeed fulfilled the commandment.
Salomon motioned to Joheved to start with the Mishnah. She fought down her panic, swallowed hard, and began to read.
One whose house was next to a synagogue and he heard the shofar, if he applied his mind to it, he has fulfilled his obligation, but if not, he has not fulfilled it. Even if this one heard it, and that one heard it.
But she asked no questions and offered no explanation of what she had read. It was Miriam who asked about the last line, and Salomon explained, “This teaches that only the men’s intent mattered, not the quality of the sound they heard. ‘This one’ heard the shofar with intent to perform the mitzvah, and ‘that one’ heard exactly the same shofar without intent.”
Miriam continued with the Gemara.
Rava maintains that the commandments do not require intent.
Joheved was usually first to interrogate him, so Salomon tried to direct his questions towards her. “Can one in fact perform a mitzvah by accident? What if one is studying Torah and happens to recite the section containing the Shema at the commanded time? What if a man hears the shofar on Rosh Hashanah, but thinks it is a donkey braying?”
Even if she’d wanted to speak, Joheved couldn’t. Her mind was too frozen to think of any response, let alone an intelligent one, and she could only defer to Meir or Miriam. Miriam began to speak less, to encourage her sister to say more, and soon even Meir could tell something was wrong.
Joheved was focused on how much longer she’d have to endure this ordeal, when Meir, sure that his presence had somehow spoiled their studies, stood up and addressed Salomon. “Please excuse me, but you three might be able to study better without me.”
Hoping that they would call him back, Meir slowly walked to the door. He hadn’t said it, but inside her head Joheved could hear him clearly—I know when I’m not wanted. She felt miserable for rejecting him, but she still couldn’t study Talmud with him.
Meir had no time to feel sorry for himself. Rachel was sitting on a bench near the hearth, head bent over a book, and she called out when she saw him, “Meir, can you help me? I’m not sure what these words mean.” Rachel was struggling with Leviticus, the book of Torah traditionally taught to beginning students.
Meir couldn’t help but grin at her call for aid. When she smiled sweetly and looked up at him with those innocent big green eyes, he could almost imagine what it would be like teaching Torah to his own children, assuming Joheved ever gave him any. Still he was pleased that somebody wanted him around, so Meir sat down and looked at the page Rachel was having difficulty with.
She was in chapter Kedoshim, the Holiness Code.
You shall not hate your kinsfolk in your heart…You shall not avenge, neither shall you bear a grudge. Love your fellow as yourself.
Rachel chanted the text and looked up at Meir. “What’s the difference between ‘avenge’ and ‘bear a grudge’?”
Meir was delighted to explain it. “Here’s an example. Suppose that Reuben says to Simon, ‘Lend me your sickle,’ and Simon replies, ‘No.’” Meir made his voice change to imitate the two imaginary men, high pitched and whiny for Reuben, low and gruff for Simon.
“Then the next day, Simon says to Reuben, ‘Lend me your hatchet,’ and Reuben says, ‘I’m not going to lend it to you, just as you refused to lend me your sickle.’” This time Meir acted out the two men’s argument. “That’s avenging.”
Rachel giggled in response and he continued his little drama.
“And if Simon says to Reuben, ‘Lend me your hatchet,’ and Reuben replies, ‘No,’ but on the next day Reuben says, ‘Lend me your sickle,’ and Simon answers, ‘Here it is—I am not like you who would not lend to me…’”
Rachel clapped her hands in glee as Meir dramatized the second scenario. “This is bearing a grudge; Simon bears hatred in his heart even though he does not avenge himself.”
He listened patiently as she read more and helped her as necessary. It brought back fond memories of tutoring Eleazar’s children during his final year in Worms. Sarah’s grandchildren were his cousins now, and he had been remiss in not writing to them. He found a quill and parchment, and when Rivka put Rachel to bed, he had something else to keep him busy while Joheved studied Talmud without him.
Later that night, after they’d gone to bed, Joheved did her best to make up for neglecting Meir earlier, and the next morning, he seemed his usual sanguine self. But after Joheved finished her prayers in the room the two sisters used to share, Miriam couldn’t wait to bombard her with questions.
“Joheved, what’s the matter with you? Why on earth didn’t you say anything in the salon when Meir was there?”
Joheved had been asking herself the same questions. “I’m not sure why, but I felt too nervous to speak.”
“But that’s silly. You talk to Meir all the time now. Why should talking about Talmud be different?” Miriam thought for a moment while she folded the straps of her tefillin and put them back in their bag. “Try to remember last night, and what exactly you were afraid might happen if you spoke up in front of him.”
Joheved put her tefillin bag away in the chest next to her sister’s. Despite her marriage, she continued their custom of saying the morning prayers together. Like studying Talmud, it was something she worried her husband wouldn’t like a woman doing. She realized that was part of the answer.
“After everything Mama’s said, I can’t believe that Meir really approves of my learning Talmud.” Joheved could see that Miriam was about to protest, but insisted on finishing her thought. “And even if he does think it’s all right, I still worry what he’ll think of me after I do speak. If I say something stupid, he’ll think poorly of me, and if I say something clever, he might get upset that I make him look bad in comparison.”
How her sister had changed, Miriam thought, that this man’s opinion meant so much to her now. “Are you sure you haven’t misjudged Meir? Why don’t you ask him how he feels?”
“I’ll think about it.” Joheved felt a sense of relief that she’d figured out why studying Talmud with Meir bothered her, but that didn’t mean she was ready to face his possible disapproval. Maybe she should explain to him how she felt; maybe they could try to study together again.
But that night, Meir announced that he intended to spend the evening reviewing Tractate Sanhedrin, the text Salomon had taught during the Hot Fair. “After all, I missed most of the scholar’s night sessions this summer.”
Joheved was stung by his rejection and by the implication that he regretted spending those nights with her instead of staying up late studying Talmud. Maybe he didn’t want to study with women and was glad of an excuse to leave. Maybe he didn’t mind them studying without him.
But Meir did min
d. Several strange things about his wife came together to unsettle him further. Why would a normal woman want to study Talmud and wear tefillin? He knew she did because he had glimpsed her at prayer once when Rachel left the door ajar. Also, she didn’t have flowers like other women did.
And what about her yetzer hara? Weren’t women supposed to be modest and demure? Perhaps her unwomanly pursuits explained why she wasn’t getting pregnant; after all, it wasn’t for lack of trying. What Meir didn’t know, and neither did Joheved, was that she was enceinte, and had been for many weeks.
That Friday night, Salomon’s family was looking forward to an evening of singing Sabbath table songs together. Next week the Cold Fair would begin, and this was the family’s last Shabbat dinner without a houseful of students and guests.
So everyone was taken aback when Joheved yawned and apologized, “I hate to miss all the singing, but I’m too tired to stay up a moment longer.”
Sarah listened to this announcement and rose to accompany her niece to the privy. “Joheved, are you feeling all right?” she asked shrewdly. “Having any stomach aches?”
“I’m feeling quite well,” Joheved replied. “I just can’t seem to stay awake.” She finished in the privy, and this made her remember another thing. “And I need to pee all the time. I even have to go in the middle of the night. It’s so annoying.”
“Tell me, do you think your breasts are larger? Do they feel tender?” It was too dark for Joheved to see her aunt’s smile.
“I suppose they might be bigger, but they’ve been growing for several years now.” It was also too dark for Sarah to see Joheved blush. Her breasts and nipples were sore, but she’d thought that was due to Meir’s frequent handling.
Sarah walked upstairs with her. “When you wore your new girdle at Rosh Hashanah was it tighter than at your wedding?”
