Rashi’s Daughters Book I: Joheved

by Maggie Anton

  Yet when she and Meir walked back home after she’d immersed, it was wonderful. The sheets were freshly washed, they drank wine from the same cup and fed each other dessert. Their hands found every excuse for touching each other—her veil was crooked, his côte needed straightening. The orange-striped cat, who slept between them during niddah, would vanish for the night and reappear at the foot of their bed the next morning.

  Was their renewed passion worth the price? Joheved didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. The law was the law. One thing she did know. Nothing lessened the pain of acknowledging that another month’s attempts at pregnancy had failed.

  For Meir, besides the halt to marital relations, what he missed most during niddah was the casual intimacy of marriage. When Joheved sat with the women at meals, it was difficult to even talk with her. At night, he wished he could just snuggle up to his wife’s warm body and hold her. Despite the incident in the cellar, Meir felt confident he could control his yetzer during niddah. Forbidden was forbidden—he would no more approach Joheved while she was niddah than he would eat bacon at a tavern.

  But he had no intention of testing his resolve and pulled his own covers tighter around him. He was still half awake when he heard the whinny of horses and the voice of his father’s servant below. He sat up and listened carefully. This was no dream. In a moment, Meir was dressed and out the door.

  Outside, he saw Aunt Sarah frantically trying to mount his horse. The servant’s distress had communicated itself to the animal, increasing its agitation. Meir ran over and took hold of the bridle, his familiar presence calming the nervous filly.

  “Your sister is in labor and I’ve come for the midwife,” the servant whispered. His anxiety made the simple words imply the worst. “Your horse can easily find her way to Ramerupt in the dark.”

  Meir tried to control his increasing fear. “What’s the matter?” His father had sent the servant to Troyes on his own horse, the fastest in their stable. What was the emergency that couldn’t wait for dawn?

  “This is no time for talk,” Sarah called to Meir. “You can be useful by closing the gate behind us.”

  When they were gone, he slowly walked back to the house. He was trembling, but not with cold. Childbirth was the domain of women, and he knew little of the process except that it was so dangerous that Jacob’s beloved Rachel, one of the four Jewish matriarchs, had died from it. And that ratio hadn’t changed much since then.

  Sleep was impossible, so he spent the hours until dawn reciting Psalms. But he kept interrupting his prayers to see if it was getting light. Suddenly a rooster crowed. It was still dark outside, but Meir knew his waiting was nearly over. Heart pounding, he cleared his mind and focused on the eighty-sixth Psalm:

  My God, deliver Your servant who trusts in You.

  Have mercy on me, O Adonai, for I call to You all the day;

  Give ear, O Adonai, to my prayer; heed my plea for mercy.

  In my time of trouble I call You, for You will answer me.

  When the sky finally began to lighten, Meir was astride Sarah’s horse and ready to ride for Ramerupt. He rode past sleepy peasants, who watched with surprise as the young horseman raced across their lands. But he barely noticed them. His concentration was focused on guiding the mare over any obstacles that might hinder them.

  The sun had risen completely when he galloped through the manor’s gates. A servant ran out to meet him, but Meir ignored him and bolted through the nearest door, which led into the kitchen. Maidservants preparing breakfast scattered as he rushed for the stairs, and he slowed only when he reached the landing and heard the unmistakable sound of an infant’s cry.

  Meir’s heart swelled with relief. Sarah had arrived in time, the baby was born, everything was all right. The need to see his sister overcame all else, and without thinking, he opened her bedroom door and strode in. And stopped, horrified, in his tracks.

  As a child Meir had watched the villeins slaughter sheep, but he had never seen so much blood indoors—the bedding, the attending women’s clothes, even the floor. The scene in front of him seared into his mind: his mother holding the small wailing bundle, tears streaming down her face, the serving women staring at him with dread, Aunt Sarah grimly sewing up the large hole in his sister’s belly. He suddenly felt nauseous, and the room began to swirl around him.

  The last thing he heard before he fainted was a woman screaming, “Get him out of here!”

  twenty-three

  Ramerupt

  Spring 4836 (1076 C.E.)

  Meir awoke to the sound of Joheved’s voice. “Meir, please wake up. You need to get up now.”

  Relief coursed through him; he’d just had a horrible nightmare, but it was over. He slowly opened his eyes and saw Joheved bending over him, her face etched with sympathy and concern. Then he looked beyond her and saw that he was in his boyhood bed at his parents’ house.

  “Non, Merciful God, Non!” Meir sat up, grabbed the neckline of his chemise and ripped it open to his waist. Then he rolled over and pounded the bed in anguish.

  Joheved watched helplessly as her husband bewailed his loss. His back was towards her, and she wanted to reach out and stroke his shaking shoulders. But she was niddah. They couldn’t touch each other until she immersed.

  Tears running down her cheeks, she gazed at him and sighed. She hated to think about it, yet Joheved knew that if she died in childbirth, Meir would take a new wife. But now his only sister was gone, and with her an irretrievable piece of his past.

  “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say.

  Her voice reminded Meir that he wasn’t alone. Gulping down his sobs, he sat up and faced her squarely. “Tell me what happened. How did my sister die?”

  Joheved was taken aback by his direct question, but she had listened carefully as Aunt Sarah explained the circumstances to Miriam. “I’m terribly sorry, but the placenta was in between the baby and the birth passage,” she explained. “Aunt Sarah said there was nothing anyone could have done for her. At least they saved the baby, which, by the way, is a boy.”

  “When I heard the baby crying, I just had to see for myself that Hannah was all right,” he muttered bitterly. “It never occurred to me that she wouldn’t be.” He had barely spoken the last phrase when he began to weep.

  Joheved repeated, “I’m sorry,” several times and wondered how long Meir intended to sequester himself in his old bedroom. She didn’t want to leave him alone, but she was needed to help prepare Hannah’s body for burial.

  Just then the door opened to admit his parents, both wearing ripped bliauts. His father’s barely controlled grief was too much for Meir, and when he broke into tears again, his mother took him in her arms and they wept together. Joheved felt like an intruder observing what should be her in-laws’ private sorrow, but she couldn’t get up and leave without forcing them aside.

  Finally Samuel cleared his throat and suggested that Meir come downstairs where Salomon and his students had congregated. Of course, Meir realized, they were gathering for the funeral. Was everyone waiting for him? Had he been unconscious so long that his sister’s body had already been ritually prepared?

  Marona answered his unspoken question by asking Joheved, “Are you ready, dear? We have everything we need for tahara upstairs.”

  Joheved gave Meir what she hoped was an affectionate look and then walked with her mother-in-law to the room where Miriam and Aunt Sarah were waiting with the corpse. She told herself not to be so nervous. After all, she had performed this mitzvah for Grandmama Leah, whom she had loved deeply, while Meir’s sister was practically a stranger. Her thoughts were interrupted when she saw that Marona had hesitated outside the door. The woman was trembling and Joheved instinctively took her arm to offer support, berating herself for being insensitive to the mourner’s needs.

  They each took a deep breath and walked in. Hannah’s bed had been dismantled and in its place was a narrow table on which her body lay, covered by a sheet. Aunt Sarah was instr
ucting Miriam in the procedures needed for tahara when a woman died in childbirth, assistance the midwife was expected to provide. She lapsed into respectful silence when she saw Marona, and the four women quietly took their places around the table.

  Marona, the only legal mourner among them, positioned herself at her daughter’s head to wash her face and hair. Sarah would prepare the torso, thus preventing anyone except herself from viewing Hannah’s disfigurement. There was a subtle odor in the air, and Joheved recognized it as the smell of death. She had only experienced it twice, with Grandmama and baby Leah, but the fetid odor was unmistakable.

  At Grandmama Leah’s tahara, they had talked among themselves as they performed the mitzvah. But Jewish law prohibited anyone from addressing a mourner first, and here, the deceased’s mother was entitled to contemplate her sorrow uninterrupted, if that was her choice. They worked in silence, changing the body’s position as necessary, maintaining its modesty under the sheet.

  Suddenly Marona’s eyes brimmed over and a few tears slipped down her face. “I haven’t washed or brushed Hannah’s hair since she was a little girl.” Her voice quivered as she spoke.

  Her listeners made sympathetic comments and she continued, “Once Meir was married, and Hannah had survived two births, I thought my days of burying children were over. You see, while I was still nursing Hannah, I lost two children to smallpox in a month. It was the most pain I’ve ever borne, until now.”

  “You have much company,” Aunt Sarah said gently. “It’s a rare mother who sees each baby grow to honor her in her old age.”

  “True.” Marona sighed. “Smallpox made mourners of every woman I knew, and we comforted each other. And others were worse off—I had some children survive, plus the likelihood of having more in the future. Now I am like Naomi—there are no more children in my womb.”

  Joheved could not restrain herself. “Please don’t say that; it will tempt Satan. Naomi said it to Ruth when all her sons were dead. You have two sons still living; may the Merciful One protect them.”

  “May the Merciful One certainly protect them,” Marona said hastily, clearly horrified at endangering her sons.

  They were nearly done now. Hannah’s body was shrouded and all that remained to do was to cover her head with a white hood, the front of which resembled a veil. This honor was reserved for her mother, and with trembling hands, Marona gently smoothed the delicate fabric over her daughter’s face and hair.

  Then she sighed and began to weep anew. “She looks just like a bride.”

  Sarah, who had helped prepare too many young matrons for burial, was ready for this reaction. She took the sobbing mother in her arms and held her, offering the consolation that Hannah had lived to womanhood, had known the joys of a husband’s and children’s love. Then she sent Joheved and Miriam out to find whoever was going to watch the body next.

  Meshullam arrived two days into the week of mourning for his sister, and by then the family had settled into a routine. Each day, shortly after breakfast, Salomon and his students arrived to pray the morning service with the mourners. This was followed by Torah study, the midday meal, more study and the afternoon service, after which the contingent from Troyes returned home.

  Salomon taught only from the sorrowful sacred texts—the books of Job, Lamentations, and Jeremiah, and the two tractates of Talmud dealing with mourning or the destruction of the Temple—while the bereaved men in Meir’s family sat silently on the floor. Joheved longed to sit by her husband’s side and console him, but no matter how comfortable she might feel listening to scholarly discussions at home, she thought it would be inappropriate for her to sit here with the men.

  Besides, Marona had no other woman to console her, and she seemed content to pass the time showing her daughter-in-law around the estate that Joheved had only glimpsed on her ride over. Unlike houses in the crowded Jewish district of Troyes, which were protected by the castle and city walls, the manor sat isolated, surrounded only by fields. And compared to the house of Isaac haParnas, one of the finest in Troyes, this place was enormous. Besides the imposing main house, there were several other buildings as well.

  What were all those rooms and buildings for? What did people do here all day? What was it like, this place where her husband had grown up? Joheved couldn’t hide how impressive she found it.

  “It was either my husband’s grandfather or great-grandfather—may his merit protect us—who was the first lord here.” Even grief couldn’t conceal Marona’s pride. “The Count of Ramerupt needed money—don’t they always—which Samuel’s ancestor loaned him, and the count repaid him by deeding him this land.”

  They walked past a large chicken coop built against the far wall, and Marona patted the grey stone with satisfaction. “Samuel told me that at first it was one big structure, half hall and half barn, but over the years, they built the kitchen and bakehouse, the dovecote, the sheepfold, the stable and storage barns.”

  Joheved admired each building, so different from home. The bakehouse oven was as large as the matzah bakery’s, and the enormous kitchen had its own granary built against one side. The round, thatched dovecote held at least a hundred doves, while the wooden sheepfold, also thatched, was big enough to accommodate all the estate’s sheep at night. In the stone stable, she saw horses and oxen, as well as carts and farm tools.

  While Joheved knew that other people didn’t reside in large cities, she had never given much thought to what rural life was like. She felt provincial and ignorant, and suddenly understood her father’s driving need to question the foreign merchants about their lands and customs, to learn how everything worked or was made. As Marona pointed out detail after detail, Joheved grew ashamed that she knew so little about her husband’s home.

  “And Samuel is still making improvements,” Marona said, ushering Joheved into a building that seemed newer than the others. “When Meir was little, we built this dairy, to make cheese from the ewe’s extra milk.”

  Marona earnestly explained how the milkmaids used the churns, settling pans, strainers and cheese presses. Joheved was intrigued with the little blocks with inverted Hebrew letters carved into them, and one of the milkmaids showed her that when they were pushed into the hardening curd, the resulting cheese was clearly labeled so that Jewish customers could tell it was kosher.

  When they came to the large cellar under the main house, Joheved was surprised at all the wine barrels stored there. She recognized Salomon’s, but these were by no means the majority. She knocked on a few and, finding them empty, asked when they had last been used.

  “Before your betrothal, we used to buy grapes and make our own wine here, though it was never as good as your family makes,” Marona said. Then, unable to remain content with such a short reply, she elaborated, “In Provence, where I grew up, most Jews owned land, and my family had olive orchards and vineyards. They told me that Samuel’s father specifically looked for his bride in Provence, to find one who was familiar with a landed estate.

  “I wish I had been raised like you, Joheved, to know all about growing grapes as well as how to make wine from them.” She sighed with nostalgia. “We all had to help with the vintage, of course, but my father wouldn’t let me or my sisters work in the fields.”

  Joheved remembered the girls in Troyes who used to snub her for working in the vineyard, but she said nothing.

  “I must admit that nowadays, harvesting the wheat is so time consuming that it’s a relief not to be bothered with a vineyard too,” Marona continued. “Yet I loved the way the grapevines looked back home, all green and tied up on their stakes, and they smelled so nice in the spring. I’ve never quite given up the idea of having our own vineyard here, which was, of course, one of the things that was so attractive about having my son marry you.”

  Joheved thanked Marona for the compliment and tried to listen attentively as her mother-in-law babbled on. At least she’d been able to offer the woman some diversion from her grief.

  Unfortunately, she was l
ess successful at consoling Meir. Questioning him about the day’s studies brought brief monotone responses, not at all like the enthusiastic Talmud lessons they had previously shared. She told him about exploring the manor and tried to draw him out by asking about his favorite childhood memories. But they all seemed to involve Hannah, which, instead of offering the comfort of pleasant recollections, only deepened his dark mood.

  Even sleep brought him no peace. Joheved would wake in the dark to hear him tossing and turning. Sometimes he cried out and she was afraid of the demon, the night mare, that invaded his dreams. How she longed to pull him close to her and hold him tight until he relaxed back into sleep.

  Each night Meir had a similar dream. Someone or something was chasing him, but he dared not look back to see his pursuer’s face or how many of them there were. When he could almost hear their breathing behind him, he reached a flight of stairs and raced up them, only to find himself stopped by a closed door. Just as an arm or claw reached out to grab him, he forced the door open, only to find himself in Hannah’s bedroom, her bloodied body on the bed. The pursuers laughed raucously and Meir would wake up in terror.

  Meir briefly considered telling Joheved or Marona about his bad dreams. When he had woken up crying as a child, his mother would have Samuel, Meshullam and herself bless him the next morning, turning his bad dream to good. But he wasn’t a child anymore; he couldn’t bring himself to ask for three people to bless him because a night mare disturbed his sleep.

  Yet reciting the antidemonic Psalm 91 didn’t help. He couldn’t wait to return to Troyes, where he wouldn’t have to pass by that dreadful door every day. Once he was back at Salomon’s with his mind engaged by the yeshiva’s routine, surely then he would rid himself of the horrors that stalked him.