by Maggie Anton
“I don’t know; that’s why I asked you.” He couldn’t believe it. She was acting as though he had asked what color snow was. “My mother doesn’t say anything when she lights the Sabbath lamp.”
“She doesn’t?” It was Joheved’s turn to be surprised. “Since you asked, I say what my grandmother taught me: Baruch ata Adonai,…Who commands us to kindle the Sabbath lights.”
That made sense—the same blessing as Hanukkah except she says Sabbath lights instead of Hanukkah lights. But where did it come from? “I know you’ve studied Tractate Berachot, and some of Tractate Shabbat as well,” Meir said. “Haven’t you wondered why the Sages never mention this blessing?”
“I never thought about it. I assumed it came from someplace else in the Talmud.” Her jaw dropped as she realized what his question implied. “You mean this blessing isn’t in the Talmud?”
He nodded and quickly added, “But I haven’t studied every page yet—we can always ask your father.”
Later that night, they did. Salomon was familiar with the blessing; after all, it was his own mother who said it. But he admitted that he had not seen it written anywhere in the Talmud and that there was no Jewish law that mandated it. It was obviously derived from the Hanukkah blessing, but he had no idea how universal the practice was. Rivka wasn’t much help. She’d also learned the blessing from Leah.
Baruch weighed in that Shemiah had occasionally left him to light the Shabbat lamp, yet he’d never told him to make a special blessing. Now Salomon’s curiosity was piqued, and he declared that he would question every foreign scholar at the Cold Fair about the practice.
This proved no easy task. Many merchants had no idea what their wives said at home, and some were not sure what their mothers had done. Yet Salomon persevered, and the following Shabbat he announced that German women made the blessing, those from Provence or Sepharad did not, and the Parisians might go either way. Joheved and Meir found the whole thing fascinating; it had never occurred to either of them that other Jewish women didn’t do the same thing their mothers did.
Once the Cold Fair opened, Meir found it wasn’t just him—everyone was complaining about the weather. It had never been so cold this early in the season. Joheved kept the windows in the wine cellar tightly closed and hoped that the temperature wouldn’t drop low enough to halt fermentation prematurely. Thank goodness Hanukkah came early this year; wine dealers were eager to buy and be on their way before heavy snow made traveling more difficult than usual.
Meir’s yetzer hara remained strong, and Joheved eagerly accommodated him. Before the demon bound him, Meir had felt it necessary to restrain himself and not burden Joheved with his needs. But now that his wife made it plain that her need was as great as his, he indulged her (and his) every desire. Besides, it was the husband’s duty to “cause his wife to rejoice,” which the Sages said he must accomplish by means of the holy deed. Salomon made a point of criticizing those who incorrectly translated this passage in Deuteronomy to read, “rejoice with his wife,” which valued the husband’s pleasure instead of his wife’s.
So when Joheved insisted on keeping the lamp lit at night for fear of demons, he didn’t argue. Meir had fleeting feelings of guilt for allowing his yetzer hara such license, but if his wife wanted him to make up for six months of deprivation as soon as possible, wasn’t he obliged to do so? And they had plenty of opportunity; it was the season of long nights.
While she enjoyed her husband’s attentions, Joheved didn’t encourage him solely for her own pleasure’s sake. She’d neglected to ask Ben Yochai how long she should continue to strengthen Meir’s yetzer once it was freed. And when should she remove the mirror from under the bed, if ever? Since he hadn’t told her, she decided to take no chances and just keep doing what she was doing. At least she knew it worked, even if she was becoming more exhausted every day.
It was only when Joheved threw up one morning that Meir left her undisturbed in bed. But she developed no fever, and though her nausea returned the next day, she felt no worse and was able to go about her business as usual. After a week of vomiting each morning, Joheved was desperately trying to recall when she’d last visited the mikvah. She knew she hadn’t immersed since Meir’s health had returned, but had she gone before Sukkot or after?
No matter. It had been nearly two months, and even allowing for her usual irregularity, that was too long. She had to be pregnant. Yet she continued to check herself for blood twice a day, as the Sages recommended. Best to fool the demons as long as possible. Meir came to the identical conclusion, but he wasn’t about to tempt the Evil Eye and say anything either.
Hanukkah came and went, and with it departed a good deal of Salomon’s wine. Snow was falling heavily, and Joheved worried about Samson’s absence. Last year he’d arrived with plenty of time to contract with the wine dealers. Even more disappointing, last year Samson had brought an excellent selection of furs from Russia. And if there was any year when furs were likely to be in demand, this was going to be the one.
In the weeks that followed, it snowed nearly every day. Powerful north winds exacerbated the low temperatures, and Meir, determined to regain his strength, helped Baruch chop wood. He also tried to ride to Ramerupt when the weather cleared, not only because he and his horse needed the exercise but also because it cheered his mother immensely to see him.
Joheved volunteered to brave the snow and buy the morning’s bread, a chore Anna was only too glad to relinquish. The brief walk to the bakery and back took just enough time to settle Joheved’s stomach, yet never chilled her more than a short stint in front of the hearth could fix. She couldn’t complain—near the bakery there were always beggars, and they looked to be in far worse shape than merely uncomfortable.
Most of the baker’s customers ignored them. Many agreed with him that handing out bread only encouraged beggars to frequent the bakery and interfere with his customers. Some intimated that the so-called paupers were frauds trying to avoid an honest day’s work, but Joheved took pity on a few women and shared her bread with them.
She remembered the story about giving charity that Grandmama Leah had often told her and Miriam. It was about Rabbi Akiva’s daughter, who the stars foretold would die on her wedding night. Akiva kept his knowledge secret and arranged her marriage with a heavy heart. Then, the next morning, Akiva hurried to visit his daughter. He was overjoyed to see her unharmed, staring in shock at a poisonous snake, now quite dead, pierced through the eye and fixed to the wall with a large hair pin.
During the night, Akiva’s daughter had removed her hairpin and, intending to stick it in the wall for safekeeping, thus impaled the snake. Akiva told her what he’d foreseen and questioned her about what had saved her. She replied that at the marriage feast she had noticed a poor, hungry, old man standing near the door, and since the servants were occupied, she gave him food from her own plate. “Now I see that ‘Charity saves from death,’” Akiva cried joyously, and he went out to teach this lesson from Proverbs to his disciples.
Joheved smiled to herself at the memory of seeing this same tale in Tractate Shabbat, and recalled how delighted she and Miriam had been to find their familiar childhood story in the Talmud. But as she surveyed the paupers crouching against the wall, trying their best to stay out of the icy wind, her smile disappeared. She was approaching the dangerous time of childbirth, and maybe giving just one beggar some bread would make the difference when her life hung in the balance.
One particularly freezing morning, the wind was howling so loudly that both Rivka and Salomon urged her to stay home. But the stifling air inside only increased Joheved’s nausea, and she couldn’t help but think of the poor beggars who had spent a night like this outdoors. Wrapped in Meir’s fur-lined cloak, crossing the courtyard wasn’t too bad, but once on the street, the snowy gusts almost forced her to return.
“Bonjour, Mistress,” came a muffled voice from the road. It was the dung collector, whose usual unsavory occupation had been augmented by the even more u
npleasant job of removing from public streets the bodies of those unfortunate enough to have frozen to death the previous night. His cart seemed more full than usual.
“Bonjour to you,” Joheved replied. “If you stop by later, there will be some leftover trenchers and warm stirabout for you.” Mama made sure there was always food available for the dung collector, who reciprocated in the spring by delivering fertilizer to the vineyard.
Joheved hurried to the bakery, motivated less by the cold than by the desire to maximize the distance between her and the odious cart. There she collected her bread and prepared to leave, putting all the loaves except two into her bag. Thus ready to distribute her charity, Joheved stepped into the frigid outdoors. Several of the beggars recognized her and held out their hands in petition.
“Alms for the poor, Mistress.”
“Just a little bread, Mistress. I haven’t eaten since this hour yesterday.”
“Have mercy on me and my hungry children.”
“A small piece of bread, please. Remember that charity delivers from death.”
Joheved’s senses, dulled by the scene of misery before her, snapped to attention at that last plea. The woman’s voice was familiar, but how could anyone Joheved knew have sunk to such depths? She looked carefully at the beggars, most of them extending hands thinner than Meir’s at his worst last fall.
“Catharina—is that you?”
twenty-six
Troyes
Winter 4837 (1076–77 C.E.)
The parchment maker’s daughter stared up at Joheved with sunken eyes. Joheved didn’t stop to think; she hauled Catharina under her furs and hustled them home. Her friend’s slender body was hot with fever. Once inside the courtyard, Joheved decided she’d better take Catharina to Aunt Sarah’s house. After all, the woman was a known prostitute and not even Jewish.
Sarah wasn’t happy with the unexpected guest, but Joheved and Miriam’s tearful pleas persuaded her to let Catharina convalesce under her roof. Over the next few days, the two sisters extracted her sad story.
“My bad luck started when a customer beat me up and stole my money,” she told them. “Then I got too sick to work and my landlord evicted me.”
Catharina paused as a chill shook her. “Like a fool, I begged for help at the church. But the priests, who knew very well I was a harlot because many of them had shared my company, would only aid me if I agreed to enter a convent,” she said with disgust. “Finally, I stationed myself at the bakery the Jews frequented and prayed that somebody would share their bread. And Le Bon Dieu answered my prayer.” She smiled up at Joheved.
But Sarah was not so sympathetic. One afternoon about a week later, she took Miriam aside, and it was obvious that the midwife was barely controlling her temper. “I know your sister meant well in bringing this common woman to my house, but there is a problem,” Sarah said with a grimace. “Your friend is pregnant.”
At first Miriam didn’t know what to say. “Does she know?”
“She suspected, and when I confirmed it, she had the nerve to ask me to help her lose the baby.” Sarah’s voice shook with rage. “She has no idea how dangerous the situation is—and that’s just for her. I hate to think what would happen if the authorities found out I was responsible for ending an Edomite’s pregnancy.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Sarah, I guess I told her you were a midwife a long time ago.” Her aunt’s fury was justified, but Miriam felt a duty towards the woman who had been her and Joheved’s only childhood companion. “Please, can’t we help her? Catharina’s life has been so difficult.” Miriam was trying hard not to cry. “I’m sure she won’t tell anyone.”
Miriam had always been tenderhearted, the one who rescued kittens stuck in the apple tree, who tried to save baby birds that had fallen from their nests. Sarah found it difficult to refuse her teary-eyed niece. “Let me think about it.”
For the next several days, Miriam and Joheved prayed that their aunt would relent. But when she did, it was with firm conditions. First of all, Catharina must give up her disgraceful profession. Even a hint of dalliances with the yeshiva students and she would be out, no matter how foul the weather. Second, she’d continue to live in Sarah’s house as a maidservant, in payment for Sarah’s kindness. Third, Sarah herself would do nothing to end the pregnancy other than provide Miriam with the necessary herbs and directions on how to use them. It was something Miriam needed to learn eventually.
They waited until Catharina’s fever was gone. After her friend fasted for a day, Miriam carefully measured out the dittany root, pennyroyal leaves, and iris flowers, then dropped them all into a pot of boiling water. Next she crushed juniper berries and mixed them in a cup of wine. She tried to appear calm, but she trembled slightly as she handed Catharina the cups of tea and wine, and once her patient got into bed, her hand shook so hard she could barely insert the pessary made of artemisia and myrrh.
Two days later, with Catharina moaning that she felt worse than after she’d been beaten, her womb was empty. After a week, she was able to perform some light tasks in Sarah’s service, but she hesitated to go outdoors, and not just because of the snow.
“What about the yeshiva students? Suppose one of them recognizes me?” Catharina had no intention of resuming her former occupation. After what she’d just experienced, if she never lay with a man again it would be too soon.
Miriam remembered Benjamin and Asher going to watch the rams rut. “You’ll keep your hair covered and try to avoid them.”
The cold weather made it easy for Catharina to keep herself well covered and avoid almost everyone in Salomon’s household. Her duties at Sarah’s kept her busy during the week, and when the other Edomite servants went out on Shabbat, she preferred to stay home. Thus she began a tentative friendship with Anna, who seemed equally eager to avoid strange men.
Salomon’s wines had been officially tasted at Hanukkah, but with Passover approaching, Joheved needed to judge the contents of the remaining casks in order to price them accordingly. But when she tasted them, she discovered that some of the barrels hadn’t completed their fermentation. Joheved’s first inclination was to dump the bubbly stuff out. But the wine didn’t appear spoiled, so she called Miriam down to the cellar to see what she thought.
“It’s different, but it doesn’t taste bad.” Miriam actually liked the bubbles in the wine, but she wanted to hear Joheved’s judgment before sharing her opinion.
“Not bad, not bad at all.” Joheved took another, longer drink. “The bubbles may even improve the flavor.” She downed the entire cup, let out a small burp and noticed that her indigestion had lessened considerably.
Miriam quickly finished her cup. “Do you suppose anyone will want to buy it? And if so, do we charge them more or less than for the regular wine?”
“We’d better ask Papa.”
Salomon recalled that his mother had occasionally produced an odd vintage like this. He was quick to agree that, while there wasn’t much color to the wine, it was, in fact, rather tasty.
“Why isn’t this wine red?” Joheved asked. It wasn’t clear, like water, but more of a pale pink.
“Of course you wouldn’t know—you were so busy taking care of Meir that you missed the wine harvest entirely,” he replied. “We didn’t have enough people to tread the grapes until all the color leached from their skins. So I drew off the juice from Robert’s grapes early.”
The rest of the household began to notice that something interesting was happening in the cellar, and soon everyone was sampling the strange, pale, bubbling wine.
“I like it, Papa,” Rachel declared. “It tickles my nose when I drink it.”
“My father has wine come out like this sometimes,” Benjamin said, already on his second cup. “They call it vin diable, the devil’s wine, and he always charges extra for it. He wishes he could make it come out bubbly all the time.”
Then he started to chuckle. “But you can’t transport it hardly any distance at all. Papa sold a cask to the Archbis
hop of Rheims, and when they opened it, an entire roomful of priests got sprayed.” Benjamin was laughing so hard he could barely get the story out. “They certainly considered it the devil’s wine.”
By now it was quite a jolly group of people in the cellar. Rivka brought down some bread and cheese, and several of the students got into a belching contest. Meir was standing close to Joheved, and the way they were gazing at each other, it appeared that they would be leaving the impromptu party early.
Miriam still had wits enough to ask her father, “But Papa, if it’s dangerous to move this wine around, how can we sell it?”
“Well, I suppose we could limit sales to local customers, who can carry it home in their own vessels,” he said. “Or maybe, if there’s not very much, we can just keep it for ourselves.” The festive atmosphere was contagious, prompting Salomon to whisper, “Maybe we should see this as the Holy One’s blessing, and save it for the brit (circumcision).”
“Joheved said she hasn’t told anyone.” Miriam couldn’t help but notice that her sister threw up almost every morning before they put on tefillin and prayed together. “How did you know?”
“A man congratulated me the other night at synagogue.” Salomon frowned with distaste. “He pointed out that we’d been studying Talmud every night for two months during the Cold Fair, and not once during that time did my oldest daughter—may the Holy One protect her—visit the mikvah.”
Miriam was appalled. “I hope you rebuked him strongly.” It was considered extremely bad taste for anyone to discuss a woman’s mikvah attendance. But then Miriam had another thought. “If we serve this wine at the brit, you can’t call it vin diable. That would be tempting Satan.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Salomon stroked his beard. “I know, we’ll call it Vin Champagne instead.”
As springtime drew closer and snow continued to fall, Samson’s failure to appear caused increasing anxiety. Not only did they fear for his safety, but how was Salomon’s wine going to get to Paris in time for Passover? Jewish wine shipped without a Jew accompanying it lost its kosher status, without which it wasn’t worth shipping. Wine was a necessity at Passover, but once the festival was over, its price would drop significantly.
