by Maggie Anton
Just when it seemed that some alternative arrangement would have to be made, Samson walked into the courtyard. And he wasn’t alone. Clinging tightly to his mantle was a small, red-haired boy, perhaps five or six years old. He watched wide-eyed as Samson hugged Anna and Baruch and then shook Salomon’s hand, all the while never losing his grip on the tall man’s cloak.
“I would like you all to meet my son, also named Nicolae, but now called Jacob, after my old master.” Samson spoke in Hebrew, and it was obvious that the boy understood him. “We would have been here sooner except that his circumcision took a long time to heal, and we were forced to remain in Mayence all winter.”
“Your son?” Anna stared at him in disbelief. “Since when have you had a son?”
“I didn’t know I had a son either,” he replied with a wink. “Finding you made me wonder if somebody else from our family might still be alive back home, so I decided to go see.”
Anna took a deep breath and asked, “What did you find there?”
“There was nobody left.” Samson struggled to keep his sorrow under control. “Our village had been rebuilt, but everyone living there was a stranger. I asked and asked, and finally somebody directed me to a cousin who had little Nicolae.”
“When I brought him back to Mayence, the Jews there warned me to have him circumcised right away. They said if a crazy Edomite caught me with him first, I’d be accused of kidnapping one of their children for some devilish purpose.” He shook his head in exasperation. “Well, I’m here, better late than never.”
When it came time for Samson to leave for Paris, Anna begged him to leave the boy with her, but he refused. During the entire week he had been in Troyes, the child had not left his side.
“But you can’t have him travel around with you like a dog,” she scolded him. “A Jewish boy has to go to school.”
“They start studying Torah so young?” he asked.
The concerned look on his face was enough to convince Anna that this problem had not occurred to him. “Like it or not, Uncle, you’re going to have to settle down. I’m surprised you’ve managed to stay unmarried so long. Jews usually like everyone all matched up, like in Noah’s ark.”
“Oh, my old master tries to marry me off, but I barely make enough money to support myself, let alone a family. And who’d want to marry me anyway?”
“Don’t tell me that you don’t make enough money.” She wagged her finger at him. “Everyone says that a Jew who can’t get rich these days is either lazy or stupid, and I know you’re neither. As for where you’d find a bride, that’s not difficult. There are lots more women converts than men.”
That was true; women converts had only to immerse themselves in the mikvah, while men had to undergo circumcision, a formidable obstacle. Anna knew that only a convert would marry a man with as little learning as Samson, but the odds were still in his favor.
“Very well, Anna, you win,” Samson said with a sigh. She was right; he needed a wife to help take care of Jacob. “I’ll see about it when I get back to Mayence.”
But he never did get back to Mayence that year. He quickly conducted his business in Paris and returned to Troyes in time for Passover. After the seder, Baruch insisted that Samson remain in Troyes so Jacob could begin his education immediately.
“Here in Troyes, Anna can look after the boy when you’re away, and with all the Champagne fairs, you’ll find plenty of business opportunities.”
Anna pressed his point. “And wouldn’t it be nice for little Pesach to have a cousin living nearby? Then, once you find a bride, you can move back to Mayence or not, whatever suits you.”
Samson was no match for their arguments, and as it turned out, living in Troyes wasn’t much different from living in Mayence. During the fairs it was simple to make the same type of arrangements with merchants that he had previously made in the Rhineland. And as long as he was there, he’d get to know Sarah’s new maidservant better; experience had taught him that the young women who worked for the Jews were not always so chaste as they appeared.
For Joheved, May and June were delightful months. After six months of snow, the weather finally warmed, her nausea and tiredness were gone and she felt extraordinarily well. The baby was kicking vigorously, and nothing enthralled Meir more than lying in bed with his hand on her swollen belly, waiting to feel his child move within. Salomon had agreed to study Tractate Shabbat, and they soon reached the second chapter, which contained the Mishnah about women dying in childbirth.
Miriam and Joheved made no attempt to hide their interest in the discussion, and for Salomon’s pupils, his pregnant daughter’s presence brought immediacy to their Talmud studies. Joheved felt an urge to participate in the lesson herself, something she had never done before, and her throat tightened in anxiety. This was ridiculous—Papa and Meir both knew she studied Talmud. Why should she be tongue-tied in front of their students? The Mishnah began as she remembered it:
For three transgressions women die in childbirth. Because they neglect niddah, challah, kindling the (Sabbath) light.
Salomon immediately asked why these three laws were singled out; why not other transgressions?
Joheved knew the answer and was trying to find the courage to speak when Benjamin beat her to it. “Because women are the ones primarily responsible for observing them,” he said. “Niddah obviously depends on her. And since she makes the family bread, she has the opportunity to take challah. Finally, she is the one at home, rather than in synagogue, when Shabbat begins, so lighting the Shabbat lamp also falls to her.”
“These are also mitzvot that men must trust women to perform correctly,” Miriam whispered to Joheved. “If a woman neglects niddah or taking challah, her husband transgresses as well when he sleeps with her or eats the untithed bread.”
“I’m sure whatever you told your sister is something we would all find of value,” Salomon admonished her.
Miriam blushingly repeated her comment aloud and added, “And if she forgets to light the Shabbat lamp in time, her family will have to sit in darkness.”
Salomon held up his hand to get his students attention. “I want to dispel the notion that death in childbirth is retribution for the woman who has sinned in one of these three ways.” He surveyed the room as if daring anyone to contradict him. “Childbirth is so dangerous that a woman may need benevolence from the Merciful One in order to survive. Even if she has sufficient merit to preserve her in ordinary circumstances, it may not give her the extra protection necessary to save her when she is in the throes of childbirth.”
His audience sat rapt with attention, and several students raised hands, but he dismissed them by stating, “Please save your questions until we’ve read the Gemara, which may answer them.”
The Gemara continued with the biblical verses that supported the importance of the three obligations for which women were responsible.
It was taught before Rav Hisda that the Holy One, Blessed be He, said: I gave you life-blood and I commanded you concerning blood. I called you “the first” and I commanded you concerning “the first.” The soul that I put within you is called “a light” and I commanded you concerning lights. If you fulfill these, all is well; but if not, I will take back your souls.
Salomon saw some blank looks, and asked for someone to quote the appropriate verses and explain how they supported the Gemara. None of the students looked like they wanted to answer him, and Meir was just about to when Joheved began speaking. The entire class stared at her in amazement.
Her voice quavered at first, then grew steady. “The prophet Jeremiah calls Israel holy to God, the ‘first’ among His grain, and in Numbers the challah tithe is called the ‘first’ of our kneading. In Proverbs it states: The light of God is man’s soul.”
Now Joheved addressed the room with authority. “Thus Rav Hisda means that if you neglect the mitzvot of blood, challah and light, The Holy One will: Take back your blood, revoke your designation as ‘first,’ and extinguish your ‘ligh
t,’ your soul.” She was gratified to see that none of the students looked confused now, and that Meir was smiling at her with pride.
But there was another explanation, one from Midrash Bereshit Rabbah, and Meir needed to hear Salomon resolve the difference between them. “But what about Rav Yehoshua’s words?”
“Ah oui.” Salomon frowned. “I suppose we must discuss them now that you’ve brought up the subject.” He turned to the students and said, “There is also a midrash on this subject—it goes as follows:
Because Eve spilled the blood of Adam, the first of men, women were given the mitzvah of niddah. Because she spoiled Adam, the first pure dough of the world, women were given the mitzvah of challah. And because she extinguished the light of Adam’s soul, women were given the mitzvah of Shabbat lights.
Salomon paused to let his students digest what they’d just heard, and then asked them, “What is the difficulty with Rav Yehoshua’s midrash?”
This time Joheved spoke up immediately and her voice was angry. “The Creator gave us mitzvot to make us holy, not as a punishment. Why else would we bless Him whenever we perform one?”
“I agree,” Meir said loudly, eager to support his wife’s reasoning. “Certainly no other mitzvot were given as punishment.”
“The mitzvah of lighting the Shabbat lamp isn’t only for women,” Asher said. “My father lights it when he travels; all Jewish merchants do.”
“And all Jewish bakers take challah,” Miriam added, “whether they’re men or women.”
“Enough.” Salomon’s voice was adamant. “Our Sages knew this midrash and they rejected it. Rav Yehoshua’s teaching is not recorded in the Gemara, not even as a dissent. Our Sages also reject Rav Yehoshua’s notion that Eve was responsible for Adam’s death.”
Again Salomon stared around the room, daring anyone to challenge him. “They were driven from Eden because of Adam’s ingratitude, his shameful act of trying to shift the blame onto Eve, whom the Holy One had given him as a gift.”
Salomon glanced down at the text. “Let’s return to the Gemara. It now asks the question,
‘Why does punishment come at their time of childbirth? Mar U kva said: When the shepherd is lame and the goats are running, there is rebuke at the pen’s gate and judgment at the corral door.’”
Salomon smiled at the silent classroom. As he expected, nobody volunteered to explain this cryptic passage. It was a reminder of why it was impossible to study Talmud without a teacher, one who has learned its meanings from his own teacher. Salomon worried that this knowledge was too vast for one man to recall, which is why he labored over his kuntres.
“What Mar Ukva means is that when the goats are penned in and cannot escape, even a crippled shepherd can catch up with them and discipline them,” he explained. “So too a healthy woman needs only a little merit to see her through the small pitfalls of life. But a woman in childbirth may be in such grave danger that it takes a miracle to save her, and then she will either be rebuked or judged worthy of such a miracle.”
Joheved and Meir exchanged anxious glances. Poor Hannah, only a miracle could have saved her. Meir offered a prayer that Joheved would be deserving of such a miracle, while Joheved prayed that her childbirth would be so easy that no miracles were needed. And to prove the point that men also need the Merciful One’s benevolence in order to survive danger, the Gemara now asked:
And men, when are they searched for misdeeds? Reish Lakish said: When they cross over a bridge. Only over a bridge and no more? Rav would not travel on a ferry upon which an idolater rode. Rav Zeira would not walk between palm trees when the severe south wind blew. Rav Yitzchak said: If a man becomes ill, the Heavenly Tribunal asks for his merit before they free him.
“So we see that a man too is vulnerable in dangerous situations,” Salomon explained. “And like a woman, as long as he is in good health, he does not need any special worthiness to remain in this state. But if he takes ill, the burden of proof is shifted to his shoulders.”
Again Meir worried about Joheved and the baby; his store of good deeds had surely been used up when he was so terribly sick last autumn. How much weight would his prayers carry now at the Heavenly Tribunal?
Salomon worried about Joheved as well. When she saved her husband from the demons, had she made herself their target instead? Still, even if his daughter were deserving of death for some sin of her own, his own piety might protect her.
As for Joheved, she tried to think about childbirth as little as possible. She busied herself in the vineyard—the fresh spring air smelled so good. She made sure the wine accounts were current and arranged for the collection of any payments due at the conclusion of the Hot Fair—in case, heaven forbid, that Papa or Miriam had to deal with them. She didn’t dare mention her fear of childbirth to Meir, but after their studies, she did respond honestly when Miriam brought up the subject.
“Joheved,” her sister asked one morning as they put away their tefillin, “now that we’ve studied the Gemara about women dying in childbirth, are you more or less worried than before?”
“I don’t know.” Joheved was almost relieved that Miriam had broached the subject. “After what happened with Hannah, of course I’m scared. But if that fate has been decreed for me…”
“You’re one of the most devout women in Troyes.” Miriam took her sister’s hand and squeezed it. “The Merciful One has gotten them through childbirth safely; surely He will protect you too.”
“So I’m more learned, that’s no guarantee. The Holy One may hold me to a higher standard.” Joheved remembered how Meir had grabbed her while she was still niddah, that night when he’d had a nightmare. Would that count as neglecting the mitzvot?
“After the baby is born, I want you to tell me exactly how it felt,” Miriam said. “Leave out no detail.”
“What?” Joheved sensed that Miriam was worried and tried to lighten their discussion. “Do you want to know if it’s really as painful as it sounds, or if women just scream to make their husbands feel guilty?”
“Actually I intend to scream just for the fun of it when my turn comes,” Miriam replied in turn. “When else are you allowed to yell your head off and everybody thinks it’s normal?”
Joheved turned serious again. “Well, I hope I don’t have to scream much. It’s going to be difficult enough for Meir.” But if she were screaming, he’d know she was still alive. “Now that you’ve asked, I’m more worried about the pain than dying.”
Miriam squeezed Joheved’s hand again and smiled. “No matter how much a woman moans or curses, it seems like she always forgets the pain as soon as she holds her baby.”
Joheved remained silent. How much was it going to hurt her? Papa taught that the reason it was ordained in Leviticus for women to bring a “sin” offering to the temple after childbirth was that, during the travail of labor, they swear that they will never lie with their husbands again. Would she suffer such agony that she would sooner give up using the bed than endure childbirth again?
It made her blood freeze just thinking about it. But she couldn’t share those fears. Miriam was still a maiden—how could she appreciate how precious marriage’s physical pleasures were, especially to one the demons had stolen them from?
“Don’t worry,” Miriam said, sure it took more than fear of pain to quiet her sister. “You can’t die in childbirth after saving poor Catharina’s life. She would have frozen to death if not for you.”
“I don’t see how saving an Edomite prostitute’s life will impress the Heavenly Tribunal.” Joheved scowled. She deserved no reward for saving Catharina. Mitzvot should be performed for their own sake, not in order to receive a reward.
“But she’s not a prostitute any more.” Miriam lowered her voice to a whisper. “And I’m not sure she’s going to be an Edomite much longer either. Anna told me that Catharina has been asking her about conversion.”
Joheved gasped. “Oh non. Doesn’t she understand how dangerous it is?”
“How would Ann
a know? She was a pagan in the east when she converted. She has no idea how the Church views such things.”
Though the Church tolerated the Jews in its midst and rarely interfered with how they practiced their own religion, Jews were forbidden to proselytize among its flock. The Jew caught trying to convert a Christian, if he was lucky enough to escape with his life, could count on being beaten and expelled from town along with his family. His friends would disassociate themselves from him in order to spare themselves the same fate, and who knows how far he might have to travel to escape the long arm of the Church?
The lot of the new convert, if discovered, was worse. The Church recognized no possibility of undoing baptism. Converts were considered heretics, subject to every persuasion the Church could muster in order to force them back to the “true faith.”
When Joheved and Miriam asked Anna to discourage Catharina from this perilous path, they discovered that they were too late. At first, Catharina had intended only to remain in Aunt Sarah’s service until she had paid off her debt to the midwife. As soon as good traveling weather came, she would return to Provins, where she hoped to find some savings still being kept for her.
But it was still snowing in April, and life in Sarah’s household was better than Catharina expected. Sarah had her help Miriam collect and prepare their store of medicinal herbs, a task she found fascinating. Then there was the exciting night when two women were in labor at the same time, so Catharina was conscripted to assist Sarah with the more difficult birth, while Miriam handled the routine one alone.
Miriam’s delivery went well, but the woman Sarah attended gave birth to a stillborn. It was then that Catharina learned of a difference between Judaism and Christianity that affected her profoundly. When Catharina began to cry over the dead infant, forever tainted by original sin and consigned to hell by its lack of baptism, Sarah gently informed her that Jews had no such belief.
