The Ninth Day
Page 1
For Michael
”And the evening and the morning were the first day.”
—Genesis 1:5
The clock starts now.
The First Day
Paris
25 Kislev 4860
Anno Domini 1099, festival eve and feast day for Saint Daniel the Stylite
Sunset, Saturday, December 10–Sunset, Sunday, December 11
Berkeley
25 Kislev 5725
Sunset, Sunday, November 29, 1964–Sunset, Monday, November 30, 1964
PROLOGUE
After the sighting of the third star, on samedi, 10 décembre 1099 Paris, Royal Dominion of King Philip I, Serakh, daughter of Asher, appears in a burst of blue. Breathing the damp night air, fetid with waste and rotting fish, she crouches in a deserted alley on an island in the river Seine. Hidden in the darkness, she searches for signs of alarm at the flash of light heralding her arrival.
Nothing.
Satisfied, Serakh rubs the back of her neck to ease the stiffness that comes with her travels through the olam. As she struggles to unravel the knot of worry that comes with each new task, she murmurs a petition to The One. “Let me be worthy. Let me do your will. Let it be so.”
The alley echoes with the moans of a woman in childbirth. Nothing else comes to Serakh’s attention. This woman must be why she is here. So be it.
Serakh hides her thick white braid and most of her face in a rough linen scarf. She picks her way through the muddy snow to the heavy wooden door of a low stone building. She touches a small rectangular box on the doorframe and kisses her fingertips.
The door creaks as Serakh opens it, but no one comes to greet her. A faint smell of burning oil rises from a triangular wedge of beaten metal hanging on the wall opposite the kitchen hearth, a menorah from a place and time that is not hers. A tiny flame flickers in one of the eight shallow cups that form the menorah’s base and in another cup that sits near the top.
The start of Hanukkah, she thinks, using the holiday to orient her to the Hebrew calendar. The twenty-fifth day of the month of Kislev, but what year? Serakh flexes her toes to drive the cold from her sandaled feet as she studies the menorah and the simply furnished, low-ceiling room. Potato barley soup simmers in an iron caldron over a log fire in the stone hearth. A small leather pouch slouches against a pewter pitcher on a rough-hewn oak table. A broom of bound twigs rests against a shelf that holds a two-tined bronze fork, a loaf of light brown bread, and a wedge of sharp cheese.
This is the time of moated castles, plagues, and superstition, she decides. Her long robes and headscarf, the kind she has worn for generations, will still suffice. She will not seem out of place, except for her bronze skin. If need be, she will tell them truthfully that she comes from afar.
Serakh follows the sounds of hard labor to the birthing chamber. Three women are in attendance. The oldest, a wizened woman with gnarled hands, looks at her with suspicion and asks, “Êtes-vous la nourrice?” French. The language of the place once known as Gaul. Serakh waits for the gift of mutual understanding to unfold and the woman’s words to form meaning. The question becomes, “You are the wet nurse?”
Serakh removes the scarf from her nose and lips, and reveals the youthful face that belies her abundance of age. She smiles, thankful that the old woman does not startle at the color of her skin.
”I am here to do what I can,” Serakh says. She sees no harm in letting them think she is a trustworthy soul hired by the husband to breastfeed his baby so that his wife can soon be with child again.
The old woman nods and returns to the task at hand. Serakh steps into the shadows in a corner of the room and watches, eager to learn the purpose of her presence.
Three large waxen candles cast light on a young woman—Dolcette they call her—straining on the birthing chair in the last minutes of what Serakh learns is her first labor. She reminds Serakh of the rabbi’s daughter who once accompanied her across the
olam, a strong-willed girl named Miriam who embroidered the garment that bears the blue thread, a garment that now belongs to another Miriam, one of the many.
The sâge-femme, an expert in midwifery, sits on the floor in front of the birthing chair. The sturdy horseshoe-shaped seat supports Dolcette’s legs. “Push,” she urges. “Bear down and push.”
The third woman, with a mole on her cheek, adjusts the glistening amulet that hangs between Dolcette’s breasts. She straightens the straw dolls surrounding the chair, and then holds Dolcette’s shoulders and whispers in her ear.
Dolcette’s face contorts with exertion. She flings curse after curse at the floor, the walls, the ceiling. She cries out for her sisters and mother, who, Serakh learns, live far from Paris and cannot attend to her.
”Push!” The sâge-femme reaches between Dolcette’s legs.
Dolcette emits a low-pitched growl as the baby is delivered. She arches her back and covers her eyes with her hands. The sâge-femme raises the baby for all to see. The woman with the mole whispers a prayer of thanksgiving.
Head, torso, arms, legs, a penis. The sâge-femme coos with delight as she hands the baby to the old woman to rub clean with salt, and then to wash and swaddle. The sâge-femme delivers the afterbirth intact and smiles. “You will heal well,” she says.
Serakh sees in the face of thesâge-femme the expectation that Dolcette’s husband will pay her generously for her good news.
”You are blessed,” thesâge-femme croons to Dolcette. “A firstborn son.”
”A son?” Dolcette opens her eyes, now wide with terror. She sucks in her breath and shrieks.
The women draw back in surprise. The sâge-femme places a cup of broth in Dolcette’s hands. “Drink this,” she says. “Your mind is clouded with pain. You will feel joyful when your strength returns.”
Dolcette hurls the cup across the room.
Serakh rushes to her side. “What is it, child? Speak freely.”
Dolcette clutches Serakh’s robe. “Who are you?” she whispers, her breath hot and sour.
”Call me Serakh.” She wipes Dolcette’s fevered forehead with her sleeve. “I am here to help you. Do not be afraid.”
The sâge-femme approaches with another cup of broth “Your baby is already pink with health. There is no deformity. This son will be your pride. Listen to your wet nurse. Now we will care for your baby and prepare your bed.”
She hands the broth to Serakh. “See that she drinks.”
While the others are busy elsewhere, Serakh puts the cup on the floor. She knows better than to waste time on words that will not comfort. “Tell me. I will do what must be done.”
Dolcette flattens her lips into a thin line of determination. “Take him. Hide him. Never let my husband near him. Never.”
She clutches at the amulet and fixes her eyes on Serakh. “I prayed for a girl. She would have been safe. But now…by all that is holy, I beg you, raise my baby as a Christian or Jew, only keep him safe.”
Serakh’s forehead creases in worry and confusion. Why would this young mother, barely a woman, abandon her firstborn son?
Dolcette grabs Serakh’s hand. “Are you a Jewess?”
Serakh nods. We were a tribal people, living from harvest to harvest.
”Then you know of the covenant of sons.”
”On the eighth day there will be your baby’s circumcision, his brit milah. It is an ancient rite.”
”Yes, and then. And then.” Dolcette rips the amulet from her neck and throws it on the floor. “And then nothing will save him. Nothing! My beloved has made a terrible vow. On the ninth day, Avram will kill our son.”
Tears flood the agony on Dolcette’s face. “My dear Avram is possessed. He is from Mainz!”
Serakh shudders. Mainz. Blood on the walls. Children screaming. A world reeling with horror. Her hands shake as she wipes Dolcette’s cheek and kisses her forehead.
The sâge-femme walks toward them. “Your bed is ready.”
”Your son will be safe,” Serakh whispers, handing the broth to Dolcette. “Put your trust in me. I will find help. Do not suffer from fear while I am gone.”
As the women lift Dolcette from the birthing chair, Serakh slips a straw doll into her pouch and wonders how best to leave unnoticed. She winces with the painful memory of intertwinings that have not gone as she had hoped. She prays that this time she will not fail.
CHAPTER ONE
7:18 p.m., Sunday, November 29, 1964
Berkeley, California
Dad scrubbed the scorched roasting pan, leaving me to do the real dirty work. “You get the family together to light the candles, Miriam Hope,” he said. “I’ll be done here in four minutes.”
I stuffed Mom’s leftover Jell-O mold into the fridge, growled at an innocent container of turkey giblets, and consoled myself with the happy thought that Thanksgiving vacation was almost over. Twelve hours max before Josh went back to UCLA and life in the Friis household returned to bearable. Not that I was counting the minutes or anything.
I started with the easiest member of the family. Grandpa was napping with Sylvester in their favorite chair in the living room. Forehead kiss for thin, frail human. Scratch behind ear for plump, white-bellied tabby cat.
”Suh-stay p-put,” I managed. “W-we’ll l-light the c-candles in here.”
Grandpa asked about Mom again. I reminded him that she was in Israel buying stuff for her gift shop, and that she’d be back in a few days. I didn’t tell him which day. He’d forget anyway. I didn’t tell him I was the one who persuaded Mom I was well enough for her to go. Now, four days later, I already regretted it.
Grandpa leaned forward and patted my leg. “Such a fine dinner we had, sheyna maidl.” He sprinkled Yiddish on our family like kosher salt, making sure we were Jewish enough despite Dad.Sheyna maidl. Pretty girl. Which used to be halfway true, sort of. I touched the bandages hiding the right side of my face. Forget thesheyna part now.
Taking a deep breath, I headed down the hall to Josh’s bedroom. My folks had made Dagmar sleep there the first week I came home from the hospital so Mom could sleep in Dagmar’s bed downstairs with me. I know it’s childish, but I felt special with my mother hovering over me, back when I thought I’d heal completely, back before I knew the mutilations might be permanent.
I stood outside Josh’s half-opened door. Dagmar was marching back and forth in front of Josh, her paisley skirt brushing the tops of her army surplus boots.
”That is complete bull,” she said.
”It is not, and you know it.” The usual. My brother and sister could team-teach a graduate seminar in advanced argument.
”You have no sense of responsibility,” Josh said. “If this Gabriel guy hadn’t found Hope in time, she could have died.”
Crap! I clenched my jaw, despite the pain. The last thing I wanted was Josh bringing all this up again—Josh, who hadn’t even sent me a get well card. I opened the door and stood there. Undead. “D-dad wants to l-light….”
”The candles. Right.” Josh smoothed the crease in his pants. He jerked his head toward my bandages and scowled at Dagmar.
Dagmar rolled her eyes. “Quit it, Josh. She’s sixteen already. She’s not a kid. How many times do I have to tell you it wasn’t my fault?”
How many times do I have to hear Dagmar swear she warned me about the licorice? “Stop!”
Josh shook his head at Dagmar and strode past me toward the living room. Not one word of sympathy. I wasn’t exactly expecting any from him—he’s not that kind of brother—but still. I rubbed the itchiest part around my ear and wished I could turn the clock back to the instant before I let Dagmar drag me to her Halloween party.
Dagmar retied the chartreuse-and-orange shawl around her waist, linked arms with me in her show of sisterly solidarity, and escorted me down the hall. “Our brother is an ass,” she said. “Don’t let him get to you.” She smiled. “Gabriel asked about you again. Isn’t that sweet? I bet you’d recognize him now.”
I shrugged. The sooner everyone stopped talking about that night, the better.
We gathered in front of an enameled copper menorah Mom had imported from Israel on her last trip there. No wonder it hadn’t sold. Who would buy a lion with eight candleholders over its back and another candleholder sprouting from a giant cruet of olive oil?
Dad stood behind us in his polite Danish-Lutheran way. Josh lit the shamash candle on the cruet and used that candle to light the first candle—lion butt. The start of Hanukkah, the twenty-fifth of Kislev on the Hebrew calendar, I’d forgotten which year.
I was in charge of leading the Hanukkah blessings, because blessings sound better sung on key, and because I don’t stutter when I sing, which is always cause for celebration. But this time, even with the stitches out and the infection gone, I knew I’d be off. My breath was too shallow, my muscles too tight. The doctors told me I should be able to sing perfectly fine. I didn’t believe them.
I started softly in the key of G, afraid I’d mess up. Josh looked at his watch. Dagmar hummed along while she leaned against Grandpa’s chair and turned her palms toward the ceiling. My sister takes in auras, she tells me, and apparently Grandpa was giving off the best one.
Sure enough, I flatted on the high E. If you can’t chant three measly Hanukkah blessings, you can kiss your singing career good-bye.
I bit my lip and watched the candles burn. Even if I convinced Mom I was well enough to go and I came up with half the trip expenses, there was no way I’d get a solo for the Northwest Choral Music Festival. No solo, no chance for a music scholarship.
This year, no one had bothered with Hanukkah gifts, since money was tight and we’d outgrown Lincoln Logs, Mr. Potato Head, and Madame Alexander dolls. Dad’s side of the family believes you never outgrow your need for Christmas presents.
Josh reached for the bowl of chocolate coins. He must have been thinking about Christmas presents from Denmark, too, because he told Dad, “You should definitely buy stock in those Danish building blocks. Lego is a great investment.”
Dad put his arm on Josh’s shoulder. “I’m investing in you so you can go to graduate school next year.”
”We’re watching every penny because we are investing in you,” Dagmar snapped. “Mom is working her tail off in her store because we are investing in you.” So much for peaceful auras.
I shoved a bowl of chocolate coins under Dagmar’s nose and gave her a beseeching look. She took a coin, unwrapped the gold foil, and ran her tongue over the chocolate.
Josh cleared his throat and stuffed two chocolate coins in his pants pocket. “Hey, Hope, speaking of money, how’s your little dreidel business? I’m telling you, call them Maidl’s Dreidels. Rhyming sells product.”
If I made mud pies, Josh would tell me they’d sell better with pinecones on top.
He took another coin. “How much are you selling them for?”
”Fifty cents for the big ones, twenty-five for the smaller ones,” Dagmar answered.
I bit my lip again.
”Not bad,” he told me, ignoring Dagmar. “But you should price the smaller ones at thirty cents, same as a gallon of gas. Double that for the larger ones. That’s your ideal price point.”
Dagmar rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Economics Major. Do you realize how many nickels and dimes we’d have to carry around if we did that?”
Dad finally
deflected the discussion. “How are you feeling today, Ephraim?”
”I had a good nap.” Grandpa’s voice was thin and raspy. He told Dad everything was fine, which is the kind of lie he tells everybody but me.
I unwrapped a coin for Grandpa and had one myself. Dad handed Josh the car keys, to go cruising downtown. Dagmar announced that she had a meeting at a friend’s house near campus. Then Dad told me he wanted to bike to the physics lab.
”You won’t mind staying here?” Dad’s question sounded more like a statement.
I shook my head. Since Halloween, home still felt like the easiest place to be. No funny looks from total strangers. No questions. Getting Josh and Dagmar out of the house at the same time was a bonus.
”Thanks,” he said. “I won’t be long. Three hours at most.”
Which might mean the middle of the night. Dad lost track of time when he was working. No matter. I could manage. After helping Grandpa into bed and kissing him good night, I retreated downstairs to my half of the bed-and-bath suite that used to be Grandpa’s until he couldn’t climb the stairs. Dagmar had piled my scarves on her chair. My red wool scarf was missing—no surprise. Scarves topped Dagmar’s borrow list. Tied for second place: jewelry and underpants.
I reclaimed my scarves—which I wear a lot now—and stacked my library books on Dagmar’s bed. It wouldn’t take her long to call the library to renew them. We have an unspoken agreement. Dagmar borrows my stuff, I borrow her voice.
I glanced at Gabriel’s get well card, the cheery Hallmark kind with a bluebird and daffodils. He’d put his address and phone number under “Feel better soon” and his signature, but I hadn’t had the guts to write back. Calling him was naturally out of the question.
After nearly a month of practice, I’d mastered the art of no-look showering. Careful to avoid the mirror over the bathroom sink, I peeled away the bandages that looped around my ear and down my jawline. I turned my head away from the shower spray, draped a warm wet washcloth over the right side of my face, and washed my hair with no-sting baby shampoo. I patted my face dry and aligned new gauze pads and bandages by feeling the boundary that separated regular skin from welts, puckers, and stitch nicks.