by Rena Rossner
At night, my lessons continue, but when I go to bed, I can’t stop looking at the stars. Weeks go by, then months, then a year, and still I don’t find it.
I learn that each star has an angel which is like the soul of the star.
I learn that every star in the universe has a name.
Abba tells me that the time and day on which a person is born is directly related to the stars, which map out a person’s destiny. The alignment of these stars at the moment a person is born is called his mazal. It is why we say “mazal tov” when good things happen.
It means that the stars have aligned in our favor.
I wonder which angel watches over me, which ones were brought into the world when I was.
“The sky is a scroll,” Abba says, “and the things written there are constantly changing. No two stars are the same. The roots of human souls are found in the stars. Every soul is a tree, whose roots are in the sky but whose branches touch the earth. Though most of us don’t know that our souls beat in harmony with the stars in the sky. We are all connected, Levanaleh,” my father says.
I know we are, I want to say, but I don’t. I want to know which star is his.
But Eema tells a different story. She braids my hair at night before bed—her weave sure and strong, my hair like the challah dough she plaits in the kitchen.
“Every star is a soul who died here on earth,” she says, “planted firmly in the sky to shine down on us. My mother is up there, and my father, and my father’s father, and one day Nagmama too. Every star has memories. Every star burns with the story it has to tell. It is our job to listen to the stories,” she says. “The stars never forget; they see everything, and they remember, even when it feels like we are in a time of darkness.”
I’m not sure my mother and father’s visions of the stars are the same, but I feel as though I can hold both things in my head, that these different versions of the sky can dance together.
I only wish I knew which part of the story I belong to. I know I will have to forge my own path, someplace between my father’s words and my mother’s thoughts to find my spot in the sky.
The place where I can shine brightest.
Hannah
27 Kislev 5122
Today I helped Eema as she made her rounds through the community. We visited the sick—there are so many now—and brought them food and medicine. We spent most of our time visiting Rivka Levin. Her husband Avraham, bless him, has his hands so full with their six children, he doesn’t have the time to sit by her bedside. We brought them challot for Shabbat and chicken soup. He’s worried about what will be with his vineyards, and this year’s wine—the mist has afflicted the vines. The weight of Rivka’s illness is heavy upon him. I don’t know how he’ll manage if she doesn’t pull through. He can barely look at her, and when he does, I only see fear. What will be if he takes ill as well? Who will care for their children? Sometimes it’s too much to bear.
I can’t believe it’s been two years since I last saw Jakob—two years since I moved into his home to help heal the duchess. Two years since the Black Mist first spread tendrils of rot into our community. Now, there is no house that is not affected.
The notes from my time at the duchess’s home proved invaluable for Eema, and we have implemented much of the same treatment as standard for all those who suffer. Our services are in high demand since word spread about how I cured her—a miracle, they called it—though we still don’t know if it was the mist. I suppose it’s a good thing we’ve been so busy: I’ve had less time to dwell on the fact that we’ve heard nothing from Jakob. Of course I’m aware that Abba will soon suggest a match for me. There is a limit to how long I can wait—and worse, my waiting prevents Sarah from marrying Guvriel.
I think it’s silly that Abba is intent on making her wait—though if you ask me, she is nowhere near ready to run a home of her own, which makes me think (and hope) that I am not the only reason Abba insists that she waits. It’s definitely put a strain on our relationship. Sarah has become insufferable.
I know Abba and the others go out to the forest and do everything they can to stave off the infection, but the Black Mist is relentless in its pursuit of all living things.
It’s almost time to light the Shabbat candles, and tonight we must light the Hanukkah candles too, so I must go. It was nice to find a pocket of time alone to sit and write down my thoughts. I’ve never stopped praying for Jakob’s safe return. But perhaps the time has come for me to move on. Today, when I light candles, it will be the last time I say a prayer for him. It is time to let go.
28 Kislev 5122
My life has been forever changed by the events that transpired this Shabbat. God has been gracious to me.
We lit the Shabbat candles Friday night and Abba also lit the lights of the Hanukkah menorah, then he went off to synagogue.
Eema, Sarah and I sat by the fire. First we prayed, then we read. My eyes drifted to the door a few times. Usually someone in the community comes knocking—someone who needs our help. But this week everything was silent, and I almost fell asleep in my chair.
An hour or so later, Abba came home from synagogue with Guvriel who was telling him about a new student at the yeshiva—a real prodigy, with strange ways and a strange accent.
“Abba, did you…?” I stopped myself, and said, “Shabbat shalom,” instead.
“Shabbat shalom,” they both replied.
“Has there been any word?” The same words I’ve repeated so many times upon his return from prayers, from the yeshiva, from town, from other cities he’s visited. But there is always the same response. Nothing. No word. A new student is likely just that—someone new from somewhere else, part of yet another family trying to flee the mist as it pursues them.
“Shabbat shalom, Sarahleh, Levanaleh,” Abba said, looking around the room, “and my Esther,” he said to my mother.
“Shabbat shalom,” Guvriel said, but he only had eyes for Sarah.
“Hannah.” Eema put a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve talked about this… Even the duchess has given up hope.” Her eyes flitted between my face and Abba’s and I knew then that they’d already begun to discuss my future. “He disappeared like a wisp of smoke. We’re only lucky that he left before the mist set in, that she hasn’t yet blamed us for his disappearance.”
Abba and Guvriel continued their conversation as Eema spoke to me. “His mind is extraordinary,” Guvriel said. “I’ve never met someone so versed in the intricacies of the laws. The details he picks up on, the things he asks, it’s as if he’s come from a different place and time. There’s passion in his eyes and deep intelligence—something that only comes from years of diligent study. And strangest of all—nobody knows who he is.”
“You should have invited him to join us for supper,” Abba said.
“Oh!” Guvriel twirled one of his long red sidelocks. “How could I have been so blind? Oh, rabbi, I was so eager to walk with you, and to see my betrothed, can you forgive me for the oversight? Of course hachnassat orchim comes first. It was only my desire to exchange words of Torah with you on the way that blinded me, which is of course, a form of vanity and—”
“Hush, now,” Abba said. I rolled my eyes. I would never have the patience for that boy. My sister can have him.
“Why don’t you run along and see if he can still come?” Eema said.
“And if not, there will be other meals and opportunities,” Abba added. “You’ve done no wrong, Guvriel, don’t worry. Go, see if you can still catch him.”
“Yes, rabbi.” He nodded, “Yes, absolutely.” He looked at Sarah and said, “I’ll be right back.”
I realized that I’d been nervously tugging at my hair. Levana took my hand away and laced my fingers with hers. “It’s going to be okay,” she said.
I stepped over to the window where Sarah watched Guvriel walking back towards town. He slid a bit, kicking up the snow as he walked, his sidelocks bouncing in the wintry air.
“Could it be?” I
whispered to her.
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” Sarah said.
“Esther, set for one more, just in case,” Abba called from his seat as he warmed his hands by the fire.
“Levana, come here and help,” Eema said.
“It sounds like he’s been learning for years, Hannahleh,” Abba said, trying to make me feel better, but only managing to make me feel worse. I knew that everyone had given up hope that Jakob would return. Even me.
A few minutes later, I turned from the window and went to the kitchen to help Eema.
There was a knock at the door and Sarah called my name. “Hannah! They’re back!”
“Rabbi Isaac!” Guvriel said as he burst in. I was drying my hands on a kitchen cloth, and walking towards the door. “Sarah, my intended,” I heard Guvriel say.
“Shabbat shalom, my name is Jakob.”
My face drained of color. It was as though everything in the universe paused in that moment. My heart stopped beating. Every eye in the room went to the face of the man who entered through the front door. Could it be?
“Jakob?” I said, my fingers pressed to my lips. I couldn’t believe I’d said the word—his name—out loud.
“Yes, it’s me.” Tears studded his eyes like the clearest of diamonds.
I crossed the room and leapt into his arms. I didn’t care in that moment what Abba would think, what Eema or my sisters might see. It was him, my Jakob—older and dressed like a Jew—with a small golden beard and sidelocks! But it was him. There was no denying it. He came for me! I let go and stood apart from him, both our faces flushed with embarrassment, our eyes wet with tears.
He looked over at Abba. “Shabbat shalom,” he said. “Thank you for inviting me. I have fulfilled my vow. I know it is not customary to speak of these things on Shabbat, but I have come back to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage. I hope you can make an exception.”
“Yes!” I breathed for what felt like the first time in two years. “Abba, please say yes.” I took Jakob’s hand in mine. I had to touch him to believe he was actually real.
Abba closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He looked at Jakob, taking in his dress—like any other yeshiva student—and the light of Torah in his eyes. “You have taken on the laws of Moses and Israel?” Abba asked.
“I am Jakob the son of Abraham now.”
“Welcome, Jakob, son of Abraham. Welcome back and welcome home. I am a man who keeps his promises.”
“Oh, Abba! Thank you!” I looked at Eema, tears brimming in her eyes too. “How soon can we get married?”
Jakob and I took a walk after dinner. It was frigid outside but we didn’t care. There was so much to discuss, so much to tell. I couldn’t believe that he gave up everything he had to be with me—that he devoted two years of his life to study and a religion not his own, just to come back and ask for my hand. I can’t write down all the things we spoke about—it was everything and nothing at the same time.
My cheeks felt like they would split, I was smiling so hard, and his hand in mine felt so right—like it filled an empty space inside me. Everything has changed—we are both two years older than when we’d last seen one another—not a boy and a girl anymore, but a woman and man, and yet, it was as though no time had passed. Only that now he is a Jew! Our children will be blessed with my family’s abilities through me, and Jakob will now study at Abba’s yeshiva, I’m sure of it. My life has changed in an instant. What Abba says is true—the salvation of God can come in the blink of an eye.
I must go, as it is late. Eema says we can marry as early as two weeks from now. How I wish it were tomorrow!
On Shabbat eve it is customary for women to light two candles—one for remembrance and one for protection, because Hava put out the candle of the world. Before the world was created, it arose in God’s thought to create a light to illuminate it. So He created an intense light over which no created thing could have authority. The Blessed Holy One saw, however, that the world could not endure this light. So he took away a seventh of it. When you study Torah for its own sake, and when you light candles, you bring back the hidden light, for wisdom is the light of the stars in the night season.
—The Book of the Solomonars, page-28, verses 12–17
As the beast reared its terrible black head and the Black Mist grew and grew, the holy Reb Isaac and his disciples began to pray day and night for deliverance. There were moments of light in the darkness. Moments when Reb Isaac raised his cloud dragon, balancing precariously on the air of prayer, and dispelled the mist for long enough that the town got a peek at the moon through the clouds—stars like freckles across the face of sky. There were days of sunshine here and there, some hours of light. But for the most part, everyone knew that things would get worse before they got better.
While the people of the town panicked, the Solomonars did the only things they could—they followed the traditions and laws set down in writing by the holy Reb Isaac. They prayed for deliverance, gave more charity, were kinder to each other. And they got ready to celebrate a wedding.
Sarah
I put aside the tallit I’ve been weaving for Guvriel to work on a veil for Hannah. The tallit is the first thing I’ve ever woven with intent. Guvriel taught me about shehiyah—being fully present before doing something, calling upon the spirit of God, harnessing the light within me, to infuse what I do with divine intent. This is what he does before he turns into a fox. And now, when I weave, I try to work on channeling those things too.
“Every one of us has our own kind of magic,” I hear him say. “I have mine and you have yours, and our preparations are going to be different because of that. It’s not something I can teach you. I only know that when I read about Rabbi Akiva and the foxes on the Temple Mount in Megillat Eichah on Tisha B’Av, my heart leapt inside my chest, and that was how I knew what I needed to be. But you have the power to be anything you want to be.”
I try to keep his belief in me at the forefront of my concentration as I sit beside Eema and we work on getting everything ready for the wedding. A snake, my mind says. You’re a snake. Levana sits quietly and works beside me, reminding me that even families who bicker can find ways to come together for a common goal. She doesn’t look off into the distance dreamily, or murmur words out of prayer books the way she usually does. If I can be anything I want to be, then I can weave anything I want to weave, I tell myself. I can achieve whatever it is I set my mind to as long as I believe that I can.
I’ve been repeating these things to myself. Now that my abilities are growing, I have to draw courage to make use of them. No more resist resist resist. It’s certainly easier to weave when my mind is elsewhere, thinking of loftier, more important things than warp and weft. Guvriel has taught me more in the past two years than my father ever did. When I’m with him, I don’t have to resist anymore. Instead of feeling anger and betrayal, I try to channel everything into weaving a future with Guvriel—one without secrets—one full of power and prayer, of fire and ice, devotion and sacrifice.
We are like opposites that go hand in hand, Guvriel and I, and I pray that the tallit I weave for him will protect him from all harm—even the fiery words of my wrath. I add charms into the silver and gold thread I adorn it with, incantations that will infuse the garment with protection. If he’s willing to walk into the kivshan ha’esh for me, the least I can do is weave him some kind of protection.
It’s different when I weave a veil for Hannah. I hide it from her, though she knows I’m making it, only because I want the design to be a surprise. I fold strawberry leaves and berries with small white flowers bursting off their vines into the lace. I imagine the Hebrew word for “health” and weave those letters into the word “strawberry”. I weave lilacs for love and integrity, and add daisies for fertility and new beginnings. Running down the center of the train, I weave a tree—the etz chaim—the tree at the heart of everything we hold most sacred. The tree whose roots are in the sky but whose branches reach down to tou
ch every one of us. I speak the words “ner tamid” for the eternal flame of passion and “ohr eyn sof” for the infinite light of God, and I pray its light will suffuse their life together.
I don’t resent Hannah anymore, not like I used to. She’s had a hard time too—waiting as long as she did. Every day is another step in the direction of finally being with him. Every day is a test I must pass. Guvriel has helped me understand this. That God has His reasons for everything in the world, including keeping us apart for now. He says that our joining, the thought of which never fails to warm me up inside, is going to be something so special, so otherworldly, that God needs to prepare the world for it, and that he and I must prepare ourselves too.
While Hannah and Eema prepare food for the feast and fuss over every detail, I sit in the bedroom I share with my sisters and weave. At Mária’s shop, I work on Hannah’s dress. But I cannot be seen mouthing words there, so I don’t add any flourishes. The dress is simple and elegant—and Mária gave my parents a very big discount on it because of me. But the veil… it’s something more. It’s the first time I’ll be able to show Abba what I can do—not only with my hands, but with my heart and soul, with my intentions and abilities. I can’t wait for the day of Hannah’s wedding, for Abba to see my hard work, but also because it means that I’m next.
Levana
While Sarah weaves a veil and Eema and Hannah fret with all the preparations for the wedding, a sense of dread grows in my belly.
I try to find a way to tell Abba what I see. I can’t imagine that he doesn’t see it too. But as the day of the wedding grows closer and closer, nobody seems to notice.
The day they’ve chosen is not an auspicious day. I see only a constellation that looks like a dragon in the sky—a serpent. I see the letters of its name lighting up the heavens—teli, it calls itself, and no matter how many times I look at the sky, I see it looming over us.