And several warriors entered the Holy of Holies, which they’d almost missed, since to them it looked like nothing so much as a tiny broom closet. They thought there was nothing there, but in the end they found two frightened cherubim hiding behind a curtain. And they took them and put them in a cage, and loaded them along with the rest of the loot onto the truck.
* * *
AND NEBUZARADAN HAD THE CHIEF PRIEST, Seriah, forced into a train car, and the second priest, Zephaniah, and the three guardians of the threshold, and Pashhur the priest, otherwise known as Terror-All-Around. The other senior leaders and officials were first rounded up and crammed into a holding cell, where they approached the Babylonian with ready money to obtain their release. But the captain of the guard was in no need of hard cash at this time, so he politely rejected these remittances. The scribe who was so free with his baseball bat was taken and gently relieved of his weapon. The so-called King’s Son, Malchiah, didn’t escape, either, nor did the honorable ministers, including Baalgezer and Baalmelech and Cohen-Mastemah and all the others—unless these were their sons, now bearing their fathers’ names and positions? Soon they were all taken in an orderly fashion to Riblah, where their captors told them that these measures were preparatory to their eventual resettlement on an oasis where they would build the House of God in Jerusalem anew: You will be the leaders of the restored city and you will build a new temple for yourselves, and you’ll levy a nice little tax, to dispose of entirely as you see fit. And they understood that, after all, things could certainly be worse, so of course they all boarded the light rail without a struggle, and as cold and carbonated drinks were offered to them, they were already starting to plan the new regime and the new division of power. And the light rail glided on, indifferent to their squabbling. When they reached the good place they’d been promised, they were lined up with their faces against a wall at the rail stop and were cut down by several rounds of machine-gun fire, and the station workers buried them between the railroad tracks, lengthwise, legs drawn up to their heads, and they were covered with the dirt and gravel from the track, the trench having been prepared before they left Jerusalem. And the light rail headed back south without delay to collect another delegation. And so Judah went into exile out of its land.
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FROM HER ROOM, Noa caught sight of Eliazar climbing into Mattaniah’s armored jeep, and she shouted, No, no, but no one in the car could hear her behind its darkly tinted and double-glazed windows. She knew that Mattaniah was fleeing to Ammon or Moab—he’d talked about it time and again—except that, in the general panic of the retreat, she realized that he’d forgotten her. Unless he intended to order her a taxi or something. Unless the idea was that he’d send for her as soon as he reached a safe haven beyond the river. From the window, she watched Mattaniah slam the passenger door, stride over and climb into the driver’s seat, and start the engine. She lingered there for a moment, fancying that she saw him leave the car again and seek out her staring eyes. But when she blinked he wasn’t there any longer, the cars had vanished, and all that remained on the asphalt were the words PRIVATE PARKING FOR THE KING’S USE ONLY. And nearby stood the king’s hulking new motorcycle.
She descended to the ground floor and walked down the royal corridors. The old palace was practically empty—the able-bodied had long since fled—and as she paced around she thought, This can’t be, this can’t be. She didn’t care about the destruction, only about this, that her husband had kidnapped her son. Though she didn’t say it outright, not even in a whisper. Only This can’t be. And from one of the windows she caught a glimpse of Jeremiah, though she didn’t realize it was the same Jeremiah she’d once known. No one could have recognized him by then; old age had pounced on him all at once, and he looked at least sixty years old, whereas her Jeremiah would have to be about the same age as Noa, she estimated: forty. And he was lying there in the courtyard surrounded by stray dogs and seemingly talking to the clouds. She knew that she was standing on the brink, that if she didn’t hold fast she’d certainly fall, and her hands shook so badly that her words fell away like a shower of autumn leaves. She didn’t know exactly what was going on, she didn’t realize the extent of the devastation, she only saw the rooms, the corridor, the chaos. And then she stepped out to the open parking lot, and she raised her eyes and saw that the roof of the palace was ablaze. Someone had abandoned a home-delivery scooter right by the entrance, leaving its engine running, so she mounted the scooter and shifted into first gear. The scooter whistled shrilly. She accelerated.
Noa drove, the sun on her right, down the Jerusalem-Jericho road. In the near distance she saw a cluster of habitations she wasn’t familiar with, and, seeing a sign, she sounded out the words MAHYAM—LAJAEEN—SHUAFAT in Arabic script, with some effort, though she didn’t know exactly what it meant. But then she saw a sign in English and understood that this was a refugee camp. Funny, she’d never heard of such a thing, certainly not here. So many shoddy buildings so close to home. And it wasn’t clear whether anyone was living there or if they, too, had been exiled with the rest of the population during Jehoiakim’s big deportation, which by now had been long forgotten. She drove along the length of the camp’s wall and realized she’d been mistaken: it wasn’t a single wall but a maze of crumbled walls, like mangled pages in a book, sprawling out in all directions, useless barriers of pulverized concrete. The Chaldeans had destroyed everything; the overriding order had been to smash the walls, every wall. She entered the camp by mistake and drove right up into the shadow of the half-demolished high wall, where there was some kind of low-slung building still standing. And she parked for a moment and peeked inside, and saw children there, maybe two hundred children and young boys, stooped over in rows, sewing athletic socks. Then she sped away again and drove past Anatot, linked back up with the main road, and started to drive eastward, toward Jericho. She soon ran out of gas, and kept on coasting downhill until the road leveled off. But she hadn’t reached the Jordan yet, as she’d hoped. The scooter emitted an ear-piercing screech, and she dismounted. She continued on foot, reaching out her hand to Eliazar, but Eliazar didn’t give her his hand. She sat down on three steps near the road, leading nowhere, and rested for a bit, covering her mouth with four fingers while her other hand was held with her palm up and slack in front of her. There were some dry leaves on the steps, but she couldn’t see a single tree. It was terribly hot, and there was no shade. She walked on, maybe half an hour, maybe an hour more. And no one crossed her path. When she looked behind her, she couldn’t see Jerusalem any longer, only rising columns of smoke. It felt hotter and hotter, and she took off her clothes, at first her pants and then her shirt, and she wrapped the shirt around her head to protect herself from sunstroke. Her silicone implants weighed her down. Her beauty was unbearable, but there was no one around to see her. The sun blazed on toward three o’clock. From a good distance away, Noa saw a faucet at a rest stop on the route to the Dead Sea, and she walked in her bare feet, swaying along the length of the yellow line on the shoulder of the road, and turned in toward the bay. She stooped and opened the faucet, but no water came out, only a screech. It was an old faucet, and its pipes hadn’t been connected to the water main for a long time. The sun moved in the sky and covered for a little while the new star that had trespassed on its circuit. And Noa turned off the dry faucet, though there was no need for her to do so.
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ALL THE MONTH OF AV, the fires went on burning, and the winds fanned the flames, and no one had the strength to try to beat them back with a battered fire extinguisher in hand, or even a blanket. One woman wore a scarf on which were printed images of various cities and countries; she walked around the city day and night, and in her mouth were only six words, words she’d utter to whomever she saw, if in different intonations: How the gold has grown dim. How the gold has grown dim? How the gold has grown dim … How the gold has grown dim! How the gold has grown dim?! How the gold has grown dim!! How the gold has grown dim. And to Jeremi
ah and Baruch ben Neriah, too, she said, How the gold has grown dim, when she ran into them on their way north into the hills, and Jeremiah looked at her and answered, King Nebuchadrezzar of Babylon has devoured me, he has crushed me, he has made me an empty vessel, he has swallowed me up like a sea monster, he has filled his belly. How the gold has grown dim, the woman said to the black man who walked beside Jeremiah, and he looked her over and answered, like an echo, How the gold has grown dim, and she said, Thank you, thanks a lot, you, you’re the only thing that hasn’t.
And Jeremiah and Baruch continued on foot to Mizpah, which is in the neighboring district of Benjamin. On the way, Jeremiah stopped in his tracks for something by the side of the path that caught his eye, and when he bent over to get a better look he saw that it was fingers and thumbs that had been cut off the hands of Jews. And he picked up one of the fingers, looked at it from close up, and said to the finger, Now darkness has fallen on the Torah, now darkness has fallen on prophecy. And he picked some of the dirt out from under its fingernail and he slipped the finger into his shirt pocket. And he suddenly remembered how his father had spoken at his sister’s grave, turning to the mourners to say, Dear friends, know that I decided to ascend the tower on Mount Scopus and jump, to go there straight after the funeral and jump, but I thought about you and the grief I would cause you if I did so, and that’s the only reason that I’ve decided not to do it, and will instead return home, and sit. And Esther, Jeremiah’s mother, who held on to Hilkiah’s shoulders until her knuckles turned white, only said, Yes—since it was she, in effect, who’d had the idea of the tower, the idea of jumping, she who suggested this to his father: Let’s go together and jump. We’ll send Jeremiah to Hanamel—he’ll adopt him.
Mizpah had become the seat for those charged with reorganizing Judah on behalf of the Babylonians; they had even appointed a reliable and loyal governor. As expected, Gedaliah the son of Ahikam the son of Shaphan was authorized to govern Judah, and with him they posted a small Chaldean garrison, twenty or thirty swordsmen, as well as some (largely administrative) officials in order to help prepare for the aftermath. Jews far and wide heard of the new seat of power and started trickling into Mizpah, seeking refuge under Gedaliah’s wing, refuge and some peace and quiet, some peace and quiet, a little space in which to breathe again. And a refugee camp was set up there, and blankets and medicine and water were delivered from far and near. Jeremiah, who saw that things were being organized efficiently, set out without announcing his arrival or his departure, and Baruch left with him, walking a few paces behind him. And they walked this way for hours in the oppressive heat, and Jeremiah didn’t say a word. He stopped only once, spinning around to tell Baruch, who was following close behind, Let him put his mouth in the dust—there may yet be hope. And Jeremiah crouched down and scooped up a handful of dry earth and shoved it into his own mouth. And Baruch said, Get it out, get it out, and he tried to clean the prophet’s teeth and tongue with his fingers. On their way, they ran into some pilgrims, who gave them both a little water. These pilgrims hadn’t heard of the destruction; they came from villages in the Galilee, and they bore in their bags wheat and barley and semolina and oil and honey. They freely offered Jeremiah and Baruch bread and honey, and the two of them soaked the dark bread in oil and ate, and then they soaked it in honey and ate. The pilgrims asked, Is Jerusalem far? And Jeremiah stared at them as though he were stark staring mad, and only pointed with his hand in the right direction. After some time, the two parties resumed walking, one toward the shattered east, and the other away from there.
And when the sun was about to set, Baruch beheld a hill, and on it there were a few homes. He didn’t know the name of the place, and he clutched Jeremiah’s shirttails and drew him up toward these buildings. And at the edge of the village, there was a house beside an empty field, and in the field was a crooked olive tree. Jeremiah went up to the tree, and Baruch tried to crush out some oil for them, even though it wasn’t the oil-harvesting season. They chewed the bitter, hard olives, and then they leaned against the tree and slept there that hot night. The following morning, Baruch said, Let’s try to get inside the house—for it was clear that the place had been abandoned, like all the other homes in this small village. And Jeremiah didn’t say anything; he only recalled the words he’d heard as they left the city: How the gold has grown dim. And he knew that the gold in this verse didn’t just mean the precious metal—this gold hinted at something else—but he was far too exhausted to be able to think clearly and understand what. Then he remembered how his uncle had once told him that producing olives, and in particular the oil inside the olives, called for a great effort on the part of the olive tree, and consequently olive trees bore fruit only every other year; the year following the harvest, the tree had to recover from this effort. And Jeremiah leaned against the tree and then turned around and hugged it tightly and kissed it and told it, You’ve got to rest, tree; you’ve got to sleep for a year. A black-hooded bird stood above him, on a branch of the crooked olive tree; it piped a short song, and vanished into the deserted house across from them. And it sang from indoors a bit longer. Baruch went inside the house and brought out some clothes, black garments—there were only black garments in there, in one of the closets—for Jeremiah and himself. The clothes fit them both, even though they were a woman’s shirt and pants. And they took their old clothes from the court of the guards and bundled them up and burned them in a barrel. And Jeremiah cocked an ear toward the house and asked Baruch, Do you hear? They’re still playing. But Baruch didn’t hear a thing.
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THE REST OF THAT SUMMER, they lived without blankets under the olive tree, and they ate the olives that remained on the tree and the edible weeds that grew there and the carob pods and figs that Baruch found and gathered from the trees in the little village, and some canned food as well that the fugitives and the exiled had left in their homes and which had escaped the notice of the looters. Foxes and wild boars and hedgehogs prowled between the homes, and in the myrtle beds grew nettles, from which Baruch brewed tea. And Baruch and Jeremiah learned to identify the wild animals, and watched over them, and stroked their fur and their quills when they dared come up close. No one passed on the road to Jerusalem, and tall thorn bushes shot up on byways. Jeremiah and Baruch lived there as on a desert island and never strayed far from their tree. Sometimes Baruch would enter one of the houses nearby to hunt for any provisions that had been left behind, and he’d fall asleep there at night, lying on someone’s bed, and he’d find all sorts of stuff, like photos of a boy and girl—usually together, usually standing close to each other and embracing—and diaries written in the local language. Though he couldn’t read them, it was clear that these diaries belonged to a young girl who’d obviously been sent into exile, and Baruch would examine the remnants like an archaeologist. Then, in the morning, he’d tidy up and wash, ready to go. But Jeremiah, without saying as much, refused to leave the plot of land, refused to leave the tree, as though he were chained to it by his neck.
And one day, two months after they had set out, at the beginning of the seventh month—which is to say, Tishrei—all sorts of high-ranking officials, civil and military, appeared before the tree, as well as some ordinary soldiers and civilians. There were maybe thirty or forty souls, a mixture of simple Jews and warriors and fugitives from the sword. And they approached Jeremiah and begged of him, Be good enough to listen to our pleas, and pray to the Lord your God for us, for all this remnant, for there are only a few of us left out of many, as your eyes can see. Let the Lord your God show us where we should go and what we should do. And Jeremiah recalled someone who had said something apposite, a hundred years ago, maybe a thousand years ago, and he wanted to quote this verse: Stand at the crossroads … where the good way lies … and find … fiiiind … rest … ahh … for yo-ur-so-uls … But not a sound came out of his mouth, no, not a word, and Baruch came out of the house and asked what was going on, and the crowd told him, in so many words, that Gedali
ah had been murdered, as well as the Jews who’d been with him in Mizpah, and the officials and the Chaldean soldiers that the King of Babylon had assigned—all were slaughtered and thrown into a large pit by a man of the House of David, whom Baalis, the King of Ammon, had sent to take the life of the governor and restore the glory of the House of David. Now the remnant of Judah has perished, a fugitive said. And Jeremiah offered him an olive from the tree.
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