by Lynn Austin
Ezra was still deep in thought when he arrived and found Devorah and her two daughters just leaving their courtyard. She was beautiful, he realized, even though the light had gone out of her eyes and sorrow and grief lined her face. “Are you going somewhere?” he asked.
“We’re on our way to Asher’s house.”
“May I walk with you? I need to discuss something with you.”
“Of course. But we’ll have to go slowly until Michal gets tired of walking. She wants to do it herself without any help. Jude would be so proud of her independence and—” Devorah stopped, struggling to control her emotions. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“No, I understand. I miss him, too.” He remembered how Jude used to swing his daughters high in the air, grinning as their laughter rippled around him like waves. They walked on in silence, the older girl skipping happily ahead of them as Devorah took baby steps with the younger one, holding her chubby hand.
“Don’t get too far ahead, Abigail,” Devorah called.
“I won’t. I know the way.”
Ezra cleared his throat. “I promised Jude I would take care of you, and I want you to know that I will always provide a home and food and protection for you and the girls. Always. The question is, what’s the best way for me to do that?”
He glanced at her as he paused. Ezra had never allowed himself to dwell on Devorah’s form or her features. “You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife,” the Torah said—much less your brother’s. He had lived with Devorah and Jude for nearly five years, yet he couldn’t have described what she looked like in any detail. Now, as he let his gaze linger a moment longer, he saw again how lovely she was, with almond-shaped eyes beneath arched brows and soft, full lips. She seemed too thin, though, and her face was still pale with grief. Jude had often praised his wife as a woman of faith. “General Devorah,” he had called her the day she’d advised Ezra not to trust the Persian military officials. And she had been right.
“You’ve always been very kind to us, Ezra,” Devorah said, “especially these past few months. I’m not sure I have any choice except to rely on you. I’m not ready to marry again, even if I knew someone who would marry me. I’ve heard of other widows who return to their father’s house, but you know that my parents are gone, and I have no sisters or brothers.”
“I know. It’s perfectly fine for you and the girls to keep living where you are. That’s your home.” He kept his head down as they walked through the narrow, twisting lanes, not wanting to be interrupted by the people they passed. “The thing is, Devorah . . . there’s a law in the Torah that covers our . . . situation.” She looked up at him, waiting. “It’s called the law of levirate marriage—levir meaning brother-in-law in Hebrew.”
She frowned as if annoyed. “I know what levir means. My father taught me Hebrew.”
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be condescending.” This subject was difficult enough to discuss without making Devorah angry. He lowered his voice so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Are you familiar with the law of levirate marriage, then?” She shook her head. “The Torah says that if a man dies without an heir, as Jude has, then his brother has a duty to marry his widow.”
She halted. “You’re supposed to marry me?”
“Yes.”
She quickly turned her face away, her pale cheeks tinged with scarlet. “I see. . . . Is that the law behind the story of Ruth and Naomi?” she asked a moment later.
“Yes, that’s right.” He tried not to reveal his surprise at her knowledge. “God provided for Ruth and Naomi by allowing Ruth to marry Boaz, her husband’s kinsman, since her brothers-in-law were dead—”
“I know the story. But somehow it sounds different in our time—with you and me.” She shook her head, almost a shiver.
“I don’t blame you for your reaction. It seems like we’re betraying Jude. I was reminded of this law only yesterday, and I’ve barely had time to consider all the implications, but . . . I thought you should know what the Torah says.”
He was relieved when Devorah bent to lift the baby in her arms. They could walk faster now. They were nearly to Asher’s house, and the older girl was calling to them to hurry. Ezra wanted to get this over with.
“You don’t have to make a decision right away, Devorah. Take your time. And the law doesn’t force you to marry me if you don’t want to. But I felt it was my duty to make you aware of the law since I’m responsible for teaching our people . . . and we . . . I mean, you . . .” Stop talking and be quiet, he admonished himself. He was making an awkward situation worse by going on and on about it. They finally reached Asher’s gate. “I need to go to work,” he said. “Thank you for talking with me.”
He’d started to leave when she called to him. “Ezra?” He halted. “Why would God command such a thing?”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” he said, staring at his feet, “and the simple answer is He wants to make sure widows and orphans are protected. The Torah says over and over that He cares about their welfare, and the law provides many ways for supporting them—”
“Like Ruth gleaning in the fields. The reapers are supposed to leave something for them. And farmers aren’t supposed to pick their vines a third time.”
“Yes. Exactly so.” Again, Devorah’s knowledge of the law surprised him. “If the Torah didn’t require a kinsman to take care of them, widows and orphans might become vulnerable to abuse. But there’s a more complicated reason, and it has to do with Jude’s name and his inheritance, something that’s very important to every Jewish man as part of the people of God. It’s especially important to our family because we’re priests, descendants of Aaron the high priest. The law of levirate marriage makes sure that Jude’s memory and lineage will never die out.”
“How? I don’t understand.”
“In a levirate marriage, our firstborn son would be Jude’s, not mine.” He wondered if his face had turned as red as hers at the idea of creating a son together.
“So that’s why Ruth’s firstborn son was placed on Naomi’s knees?” Devorah asked. “And why he was declared to be hers, not Boaz’s?”
“Exactly. And it’s why the other kinsman in that story didn’t want to marry Ruth and risk damaging his own inheritance.”
Devorah sighed. “Jude was always very proud that his family had descended from priests—and even high priests. He used to tell me he traced his lineage back to Zadok, the first high priest to serve in Solomon’s temple.”
“I’m proud of our heritage, too. I would hate to see Jude’s line disappear. Mine either, for that matter.” It occurred to him that even if Devorah decided not to marry him, at age thirty-six it was time he found a wife.
Devorah seemed deep in thought, and he waited for her to speak. The sun felt merciless as Ezra stood in the shadeless street, and he felt the warmth of the cobblestones beneath his feet. “If I married someone else instead of you,” she finally said, “would my firstborn son still be Jude’s heir?”
“Only if he was a kinsman. I’m the closest one you have, I’m afraid. Then Asher. I’m not sure who’s next in line, but I could find out for you. The Torah says you cannot marry outside the family.”
“So . . . if Ruth had refused to marry Boaz, then King David never would have been born,” she mused aloud. “The royal line came through a levirate marriage.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
Devorah looked up at him, her gaze frank and disconcerting. “Is this what you want to do, Ezra? Marry me?”
Again, he felt a blush rising to his cheeks. “To be honest, Devorah, if I hadn’t read this in the Torah, it never would have occurred to me to intrude on the love you and Jude shared. This law feels awkward and uncomfortable to me, and I’m certain to you, too. Jude was my brother. My friend. I know how much you loved each other, and I already know I can never take his place in your heart. I would be wrong to try.”
“But God commands this?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. And I’m convinced
that obeying God’s law is always the wisest and best way to live. The Almighty One knows so much more than we do. He created us. And so I have to believe that, yes, this must be the best thing to do. But only if you’re willing. And only when you’re ready.”
“Abba taught me the importance of obeying the law,” she said, almost to herself, her voice so soft he barely heard her.
“You don’t need to decide right away. At the very least, wait until your year of mourning ends.” She remained silent, staring at the ground as if deep in thought. He was aware of his nieces babbling in the background and realized that he would become their adoptive father if Devorah married him. He knew nothing about being a father. Jude had made it look so natural, lifting his tiny girls into his arms, showering them with kisses. “I should go,” he said. “Let me know if you have any questions or . . . or if you need anything.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Ezra glanced up at her as he hurried away, and he was struck again by how lovely she was. He felt instantly ashamed. He was no better than the filthy Gentile who had admired her beauty. But Devorah wasn’t Jude’s wife anymore, he reminded himself.
He ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbed his face, tugged his beard. He was the great Torah expert, the man whose life’s work was to decipher the law and put it into everyday language so people could obey it. Why study it if he wasn’t going to live it? He knew God’s law was good. But in this case, it was going to be very difficult to obey it.
Chapter
24
BETHLEHEM
Amina felt the warmth of the late afternoon sun, even though she sat in the shade in Hodaya’s courtyard, spinning wool into yarn with her spindle. She paused to watch Sayfah carry a jar of grain across the courtyard from the storage room, and her movements reminded Amina of a frightened animal’s. After all these months, Sayfah still spoke in a whisper, still skulked around Hodaya’s house as if terrified. Her unhappiness with their new life seemed to grow greater and more apparent each day while Amina’s happiness sprouted and blossomed like spring flowers beneath the sunshine of Hodaya’s love.
They had fallen into the household’s routine easily, doing the same chores they used to do at home but without all the yelling and the beatings. Hodaya’s son never treated his wife and children the way Abba had treated his family. For the first few months after she and Sayfah had taken refuge here, Amina had worried they wouldn’t be accepted among the Jewish people. Would they be considered enemies because of what Abba and the other village men had tried to do? But Hodaya was so beloved by the other women in Bethlehem that her new “daughters” had quickly been adopted by the community, too. Even Hodaya’s sons seemed to accept them now. Why couldn’t Sayfah see that? Instead, her sister recited the same, monotonous refrain: “We don’t belong here.”
Amina returned to her spindle, making sure she twisted and spun the yarn into an even thickness. Hodaya had taught her how to spin the wool from Jacob’s sheep after it had been to the fuller, and together they dyed it a rainbow of colors. Amina loved working with Hodaya at home, then going to the marketplace with her every week and helping in her booth. She had learned how to display the cloth in the most inviting way and to bargain with customers for the best price. Sayfah refused to go with them.
“I can still hear the screams whenever I go back there,” she had whispered to Amina. She had covered her ears with her hands as she’d spoken. “Such terrible screams . . .”
“Never mind, then,” Amina had quickly replied. “You don’t ever have to go back.”
She paused again in her spinning to watch Hodaya weave on the huge loom in its wooden frame, fascinated by how swiftly her shuttle raced back and forth, how she tightened the finished rows in one smooth, quick motion. “Do you think I could learn to weave someday?” Amina asked.
“Of course! When Jacob comes home I’ll ask him to build a small loom so you can learn.”
“One for Sayfah, too?”
“Yes, of course. Would you like to learn how to weave, too, Sayfah?”
Sayfah frowned and shook her head before disappearing into the storage room again. Why did she have to be so miserable? They had a wonderful life here.
“You know,” Hodaya continued, “it’s getting harder for me to set up my loom by myself these days. I don’t see very well, and my fingers are so stiff I have trouble tying the warp threads. You girls will be a wonderful help to me.”
But the best part of Amina’s day was listening to the stories Hodaya told while they worked, stories about the Jewish people and the God they worshiped. Amina had learned about the first man and woman God ever created and how they’d disobeyed Him and had to leave the beautiful garden. She’d learned about a good man named Noah, who was saved by God from a flood along with a boat full of animals. Hodaya told her about Abraham, the father of the Jewish people, who had believed in one God, not many. She learned about a shepherd boy named David who wrote beautiful songs and became a great king because he loved God. But Amina’s favorite story was about a crippled man who was invited to live in King David’s palace and eat at his table. Amina thought she knew how it felt to be that man and go from cursing to blessing.
“Why don’t you want Jacob to make you a loom?” she asked Sayfah as they lay in bed that night. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to weave beautiful cloth like Hodaya does?”
“I don’t want to be like them.”
Amina refused to wallow in her sister’s gloom. “Living here is like paradise, isn’t it? I don’t ever want to leave this house.”
“Well, I do!” Sayfah said. “I feel like a traitor living here. The Jews killed our family and destroyed our village. We shouldn’t be friends with them. It isn’t right.”
“Hodaya loves us, and I love her,” Amina said firmly.
“Then I don’t want to be your sister anymore.” Sayfah huffed and rolled away from Amina, turning her back.
“Listen, were you really happy living back home, Sayfah? Remember how scared you were when Abba started arranging your marriage?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“You have to!” Amina sat up. “You have to remember! And you have to stop looking back and thinking everything was wonderful at home, because it wasn’t. Abba used to beat us—”
“Because we deserved it. We used to make mistakes and make him angry—”
“No! We were scared all the time. Can’t you see how different it is here? Why would you want to go back to the old way?”
Sayfah rolled over to face her again. “Because we don’t belong here. We need to go back home and see if people are living in our village again. It’s been seven months, Amina. Maybe they’ve rebuilt it.”
“I’ve never seen anyone from our old village in the marketplace when I go with Hodaya.”
“Do you blame them for staying away after what happened? I’m probably not the only one who’s afraid to return to the market.”
Amina sighed, struggling to be patient with her sister, wishing Sayfah could be as happy as she was. “We can ask Jacob to take us back when he comes home. I’m sure he would do it. But I don’t understand why you want to go back when it’s so nice here.”
“This isn’t my home and it never will be.”
For Sayfah’s sake, Amina did ask Jacob about it the next time he returned with his sheep. He and his sons agreed to take them to their village. Hodaya didn’t come this time, so they walked, leaving early in the morning before the sun grew too hot. They followed the dusty road Amina had taken with her mother and the other women from their village every week. She’d now learned to walk with a crutch like Hodaya, and it helped her move faster and keep her balance. Her father would have hated her crutch—and if he’d seen her with one, he would have beaten her with it, then burned it in the fire.
It didn’t take long to reach the site where the village had been, and Amina was immediately sorry they had come. Sayfah sucked in her breath at the shocking sight, then collapsed
against Amina, nearly knocking her over. Nothing remained. Thistles and grass now grew among the ruins. And that’s what they still were—ruins. In an instant, Amina began to relive that terrible night of fear and loss. She felt her sister’s body trembling and knew Sayfah was reliving it also.
Jacob drew his sons away to give the sisters time alone. “Let’s look around and see if we can spot any signs of people living here,” he said. Amina stood in the road where the village entrance had once been, holding Sayfah’s hand as she watched the men make a sweep of the surrounding area. The fields that her father and the others once tended were overgrown with tangled weeds, reaching nearly to Jacob’s waist.
“The grape vines and olive trees seem to have been picked over,” he told them when he returned, “but the vines and trees aren’t being properly tended.”
“No one lives here,” his son agreed. “I doubt if this village will ever be rebuilt.” Amina recalled the piles of dead bodies and knew no one was left to rebuild it.
“There. Are you glad we went?” Amina asked her sister on the way back to Bethlehem. She knew she sounded harsh, but how else could she shake her sister from her sorrow and make her start living again? “Will you please stop thinking about it now? We have a new life. A happy life.”
Sayfah wiped a tear. “It isn’t right. We shouldn’t be happy.” She quickened her pace until Amina could no longer keep up.
That evening at dinner, Jacob and Hodaya made plans to go to Jerusalem the following week for a special sacrifice and a feast. Amina asked Hodaya about it later as they washed the dishes. “It’s a very sacred time called the Day of Atonement,” Hodaya explained, “followed by the Festival of Booths. Every Jew who can is supposed to worship in the temple and ask the Almighty One for forgiveness. You and Sayfah are welcome to come with us.”
“Is it like that other feast? The Passover?”
“In some ways.”
Hodaya’s family had celebrated Passover a month after Adar, one month after she and Sayfah had come to live with her. Amina still had been getting used to her new home and felt shy around all the adults, but she remembered two things: The women had worked hard, cleaning the house from top to bottom, making sure every last crumb of leaven was removed before the holiday. And Amina remembered the family’s happiness as they sat down to eat and tell stories. The evening had been filled with joy and laughter and singing. In Amina’s village, the festivals had been loud, raucous affairs where people drank too much and sometimes got into fights. Abba used to make her stay out of sight if they had guests, ashamed of her crippled leg.