by Lynn Austin
On the night of Passover, Jacob had told how the Jews had been slaves in Egypt until God set them free, performing miracles for them and killing the Egyptians. “How long ago did this happen?” Amina had asked, remembering the battle between the Jews and her people.
Hodaya had laughed. “A very long time ago. But we tell the story every year to remember what God is like. To remember that He saves us if we trust in Him.”
“I think He saved me and Sayfah,” Amina had said. “I think that’s why we lived when everyone else died.”
Hodaya stroked her hair. “I think you’re right.”
They hadn’t traveled to Jerusalem for Passover last year because Hodaya hadn’t felt well. “But now I want to go and worship in the temple for the fall feasts,” she told Amina now. “You may stay here or come with us, it’s up to you.”
“Is it very far?”
“The journey takes about two hours, riding in the cart.”
Sayfah had been sitting right beside Amina, listening to the entire conversation, but as they prepared for bed later, Amina didn’t ask her sister if she wanted to travel to Jerusalem with the others. Amina was determined to go, and she didn’t care what her sister did. In the end, Sayfah reluctantly decided to come, unwilling to be left alone in Bethlehem.
When the day finally arrived, the family loaded their cart and left early in the morning, traveling with a caravan of people and family members from Bethlehem. They met up with caravans from other villages along the way, all heading for Jerusalem. Sometimes they sang songs as they journeyed, and everyone seemed to know the words, even the children. Amina rode on the seat beside Hodaya, fascinated by the gently rolling hills, the terraced vineyards and olive groves with their stone presses, the patchwork fields of wheat and barley.
“I’ve never traveled any farther than from my village to Bethlehem,” she told Hodaya as they bumped along the dusty road.
“It’s a beautiful land, isn’t it?” Hodaya asked. “God told our people to worship Him at three festivals, three times a year. He wants us to rejoice and remember our history as a people and all the things He has done for us. We need to take time to thank Him for providing for us.” She took Amina’s hand in hers and said, “I know I’ve never asked you about your family’s beliefs . . . but did they worship God?”
“I don’t know what my family believed,” Amina said quietly. “We never stopped working to rest one day a week like you do. And we never said blessings at our meals, either. Abba and the other men used to walk up the hill behind our village to offer sacrifices, but I never went with them. Mama believed in the evil eye and other superstitions. . . .”
Sayfah tugged her sleeve. “She put offerings on the altar by our gate, remember?” she asked softly.
“Yes, but who was it for?” Amina asked. Sayfah shrugged. The road began to wind up the mountain, and Sayfah climbed down from the wagon to walk alongside. When they reached the top and stopped to rest, they saw a magnificent view of the city of Jerusalem on the hill across the valley. Amina had never seen so many houses all in one place, all built of stone and perched on a steep ridge for protection. Jerusalem was ten times bigger than Bethlehem, a hundred times bigger than her village.
Hodaya pointed to a higher hill above the city and to the largest building Amina had ever seen. “That’s the Almighty One’s temple,” she said. “That’s where we’re going to worship.”
“It’s beautiful!” Built of white stones, the temple seemed to glow in the morning sun. Amina wished she could jump down from the wagon and run all the way across the valley to see it up close. When they finally did reach the base of the temple mount, huge crowds of people stood in lines to bathe in the ritual baths and purchase sacrifices, greeting each other with hugs and laughter. She longed to be a part of it all, but she and Sayfah were Gentiles, not Jews. She halted in the busy street and pulled Sayfah to a halt beside her. “I don’t think we belong here,” Amina murmured.
“Haven’t I been saying that?”
Hodaya kept walking at first, but didn’t get far before realizing that Amina and Sayfah were no longer beside her. She turned and beckoned to them. Amina shook her head.
Hodaya limped back to her side. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re not Jewish.”
“That doesn’t matter. I wasn’t born to Jewish parents, either. God provided a special courtyard in His temple where anyone can come and worship Him. He loves all people, not just the Jews.”
“Then why did He let everyone in our village die?” Sayfah asked.
Lines of sorrow creased Hodaya’s face. She reached to caress Sayfah’s hair, but Sayfah flinched and moved away. “I don’t know why, dear one. But I do know that the Almighty One loves all people, and He wants them to come to Him and be His children. Not everyone accepts His offer, of course. To be part of His people we have to live by His laws, and many people don’t want to do that. Even Jews don’t follow His laws all the time. But everyone who leaves their idols behind and turns to God will be accepted as His own child, whether they’re a Jew or a Gentile.”
Hodaya’s words persuaded Amina, and late that afternoon, she climbed the stairs with the others to watch the evening sacrifice. Seeing God’s magnificent temple up close, watching the priests in their gleaming white robes, listening to the Levite choir’s thrilling songs as the smoke and flames ascended to heaven, brought tears to Amina’s eyes and filled her with an indescribable feeling of joy and awe. She already knew the Jewish God was powerful because He had saved His people from the Egyptians on Passover, drowning all of Pharaoh’s horses and chariots in the sea. He had saved His people once again on the Thirteenth of Adar. Maybe the Almighty One truly was the only God.
The music rose to a thrilling crescendo, and when the people fell to their knees before Him in worship, Amina gladly bowed down with them.
Chapter
25
BABYLON
Devorah awoke one morning before dawn, shivering in the cold air. A year ago she would have moved closer to Jude for warmth; now she could only curl tighter in her blanket. The ache of loneliness felt more acute in these numbing winter months. Would the rest of her life be this lonely? She was only twenty-six years old.
Her time of mourning was nearly over. The month of Adar would begin tomorrow, awakening a flood of memories yet again. They would celebrate their victory and deliverance from their enemies, then they would celebrate Passover. Devorah’s home had once been filled with family, especially during the holy days—Jude’s parents, Jude and his brother Ezra, his brother Asher and wife Miriam. And her home should be filled with children, like arrows in a quiver.
Devorah felt a burst of anger toward Jude for his foolish act of rage, as she had so many times this past year. Abigail, who was five, barely remembered her father. She had stopped asking about him months ago. Michal, who was nearly three, had no memories of Jude at all.
Devorah climbed out of bed to kindle the fire, careful not to wake her daughters. Today was the eve of Shabbat. How long had it been since she’d celebrated the Sabbath properly, with joy and laughter and guests at her table? She should be teaching her daughters the songs and rituals and showing them how to light the Sabbath lights. Jude would be furious with her for abandoning their traditions. Every week Asher and Miriam invited her for the Sabbath. And every week she declined. But on this cold, late winter day, Devorah decided to accept their invitation.
When the girls were awake and dressed and everyone had eaten, they all walked to Miriam’s house to help prepare the Sabbath meal. With each step she took, Devorah recalled her walk with Ezra a few months ago when he’d explained the law of levirate marriage. She’d promised to give him an answer when her year of mourning ended, but she’d pushed the decision aside each time she thought of it. How should she reply?
“I’m so glad you finally decided to celebrate the Sabbath with us,” Miriam said as she greeted Devorah.
“Me too. We’ve come to help you prepare the meal. You
look as though you could use some help.” Miriam balanced her son, nearly a year old now, on her hip as she tried to wash lentils for the soup. She was expecting again, her belly getting in her way each time she tried to bend or move. “Let Abigail and Michal entertain him,” Devorah said, lifting the baby from Miriam’s arms. She settled the children on the rug in a patch of sunshine, then returned to Miriam’s side. “I’ll knead the bread, if you’d like.”
“That would be wonderful. But I haven’t even had time to grind the flour yet.”
“Then I’ll do that first. How many of us for dinner?”
“You and me and Asher and Ezra, plus the children.”
Ezra. Devorah needed to decide. He deserved an answer to his proposal. She poured a measure of grain between the stones and began to grind. “How is Ezra?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him in months.”
“He needs a wife,” Miriam said, laughing as she poured water over the lentils. “He’s so overworked, burdened day and night with his studies and with leading our people. They come here during dinner sometimes, asking him questions. He asked Asher the other day, ‘Who can I go to with my questions?’ And I told him, ‘You need a wife, Ezra. She’ll listen to you and help you.’ And you know what he said? He surprised both of us when he said he wanted to marry. It’s about time, isn’t it? So what do you say, Devorah? Should we help our bachelor brother-in-law find someone?” She turned to Devorah for her reply, and her smile faded. “What’s wrong? Do you feel all right?” Devorah had stopped grinding.
“Did Ezra explain to you and Asher about the law of levirate marriage?”
“No. What’s that?”
Devorah resumed working, her hands moving faster, grinding harder. “The Torah says if a married man dies without an heir, his widow is supposed to marry her husband’s brother.”
Miriam stopped chopping. “Ezra has to marry you?”
“Yes. That’s what the law says.” Devorah felt a sudden burst of anger. “It’s so unfair! First God took Jude away, and now He demands this!” She paused to control her emotions, refusing to cry. “Don’t I have any say in my life? I feel like a puppet that the Holy One is manipulating with His outrageous laws.”
“God doesn’t really expect you to follow such an outdated law, does He? It’s ridiculous! Marry your brother-in-law?”
“It’s in the Torah,” Devorah said with a shrug. “It seems archaic . . . but how are we supposed to know which of His rules we still have to obey and which ones don’t apply to us anymore?” She remembered arguing with her father one Sabbath evening, insisting that it was stupid to sit around shivering because the fire had gone out. “Why not kindle a fire if we’re cold?” she’d asked. “Does God want us to freeze on the Sabbath?”
“You don’t get to pick and choose among the laws,” her father had replied. “The Torah isn’t a banquet table where you only have to eat the dishes you like. If we don’t obey all of the Torah’s laws, then we’re breaking all of them.”
“So God commands you to marry Ezra?” Miriam asked. “And you don’t have a choice?”
“I have a choice. I don’t have to marry him. But Ezra says this is God’s way of providing a future for my children and me. And also for Jude, so he’ll have an heir. If Ezra and I have a son, he’s considered Jude’s child.” Devorah poured the finished flour into the kneading trough and scooped another measure of grain between the stones. She wondered if God would forgive her for imagining that Ezra was Jude each time she held him. For wishing they were Jude’s arms around her, his lips on hers. Jude had always been stronger than Ezra, well-muscled and tanned, smelling of clay and hard work. Ezra was slender, his skin pale from sitting inside all day, his shoulders a little stooped from bending over his scrolls. But Devorah had been surprised by the change in Ezra the last time she’d seen him. After months of working outside in the pottery yard, Ezra was no longer stooped and pale.
“How do you feel about this marriage?” Miriam asked, breaking into Devorah’s thoughts. “Wouldn’t it seem . . . weird?”
“Yes, of course it would. I don’t think I’ll ever love him. I could never love any man the way I loved Jude.”
“Well, I know I couldn’t do it,” Miriam said with a shudder. “I mean, Ezra is nice as a brother-in-law, but I couldn’t sleep with him.”
“But I don’t know what else to do, Miriam. I want to have a son for Jude’s sake, but I can’t help feeling like Ezra and I would be doing something wrong, like we were being unfaithful to Jude. Ezra said the same thing when he explained all this to me a few months ago.”
Miriam looked shocked. “You’ve been debating this for months? Why didn’t you confide in me?”
“Because I kept pushing the decision aside, trying not to think about it. But if Ezra is talking about marrying another woman, I’ll need to figure out how to support myself and the girls. He can’t possibly support two families—although he’s such a kind, generous man he would probably try.”
“I had no idea he was thinking of you when he talked about getting married.”
“Maybe he isn’t. . . . Maybe he has someone else in mind. What do you think I should do, Miriam? What would you do if Asher had died without an heir?”
“I don’t know.” Miriam rested her hand on her growing stomach. “I mean, Ezra is certainly a good man, but I couldn’t marry him. . . . I think you should talk to him about this, not me.”
“You’re right. That’s what I’ll do.”
On the afternoon of Shabbat when lunch had ended and no other work was allowed, Devorah asked Ezra to walk with her and the girls along the canal. Other families and courting couples had come out for a stroll as well on this mild winter day. “It’s hard to believe nearly a year has passed already,” Ezra said as they walked.
“It seems much longer—and yet like yesterday,” Devorah replied.
“So much has changed.”
Devorah quickly grew impatient with small talk. She had an important decision to make. “I’m sorry for making you wait so long for an answer to your proposal,” she began. “You’ve been very patient with me.”
“You were still mourning,” he said. “I understand.”
Devorah exhaled. “I don’t know how much Jude told you about me, Ezra, but I was older than most women when we married. I waited until I was twenty because my father spoiled me, teaching me to study the Torah as if I were his son.”
“I knew your father. I studied with him for nearly a year. He was one of the finest scholars and teachers in the yeshiva. You’re also descended from a priestly family, you know.”
“Yes. Abba always wished his family had returned to Jerusalem when King Cyrus gave his decree years ago. Everything changed so quickly, and then it was too late to go.”
“If only we could go home now,” Ezra said. “I hate it here in Babylon. We’re surrounded by enemies who would gladly kill us again at the slightest provocation.”
Devorah bent to lift Michal, who’d grown tired of walking. “Abba discussed the Torah with me the way he did with his students, bringing scrolls home and teaching me to read them. I learned that God made Eve to be Adam’s helper, which meant she was his support, his armor-bearer, his friend. And so when Jude asked to court me, I made him promise we would have a different kind of marriage. That we’d discuss everything and not keep secrets. He agreed.”
Ezra smiled slightly. “Jude came to my study when he was courting you. He told me about your request and asked my advice.”
“What did you say?”
“I was deep into my Torah studies at the time, trying to mine every line and word of Scripture as if digging for gold. It was a lost treasure in a sense, since our forefathers stopped following the Law and ended up here in exile. To be honest, I didn’t think his question was worthy of an in-depth study compared with the weightier matters of theology and covenant living I was dealing with. But I answered him as best I could and told him I saw nothing wrong with such a marriage. I think I cited a few examples of b
iblical couples who hadn’t worked well together, such as Rebecca, who had conspired to deceive Isaac. It seemed to me a marriage would work better if husbands and wives were partners, the way you described it. But in the end, I advised Jude to talk to one of the married rabbis since I was a bachelor and hardly qualified to advise him.”
Ezra paused when Abigail suddenly stepped between them, taking Devorah’s free hand in one of hers and reaching to take Ezra’s hand in the other. “I want to swing, Uncle Ezra,” she said. He looked perplexed.
“She wants us to lift her up and swing her between us the way she used to do with her father,” Devorah explained, setting her other daughter down. Ezra quickly got the hang of it, surprising Devorah when he laughed out loud at his niece’s delight.
“Me!” Michal begged. “Me too!” She took her turn, as well.
“I’ve been thinking about the law of levirate marriage,” Devorah said when the game ended. “If I agree to marry you, will you let me be your partner in all things? Could we have the same kind of marriage I had with Jude, based on friendship and trust? Making decisions together?”
“I—I would do my best. The greater question is, do you think you could be patient with me, a thirty-six-year-old bachelor who knows very little about being a good husband?”
“We may both have to make a few changes,” Devorah said. She remembered the look that had passed between Ezra and her husband when he lay dying, as he’d clearly entrusted her to his brother’s care. Jude wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t want Ezra in her life, would he? “I’ll do it, Ezra,” she said, exhaling. “I’ll obey the Torah and marry you.”