Premonition

by R. S. Ingermanson

  Nothing happened.

  Panic made Rivka’s mind feel fuzzy. She swatted the baby again. “Come on, breathe!”

  Still nothing.

  Rivka was hyperventilating now, her insides turning to jelly. If anything happened to this baby ... She turned him over.

  His face had gone red, his mouth gaping feebly. There was some dark material inside—what was that?

  Rivka cautiously put a fingertip inside the mouth, then pulled it out. Something dark and squishy stuck to her fingers. That must be blocking the boy’s breathing.

  She rolled him over and tried to scoop the material out of his mouth.

  A few globs of liquid dribbled out.

  The boy’s face had gone blue.

  Frantic, Rivka checked his heartbeat.

  Rapid, shallow, erratic.

  She put a finger into the boy’s mouth again and felt for more, but there didn’t seem to be anything else. “Please, God, help me, I don’t know what I’m doing! Help!” She turned the tiny body over, pushed gently on the back, hoping to squeeze whatever it was out. Tears streamed down her face, and she couldn’t see any longer, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She rolled the baby on its back and put her mouth directly over its mouth and nose. She tried to breathe into his lungs, but it didn’t seem like any air was moving.

  Seconds passed. Minutes. Rivka’s heart slammed against her chest as she worked desperately to get the child breathing. Please, God.

  The baby was not moving at all now.

  Rivka’s eyes smeared with tears and she could not seem to catch her breath. Her face felt horribly hot and sweat rushed down her sides and her veins rushed with adrenaline.

  After a quarter of an hour, she slumped to her knees, bitterness burning her eyes.

  The child’s face had gone dark and silent, its heartbeat was still.

  She had lost, and she wanted to die. Would have died, if that would save this child.

  “What have you done?” A voice in the doorway, harsh, angry.

  Rivka turned, her eyes blurry.

  A very short old woman stood there, fury in her eyes. “What have you done?”

  Rivka had seen this woman once, six months ago, and made a fool of herself. “I ... there was nobody to help.”

  The woman strode to the table and peered at the child. “Was there fluid or mucus in his mouth?”

  “A little. I tried to move it out with my finger.”

  “You must have pushed some down into his lungs. You should have sucked it out.”

  “Sucked it ... out?” Rivka stared at her. “With what?”

  “Yes, sucked it with a hollow reed, and then spit it on the floor. Do not look at me like that, fool. If you will meddle in the business of midwives, you should be prepared. And you should have put the child on the mother’s belly at once and waited to cut the cord until he was breathing.”

  “I ... didn’t know.”

  “That much is evident.” The old woman spun on her heel and stepped to the bed. “Little Yael, I am so sorry.”

  Yael’s eyes flickered open. “Midwife Marta! Where is my baby? I want to hold my baby.”

  Midwife Marta knelt beside her. “I am very sorry. I came as soon as little Yoni found me, but it was too late. And this fool attending you did not know what to do.”

  Rivka

  * * *

  Rivka staggered toward home in a daze. She had done her best, and it was not good enough. A doctor could have saved that baby. Or a nurse. Or a first-century midwife. But Rivka hadn’t known how to help. Because of her ignorance, the baby was dead.

  My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge.

  Rivka began walking faster, heartsick, furious with herself. Angry at God. It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t the baby’s fault. It was just ... bad luck to be born while Midwife Marta was busy elsewhere, with nobody but stupid Rivka there. Bad luck.

  Rivka strode faster, charging forward into the twilight. Ari and Baruch and Hana would be worried about her. She’d been gone for hours. For what? To botch a delivery? Stupid! She’d blown it.

  Okay, chill, Rivka. You did your best. Now how about a little perspective? You made a mistake. One baby died. It’s not like you bombed Auschwitz.

  Okay, fine. People would tell her it was just a small thing. In a city of a hundred thousand souls, what was one baby? Infinitesimal, right?

  Dead wrong. Rivka had been born in 1974, the oldest child of two parents, the first grandchild of four grandparents. Which meant there were eight great-grandparents, sixteen great-greats, thirty-two in the generation before that. Two thousand years made a hundred generations. Give or take. So the number of her ancestors now living was two times two times two ... a hundred times. Way more than the number of people alive now. Therefore, practically every Jew of the first century was her ancestor in a bazillion different branches. Take away any one of them, and she would ... not be.

  Of course, she did exist, but that wasn’t the point. Every person now living would have an impact on the far future. Every one. Every Jew of the twentieth century depended crucially on these simple, provincial folk. Albert Einstein. Chaim Potok. Jonas Salk. Woody Allen. Everybody in this city was special.

  Do not turn from your calling, be it ever so small.

  Rivka turned the last corner, saw Ari pacing outside the house, shouted. “Ari!”

  He turned. Relief washed across his face.

  Rivka ran to meet him.

  He crushed her in a fierce hug. “Rivka, we have been very worried. Where have you—”

  “Not now, Ari, please. Just ... hold me.” And please don’t think I’m foolish, but I’m going to become a midwife.

  Chapter Five

  Ari

  * * *

  ARI LAY ON HIS THIN bedroll, too tense to sleep. He had stayed up till midnight, doodling on a pad of paper, trying to figure out what had gone wrong with the crane. A simple static problem. The crane operated at essentially zero velocity. To an excellent approximation, at each point the sum of all forces had to be zero.

  So much was easy. But how much did the stones weigh? How much force could the beams bear under compression? At what tension would the ropes break? What about the joints? The pulleys?

  Without such information, a man could not design a crane. One must know the constraints. In physics classes, it was permitted to assume infinitely strong and massless parts. In the real world, no.

  Rivka’s body spasmed. She muttered something in her sleep.

  Ari wrapped an arm around her.

  She cried out, fought him.

  “Rivka!” Ari shook her.

  “Augghh!” Rivka shuddered. “Ari, is that you?”

  Ari stroked her hair gently. “What happened?”

  “A nightmare. Those horrible bandits. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “I was awake still. Doing physics.”

  “Have you figured out what went wrong with the crane?”

  Ari shrugged. “It tipped sideways, this is all I know. There must be a reason, some instability, and yet I do not see it.”

  Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. “What’s different about this crane?”

  “I do not understand. It is a crane.”

  “And yet usually it works. Yesterday it failed. Why? What did they do differently yesterday?”

  “I ...” Ari’s heart skipped. “Rivkaleh, I did not ask if something was different. It appeared to me that this was a common occurrence.”

  “Ask somebody.”

  “I am not certain whom to ask. The old priest Hanan took a dislike to me.”

  Rivka turned to look at him, her eyes wide. “Who?”

  “I told you about him already, yes? He is sagan. His name is called Hanan.”

  Her breath caught, and Ari felt her body tighten again. “You didn’t tell me his name. Hanan who, Ari? Who’s his father?”

  “Hanan ben Hanan.” His heart lurched. “Do you know this man?”

  “Ari, whatever you do tomorrow, you’d better
kiss up to Hanan ben Hanan.”

  “What does this mean, to kiss up to someone?”

  “Ari, this guy is dangerous. In English his name is Annas.”

  “This name means nothing to me.”

  “It would if you had read the New Testament. His father killed Yeshua.”

  Ari sighed. He did not wish to make another argument on this matter. “With respect, the Romans killed Jesus.”

  “You’re right and you’re wrong. The Romans did it, sure, but the sources are very clear that a few Jews were involved too. A few Sadducees on the Sanhedrin, and we know their names. Annas—Hanan—was the one pushing hardest. His son-in-law Caiaphas was high priest the year Yeshua was killed, but the trial was held in the palace of Hanan. The man you met yesterday is his youngest son.”

  “Rivka, it seems hardly fair to judge a man by the actions of his father.”

  “Haven’t you ever read Josephus?” Rivka sounded impatient.

  Ari frowned. “I know of this Josephus. A traitor, a Roman collaborator.”

  “He was also the best source we’ve got for the next fifteen years of Jewish history. He has nothing good to say about Hanan ben Hanan.” Rivka’s breathing rasped, hoarse and uneven in the silent room. “Hanan is dangerous. He ...” Her voice choked off.

  Ari’s pulse pounded in his neck and his lungs burned. “Tell me, Rivkaleh.”

  Rivka took a long slow breath. “He ... is going to kill Yaakov the tsaddik.”

  Ari felt like she had punched him in the stomach. “No. Please say this is a lie. There is no reason to kill a man such as Yaakov the tsaddik. When is this to happen?”

  “The dates are a little fuzzy. Most historians put it in the summer of A.D. 62, give or take a year.”

  “That is very soon—less than five years from now.”

  “Give or take a year.”

  Ari swore softly in Arabic.

  Rivka clutched at his arm. “Kiss up to Hanan ben Hanan tomorrow, okay? Whatever you do, don’t make him your enemy.”

  Ari kissed Rivka’s ear and enfolded her in his arms. “Sleep well, Rivkaleh.”

  She snuggled up to him. “I love you, Ari.”

  Minutes later, her soft and even breathing told Ari that she was asleep again. He lay alone with his thoughts for a long time. He still was not sure what it meant to kiss up to someone, but one thing was certain.

  Ari Kazan would never kiss up to an evil man, no matter how dangerous he was.

  Ari

  * * *

  Ari hurried through the outer court of the Temple toward the construction site with Rivka three paces behind him. He hated humiliating her in this way, but it was the way of Jerusalem. He could not afford to fail today. He must learn what had changed in the design of the crane. That was the key to yesterday’s accident.

  When he arrived, the site was buzzing with activity. The crane lay where it had fallen. Dozens of men were busy breaking up some of the old cracked paving stones and hauling out the old pieces.

  Rivka remained behind in the shadow of the portico.

  Ari strode up to a knot of half a dozen men. “Shalom, my friends. I should like to ask a question about the crane which failed.”

  The men looked up at him. An uneasy silence shrouded them. The leader turned his back on Ari. One by one, the others did the same.

  “Just a question!” Ari said. “What has changed in the design of the crane?” He walked around to stand in front of them. “I must know—”

  The men turned their backs on him again.

  Ari shrugged and went to another cluster of workmen. “Shalom, my friends—”

  The men turned their backs on him.

  What mischief was this? Ari walked to the fallen crane. He could see no obvious reason for the failure. But yesterday it had tipped. Why not the day before?

  He could see no answers here. Ari turned and strode back toward Rivka.

  She said nothing as he walked past her.

  He wished he could speak openly with her, but he dared not risk it in public. These people ignored him to his face, but they would surely be watching him now. He must do nothing to alienate them further.

  Ari strolled aimlessly north in the shade of Solomon’s Portico. Despair slit through him. He had lost. Hanan ben Hanan would win.

  After walking perhaps a hundred meters, he stopped near the small school of Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai. He stared at them dully. Nothing mattered now. It was craziness to battle Hanan ben Hanan. With more profit, he might study Torah with these gentle fools. Whether he understood them or not made no difference. These earnest, crazy, single-minded men of Torah would preserve his people for a hundred generations. Without them, Jews would lose their identity in the storm to come.

  Rabbi Yohanan’s method of teaching was simple, yet profound. First, he repeated a saying of one of the sages several times. The students repeated it after him in unison. Then Yohanan would expound on it. Then he would invite one of his students to expound on it further. Ari had seen this many times. The students never satisfied their master. Rabbi Yohanan pursued them mercilessly with questions until they could not answer. It was a good system. The master refused to accept limits.

  Somebody tapped Ari on the shoulder. He turned and saw ... Rivka! His pulse leaped. How dare she touch him in public? What would people think?

  Furious, Ari stepped away from the school of Rabbi Yohanan, out of the shelter of the portico and into the thin winter sun.

  Rivka followed him.

  “What are you doing?” Ari hissed. “You must not—”

  Rivka shook her head. “Ari, I don’t have time for the male chauvinist thing right now. I just spotted somebody who might be able to help you.”

  Ari wished that just once Rivka would learn to behave as a proper woman of this century. His throat tightened. “Yes? I am listening.”

  Rivka pointed toward the far side of the crowd of students around Rabbi Yohanan. “See that short little man with the big head and the wild black hair?”

  “I see him.” Ari pushed her hand down. “Please do not point. People are looking at us.”

  “His name is Gamaliel, and I know him.”

  Ari gaped at her. “You have spoken with this man? How—”

  “He’s the nephew of Saul of Tarsus. I helped him rescue his uncle last summer.”

  Ari narrowed his eyes. “You are certain it is him?”

  “Ari, you know I never forget a face. It’s him and he’ll help you. He’ll do anything Rabbi Yohanan asks.”

  This was foolishness. Ari peered over his shoulder at the old rabbi. “Rabbi Yohanan does not know me from the prophet Eliyahu.”

  Rivka smiled. “He’s an old friend of mine and he owes me a favor. When his little class breaks up, take me with you and go speak to him. I guarantee he’ll do anything you ask.”

  Ari

  * * *

  Ari stood far back in the deep shadow of the porticoes watching Gamaliel talking to the young priests at the construction site.

  Gamaliel pointed to the crane and asked another question.

  The priests nodded and walked along the crane, pointing at two different points in the construction.

  Gamaliel was a short man, even by Jerusalem standards, more than thirty centimeters shorter than Ari, but powerfully built. His head and hands were large, his arms thickly muscled, and he wore a cheerful grin that made Ari feel welcome. He wore tefillin on his forehead and left arm. A pious man.

  After a quarter of an hour of discussion, Gamaliel thanked the priests and strode briskly north along the portico past Ari.

  Ari waited a few seconds, then followed him.

  Five hundred meters later, at the far northern end of the court, Gamaliel stopped and waited for Ari. “You have an enemy.” Gamaliel’s face tightened. “Hanan ben Hanan has let out word that none of the workmen may talk to you.”

  “I do not fear Hanan ben Hanan.”

  “You should fear him.”

  “He is endangering his w
orkers,” Ari said. “He knows just enough of cranes to make a hazard. What did the men tell you?”

  Gamaliel explained in a few sentences.

  Ari took a pen and sheet of paper from his belt and sketched an A-frame. “Hanan made the new crane taller but not broader, like so, yes?”

  Gamaliel touched Ari’s paper in wonder. “What ... is this?”

  “It is papyrus from a far country, the land of my birth.” Ari held up his Uni-ball pen. “This is a reed pen from my country.” By good luck, he had come through the wormhole with his backpack, which had two full pads of paper, some Uni-ball pens, and his calculator.

  Gamaliel’s eyes glowed. “I would like to visit your wonderful country, my friend.”

  “It is a remarkable place, but not all men love Torah there. You would find much to dislike.”

  “Not all men love Torah here in Jerusalem. I am not concerned with such men.”

  Ari smiled. He liked this earnest young man. “My friend, we will speak another time of my far country. First, the matter of the crane. Why was the crane made taller?”

  “Because in this part of the pavement, the stones are wider than is usual. The men say that the crane can only lean over a certain distance without falling over. Since the stones are wider, the crane must be taller to accommodate the extra distance. In addition, there is an extra pair of pulleys in the tackle.”

  Ari’s heart leaped. “How many pulleys are usual?”

  “Three. Two above, one below. Now there are five—three above and two below. The men say this allows the device to lift more weight. I do not understand—”

  “It gives a greater mechanical advantage,” Ari said. “The rope must now be pulled farther in order to lift the stone the same distance, but it requires less force.”

  Gamaliel raised his eyebrows. “You are learned in these matters?”

  “I have been given to know the deep secrets of the universe.” Ari sketched the crane as viewed from the front. The rope ran up and down between the pulleys several times, then angled down to wind around the horizontal bar in the A-frame—an axis that could be turned by a capstan, giving still more mechanical advantage. As the capstan turned, the rope wound around the axis, spiraling from right to left—