by Angela Hunt
Surely my mother understood what I was feeling. She must have been in a similar situation when she was a young bride. Father might have been like Judah, tender in the days before brutality took root and grew into a weed of bitterness.
I took Mother’s hand and squeezed it. “When you are stronger, we will take a walk and I will show you around the village,” I promised. “Until then, I must be about my work at home. But I will check on you every day. I want to hear all the stories you could never tell me . . . until now.”
She looked at me, weariness and wisdom mingling in her eyes. I know, her eyes seemed to say, and understand all the things you cannot say.
While I took leave of my mother, Mattathias and his brother Ehud stormed into the room, their faces tight with strain.
“I tell you, it will not happen.” Ehud shook his finger in his older brother’s face. “I will not risk my grandson’s life.”
“Would you disobey HaShem?” Mattathias spun to face his brother. “Would you ignore the Torah because you fear the king? God is greater than your fears, Ehud. There is no reason for you to disobey.”
“What if it was one of your sons, your grandchild? Would you risk their lives?”
“I expect that it will be one of my sons, perhaps soon,” Mattathias replied. “If HaShem blesses my daughters-in-law.”
Ehud braced both hands on his hips and looked around the room, but when his angry eyes crossed mine, I turned away and pretended to study the grain in the wooden table.
“In any case, the decision is not mine to make,” Ehud finally said. “My son and daughter-in-law will have to decide. After all, they are the ones who will pay the price if they are discovered.”
Mattathias grunted. “Have you always let your children make their own decisions? Did you let your toddling son wander into the fire so he could feel its heat, or did you guide him with your wisdom? Ehud, sometimes you must speak frankly and tell your children the truth. Especially when the truth concerns the will of Adonai.”
“And how do I know what that will is?” Ehud raised his arms as a thunderous scowl darkened his brow. “The Almighty has not written it in the clouds or on the stones of my house—”
“He has written it in the Torah,” Mattathias countered. “‘Generation after generation, every male among you who is eight days old is to be circumcised, including slaves born within your household—’”
“I know the Law.” Ehud blew out a breath and frowned at his brother. “You are right, of course. I will speak to my son and his wife. I will remind them of the Law of Moses. But if they choose not to circumcise their infant, I will say nothing more. I cannot gamble with their lives.”
Mattathias closed his eyes for a moment, then reached out to clasp his brother’s shoulder. “That is the right thing to do. You have decided correctly.”
While we women watched, the two men embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks. Ehud left the house while Mattathias looked at us with sudden interest. “Leah,” he said, smiling, “I hope you are happy to have your mother with us.”
“I am,” I said truthfully. “I am looking forward to knowing her better.”
My mother chuckled from her bed while Mattathias frowned. “What do you mean?”
Rosana grasped his elbow and guided him toward the table. “Come eat, husband, and tell me about your day.”
Three days later, Judah and I had just finished our midday meal when a woman’s voice called at the door. Judah smiled at me and bade the visitor enter.
I blinked when my mother came through the doorway. She looked much stronger, no longer like a reed that could be blown over by a strong wind. I stood and hugged her, my heart filling with gratitude for a husband considerate enough to think of rescuing my mother from Jerusalem.
Judah pushed his chair away from our table, eager to be on his way. “I’ll be milking the goats,” he said. “I’ll be back before dark.”
“Do not go yet.” Mother extended her hand. “I would have a word with both of you before you leave.”
Judah looked at me, silently asking if I wanted him to stay, so I dipped my chin in a barely perceptible nod. He sank back into his chair as I gestured for Mother to take my seat. Then I went to stand behind Judah.
Mother sat, then turned toward me. The hard light streaming through the window lit her face, and for the first time I saw how living with my father had aged her. Her face was like a plot of sunbaked earth, furrowed with stark lines—a map of pain and disappointment.
“I know what Mattathias is planning,” Mother said, casting a nervous glance at Judah as she folded her hands on the table. “He wants to defy the king and his men. But surely he can be made to see how unwise this plan is. Judah, for the sake of my daughter and your future children, you must make him understand that his actions will spell disaster for this family. Please—if you love my daughter, you must do this.”
I blinked, stunned as much by Mother’s manner as by her words. To my knowledge, she had never spoken more than a few words in Judah’s company, and never in my entire life had I heard her speak with such determination.
What happened to the meek woman who used to shrink when my father looked in her direction?
“I can tell you feel strongly about this,” Judah said, clearly trying to be respectful. “But you must realize that my father—all of us—feel strongly about the worship of Adonai. We will never capitulate to the king’s edicts. How could we give up our Law and our worship when those are the things that make us who we are?”
“Worship as much as you please in your home,” Mother whispered, leaning closer. “Say your prayers, read the prophets and the writings, practice the commandments in the Torah. But do not publicly commit any act that would displease the king’s men. Do nothing to draw attention to yourself. That is how you survive when you are ruled by a tyrant. It is how I survived these many years.”
Judah looked at me, then shifted his gaze to Mother’s tense face. “Sabra, I cannot—”
“Please.” Mother clutched at his arm. “I know pain. And I would not wish it on you, my daughter, or your family.”
Firmly, gently, Judah took her hand and laid it on the table. “Do not worry, Mother. We will trust in Adonai.”
She flinched. “You think Adonai listens to our prayers?”
“You think He doesn’t?”
Mother lifted her chin and swallowed, then leaned back. “I do not know what the Almighty does. But I know He has never listened to my prayers.” She shifted her attention to me. “Might I trouble you for a cup of water?”
While I moved to the jug, Judah stood. “I’m seeing to the goats,” he said, then he threw me a look of concern and left us alone.
Mother wiped pearls of perspiration from her brow. “I have spent hours searching for the words to convince him,” she said, her voice heavy and tired. “Apparently I did not succeed.”
“Judah has a mind of his own in these things,” I said, pouring water into a cup.
“Does he? Or does he simply follow his father’s direction?” Mother took the cup and drank, then lowered it to the table. “You must make him think of you first, Leah. I have watched him carefully—he is not like your father. He is a kind man and he seems to love you. You must make him love you more than he loves his family. If he doesn’t . . .” She shook her head. “His father is walking a path that will lead to destruction, and hard times can change a man. I would hate to see your gentle husband turn to violence.”
I sank into a chair, my thoughts spinning. I had always assumed that a good husband would place his wife first in all things. After all, didn’t the Torah say that a man would leave his mother and father and cling to his wife? My father had not been a good husband, but Judah was.
“I believe he does love me more than his family.”
“Then you have to ask him to stop listening to Mattathias and listen to you.” She took my hands, gripping them so tightly that her short nails cut into my flesh. “I’m not trying to make trouble
between you; I’m trying to keep you safe. You didn’t see what happened in Jerusalem after you left. You didn’t see the young mothers who were crucified for circumcising their children. I did.”
I cringed before the fearful grimace on her face. How could I answer? I wanted to be safe, but I didn’t want to upset Judah when he had shown me nothing but kindness. “And how am I supposed to convince him to listen to me?”
She relaxed her grip on my hands. “Give him a child, Leah. Giving him a son will so delight him that he will place his son’s welfare above all else. Even above Mattathias.”
“But Judah respects his parents. He would never—”
“You would be surprised what some men will do for their sons.” Mother sank back into her chair. “So do not delay. Give the man a child.”
I glanced away. “I am trying.”
“Are you sure?” Mother leaned forward again. “Do you go to his bed with resignation or joy?”
Heat seared my cheeks. “Mother!”
“When I was a child,” she continued, ignoring my embarrassment, “my mother explained that the marriage bed was for pleasure and procreation, for joy and children. I know—” she swallowed hard—“you saw little joy in your father’s house, but that is no reason for not experiencing joy in your own. So hear me, Leah. Welcome your husband to your bed joyfully and often.” She smiled and tilted her head. “And then perhaps your husband will think first of his own house and keep his loves safe from the king’s threats.”
Silenced by embarrassment, I looked up and watched as she stood and folded her arms. “In many ways, I failed as a mother,” she said, a dusky tide advancing up her throat. “But I will not fail you now.”
With stiff, brittle dignity, she said good-bye and left me alone with my thoughts.
Chapter Seventeen
Judah
Though the naming ceremony should have been a happy occasion, an air of dread hung over the gathering, made even more obvious by the mother’s wide eyes and the father’s trembling voice. Even Leah had seemed anxious about the occasion, and as we prepared to leave the house, I found her looking at me as if she wanted to say something. When I asked if she had something on her mind, she shook her head and turned away.
Now she moved toward the other women, who hovered at the edge of the crowd like shadows. I squared my shoulders and joined the men—Johanan, Simon, and Eleazar were already present, as was our father. Jonathan was late, as usual.
Father caught my eye and lifted his bearded chin in a silent salute. I stood next to Simon and folded my arms, then sought our host’s attention. Caleb, father to the baby fussing in his mother’s arms, caught my eye and attempted a smile, then lifted his hand in a broad public welcome. “Thank you for coming,” he said, addressing everyone in the gathering. “My wife and I are delighted you were willing to join us.”
How many times had similar words been spoken at naming ceremonies? Thousands, if not millions, of times in Israel. But never had they been spoken with more feeling or greater significance.
To observe the event, we stepped closer, forming a tight circle around the new parents.
Caleb took a small pillow from beneath his arms and held it on his open hands. He looked at his wife, who placed their baby on the pillow and unwrapped the swaddling cloths. The infant boy startled, his arms and legs stiffening. Then he drew in his limbs and blinked at his father’s face. His mother took a blade from her belt, and her hand quivered as she held it above her child.
“Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe,” Caleb prayed, his voice booming throughout the gathering, “who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us concerning circumcision.”
His wife drew a deep breath and swiftly performed the procedure, then dropped the foreskin to the ground. Silence hung over the gathering for an instant, and then the baby wailed and Caleb returned the child to his mother. He lifted his hand to recite the traditional blessing: “Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to enter into the Covenant of Abraham our father.”
We observers responded in unison: “Just as he has entered into the Covenant, so may he enter into Torah, into marriage, and into good deeds.”
With the act completed, the underlying tension broke. The women swarmed forward to congratulate the relieved mother, while Caleb came toward us, his face pale beneath his beard.
Father clapped the young man on the shoulder. “You have done well, nephew.”
“I am grateful to have done it at all,” Caleb said, looking at me as he replied. “I don’t know how I found the courage.”
“You were courageous because it is the right thing to do. God has commanded us, and who can say otherwise? You have done well. You have made your father proud.”
“Indeed, he has.” Ehud stepped forward and embraced his son, then took the baby from its mother and held the child aloft. “To the future!”
As everyone raised their voices in celebration, I watched my father grasp the edges of his robe and stroll through the crowd. I knew what he was doing—his sharp eyes were noting which villagers had come to support Caleb and which had stayed away.
I shouldered my way through the men and found Simon, who had a small son of his own. “Were you as nervous when you circumcised your boy?”
Simon shrugged. “The situation was different. The king had not yet issued his edict.”
“But you knew the Hellenes frowned on circumcision.”
“We knew a lot of things, but we didn’t believe any Jew would honor the opinions of a king over the commands of HaShem.”
I sighed and watched Caleb make his way through the crowd. He looked like a man who had fought a hard battle and won, but the danger had not passed. If the authorities learned what had happened here today, Caleb might yet hear a knock on his door.
And the king’s punishment for circumcision meant death for both mother and child.
Chapter Eighteen
Leah
Even though I did not know her well, I slipped my arm around the distraught mother’s shoulder.
“Will he ever stop crying?” she asked, her teary eyes meeting mine as she patted the screaming baby in her arms. “What if I did it wrong?”
I squeezed her shoulder. “I think you did it exactly right.” I had never witnessed a circumcision at such a close distance, but I saw no reason to confess that nonessential truth. “I’ve been to at least a dozen naming ceremonies and every mother did exactly as you did. Your baby will be fine.”
“If only he would stop crying.”
“He will.” I lowered my arm and studied the baby’s angry scrunched-up face. “He will fall asleep soon, and when he wakes, he will have forgotten all about it.”
“He won’t hate me?”
“Of course not.” I smiled with an assurance I had no right to feel since I had never been a mother. But I was at least a year older than this girl, and age carried its own authority.
“Leah, did you hear?” Neta sauntered toward me, narrowly dodging another woman’s elbow on the way. Her perfectly oval face had gone pale, except for two red spots, one in each cheek. “About those two poor women in Jerusalem—”
“Come, let’s talk inside.” I wasn’t sure, but I had a feeling Neta had been talking to my mother. I took her elbow and steered her away from the worried young mother. A woman who had just circumcised her baby did not need to hear about women who had been crucified for doing the same thing.
I pulled Neta into the courtyard of Mattathias’s house, where Rosana had set out a tray of sweet breads. “Um, those look good,” I said, taking one of the treats. “Would you like one?”
Neta’s dark eyes widened. “How can you stand there and smile as if nothing is amiss? The governor ordered those women to be thrown from the tower of that citadel they’re building! I heard they were forced to hold their babies as they fell, so the mothers and their infants were dashed on the stones below.”
“Yet Caleb still held a naming ceremony for his son? He could have ignored the tradition of circumcision and no one would have protested. After all, the occasion is to name the child, and surely giving a name doesn’t require the shedding of blood.”
“The occasion requires the circumcision,” I said, gripping her arm. “Mattathias says the child’s name isn’t nearly as important as obedience to Adonai.”
She stared at me, a frown settling between her arched brows. “Since when have you started parroting the old man?”
“What does it matter what I think? He is the head of the family, but—”
“But what?”
“What does your husband say?”
Her expression cleared. “Johanan agrees with his father, but I think we can live at peace with the king’s men as long as we are quiet and don’t openly flaunt the new laws. But circumcising a baby in public—”
I pinched her arm as Mattathias walked by. When he had passed, I exhaled slowly. “You should keep that opinion to yourself.”
“But they are killing women,” she whispered, her voice tinged with terror. “I hear they’re threatening to crucify people, even women, who follow the Law of Moses. So if Johanan thinks I’m going to say the Sabbath blessing when Seleucids could be lurking about—”
“There are no Seleucids in Modein.” I stepped away from her. “And you should speak of something else. It would be better for all if you did not mention such troubling matters today.”
After the naming ceremony, we gathered at Ehud’s home for the Shabbat meal. Since he was a widower, Rosana stepped in to arrange the celebratory dinner.
Simon’s young son Johanan toddled from uncle to uncle, clinging to their hairy legs as the men folded their arms and discussed the latest distressing report from Jerusalem. Caleb and his wife sat apart, their attention on the crying baby.