by Tessa Afshar
After we laid Joseph’s body in the tomb, we returned to the house. The servants had prepared refreshments for our guests, and I spent the afternoon carrying trays of food, filling up platters and jugs of wine as they emptied.
I felt like I had dropped into a world of nightmares. It seemed implausible that I should be engaged in something as innocuous as offering food to polite guests while my little brother lay dead in a grave.
Father leaned slumped against a wall, his shaking hands fisted in his lap. Seated next to him was his friend Gamaliel, a popular religious teacher and member of the Sanhedrin. On his other side lounged Rabbi Zakkai, a Pharisee I did not know well.
Gamaliel leaned over to my father. “You will see your Joseph again at the resurrection. You will have him by your side, Benjamin.”
Rabbi Zakkai picked up a stuffed date and twirled it in his fingers. “True enough. Unlike this fellow Johanan and the rest of his Sadducee brothers—” he pointed his bushy chin at a man sitting to Gamaliel’s left side—“we Pharisees believe in the resurrection of the dead.”
Johanan, a thin man with very dark hair, gave a cold smile and said nothing. What could he say at the funeral of a little boy? Have no hope? You have lost him forever? He took a deep swallow of his wine.
Rabbi Zakkai seemed disappointed by the stretching silence. “Of course,” he continued, “that may not be such an advantage where there is great sin.”
Gamaliel frowned. “What sin can a four-year-old boy have committed?”
The Pharisee waved his hand. “The boy, nothing. The sister, now. She is another matter. She is at fault for her own brother’s death. How is God to forgive such a sin? It would be better for her if she had not been born. The resurrection of the dead is not good news for such a one, I tell you.”
My father looked up, his eyes burning. I choked. The tray slid out of my hands and fell to the ground, splattering melons over the clean tiles. My father rose unsteadily and walked away.
“Benjamin!” Gamaliel cried, but my father would not stop. Furious, Gamaliel spun to face Zakkai. “What infernal rubbish are you spouting now? The death of that child was nothing but a sad accident. How could the sister have prevented it?”
The Pharisee raised a hand, palm flat, and brought it down against the low table before him with a hard slap. Lifting his hand, he held out a dead fly between two pinching fingers. “Like that?” He pitched the fly on the ground and wiped his hands on the linen napkin next to him with fastidious care. “How hard is it to swipe away a bee? Or kill it? Her negligence in caring for that poor child is clear. Believe me, my friend, when I tell you her punishment is coming.”
Gamaliel’s cheeks turned puce. “Nonsense! You are turning the Law into an executioner’s ax instead of a signpost that leads the way to salvation.”
Johanan the Sadducee leaned over. “Still think the resurrection of the dead is a comfort to the grieving? We Sadducees may give no false peace to the people, but at least we don’t tear their hearts out with our good intentions, either.”
THREE
Do not despise these small beginnings,
for the LORD rejoices to see the work begin.
ZECHARIAH 4:10, NLT
OUR PATRIARCH JACOB had been mourned for seventy days, the Scriptures said. So for seventy days, my family remained in formal mourning. The goat-hair sackcloth I wore every day had started to chafe my skin in the heat of the day, leaving red, itchy patches. In a perverse way, I clung to that small discomfort. I deserved to suffer for what I had done.
Ethan and his parents kept telling me I was not at fault. They meant well, but they could not understand. Joseph wouldn’t even have been on that hill if I hadn’t taken him there. I had chosen that spot because of the flowers. He had wanted to play in the lane just outside the house. I had dragged him to the hilltop with promises of merry games and entertainment.
My family stopped work on the flax. We ceased all labor and mourned. The looms sat quiet, gathering dust. The vats of dye remained empty except for the spiders that liked to spin their webs across the cool stone.
One morning as I was entering the courtyard, I ran into my father. He nodded. “Peace,” he said without looking me in the eye. He never looked me in the eye anymore, though he had at least resumed talking to me. Desultory words that rarely seemed to make a full sentence. Greetings and passing requests. He never called me daughter or cuddled me or pulled my braid in the old teasing way we had.
I don’t know which hurt more: when he started talking to me like I was a stranger, or when he refused to acknowledge me at all.
“Ezer is coming to see me today,” he said. “I will receive him in my workroom. See that we are not disturbed.” He turned and took a step away. Then with a distracted air he said over his shoulder, “Food and drink. Don’t forget, Anna.” Father had taken to calling me Anna, as if he couldn’t bring himself to speak the name of God and mine in one breath.
At noon, I fetched the food myself on a heavy tray to my father’s workroom, which he kept in the house in order to deal with his accounts and meet with visiting patrons. I heard the sound of raised voices as I approached. The door remained shut, but even through the wood and the mud-brick wall and layers of plaster I could make out the words.
“A whole year will be too long, Benjamin. The seventy days of formal mourning come to an end tomorrow. Everyone will understand if you return to work. You know as well as I that most folks return to their lives after thirty days.” I recognized Master Ezer’s gravelly voice, sounding urgent. “Your customers will find other merchants if you delay longer. You’re not the only man to sell fine fabrics in the city, you know.”
“I care not,” my father shouted.
“You ought to care. You still have a wife and two daughters who depend on you. Servants. Workers. What will become of them if you give up your business?”
“Isn’t my son worth a year of tears?”
“And more, Benjamin.” Silence reigned for a few moments, and then I could hear the sound of sobs—wrenching, male sobs that came from a deep well of suffering.
My legs gave way and I slid down against the wall. With the last of my strength, I set the tray roughly on the stone floor and buried my mouth inside the bend of my elbow to muffle the sound of my own convulsive weeping. I had never heard my father sob, not even when they laid Joseph’s body in a freshly hewn cave.
“Benjamin, no one expects you to stop grieving for your child. Everyone knows how much you loved him. But for the sake of others, you must return to the world of the living.”
“I cannot.” I almost did not recognize that broken voice.
“You can and you will. Ethan and I will help where we can. And you have Elianna. She is clever and quick to learn. If she has asked me one question about my trade, she has asked a hundred. This business is in her blood. Let her help you.”
I held my breath. If my father made an answer, it was too low for me to hear. Then I heard movement and, afraid of discovery, ran back into the courtyard.
I did not have much hope that my father would take Ezer’s advice and ask for my help. In recent decades, Jerusalem had become a strict community in spite of the fact that its elite had grown fond of Roman ways. Most of our women played a very minor part in the world of commerce. Master Ezer traveled widely throughout the empire for his business, and his views had stretched accordingly to accommodate a more flexible outlook. Ethan was the same. But my father had too much of the old ways in him to shift and change. And my mother would do everything in her power to sway him even if he did consider Ezer’s advice in a serious light.
The next morning my father sent for me. “Tell the servants to resume work on the flax,” he said.
“Yes, Father.” I had never been entrusted with such a charge. Although my father’s workshop was situated behind our private residence, separated by a large garden that helped to protect us from some of the unpleasant odors associated with the business of dyeing fabrics, I rarely visited there
for long and did not know his servants well. I worried that the workers might not take me seriously, being young as well as female. I need not have worried. In their anxiety for their own future employment, they were quick to leap to their task, no matter who brought them the orders.
Hours later, I was still in the workshop, observing how the workers processed the flax fibers, using iron hooks and combs to get them ready for spinning. I had spent the whole day avoiding my mother, trying to learn the details of flax preparation. It seemed wise to learn everything I could if my father needed my help.
One of the women held up her rough flax comb. “I should try using this on my husband’s grizzly head,” she said.
“It might do some good,” another replied. “He has more tangles in his hair than you’d find in a Canaanite goat’s fleece.”
“You would be wasting a good iron hook. The iron is sure to bend against that rough mess growing out of his head,” the foreman said, motioning for them to continue their work.
Their hands grew busy again. Laughter coloring her voice, the first woman said, “I could always wait until he falls asleep, then cut off his hair and sell it to the master as sheep wool.” She shot me a playful look from under thick eyebrows.
I sensed her comment was a small test. She wanted to know how I would manage—whether I would take offense or enter the congenial spirit of banter amongst the workers without losing my place of respect with them. The room became very quiet.
“Watch out; that particular wool might become very popular with our Roman customers.” I threw a tangled ball of discarded fiber into the air and caught it again with a quick motion of my hand. “They might demand more. And then where shall we be? We will have to contend with the men of Jerusalem walking about with bald heads. Their wives might have a few objections.” Everyone laughed, the tension draining from the atmosphere.
The workshop had grown stuffy by early afternoon. Sweat stained my drooping tunic, and my light veil, damp and shapeless, began to itch. I cared not. My eyes followed the quick movements of the laborers as I committed to memory every detail of the process. No aspect of the work seemed tedious to me.
Towels were not dyed, so we would not have to worry about that step. We only needed to weave the fabric on the vertical looms in my father’s workshop. Because my father only bought steeped flax, even this coarser grade of plant would yield softer towels. Nothing scratchy for our discriminating customers, many of whom were Romans and accustomed to the finer things of the empire.
“Elianna!” My mother’s voice made me jump; I hit my head against the frame of a loom resting near me and winced. My mother threw her hands up in the air. “What are you doing, loitering here? I’ve looked for you everywhere. Come away from this place at once.”
“Father sent me.” Of course he hadn’t told me to linger once I had organized the start of the work. But she did not need to know that.
She narrowed her eyes and stared. “Benjamin?”
I shrugged. “I think Master Ezer was concerned for the welfare of the trade should it remain dormant much longer. He might have suggested that Father use my help for now. While he . . . while he grieves.” I felt my cheeks heat.
“I see.” And that, to my disbelief, was that.
Except that after we finished eating the evening meal I overheard her complaining to my father about the madness of allowing an unmarried young woman to get mixed in trade. “What next?” she said. “Will you have your daughter running around Jerusalem, reeking of mordant and selling towels?”
“Of course not, Elizabeth. But I need help; can’t you see that? I cannot cope with the workshop at the moment. She is eager enough for it. If it weren’t for her, none of this would have been necessary. It’s only right that she make a little sacrifice now, for all our sakes.”
My mother said nothing after that.
At my mother’s command, the servants had removed Joseph’s bedding and chests from our room. Joanna had pulled her pallet closer to mine, and more nights than not, she would slip into my bed and hold me in her slim, cold arms. I returned her embrace with all my might. I held her with the strength of two affections, knowing I could never hold my brother like this again. I missed him every moment. I even missed what used to annoy me: his habit of waking up early and insisting that Joanna and I join him; his demands for attention when I wanted to concentrate on something else; his insistence on traipsing after me wherever I went. How I longed to have him back. His absence turned into a hole that never filled.
It was a relief to return to my father’s workshop and find a distraction from the pain that had become my shadow. In addition to the towel-grade flax, we also had to process a new delivery of linen fibers, this one fine enough for ladies’ tunics and veils. We would deal with this delivery later in the year. We stored the processed fibers in a cool, dry shed, where a large order of wool also awaited our attentions.
One afternoon, before the weavers began their work, the foreman approached me.
“Mistress Elianna, do you want us to weave the towels plain, or have a stripe woven into them? In the past we have either woven a plain blue stripe on each edge and in the center, or we have added a Roman key design. What would you like this time around?”
More and more, the servants turned to me seeking direction, for although in the evenings, just before the workers finished for the day, my father would come for a perfunctory inspection, we could tell his heart was not in it.
“I will let you know in the morning.” An idea had been asserting itself in my mind all day, but I could not authorize a new plan without my father’s approval.
Even women of rank were allowed to embroider, and I had a special talent for it. Before dinnertime, I drew a design of leaves and flowers. After choosing three hues of yarn for the embroidery, I took my design to my father.
“I thought we might try something new on the towels. What about a simple embroidery instead of the usual weave?” I placed my design before him on the table.
He rolled his eyes without examining my drawing. “Just do what we always do.”
“Yes, Father. Only . . . we are over two months late, you see.”
He gave me a swift look before turning his back. “So?”
“The Roman key weave is common enough, as is the stripe pattern. Every fine merchant in Jerusalem will have been offering stacks of similar towels, and they are months ahead of us this season. But if we have a unique offering, the delay won’t matter so much. Customers will buy from us what they can’t find elsewhere.”
My father tapped his fingers on the wooden table. I noticed his nails had grown too long and were dirty. He picked up my drawing and looked at it for a moment. “Do as you wish,” he said, dropping it back on the table.
I had hoped the design would elicit a response from him. A hint of approval. Instead, he seemed uncaring one way or another. He had barely looked at my drawing and ignored the colors I had chosen. I crossed my arms at the elbows, my fingers digging into my flesh. Without his guidance, I felt lost. Grave doubt about my scheme assailed me. Who was I to decide that a new pattern was what we needed? What if I proved wrong? What if no one had any interest in towels with a floral motif? What if I caused an enormous financial loss?
I wrapped my design and the sample yarns in a piece of linen and took Keziah with me to visit Ethan’s family. Jerusha welcomed me with her customary kiss and asked after my family as she set out a gold-edged platter of fresh figs and grapes.
“I came to ask your opinion.” I opened the linen cloth and showed her my diagram. “Would you buy towels with these flowers embroidered on them?”
She bent over and studied the drawing with shrewd eyes. “It’s beautiful, Elianna. I would love to own towels so elegant. But you need Ethan and Ezer. They know what sells. They will be back soon. Can you stay for supper?”
I nodded, relieved, and sent Keziah to my mother to let her know that I would not come home for the evening meal.
Ethan and Master Ezer
arrived an hour later. My words got tangled at the sight of Ethan. After so many years of knowing him, he still had the power to make my breath catch with his mere presence. He was not overly tall, but he was wide and powerfully built, more like a charioteer than a merchant. Heads turned his way when he entered a room; he was hard to miss.
His mother explained my need, and after dinner Ethan looked at my flower motif.
“This is lovely, Elianna.”
“Do you think so?” I brightened at his compliment.
“But it will take longer to complete than a simple weave. Longer hours mean more pay. Less profit, if you sell at the old price. And if you raise the price, you run the risk of not selling at all.”
My heart sank. “So you think I shouldn’t do it? Stick to the old patterns instead?”
He shrugged a broad shoulder. “I didn’t say that. Your concerns are valid. Your father’s business is behind by two months. Many have already made their purchases. A narrower margin of profit is better than none. How much longer will it take you to embroider the towels rather than weave a design into them?”
I thought about it and realized that by making a few adjustments to the shape of the leaves, I could make the embroidering go faster without affecting the overall design too much. I estimated the time it would require to finish one towel and compared it to our normal woven patterns. “There will be a difference of five, perhaps six hours for each towel.”
It took Ethan less than a moment to figure the sums in his head. It would have taken me an hour, and I probably still would not have had it right. Perhaps because he had thought he would never have a son, my father had provided me with more education than common amongst women. That privilege had not enabled me to master the art of figures, however. I feared no amount of study ever would.