by Maggie Anton
More important, I realized how uniquely blessed and fortunate my family was. True, we were wealthy enough to wear silks in addition to fine linens, to eat meat at every meal while most had it only for Shabbat or festivals, and to live in a fine villa when many families were content with four rooms around a shared courtyard. But there were other rich people in Sura, some more affluent than us.
What set us apart was our phenomenal good health. Every woman who commissioned a child’s amulet from Kimchit had seen one or more of her children die. At first I thought it was only these unlucky mothers who wanted amulets to protect their remaining children, but I eventually came to see that any woman who lived long enough would eventually bury a child.
Except Mother.
Then there were the pregnant clients who wanted amulets to save them from a miscarriage or stillbirth, evidently a near universal occurrence, and from death in childbirth, a not uncommon event. Between Kimchit’s clients and the women at synagogue, every woman had suffered an unsuccessful pregnancy, and most had seen relatives die from childbirth.
Except Mother.
Worst was the barren woman, whose womb had never quickened with life. Her husband divorced her, took a second wife, or even abandoned her. She had no one to support her when she got old. A woman’s status depended on having children, especially sons, and a childless woman lived in perpetual shame.
Mother had seven sons, and many more grandsons.
Unfortunately there was no amulet proven to cure the childless. Kimchit and Rahel agreed that barrenness was caused by the Evil Eye, or possibly a kashafa’s curse. Rahel thought that the right kasa d’charasha incantation might prevent it, but only Elohim Himself, as He did for Sarah, Rivka, and Hannah, could remove such an affliction once it was established.
And that, I realized, was the truly amazing thing about our family. Despite all our good fortune, which should have attracted the Evil Eye like garbage draws flies, somehow it had no power over us.
EIGHT
“Grandfather’s feeling tired this morning,” I told a kitchen slave when I came downstairs. “I’d like to bring him some porridge in our kiton.”
Father’s eyes blazed. “Hanan is sleeping in your kiton?” When I nodded, he demanded, “For how long?”
“Since Achti got married,” I squeaked out. I couldn’t imagine why Father was suddenly so angry. What could possibly be wrong with Grandfather sharing a room with me?
“I will speak to him immediately.” Father jumped up and headed for the stairs, Mother right behind him.
I grabbed the bowl of porridge and followed.
I could hear Father’s voice before I reached the door. “Are you unaware that Hisdadukh is betrothed?”
Grandfather couldn’t have been too tired, because he responded immediately, “That is because you have violated the teaching of Rav, who says it is forbidden for a man to betroth his daughter while she is still a child. He must wait until she grows up and says, ‘I want this man for my husband.’”
I had named the man I wanted to marry, but that didn’t mean I was grown up. Achti would say the very fact that I’d wanted to marry two men proved that I was still a child.
Father’s face grew red. “You have transgressed the teaching of Shmuel, who says it is forbidden to fraternize with a woman. And worse, a betrothed woman.”
“Hisdadukh is a child, not a grown woman,” Grandfather retorted. “And I hold with another of Shmuel’s teachings: All is permitted when performed for the sake of Heaven.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I sleep here not for my own gratification but because my granddaughter was lonely after Achti married.”
And I appreciated his company. I didn’t think he’d done anything improper. My eyes pleaded with Father to relent.
Father hesitated, and I thought he’d concede until Mother entered the conversation. “I understand that my father’s presence consoles Hisdadukh at night, but I think a better solution would be for Imarta and Haruta to sleep with her.”
“Ah yes, the new slaves who make pottery for Rahel,” he said. “A good idea. The young one in particular should sleep apart from the other slaves, as she is still a virgin.”
Grandfather let out a sigh when he realized that even his daughter wasn’t going to support him. I wasn’t happy about his sleeping elsewhere, and leaving me with no one to talk to at bedtime either. The porridge was still in my hand, so I offered it to him.
“I’ll eat downstairs,” he grumbled. “That’s one place they can’t prevent us from sharing.”
I had barely begun my studies with Kimchit when, a month after Pesach, I learned that there would soon be four inauspicious days in a row for inscribing amulets. I was looking forward to spending time with Grandfather, when my brother Mari surprised me by announcing that I should accompany him to see the beginning of the flax harvest on my land.
“My land? Since when do I have any land? How did I acquire it?” This was the first time I’d walked toward the fields instead of into town, and I was eager to see them up close.
He smiled at my excited questions. “Actually, it’s still Grandfather’s land. Because Mother is his only heir, he has made her his partner,” Mari said. “Mother, in turn, has divided the property in half—one part each for you and Achti—with me managing it. Do you understand?”
I nodded slowly as the implication of his astonishing words reached me. “This is Mother’s way of ensuring that Achti and I receive some of our family’s property.” Jewish Law held that only sons inherited from their father; daughters did so only if they had no brothers.
A sudden gust of hot air swirled road dust around my legs. The dreaded east wind, so common in the spring, was rising, and despite its warmth I shivered. Sometimes blowing for days without end, the east wind sucked all moisture from the air and replaced it with dust and sand. Wicker baskets loosened and wall pegs fell out. My sisters-in-law whispered that women miscarried and men’s seed dried out in the womb because of it, while Timonus told tales of entire armies buried in huge sandstorms. Nobody wanted to be outdoors when the east wind blew.
Mari took no notice of the wind, although he increased our pace slightly. “To protect your and Achti’s lands from your husbands’ potential misuse, and to save it for his own descendants, Grandfather made a vow that your husbands may not benefit from it.”
As we walked, I marveled at Grandfather’s cleverness. The Mishna taught that a husband had usufruct over any property a wife acquired during her lifetime and he inherited it after her death. But vows were part of Torah law, so they took precedence over rabbinic rulings, should they conflict. If I died before Rami, my land would go to my children, not to him or any children he might have with other wives.
Eager to see my land, I started walking faster. “So where is this property?” My voice rose excitedly. “What grows there?”
“Your land isn’t far, though I’m not sure you can see it from the roof,” he replied with a grin. “It’s an ordinary field, not date groves or orchards. A third is planted with flax, a third with wheat, and a third with legumes.”
“Why legumes instead of flax?” Everyone knew that flax brought in greater income.
He pointed out a flax field on our left, where waist-high stalks topped with blue flowers swayed in the wind, looking like a rippling lake. “Flax exhausts the soil’s fertility, so we plant wheat the season before and legumes after.”
“Why do I need to observe the flax harvest if you’ll be managing everything?” I tried not to sound petulant. I did want to see the process, but I was also keen to get home before the wind strengthened.
“Mother says it’s good for a woman to know what grows on her land, and all the more so when the crop is flax, since she is responsible for spinning and weaving it.”
We passed fields of golden wheat and even more flax fields in flower. But little flax was being harvested. The sun was high overhead and I was grateful Zahra had made me wear a wide-brimmed hat to
protect my fair skin.
We had just crossed a small bridge over an irrigation canal when Mari stopped. “Here, along this waterway, is your land.” His outstretched arm indicated the field planted one-third with ripening wheat, one-third with flowering flax, and one-third fallow where legumes had already been harvested.
A man who’d been working with two youths in the flax field began walking toward us, waving his hand as he made his way through the sheaves of harvested flax stalks.
“That’s Amemar, your aris,” Mari said. “We’ve recently negotiated a five-year lease.”
My tenant farmer was tanned and fit, with broad shoulders and bulging biceps, exactly how a man who labored hard outdoors all day ought to look. “What are the terms?” I asked. After all, this would be my livelihood.
“The usual for Jews. He provides the seeds, tools, and labor. I pay the tasqa, and we each receive half the produce.”
We accompanied Amemar to a small cluster of slender green plants, more stems than leaves. He grabbed a handful just beneath the flower head, gave it a quick tug, and held the flax up for me to admire. “We pull from the top to avoid any weeds.”
“Harvesting flax may seem easy,” my brother said. “But so much bending over and pulling can be backbreaking.”
“My sons have it easier than I do.” Amemar pointed to two youths shaking dirt from the roots of an armful of flax before adding them to the edge of an already fat sheave. “Especially with green flax. About a month from now, when the plants are yellow and fully grown, we will harvest the rest of the field.”
“What’s the difference between green and yellow flax?” I asked. “And why harvest both kinds?”
“The longer the crop is left in the ground, the taller the stalks and the coarser the fiber inside them,” Mari replied. “Green flax is pulled almost immediately after flowering, to obtain the fine and supple fibers that Mother prefers.”
I nodded. So this was where Mother got the thin thread that she wove into her most delicate linens, from green flax fibers.
“If we only harvested when green, we’d have less flax and no seeds,” my aris added. “Not only are the seeds necessary for next year’s crop, but their oil brings extra profit.”
“Flax from yellow stalks is perfectly satisfactory for spinning common linen thread,” Mari said. “But you know how Mother is—everything has to be the best.”
I sighed, doubtful that I would ever be skilled enough to weave from green flax thread.
The wind was stronger on our walk home, and I held tight to Mari’s arm. “Wouldn’t cutting with a scythe be faster and easier?”
“Unfortunately, cutting exposes the fibers, which interferes with the next stage of the process.”
“The next stage?” I thought harvesting the stalks was all we needed to do.
“You’ll understand soon, because that stage begins when the sheaves you saw in the field today are delivered to the villa tomorrow.” Mari squinted to keep the gusts of sand out of his eyes. “Or whenever this blasted windstorm subsides.”
Early in the morning two days later, as the slaves hustled to sweep and shake out all the dust the east wind had blown into our house, a wagon full of green flax sheaves rolled into the outer courtyard. There Mari and my other brothers dropped the stalks into the troughs we’d used for fermenting beer. The wind was still blowing, but not hard enough for the flax to fly away. I wished I could be inside studying with Grandfather, but unless I understood how flax became linen, my ignorance would leave me vulnerable to those who wanted to cheat me or were merely incompetent. So I watched carefully.
“Now we cover the flax with mud,” Mari said. “Once the sun warms it, the outer bark will begin to rot and separate from the fibers inside.”
“During which time the stench is horrific,” Keshisha added. “Pray for a strong east wind to blow it away from the house.”
Mari shot Keshisha a look of annoyance. “After four or five days, we examine the stems. The test is to pull one between the nails of your thumb and index finger.” Mari demonstrated on an imaginary stalk. “When it’s ready, the outer straw falls away easily.”
“And when it does?” I was beginning to sense that the process of turning flax plants into linen thread was far more complicated than I’d anticipated. Back in Kafri all this work had been done near the flax fields, not at our home.
“Then we remove the flax and flush the foul solution out of the troughs as quickly as possible.” Keshisha scrunched up his nose in disgust for emphasis. “And make sure the slaves clean out every trace of it unless we want to taste it in our beer this fall.”
“Nobody needs to clean them out until we’ve finished with the yellow flax next month,” Mari told Keshisha, sounding exactly like Achti when she knew something I didn’t.
“If this flax weren’t Mother’s, none of us would stand for you polluting our beer troughs.” Keshisha emptied a bucket of mud into the nearest trough and stomped off toward the house.
By the time the stalks were completely buried with mud, it was time for the midday meal. I ate in silence, increasingly annoyed with Keshisha’s complaints. Was he upset because the flax came from my and Achti’s fields? It was too bad if he didn’t like doing all that work; he benefited from Mother’s fine linen as much as anyone in our family.
Keshisha hadn’t been exaggerating about the stink, however. I never thought I would welcome the east wind, but within a week I was thankful at how effectively the dry desert air dissipated the stench. When Mari and Mother agreed that it was time, my brothers tied rags across their noses as they dragged the stalks out and trampled them, while our slaves simultaneously rinsed them with clean well water.
Just when everyone was looking forward to being rid of the stench, Mother had a shock for us.
“While the troughs are still full, I want the entire household to bathe in them,” she announced. “First the men, then the women and children, and finally the slaves.”
It wasn’t only Keshisha who howled in protest. My brothers objected so vigorously that Father had to quash the near mutiny himself. “You will all do as your mother orders.” He spoke in a voice that brooked no opposition. “I am going to get undressed now, and anyone who is not in a trough by the time I’m soaking will be thrown in.”
With that, I left along with the other women. But I stayed within earshot, just beyond the south wall. I could hear some indistinct grumbling, and it seemed that my brothers and Father’s students must have obeyed him. But I was wrong.
“No!” Keshisha yelled. “You’re not getting me in there.”
There was a great deal of scuffling, followed by a loud splash and much masculine laughter. I peeked around the corner and nearly burst out laughing myself. Only the men’s heads could be seen above the flax water, and each one was holding his nose.
It wasn’t too long before Mother came outside, and I darted back behind the wall. “You may all get out now,” she directed them. “Rinse off here first. Then go down to the canal and soak there until you no longer stink.”
There was a flurry of activity, with much water being splashed around. Then I heard Tachlifa call out, “Race you to the canal,” and in a few moments, all was silent.
Now it was the women’s turn. Under Mother’s watchful eye, I gingerly lowered myself into the foul water and then, holding my nose, held out my other hand to help Rahel in.
“I assume there is an imperative reason for this,” Shayla said to Mother.
“Flax water has great healing power, especially for skin disorders.” Mother leaned back cautiously so her hair and scalp was submerged. “And it makes one’s hair look most attractive.”
We all followed her, each helping another ensure that their hair was thoroughly wet. Just when I thought I couldn’t stand the stench any longer, Mother stood up.
Once outside the troughs, we quickly grabbed the buckets and doused ourselves with well water. The men were making so much noise in the canal that it was easy to find a s
heltered spot well away from them for our ablutions. Between the broiling sun and my desire to rinse out every trace of flax water, I couldn’t get into the canal fast enough.
But afterward I had to marvel at my hair’s silkiness and how soft and smooth my skin felt. And when I washed Rami’s hands and feet later, the sensation of his clean skin against mine was so agreeable that I didn’t want to let go.
The next day, just in time for Shabbat, the troughs were empty and the green flax drying on the roof. Mari warned that danger of decay was over only when the woody core was completely dry, which usually took a few days. After that we could delay breaking the fibers as long as we liked, although he preferred that we finish the green flax before the yellow flax harvest began. Breaking the fibers produced no evil odors, but I dreaded having to endure the stench again when the yellow flax was rotting in the troughs.
By then the east wind season would be nearly finished.
There was no sign of Achti or Pushbi at synagogue that Shabbat, and guilt shot through me when I realized I hadn’t seen them since Pesach. The likely reason was that Pushbi went to a different synagogue than we did, one closer to her home, and that Achti now attended services with her mother-in-law. After all, if Achti had married into a family from another city, I wouldn’t expect to see her again, except on rare occasions.
I didn’t know how far Pushbi lived from Kimchit, but I resolved to visit Achti the next time I had an afternoon free after writing amulets in the morning. That would be just before Shavuot, the festival seven weeks after Pesach, when Jews celebrate receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai. By then the green flax fibers would be processed, so I could tell Achti all about it.