by Maggie Anton
With the end of spring, the east wind seldom blew for more than one day at a time and rarely with the intensity of earlier in the season. So too ended any chance of rain until winter storms returned. It was a perfect time for flax to dry.
The next step was rather fun, especially for the children. The dried flax needed to be broken in order to separate the fibers from the bark and pith. This involved laying the bundles on a hard surface, and then beating them vigorously. A lusty competition as to who could break the most bark the fastest immediately ensued, with the women spending only slightly more time beating flax than they did preventing the boys from hitting one another.
Eventually the waste piled up on the floor, leaving the long, clean fibers in the beaters’ hands. Now we waited anxiously as Mother surveyed the scene. If the flax had not been properly rotted in the troughs earlier, the excessive amount of waste would make our failure apparent to all. It seemed to me that there was a great deal of waste, which wasn’t actually wasted but would be further processed into rougher, sturdier thread for weaving canvas. But Mother was beaming, so she must have been pleased with our efforts.
Now we were almost done. The final procedure, always women’s work, involved passing the remaining bundles through flax combs to separate the individual fibers. Mother made us use three different-size combs: first a coarse one with its nails set fairly far apart, then one with medium separation, and finally the finest, with short, slender tines set close together. Over and over I drew the flax through the tines, until my arm hurt from the continual motion and every short fiber had fallen away.
It might be months before all the flax was combed, especially once the yellow flax had been harvested, and any woman who found herself with spare time would continue the process. When the east winds returned in the fall and made it impossible to work outdoors, we would congregate in an interior room to comb, spin, and weave. The ultimate result would be lengths of fibers that were separated, smoothed, and aligned in parallel, as thin and soft as human hair—ready to spin into linen thread that was both incredibly fine and strong.
Two days before Shavuot, I spent the afternoon on the roof watching for the boat that would bring my eldest brother and his family to Sura to celebrate the festival. When the Temple still stood, Shavuot was when Jews in Eretz Israel brought the first fruits of the wheat harvest as a thanksgiving sacrifice. Here in Bavel, pilgrims came to Ezekiel’s Synagogue, especially after the Rabbis established that Shavuot was the very day that Moses had received the Torah.
The sun was low on the horizon when I saw a barge slow and finally stop at the dock near our villa. I raced down to the canal and threw myself into my eldest brother’s arms. “Yenuka, it’s so good to see you. Father only told us today that you’d be coming for Shavuot.”
“That’s because he knew you’d spend every moment on the roof looking for our boat,” he replied.
Blushing, I grabbed Guria’s hands and helped her up the bank. Seeing Yenuka again made me realize that I’d missed him, even though I was now big enough that he no longer had to protect me from my other brothers’ pranks and teasing.
“I can’t wait to see all the pilgrims at Ezekiel’s Synagogue.” My words came out in a rush. “Father says that thousands and thousands of people come to celebrate the festival at his tomb. Imagine hearing the Ten Commandments and Ezekiel’s own words read from scrolls written by the prophet himself.”
While all that was true, I also looked forward to Shavuot as a chance to see Achti and find out what her married life was like. Between visiting my land, which Mari wanted me to do weekly while the wheat and flax were nearing harvest, and writing amulets, I’d had little free time to find Pushbi’s house. And when I finally did, she and Achti weren’t home. At least that’s what their doorkeeper said. I slunk away, wondering if he didn’t know who I was or didn’t care.
I felt guilty to acknowledge it, but I was relieved that Abba bar Joseph had gone home to Machoza for Shavuot. Nearly every session I could feel his eyes boring into me, and the temptation to peek at him was surely equal to the one that compelled Lot’s wife to look back at burning Sodom. When I failed and let my gaze meet his, I tried to scowl with displeasure, but his expression registered only triumph.
Oddly, Abba almost never looked at Rami, even when Rami was speaking. And when the two of them argued over how to interpret a certain Mishna or Baraita, which was often, Abba’s voice would rise with anger while he stared obdurately at the floor. Rami, who had studied long enough that he could usually best Abba in these contests, was not a magnanimous victor, and I found myself torn between satisfaction and sympathy at Abba’s humiliation.
I wished Abba would go study somewhere else.
Yenuka’s family wasn’t the only one to stay with us for Shavuot. Tachlifa’s betrothed, Pazi, arrived the next day with her twin sister, Tazi, and Tazi’s husband, Samuel. I couldn’t take my eyes off the twins, who looked so similar that I could only tell which was which because of Tazi’s pregnancy. Not that Pazi was particularly slender; both were short, plump, and bubbly, regularly giggling behind their hands. I was surprised to find that I was taller than my soon-to-be sister-in-law. I hadn’t realized how much I’d grown recently.
Since it wouldn’t be proper for unmarried Pazi to share a room with Samuel and Tazi, that evening brought me another roommate—one with an extravagant wardrobe. My mouth dropped in amazement the next morning when she let me see the gifts she’d brought our family.
“I know I shouldn’t be giving these out until just before the wedding.” Pazi displayed one magnificent silk after another, every color of the rainbow and more that weren’t even in rainbows. “But I don’t think my sisters-in-law would like it if I wore a beautiful new outfit for the festival while they wore their regular clothes.”
“They probably wouldn’t,” I said, nearly speechless with awe. Where had Pazi gotten all these gorgeous fabrics? Not only were they perfectly dyed, but each had a distinct pattern in its weave. Some were woven with various sized stripes, others with chevrons, squares, and other geometric designs. They had to be worth a fortune.
“Besides,” Pazi said with a giggle. “I have more silk for wedding clothes.”
I gasped. “You’re giving each of us two outfits?”
Pazi nodded. “Since Tazi and I will be living in Sura with you, we don’t want anyone in your family giving us the Evil Eye from envy.”
I was dumbstruck with so many questions that I didn’t know which to ask first.
Pazi must have noticed my dismay because she asked, “You didn’t know we’d both be moving here? I hope you don’t mind.”
I shook my head. “I assumed that you’d be living here, but I didn’t know about Samuel and your sister.”
“But your brother will become partners with Samuel in our family’s silk business,” Pazi explained. “This way Tazi and I won’t be left alone when our husbands travel.”
“Your family deals in silk?” Of course they did, I told myself in annoyance. Hadn’t Pazi just said that? No wonder she had all this dazzling material.
“They’ve been traveling the Silk Road for years, first my grandfather and his brothers, then my father’s generation, and now my brothers and cousins.” Pazi giggled again. “But I don’t think they’ll send Tachlifa and Samuel farther than Syria or India, at least not until Tazi and I have had some children.”
My hand involuntarily reached out to stroke the nearest silk, and I marveled at how incredibly soft and smooth it felt. “It’s all so beautiful.”
Pazi put her arm around me and whispered conspiratorially, “Help me decide which ones to give to which of your brothers’ wives. I don’t want them to fight over them first.”
I gulped at such responsibility. “Shouldn’t we ask Mother?”
“Never. I want to impress her with how astutely I match each woman with just the right fabric.” Pazi’s eyes were full of hope. “You’re the youngest. You’ve been watching them for years. You must know whi
ch color and pattern each will prefer.”
Zahra could not restrain herself. “I’ll help too. I know what noble ladies like.”
Pazi could see I was tempted. “It will be fun,” she said with a grin. “Think of the pleasure you’ll receive when I distribute them.”
It was fun, and with Zahra’s help not as difficult as I anticipated. Of course the two finest silks, each dyed a different shade of purple, would go to Mother. Bright green, blue, and fuchsia for Devora, Mariamme, and Rahel, to complement their dark hair and olive skin, while Shayla and Beloria, whose coloring was lighter, would look well in turquoise and deep red.
Eventually Pazi held up a length of rose-colored silk whose complicated weave suggested a mass of flowers. “Few women in Bavel can wear this color well, Dada, because hair and skin as fair as yours is so rare.”
Zahra sighed. “It would be perfect for her wedding day.”
Pazi clapped her hands with delight. “Then we must find another for Shavuot.” She turned to me and flung her hand over the remaining silks. “Choose…and don’t disappoint me.”
“What about Achti?”
“Who?” Pazi looked at me in confusion.
“My sister.”
“But isn’t she married already?”
With a sigh, I nodded. Yes, Achti was married, which meant she was part of Ukva’s family now, not ours. After all, my sisters-in-laws rarely saw any members of their natal family.
“I thought it might be different because she lives in Sura,” I said abjectly.
Pazi was firm in her rejection. “Any silk I gave her would only cause enmity between her and other women in her household.”
I tried to regain my former enthusiasm as I viewed the piles of silk. But I couldn’t forget that one day soon I too would be estranged from everyone here, seeing them only at the most important family events. Picking out material for myself was different from picking for others. My first instinct was to take something of modest quality, not that any silk could be called modest, but somehow I understood that it would reflect badly on Pazi if I selected anything less luxurious than what I’d chosen for my sisters-in-laws.
“What happens to the rest of these?” I asked. It was like trying to choose one pastry from a trayful.
“Samuel will sell them to the pilgrims who come to pray at Ezekiel’s tomb and shop at the Saracen traders’ fair.”
Zahra rescued me by pointing to a bright-blue fabric the color of the sky on a clear day.
“It’s perfect for you,” Pazi squealed as I caressed the smooth silk, woven to suggest a series of waves.
I smiled in agreement, for it was also the same color as flax flowers. But I felt bad about Achti, who would have to admire all our new clothes when she received none.
Father and my brothers looked ready to burst with pride as they surveyed our family’s women arrayed in new silks, and none more so than Tachlifa, who would wed Pazi the day before Sukkot, date harvest or not. I knew it was a long way to Ezekiel’s Synagogue, but it was still a pleasant surprise that Father had arranged for litters to carry the women.
I settled in with Mother, and soon I could hear the crowd, a low humming in the distance. The brightly embroidered curtains swung back and forth as the litter rocked, giving me tantalizing glimpses of the people we passed.
Eventually our progress slowed, and Timonus began to call out, “Make way for Rav Hisda haKohen.”
I peeked out and quickly dropped the curtain back in place. A sea of people surrounded us, and judging by the rude comments being muttered as Timonus increased his cries for folks to let us pass, many had little regard for rabbis or the priesthood. I could just make out the cupola that crowned Ezekiel’s Synagogue in the distance, and I couldn’t imagine how even a tenth of these pilgrims would fit inside.
Disappointment filled me as I realized how unlikely it would be to find Achti or Rami in this mass of humanity.
We moved at a crawl, and despite Timonus admonishing the crowd that here was a judge on Sura’s highest beit din, the litter eventually came to a halt. Voices outside grew increasingly frustrated and angry, until there was a distinct tone of menace. Men shouted and women screamed in panic for guards to help, that people were going to be crushed.
Our litter began to rock violently, and I grabbed Mother’s arm in alarm. I didn’t care about praying at Ezekiel’s tomb, showing off my new blue silk, or even seeing Achti again.
I wanted to go home.
NINE
Abruptly our litter righted itself, the curtain opened, and Father stuck his head in. “There are too many people to get into the synagogue.” His voice was resigned. “We might still be able to pray in the courtyard.”
I must have been too frightened to think properly, because I blurted out, “Can’t you cast a spell to help us?”
Father and Mother exchanged glances, and then he began to chuckle. “It’s not quite so easy as that.”
The two of them were silent for a moment. Suddenly there was a new commotion outside and Father turned to see what it was. But even I could hear the deep voices yelling, “Out of the way, you locusts. Let the exilarch pass.”
The noble procession drew closer, and then there was Father’s voice, louder than I’d ever heard it before. “Mar Nehemiah!” he cried out the exilarch’s name. “Mar Nehemiah.”
Immediately I pulled the curtain back to look out, and just in time since everything happened so quickly. The exilarch, resplendent on a white horse, waved at Father and shouted in return, “Rav Hisda, my teacher, what are you doing here?”
“Same as you, trying to worship at Ezekiel’s tomb.” Father spoke in a more normal tone of voice. “We live in Sura now.”
The exilarch said something to his men, and they began to push people out of the way so we could reach his entourage. They were none too gentle about it, using sticks and clubs to force the crowd back. Eventually we fell in line behind the exilarch’s litters, but not before Mother motioned Keshisha to her side.
“Run home and tell Cook that the exilarch will be dining with us after services,” she said. “We’ll need to feed perhaps thirty extra people.”
Keshisha and I gaped at her in astonishment. “How do you know?” he asked.
“Never mind that. Just tell Cook what I told you. She will know what to do.”
Mother leaned back on her cushions and gave a sigh of relief. I was about to peek out again when she shook her finger at me. “You need to act like you belong to a noble family now, Hisdadukh, not like you live in a forest.”
“Yes, Mother.” I was quiet only a moment. “Mother, the exilarch called Father his teacher. When was that?”
“When Mar Nehemiah was young, your father taught him Torah in Kafri,” she said proudly. “Before you were born.”
The litter slowed again and soon stopped. The curtains were drawn aside as it was lowered for Mother and me to alight. We, and perhaps twenty other women, were surrounded by men in an enormous courtyard. There were a few date and fig trees inside, where brick walls and colonnades towered above us.
A green wooden door opened and we were ushered inside. The walls and ceiling were covered with magnificent floral patterns and occasional Hebrew lettering. The floor was a colorful mosaic, but it was impossible to discern the design with so many people standing on it. A tiny door in the corner had an inscription above that read, “This is the tomb of our prophet Ezekiel bar Buzi haKohen; may his virtue defend us and all Israel. Amen.”
A lamp was burning inside the tomb, and I shivered at how close I was to the ancient prophet’s bones.
There was no time to think about that. Prayers had begun a while ago, but we were in time to hear the Torah read. This was the high point of the service—chanting from a Torah scroll written by Ezekiel’s own hand. For a moment I wondered if Father would receive the first aliyah, the honor reserved for men from priestly families.
Evidently there was a more venerated priestly family than ours in Sura, because a wizened old
man with a surprisingly loud voice began chanting the Ten Commandments, the special portion for Shavuot. When he finished, a younger man recited the opening verses of the scroll of Ezekiel so powerfully that I could almost see the prophet’s vision of Elohim’s fiery chariot. No wonder so many people wanted to worship at Ezekiel’s Synagogue on Shavuot.
As it came time for services to end, I grew nervous. This was when the leader called out, “Kohanim,” summoning those of priestly heritage to ascend the platform and bless the people. At other synagogues, every Kohen in attendance went up, but I wasn’t sure about the protocol here. Maybe the blessing was reserved for only a certain family of priests, those who had the first aliyah?
Would Father and my brothers go up even if it were against local custom?
My heart was pounding when the Kohanim call rang out, and I thought it would burst when Father proudly climbed up the steps, followed by all my brothers, including Keshisha, who had somehow run to the villa and back in time. The congregation marveled at the awesome scene—a priestly father and seven sons, each handsome, fit, and beautifully dressed. The other priests seemed to shrink in comparison.
With great solemnity, Father and my brothers recited the preparatory blessing, “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, King of the universe, Who makes us holy with the holiness of Aaron and has commanded us to bless Your people Israel with love.”
The other priests looked at Father in confusion, and it was clear that his blessing was new to them. But he immediately raised his hands, forcing my brothers and the other priests to do so as well, and they continued in unison with the benediction that came from Bamidbar, the fourth book of Torah.
“Adonai bless you and protect you; Adonai make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you; Adonai lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace.”
At that instant, the sun lit up the sanctuary in such a way that it appeared as though the light was coming from between the priests’ outstretched fingers. The stunned congregation was silent for a few moments before responding with the traditional amen.