by Maggie Anton
“So Samuel admits that he does have a son yet unmarried, his youngest boy, the very one who needs all the parchment, who is away studying in Mayence.” The parchment maker’s son leered at Joheved, apparently enjoying her discomfort with the subject. “But I must apologize. I neglected to ask for his son’s name.”
Joheved was greatly relieved when Salomon ended the conversation by announcing that he needed silence to concentrate on the skin he was scraping. As she smoothed the pumice along her nearly finished parchment, Joheved tried to sort out her disconcerting feelings.
Of course she’d be the first to marry; she was the eldest. And it was her father’s job to find her a suitable husband. So why was the subject so embarrassing? Why did it bother her to hear people discussing a prospective match? Joheved had no answer for herself, only the knowledge that the more she considered the question, the more embarrassed she felt. She caught herself continually polishing the same area of parchment far thinner than necessary, and in dread of tearing the precious material, she resolved to stop daydreaming and pay full attention to her work.
The rain continued in fits and starts, sometimes raining so hard that Salomon stopped his knife and listened long enough to ascertain that it was only rain he heard, not hail. Then, with a sigh of relief, he’d begin working the skin again. The end product was indeed parchment, and he was pleased that he could visualize the entire process.
A sudden increase in the room’s illumination made the occupants realize that the rain had halted.
“Papa, I think it’s stopped raining for a while,” Catharina said, laying aside the skin she’d been working. “I need to do some shopping for souper, and it was raining too hard to go out earlier. Maybe I should go now while it’s let up some.”
Before her father could say anything, her older brother rebuked her. “You should have gone in the morning, rain or no rain. Now the bread won’t be fresh and the best meat will be gone. Papa spoils you too much, letting you put off your chores.”
The parchment maker scowled at his son. “I don’t see why Catharina should catch cold in the rain so you can have fresher bread. She was very useful with all these skins, and I dare say that her pumice work is finer than yours. If you must have the best meat, get up early and go buy it yourself.”
Eager to avert any further arguments, Salomon suggested that his daughters could accompany Catharina to the food stalls and then go on home during this lull in the storm. “I’d like to stay a while longer and see the final steps.” He attempted to mollify the son by appealing to his expertise. “Can you show me how you trim and fold the parchment?”
The youth took Salomon over to the worktable by the window. “We need good light for this part, folding the parchment into pages and cutting them perfectly straight.” He glowered at his sister as she left, and she stuck her tongue out at him in return.
five
Summer 4829 (1069 C.E.)
The three girls made their way to Rue de l’Epicerie, holding their skirts up out of the mud and trying to dodge puddles. The green grocer and butcher shops were open, but to Catharina’s dismay, the bakery was shuttered.
“Oh no, they must have sold all their bread this morning. Now what am I going to do?” She looked close to tears. “My father may put up with less than fresh bread for my sake, but he’s going to be mad if I come home with no bread at all. And my brother will gloat over my failure for days.”
Miriam took her hand and started pulling her towards the bridge. “Come with us to a bakery in the Jewish Quarter. The one near the castle is always open late.”
“How do you know they won’t be shut too?” If this Jewish bakery were closed, Catharina would have gone all this distance for naught. But she soon received the answer to her question, for the mouth-watering smell of newly baked bread wafted towards them from the direction they were heading.
Joheved took a deep breath of the sweet odor and explained, “This bakery is a partnership, owned by both a Jew and a Notzri. On Sunday, your sabbath, the Jewish partner bakes and sells bread, and on Saturday, our sabbath, the Notzri bakes and sells bread. The same thing during Passover and your holy days. They’re never closed, no matter what day it is.”
“What’s a Notzri?” Catharina’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Notzrim are those who worship the one from Nazareth, you know.” Not eager to discuss what names the Jews had for the gentiles, Joheved urged her companions to hurry.
The sky had darkened alarmingly, but the bakery was in sight. Like other shops in Troyes, one of the bakery’s windows had shutters that opened up and down rather than to the sides. The lower shutter was propped up parallel to the ground by posts, thus forming a large counter. The upper shutter was fastened halfway open to make a roof over the counter, sheltering its contents. Here the baker and his family served their customers. Catharina was not alone in her desire to buy bread during the storm’s lull, so the three girls had to wait.
Miriam began to tease her sister. “Joheved’s going to be a rich lady when she marries the sheep farmer’s son. She’ll have all the wool, parchment and lamb roasts she wants.”
Catharina joined the good-natured assault. “Did you hear my brother say the boy’s father has a manor near Ramerupt? What a life. Bossing servants around and producing wheat, sheep and babies! Lots and lots of servants.” She elbowed Joheved suggestively. “And lots and lots of babies.”
“I wonder what he looks like. Maybe he’ll be tall, dark and handsome.” Miriam giggled. “But, if he’s still not betrothed, he might be short and ugly.”
“I bet he’s a hunchback from spending all his time bent over books.” Catharina covered her mouth with her hands, trying to repress her laughter.
“If he’s a student, he’s probably thin and pale. They spend all their time indoors and hardly ever eat.” Miriam’s tone became serious. “But if he’s a scholar in Mayence, he’ll be more learned than you, Joheved, just what Papa wants.”
All this marriage talk was too much for Joheved. “I don’t care if I have a thousand servants. I won’t marry a scholar who spends all his time in Mayence and hardly ever comes home.” She stared defiantly at Miriam. “I want a husband who lives in the same house as I do every day, not just on holidays.”
She hadn’t intended to reveal her fears to them, and until she’d spoken, she hadn’t even realized what her fears were. But now she knew—she didn’t want to sleep with a stranger. And a husband who spent only a few weeks a year at home would always be a stranger, no matter how long they’d been married.
Dismayed at her outburst, Catharina and Miriam tried to offer solace. But they both knew Joheved would have little say over whom she married. Miriam put an arm around her sister’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Joheved. Most husbands don’t stay away from home as much as Papa did.”
Catharina had more practical advice, although it wasn’t very comforting. “You’re a Jew, which means you’re either going to marry a merchant or scholar, and both of them are usually away from home a lot. Besides, maybe you won’t like your husband much, and you’ll be glad when he’s away.”
“It wasn’t so bad having Papa gone, and I don’t think Mama minded it as much as you think you will, Joheved,” Miriam said. “Except for being poor, I liked living with just Mama, Grandmama and you. Who needs a man around all the time anyway?”
Joheved had no answer for her, only questions jumping around inside her mind. Did Mama really prefer it when Papa wasn’t home? And why didn’t Grandmama Leah get married again after Grandpapa Isaac died? Aunt Sarah hadn’t remarried either. Maybe there was something bad about marriage that nobody talked about. Yet Mama worried so desperately that her daughters wouldn’t find husbands.
“At least you know that you will get married,” Catharina said soberly, interrupting Joheved’s musings. “All Jews get married, some more than once. No matter how poor you are, even if you’re ugly, they make sure you get married. But if my father doesn’t save enough money for my dowr
y, I’ll never get a husband. I’ll end up an old maid taking care of him forever. And if Papa can’t buy me a husband before he dies, my brother will keep the money for himself. I know he will.”
Joheved and Miriam were shocked into silence at the thought of Catharina’s not being allowed to marry. They knew about monks and nuns, but those people chose that life, and besides, they weren’t Jewish. For Jews, to be fruitful and multiply was the Creator’s first commandment, and anyone who refused to marry was considered selfish in the extreme, even sinful. Who knows what wonderful scholars would be denied life if their ordained parents didn’t wed? Even old people beyond childbearing, like Isaac haParnas, were supposed to marry. Didn’t the Holy One create Eve because it was not good for Adam to be alone?
“But you’re so pretty, Catharina,” Joheved said, her own doubts dissolving in concern for her friend. “Even if your father doesn’t leave you a dowry, you can still marry. Our maidservant, Marie, is saving her wages for her own dowry. She’s engaged to a cobbler’s apprentice, and by the time he’s a journeyman, she’ll have enough money for them to get married.”
Miriam wanted to encourage Catharina, too. “And Marie gets to marry whoever she wants. She earned her dowry herself and chose her own husband.”
They reached the counter just as the first few drops of the renewed storm began to fall. The baker’s wife recognized the young rabbi’s daughters and gave them a misshapen loaf to share on their way home. Joheved thanked her and tore off a piece for Catharina, who quickly took it and waved good-bye.
No sooner had Joheved divided the remaining bread in two, than Miriam whispered to her, “Look at those beggars. They’re soaking wet. I bet they’ve been here all day.”
Several paupers, sensing that they were under discussion, stretched out their hands towards the girls.
Miriam started to tear her bread into pieces, but Joheved stepped between her and the beggars. “Surely you don’t intend to give your bread away.” Joheved’s vehemence increased. “They’re probably only pretending, to try to gain your sympathy.”
The raindrops grew larger and more frequent, and Miriam pulled her cloak close around her. “What about those children?” She pointed to several skinny youngsters, dressed in sopping rags. “I don’t care if they are fakers. I’m giving them bread anyway.”
Even though Joheved was hungry, it was impossible to eat her own bread while watching the pathetic children wolf down Miriam’s. With a sigh, she handed her bread to the small beggars and continued home with her sister in silence. A new worry assailed her and her appetite diminished.
At least Ramerupt was nearby. But what if Papa arranged a match with someone who lived far away and she had to move to another town, like Mama did when she married Papa? She might never see her family again. And if she didn’t live near Papa and Miriam, she’d never be able to study Talmud either.
She walked slowly, each foot suddenly heavy as lead, feeling increasingly pessimistic about her chances for a good marriage. There was nothing she could do about it either; her future was in her father’s hands, and the Holy One’s.
Salomon, walking home slowly through the muddy streets, tried to remember the youngest students in Mayence. Was one of them from Ramerupt or had Salomon returned to Troyes before this particular boy began yeshiva? Parchment was scarce and expensive (and after today’s work, he could see why), so Talmudic scholars were trained to develop prodigious memories. An advanced yeshiva student was expected to know scripture by heart, plus all the major tractates of the Talmud. Salomon, who had learned many of the minor tractates as well, was justifiably proud of his memory, and knew if he had ever met such a boy at Mayence he would be able to recall it.
Voilà! He slapped his thigh in triumph. He had it. The more he considered the students whose first year at the yeshiva had coincided with his last, the more he knew he was right. The boy’s name was Meir ben Samuel.
Older students like Salomon normally had little contact with their youngest colleagues. They all prayed together in synagogue and attended the same lectures, but contemporaries generally studied with each other. The first year was especially difficult, and boys at this level rarely did more than listen attentively and try to remember as much as possible. They rarely asked questions.
But Salomon remembered this one youth, mainly because they had traveled in the same merchant caravans to and from Mayence. He could picture Meir in his mind; small and thin, rather gangly actually, in the way boys are just before they start growing. Meir’s trunk of books and new fur-lined cloak proclaimed him the son of a prosperous man. The boy never mentioned Ramerupt, but Salomon knew he lived nearby. Once, when he’d expressed concern about the youth’s going on alone while the others stopped in Troyes, Meir had assured him that home was only a short ride away.
Their first trip together, they’d hardly spoken. Salomon utilized his time expanding the notes he’d taken during the recent session, and Meir was too intimidated to approach the chacham. By the following journey, Meir was so curious about the older man’s journals that he couldn’t resist asking about them. Salomon remembered that the youth had been both astonished and impressed. Talmud study was an oral tradition and extensive kuntres such as Salomon’s were unheard of.
Salomon smiled wistfully. He had explained to Meir that his yeshiva days were limited, that he’d been taking notes all these years so that when the time came, he’d be able to study Talmud by himself. Meir had been sympathetic and offered reassurance that anybody with such excellent records would never forget his studies. After that, the ice was broken and the boy had plied Salomon with questions.
The more Salomon recalled about the youth, the higher his opinion of him. Meir’s questions had shown intelligence and enthusiasm for learning. It was possible…he might indeed make a proper husband for Joheved. Then financial reality intruded into Salomon’s pleasant reverie. The boy’s father had an estate, which meant he was some sort of lord. He would expect his son to marry into an equally prominent family, to wed a girl with a substantial dowry. Salomon sighed heavily and continued home. He needed to concentrate on his new students and his grapes this summer; he’d worry about other matters later.
Rain continued for several days, but the July sunshine eventually reasserted its dominance. One afternoon it was so hot that the normally playful new kittens were curled up together under a bush to nap in the shade. According to the Hebrew calendar, it was the month of Av, and Salomon’s students, along with other Jews, were beginning the book of Deuteronomy.
Rather than risk his pupils’ nodding off in the warm salle, Salomon decided to teach in the courtyard under the apple tree. He spread out a blanket for the baby, who wiggled contentedly in the warm air. Rachel was a happy child, a joy to be around. She shook her dark curls and smiled at everyone, rarely crying unless she was hungry.
Salomon’s family lived in the middle of three houses built in a U surrounding the courtyard. Sarah’s was on the left, closest to the gate, while the right-hand dwelling belonged to two widows who made their living selling eggs and poultry. Many women transacted business with the “chicken ladies,” and Joheved tried not to worry what these clients would think if they saw her and Miriam attending their father’s lessons.
As usual Joheved had her spindle and distaff, but these days Miriam did embroidery while Salomon taught. Rivka had bought linen to make chemises, and whenever the light was good, Miriam painstakingly decorated the necks and sleeves of the girls’ new undergarments. Today Joheved noticed that, besides the Bible, her father had another book with him that she did not recognize.
Menachem and Ephraim had been chanting a few verses each and then translating them when they came to the sixth chapter. Here the text included the Shema, the Jewish affirmation of faith, one of the most important prayers in the Hebrew liturgy. It was Ephraim’s turn, and Salomon was watching him intently.
“Shema Israel, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad: Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. You shal
l love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your…”
Ephraim paused and looked up at Salomon for direction. He didn’t know how to translate the Hebrew word, m’odecha, which meant something like “very much.”
“To love God with all your m’odecha.” Salomon smiled and began his explanation. “This strange usage means your wealth, your property. We all know people whose possessions seem dearer to them than their bodies or their souls, and it is on their account that this last word is added.”
The twins nodded in appreciation. Several, if not many, of their grandfather’s business associates were in this category.
Later that night, Salomon showed Joheved and Miriam where the identical subject was discussed in Tractate Berachot’s ninth chapter. “You can take turns reading.”
And you shall love the Lord, your God…Rav Eliezer says: Since it says, “with all your soul,” why does it also say “with all your wealth”? And since it says, “with all your wealth,” why does it also say “with all your soul”?
Joheved, eager to read first, was baffled. “Aren’t Rav Eliezer’s questions the same?”
“But your soul and your property aren’t the same thing,” Miriam challenged her sister.
The girls started to argue and Salomon chuckled at their impatience. “Hold your tongues, mes filles; the Gemara doesn’t end here.”
Miriam began to read.
But rather, if you have a person whose body is more precious to him than his money, then for him it was said, “with all your soul.” And if you have a person whose money is more precious to him than his body, then for him it was said, “with all your wealth.”
Her voice rose with excitement. “Papa, this is just what you taught us this morning. It’s from the Talmud!”
Salomon took the book from her and closed it. “When the Hot Fair starts, I’ll be occupied studying Talmud with the merchants after morning services and again at night. It will be difficult finding enough time to teach the twins properly.” He sighed. It wasn’t easy telling his daughters that he would have no time to teach them Talmud until the fair was over. “I’ll need you two to help Grandmama Leah in the vineyard while I’m at synagogue.”