Rashi’s Daughters Book I: Joheved

by Maggie Anton

  Joheved preferred the stories of Rabbi Meir and his learned wife, Beruria, but she knew Rachel wouldn’t want to hear those. Soon her little sister’s breathing was regular with sleep, and she could hear the men downstairs reciting Psalms to guard Anna from evil spirits. Maybe there would be good news in the morning.

  Several hours later, Miriam tried not to wake her sisters when she came to bed, but Joheved stirred as soon as she felt Miriam sit down and awoke fully when she heard Miriam weeping.

  “What’s wrong?” It was quiet downstairs; maybe she’d slept through the birth cries. “Is everyone all right?”

  Miriam turned and buried her face in Joheved’s shoulder. “No, everyone’s not all right; the baby died. It was horrible.”

  Joheved clutched her sister tightly. “What about Anna?”

  “Anna is still alive.” Miriam gulped down her tears. “She looks awful, but Aunt Sarah says it’s normal after a hard birth.”

  “What happened? Why did the baby die?”

  Miriam was only too willing to share the burden she carried. “He was strangled by the cord. Aunt Sarah had to unwrap it twice from around his neck.” She choked back a sob.

  “Poor Anna! She must feel terrible.”

  “But she doesn’t; that’s what’s really awful.” Miriam began to tremble. “Baruch wasn’t the baby’s father; it was one of the barbarians who captured her. Anna was glad the baby died.”

  “Mon Dieu,” was all Joheved could say before she started crying too. The two sisters held each other in silent grief.

  But Miriam wasn’t finished. “It’s so horrible what happened to her, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  Joheved murmured something soothing, and Miriam continued. “When the raiders found her people, they killed everyone except the young women.”

  Joheved cringed inside and braced herself for the details that were sure to follow.

  Miriam took a deep breath and began to whisper. “They took away the girls’ clothes and locked them up naked in a hut. Every so often somebody opened the door and threw some food in for them, but it was never enough. Yet more often than they got food, one of the barbarians would open the door, leer at the poor naked girls, and take one of them away.”

  Miriam spoke so softly that Joheved could barely make out her words. “But he didn’t take her far enough away. Anna and the others had to listen to the missing girl’s screams and moans until she was dragged back in. Sometimes she never came back.”

  Miriam buried her head against Joheved’s shoulder. “The girls who were virgins—it was worse for them. Anna had already married Baruch, so it didn’t hurt her so much. Some of the men enjoyed it more when the girls screamed and cried, and they avoided her if she remained silent.”

  Miriam paused and Joheved could feel her sister’s tears, wet against her chest. “One day the door opened and men entered who looked different from her captors, less coarse somehow. They pointed to her and a couple of others, and they took them away. Anna never saw the barbarians again.”

  “Was it Shemiah who bought her?” Joheved asked, her disgust rising. How could he deal with such evil people?

  “Non, not yet,” Miriam said, reassuring her. “Her new captors ran the slave market where Baruch saw her and got his master to buy her. They didn’t know she was pregnant.”

  “So after all that, do you still want to be a midwife?”

  There was a long silence, and Joheved thought that her sister had fallen asleep.

  “I only know that I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Miriam said. “Let’s try and get some sleep before all the bells start ringing.”

  The next morning, Joheved dressed and prayed quietly so she wouldn’t disturb her sleeping sister. Once downstairs, she learned that Baruch had been told nothing except that the baby had not survived the birth. If people interpreted this to mean that the boy had been born prematurely, which would have been the case if Baruch had fathered him, it was just as well.

  Under Jewish Law, a stillborn is not entitled to the same bereavement rituals as a child who lives at least a month. Anna’s son was buried without a funeral in an anonymous section of the cemetery reserved for stillborns, amputated limbs and worn-out holy books. Legally, Anna and Baruch were not mourners and thus would not interrupt their routines for the seven days of intense grief that a family death usually required. Anna told the women that this was fine with her; she wanted to forget the baby and everything having to do with it as soon as possible.

  Once springtime arrived, Miriam was too busy in the vineyard to worry about being a midwife, especially after she began using Grandmama Leah as an excuse to visit Benjamin there. All went well until one warm afternoon when Leah decided to go for a walk less than an hour after returning home from shopping.

  Rivka tried to discourage her, explaining that they had just come back from a walk, but that pacified her only briefly. Anna had just started to do the laundry, and when Leah persisted, she looked to Miriam with pleading eyes.

  Miriam needed no urging, and they had almost reached the vineyard when Leah declared, “I need to rest.”

  Impatient to both see Benjamin and get off the hot and dusty road, Miriam had no choice but to stop until Leah regained her strength. They had walked only a little farther when Leah again complained that she was too tired to go on.

  Miriam, trying to hide her annoyance, coaxed Leah to keep going. “It’s only a little ways, Grandmama. We’re almost there.”

  This worked a couple of times, but finally Leah protested, “I’m exhausted. I can’t walk another cubit.”

  Miriam waited a bit before trying to get Leah going again, as she had done before, but Leah wouldn’t budge. Now Miriam’s irritation turned into fear. It wasn’t good for Leah to stand so long in the hot sun, yet Miriam couldn’t leave her grandmother alone to get help. The spring wheat had already been harvested in the surrounding fields, and the road was empty. Miriam tried to remain calm. Surely somebody would come looking for them if they missed services.

  Just when she was about to start sobbing, Miriam heard a familiar voice call to them, “Are you two all right? You’ve been standing at this spot for quite a while.”

  Miriam spun around, sure she had imagined him, but there was Benjamin, trotting down the road towards them, a cloud of dust billowing behind him. She was so relieved to see him, it was all she could do not to collapse, crying, into his arms. Instead, she fought back her tears and explained their dilemma.

  Benjamin looked at Grandmama Leah, patiently standing by the roadside, and announced, “Let’s go home now; we need to get back for evening services.” He motioned for them to accompany him.

  Miriam followed his lead and could hardly believe it when Leah began walking along with them. Feeling both relieved and chagrined, she scolded herself for allowing her grandmother’s behavior to upset her. But their pleasant stroll was short-lived; Leah soon stopped and proclaimed herself too weary to continue.

  Miriam was about to suggest that Benjamin run home to get a cart, when Benjamin proposed that they each put an arm around Leah, thus supporting her enough that she could get home on her own two feet. In the past year he had grown several inches, and he was stronger now too, so that the two of them were easily able to walk with their arms pressed against each other behind Leah’s back. It was strange. By all appearances they were chaperoned, yet Leah would remember nothing they said or did. Miriam felt a bittersweet sadness in their freedom.

  “You know, Benjamin, Grandmama Leah used to be really smart when I was little.” Miriam felt compelled to tell him that her grandmother hadn’t always been like this. “She was my first teacher, and she ran the vineyard almost single-handedly, making such fine wine that the whole Jewish community admired her.” She sniffed back tears and Benjamin squeezed her arm in sympathy.

  “You’re lucky to have had such a wonderful grandmother,” he responded. “I’m the youngest child, and my grandparents all died before I was born.”

&
nbsp; They spent the rest of their walk sharing childhood memories, arriving home just in time for evening services. But even though Benjamin made a cane for Leah out of a large, woody vine shoot, Miriam was afraid to walk with her to the vineyard again. She kept Grandmama Leah’s walks within the walls of the old city, never more than a few blocks from home.

  Benjamin wasn’t the only boy who’d grown. When they returned for the Hot Fair, several yeshiva students’ fathers barely recognized their sons, many of whom were half a head taller than when they’d parted company at the end of the Cold Fair.

  Salomon’s family wasn’t exempt from the growth process either. In the past year, Joheved seemed to have made the progression from girlhood to young womanhood, a development most apparent on a late Friday afternoon when Rivka and her two older daughters visited the bathhouse in readiness for the Sabbath.

  It had been hot and sticky all week, so when Rivka prepared to go to the stews, Joheved and Miriam asked if they could join her. Rachel protested that she wanted to come too, but Rivka drew the line there. The baths were too deep; she’d have to wait until she was bigger.

  The bathhouse was located on the Rû Cordé canal, near the edge of the Jewish Quarter. Rivka gave the attendant a small coin and received three towels in exchange. Encountering Johanna there was a pleasant surprise, and Rivka settled in for a leisurely soak.

  Joheved and Miriam couldn’t bear sitting in the hot water so long and amused themselves by perching at the edge of the large tub and gently splashing each other. It was only when they accidentally splashed the older women, causing Rivka to look up from her conversation and scold them, that the physical difference between her two daughters was evident.

  Joheved’s body was rounded, almost voluptuous, with full breasts and prominent nipples, her waist a definite indentation above abundant hips. Between her legs, the hair of her lower beard completely covered the skin beneath. In contrast, Miriam’s shape was slim and childlike. Her breasts were mere buds, and her lower beard was skimpy, little more than down. They were only a few years apart in age, but it was evident that Joheved had completely crossed the threshold that Miriam was just approaching.

  Johanna observed the naked girls as well. “My goodness. Joheved looks so grown up now. Have you set her wedding date?”

  “Non, not yet.” Rivka was embarrassed to admit that she’d been caught unaware by her daughter’s maturity. “We wanted to wait until she started her flowers, so there’d be no doubt about her ability to bear children.” A woman’s menses were commonly called her “flowers,” because, just as a tree without flowers will not bear fruit, so too women without their “flowers” were not fruitful.

  “Non, of course not.” Johanna glanced at Joheved and then, not wanting the girl to catch them scrutinizing her, quickly turned back to her friend. “From the looks of her, she’s sure to flower soon. I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you, not with all those yeshiva students at your house.”

  After bidding Johanna a “Good Sabbath,” Rivka observed her daughters closely. Both belted their Shabbat bliauts loosely, and the difference in their figures disappeared under the billowing, wine-colored wool. No wonder she hadn’t noticed.

  Johanna’s admonition was still in Rivka’s mind when she and Salomon went to bed that night. “Salomon,” she whispered. “Joheved and Miriam came with me to the bathhouse this afternoon, and I don’t think we should wait much longer to set Joheved’s wedding date. She’s not a little girl anymore.”

  “But I thought you told me she hadn’t flowered yet.”

  “Non, she hasn’t yet,” Rivka acknowledged. “But she definitely looks like a woman now. It can’t be much longer.”

  Salomon had to accept his wife’s expertise in this matter. “Very well, I will write to Samuel and suggest that our children marry next fall, after the harvest. It will give Meir a year to finish his studies in Worms.” That would work well, he thought. More merchants had approached him about sending their sons to the yeshiva, and he would need someone to assist the new, younger students while he continued teaching the older ones.

  Meir returned to the Rhineland after spending a bittersweet Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur with his family. His parents had informed him that his wedding date was set, that next year he’d be moving to Troyes to help his father-in-law with the yeshiva there. As happy as he was with the news, he couldn’t help viewing his teachers and fellow students with a sense of impending loss. He was even sorry to leave the family he lodged with.

  Two years ago, when Salomon convinced Meir to move to Worms, Sarah had arranged for him to board with her son, Eleazar. Ever since the patriarch Abraham entertained the Holy One’s messengers, Jews have considered it a mitzvah to offer hospitality to strangers. It was particularly meritorious to host a yeshiva student, and thus assist him in fulfilling the commandment to study Torah.

  Not that Meir spent much time with Eleazar’s family. All yeshiva students attended synagogue, both morning and evening, where a talmid chacham expounded a portion of the Talmud. After this, his learned colleagues, Meir now included among them, asked questions, pointed out difficulties, and argued about the legal principles involved. During the afternoon, when the older men were occupied with business affairs, Meir and the other youths remained in the synagogue and continued their studies.

  Many of the students developed a favorite among the Talmudic sages. Some favored the wise and gentle Hillel, who never lost his temper, no matter what the provocation. He once advised a pagan, upon hearing that the man would convert to Judaism if Hillel taught him the whole Torah while standing on one foot,

  What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow man. This is the whole Torah, all else is commentary, now go and study.

  Others preferred the heroic Rabbi Akiva, the poor shepherd who became one of the greatest scholars in the Talmud. When the Romans forbade the study of Torah, Akiva continued to teach his students until he was caught and executed. A few, like Meir, gave special regard to their namesake among the Sages.

  The Talmudic Rabbi Meir was so learned that the Mishnah alone contained over three hundred laws that bear his name. His wife, Beruria, one of the few women mentioned in the Talmud, was a sage’s daughter and a brilliant scholar. Meir ben Samuel liked the fact that he too was marrying a scholar’s daughter, but he wasn’t sure he wanted one quite as brilliant as Beruria.

  Now that his wedding date was set, Meir’s friends encouraged him to join them in visiting the local brothel. After all, merchants and older students, who spent months separated from their wives, required a sexual outlet. Meir didn’t disparage those who needed women in addition to their wives, but he didn’t want his first experience to be with a harlot.

  So they let him be. A popular student, Meir was never shy about asking questions that others, less assured, might think were stupid. He was confident that if he had difficulty with a passage, he would have plenty of company. He remembered how Salomon had befriended him when he was homesick and tried to be especially helpful to the youngest students.

  One of these was a loner from Paris. Intelligent as he was pious, Judah ben Natan avoided the foolishness typical of boys his age. Was he stuck up or just shy? It was difficult to know since he discouraged attempts to discuss any subject other than Torah. He admired both Meir’s refusal to frequent brothels and Meir’s determination to learn as much as possible during this final year.

  One warm afternoon, when most students were off swimming, Meir sat alone in one of the smaller rooms off the main sanctuary. It was a perfect place to emulate his future father-in-law and work on his note taking. He was trying to recall exactly how the Rosh Yeshiva had explained a particular passage, when he was distracted by someone’s presence.

  Judah ben Natan had entered, and when he saw that Meir had paused in his work, asked what he was doing. New students were always curious about his note taking, and Meir tried to explain himself quickly, before he lost the thread of his teacher’s words. Yet Judah continued to stand next
to Meir, silently watching him.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Meir didn’t like being observed while he wrote.

  “Actually, oui.” Judah’s gloomy tone of voice jerked Meir out of his studies, and he turned around to look at the youth.

  Like a typical student, Judah was thin and pasty, but his face was fair, with large brown eyes framed by long black lashes. Meir’s own beard had started to fill out, but Judah’s face was as soft and hairless as a girl’s. His dark hair was cropped unfashionably short, possibly to avoid that very misconception. The youth cleared his throat, and then asked Meir his age.

  “I’m almost eighteen,” Meir answered curtly. He was about to ask Judah why he wanted to know, when the boy asked him why he wasn’t wed yet.

  Jewish men tended to marry young, but there were those who didn’t complete nisuin until they were eighteen. The Talmudic maxim was that a man should be wed no later than age twenty. And Meir wasn’t unmarried; he had been betrothed for some time.

  “I’m not sure why our parents have delayed nisuin for so long,” Meir replied, “but I suspect it was to give my father-in-law time to accumulate my wife’s dowry. He’s a vintner and a rabbi, not a wealthy merchant.”

  “Oh,” said Judah. “You’re marrying a scholar’s daughter. Does that make you happy?”

  “Mais oui.” Meir wasn’t sure what Judah wanted to know. “Her father heads the yeshiva in Troyes, so I’ll be able to continue my studies and eventually teach there.”

  “I’d be happy too, if I could stay in a yeshiva and study Torah my whole life.” Judah sighed. “But are you happy about getting married? I’m not betrothed to anyone, and I was wondering what it’s like.”