by Maggie Anton
“I can’t wait for the wedding,” Meir said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He wasn’t about to tell this unknown boy that he was also anxious, maybe even a bit scared. “It’s the first commandment to marry and procreate. That’s why the Holy One created us in two sexes, men and women.”
“Oui, I know.” Judah proceeded to quote from the Mishnah, chapter Yevamot.
A man may not refrain from fulfilling the commandment, “Be fruitful and multiply” unless he already has children. Shammai ruled that he must have two sons; Hillel ruled, a son and a daughter, for it is written “Male and female he created them.”
His voice held a hint of impatience, as if explaining something simple to a dull child.
Meir felt compelled to defend marriage as more than a vehicle for procreation, and show this youngster that he was not without knowledge himself. “And in the Gemara on that Mishnah,
Rav Tanhum said: When a man is without a wife, he lives without joy, without blessing, and also without Torah.”
Judah quickly rose to the challenge. “In Tractate Kiddushin, it says:
A man should first study Torah and then take a wife. But if he cannot live without a woman, he may take a wife and then study Torah.”
Judah obviously had a poor opinion of the man who cannot live without a woman.
Meir quoted the next line, hoping that Judah also had an affinity for his Talmudic namesake.
Rav Judah said: The ruling is that a man must first take a wife and then study Torah.
But Judah responded with the following line,
Rav Yohanan said: With a millstone around his neck, is he expected to study Torah?
He smiled at Meir, apparently pleased that the discussion in Kiddushin concluded with disapproval of marriage for scholars.
Maybe Judah hadn’t studied Tractate Sotah. Meir quoted from that text.
The Sages taught: A husband and a wife, if they are worthy, the Divine Presence abides with them and they are blessed.
But Judah knew this section as well and his grin widened.
If they are not worthy, then the Divine Presence departs from them.
Meir saw that this contest could only end in a draw. For every rabbi who praised marriage and considered his wife a blessing, another saw her as a source of misery. Yet everyone knew that a man must marry; it was the Creator’s command. Meir went back to their first tractate, Yevamot, for what he hoped would be the final word on the subject.
Rav Eliezer taught: He who does not procreate is as if he spills blood, for in Genesis, “Whoever spills a man’s blood,” is followed at once by “Be fruitful and multiply.” Rav Akiva said: A man who refuses to procreate diminishes God’s image, for “In the image of God He made man,” is followed by “Be fruitful and multiply.” Ben Azzai said: He both spills blood and diminishes God’s image.
Meir’s tone made it clear their discussion was at an end. Judah’s smile disappeared, and he completed the quote that Meir had started.
Rav Eliezer said to Ben Azzai: Such words sound good when they come from those who practice them. You preach well but do not practice well. Ben Azzai replied: But what shall I do, my soul yearns for Torah? The world can increase through others.
He looked at Meir with his usual serious expression and said, “Actually, my favorite sage is Ben Azzai, not Rabbi Judah.” Then he apologized for taking Meir away from his studies and retreated out the door.
What a strange fellow. Meir shook his head in puzzlement. Why would anyone choose Ben Azzai for special admiration?
Simeon Ben Azzai was famous for his diligence and piety, and it was written in Tractate Berachot that anyone who saw Ben Azzai in a dream might expect to become pious. A disciple of Rabbi Akiva, he had married Akiva’s daughter. But he became estranged from his wife and died while still a young man, never having fathered any children.
Meir considered Ben Azzai’s life a warning against such extreme piety, and he felt sorry for Judah. He tried to return to his studies, but his thoughts remained on the topic of marriage. He decided that he would do everything he could to ensure that the Divine Presence abided between him and his wife. He also thought that, as sorry as he felt for Judah ben Natan, he felt more sorry for the poor woman who ended up married to him.
thirteen
Fall 4832 (1072 C.E.)
In Troyes, Salomon was also trying to catch up on his writing. With the vintage finished, Salomon finally had time to add to his kuntres the new insights he had gleaned during the Hot Fair. His students were gone for the Days of Awe and would not be back until the Cold Fair. Rivka, in the early stages of pregnancy, had barely enough energy to supervise the servants. She went to bed as soon as they finished souper.
His daughters were also occupied elsewhere. Sarah had approached him about teaching the older girls to ride, reminding him that Joheved was about to marry a man whose family owned a manor nearby and Miriam would soon be a midwife. Salomon required no more convincing and Rivka added her blessing. Women on horseback were assumed to be nobility; knights would feel obliged to protect them, and no peasant would dare molest them.
At first the girls rode their hired ponies slowly around the streets of the Jewish district, but eventually Aunt Sarah allowed them to ride wherever they liked within the city walls. Joheved marveled at how different everything looked from a mounted position. Even the tallest man was shorter than they were, and they could easily see through open windows into people’s houses.
They learned to trot by accident. Rivka let them feed the horses any apples too bruised to use, and the mares, eager to reach the courtyard, began trotting as soon as they approached the street leading to Salomon’s house. Their pace quickened as they neared the courtyard gate, and though frightened at first, the girls came to enjoy the brief burst of speed.
The days had shortened perceptibly when Sarah took them into the forest to look for the medicinal plants best picked in the autumn. On the off chance that they might find some, the midwife described alkanet to her two helpers. This particular type of borage made an excellent healing salve, but Sarah had never found any growing around Troyes. Still, she hoped to come across the elusive herb some day.
Joheved loved riding through the fall foliage. Every autumn she’d admired the trees changing color in the distance, but to be enveloped by it all was glorious. It was impossible to remain focused on the ground, looking for plants with dull grey leaves, when each tree seemed more colorful than its neighbor, all of them vying for her attention. Meir had his own horse. If he enjoyed riding through the beautiful autumn forest, maybe they could go together next fall?
Aunt Sarah’s sharp voice brought her out of her reverie. “Joheved, please try to make yourself useful.”
Miriam saw her sister blush in response and wondered what she’d been daydreaming about. “If you can’t stop and pick some wormwood with me, at least try to keep your horse from trampling it,” she added her own reprimand.
Joheved looked down and saw the familiar shrubs with silvery, almost white foliage. She made an embarrassed apology, quickly dismounted, and began to fill her hemp bag with the aromatic leaves. She was careful not to bruise them, so the medicine concentrating in the leaves all summer would not be diminished. Miriam was also filling her bag with grey foliage, but the bush she was working on had more feathery leaves, darker than those in Joheved’s collection. Joheved hadn’t been paying attention when Aunt Sarah explained the difference between the two kinds of wormwood, but at least she knew what they looked like and could find them again if she had to.
When they had finished collecting the herbs Sarah needed, the girls begged their aunt to let them ride in the beautiful forest by themselves. Perhaps they’d find the elusive alkanet. They promised to be back in time for disner. Sarah reluctantly agreed, also making them promise to always leave and reenter Troyes by the same gate, so that the guards would become familiar with their routine. After a few weeks, they grew adept at recognizing when the sun was almost at its z
enith, thus arriving home before their father, who rarely left the synagogue until the bells finished chiming the noon hour.
Their one close call came when they were distracted by a hunting party from the palace. The men and women on horseback, noisily enjoying themselves, were easily visible through the trees. Joheved and Miriam watched in fascination as, again and again, they sent their hawks and falcons aloft in search of prey. The birds were wonderfully graceful and swift, and it was amazing how faithfully they returned to their owners. It was only when servants began spreading robes on the ground and taking out baskets of food that the girls realized how late it was.
Sure the bells would begin chiming sext any moment, they urged their mounts through the trees. When they reached the road, Miriam’s horse sensed her rider’s haste and broke into a run. Joheved felt herself flying as well and closed her eyes, holding on for dear life. After a few moments of terror, Joheved forced herself to peek to make sure she was at least going in the right direction. Her sister was in the lead, her horse still cantering, the city walls growing closer.
Once they passed the gate, both mares slowed to a trot, and as the girls tried to calm their rapid breathing, the bells began to toll. The final chime rang as they closed the courtyard gate behind them, and they just had time to wash their flushed and shiny faces when their father arrived.
The next day Joheved noticed blood stains on her chemise, which Rivka happily interpreted as her oldest daughter’s first flowers. But there was no bleeding the next day, nor the next, and a short exam by Aunt Sarah revealed that Joheved had merely torn her hymen, probably the result of her vigorous ride the previous day. It was disappointing, but Sarah reminded Rivka that Joheved’s wedding night should be easier as a result. Still, Rivka didn’t give up hope until two months passed with no further bleeding.
By then she had a more serious problem to worry about. Outside in the courtyard one windy day, Leah had noticed some apples still hanging on the tree. Anna, digging onions in the garden, saw the old woman swinging her cane among the apple tree’s branches and ran over to stop her. But she was too late. Leah lunged at one of the remaining apples, lost her balance, and crashed to the ground. When Anna tried to help her up, Leah groaned with such pain that the doctor was sent for.
It took only a few prods here and there, with resulting yelps from his patient, before the physician announced his diagnosis.
“Her left hip is most likely broken, although it may only be a bad bruise. If the latter, and Le Bon Dieu wills it, she might be up and about after some bed rest.” He didn’t need to describe the consequences for the former.
The doctor wrote out instructions for a painkiller, and Joheved ran off to the apothecary’s. Leah’s moans only grew louder as Salomon and Baruch gently carried her upstairs to bed. When Joheved returned, Aunt Sarah was preparing one of her own remedies for pain. They gave Leah both medicines, and to everyone’s relief, she quieted down and slept.
Now Joheved led all the women’s services at synagogue, but she was too distraught to notice that the other girls looked at her with awe instead of disdain. Rachel continued to sit downstairs with Salomon, even though most small children, and certainly all girls, joined their mothers in the women’s gallery. She sat patiently on his lap during the study session after services as well, and Salomon became convinced that she could understand both Hebrew and Aramaic, so keenly did she appear to follow the scholarly discussions.
When the Cold Fair ended and the merchant scholars went home, Salomon was left with just his students and daughters to teach again. Leah remained bedridden, although her pain had diminished considerably. But what little intellect she had previously possessed now deserted her altogether, and she neither spoke nor seemed to understand when others did. She allowed Anna to feed, bathe and swaddle her like a baby. Her only reaction to her surroundings came if somebody inadvertently jostled her sore hip.
For her part, Joheved found her grandmother’s degeneration so distressing that she avoided her room as much as possible. Filled with shame each time she passed Leah’s door, Joheved threw herself into doing chores that Rivka, as her pregnancy advanced, was increasingly unable to perform. Nobody complained about her neglecting Leah, but Joheved still felt she was stealing time to study. Not that she stopped studying Talmud; she just felt guilty doing it.
The household’s mood brightened when Rivka easily gave birth to a fourth daughter in early spring, her labor so rapid that Miriam learned little from it. This time Salomon had a full cadre of students praying with him, and when Joheved woke the next morning, she had a baby sister. Two weeks later, when Papa was called to bless the Torah in honor of his youngest daughter’s naming, she learned that her new sister was called Leah.
Spring brought a present for Joheved. She had written Meir about learning to ride, and he had asked his parents to loan her his horse until he returned to Troyes in the fall. Always the youngest child at his family’s Seder, Meir was thrilled when Sarah’s son suggested that he spend Passover with them in Worms. Now he’d be an honored adult guest instead.
Exercising Meir’s horse was a pleasant chore, except that rides with Miriam kept ending up at the vineyard when Benjamin was working there. Joheved didn’t like being an accomplice to these clandestine rendezvous, but she wouldn’t tattle on Miriam, who at least worked on the vines while visiting her friend. But her sister only became more persistent about sneaking off to see Benjamin as the season progressed.
“I can’t explain it,” Miriam told her, “but it’s frustrating to spend all this time in public with Benjamin, at meals or in the salon during Papa’s lessons, yet we never have any time together without Papa’s supervision.”
Joheved nodded, even though she didn’t understand. What difference did it make whether Papa was there or not?
“Maybe we could take Rachel on a walk along the Seine tomorrow afternoon?” Miriam asked, her expression not quite as innocent as she hoped. “Then once we’re outside the city walls, I’ll meet Benjamin and the two of us can go to the vineyard together.”
Joheved’s jaw dropped, and it took her a moment to respond. “Miriam, have you lost your mind? You know that nobody is allowed in the vineyard now—the grape blossoms are beginning to flower.” How could her sister be so reckless?
“We aren’t going inside the vineyard,” Miriam said, her hands fidgeting with her skirts, “just near enough along the road to smell the flowers.”
Joheved’s concern heightened. Both girls had been repeatedly warned not to disturb the vineyard during the delicate pollination process. But Miriam obviously didn’t care, and when Joheved tried to look her in the eye, Miriam blushed and avoided her gaze.
That’s when Joheved remembered hearing that the blossoms’ perfume was reputed to be an aphrodisiac. “Miriam, don’t go there alone with him, not now,” she pleaded, but to no avail.
“Joheved, we’ll be on a public road in broad daylight. Don’t you remember last summer when we found the honey? We all smelled the grape blossoms then and nothing terrible happened.”
Miriam too had heard tales of the grape flowers’ effect on men and women, and it was exciting to imagine her and Benjamin enjoying the fragrance together. She had no idea how they might be affected, but that was part of the attraction.
Joheved realized that her sister might go off with Benjamin even if she refused to be an accomplice to their scheme. “All right, we can go on a walk along the river tomorrow, but promise me you’ll be home well before sunset. And please be careful.”
Miriam gave her older sister a grateful hug. She didn’t know how she was going to wait until the next day. For her part, Joheved couldn’t imagine any man being so compelling, but at least Miriam had promised to tell her everything that happened.
The following afternoon, all went as planned. As the bells began to chime vespers, Miriam saw Benjamin waiting for her just outside the Preize Gate, the one closest to the vineyard. At first they walked the familiar road in silence. Miriam co
uld sense that Benjamin was nervous, but was too shy to ask what was bothering him. She tried to think of a subject they could discuss and remembered the Gemara they had been learning.
“Benjamin, could you help me remember what we studied today from Tractate Pesachim? You know, the disagreement between Hillel and Shammai about which blessing is said first at the Seder, the one for the wine or the one for the holiday.”
He easily recalled the beginning of the Gemara. The class had been studying this tractate ever since the students returned from celebrating Passover with their families.
Shammai says: First one recites the blessing of the day and afterwards recites the blessing over the wine, because the day causes the wine to come.
He smiled at Miriam and said, “Now, it’s your turn.”
She had no difficulty taking up where he had left off.
But Hillel says: First one recites over the wine and afterwards over the day because the wine causes the blessing to be said.
“And the law accords with Hillel,” Benjamin finished for her. “I know. So what does Shammai mean when he says that the day causes the wine to come?” He was sure she knew the answer.
“The festival begins at sunset, before the wine is served.” She paused for a moment. Did she actually smell something pleasant or was she imagining it?
When Benjamin first noticed the faint sweet scent on the breeze, he missed a few of Miriam’s words. He forced himself to calm down and listen to what she was saying. “Thus, because the holiday arrives before the wine, its blessing should come first.” There was another reason, but he couldn’t seem to remember it.
Miriam no longer cared about Hillel and Shammai. As soon as she became aware of the vineyard’s lovely fragrance, she began to happily reflect on why Benjamin had wanted to get her under its influence. “Oh, I can smell the grape flowers.” She tried not to sound too excited. “We probably shouldn’t get much closer.”