Rashi’s Daughters Book I: Joheved

by Maggie Anton

  Salomon had already closed half the distance between the sukkah and his house by the time Meir threw off his bedding and took off after him. Meir reached the open door, hesitated about whether to go in or not, and nearly collided with Joheved’s Aunt Sarah as she bolted past him and on up the stairs. Now there were more female voices wailing above. Behind him, the small band of frightened students congregated in the pale dawn, some of them shivering in their light chemises. He motioned them near the hearth and tried to compose himself enough to lead them in Psalms.

  Just then Salomon stumbled down the stairs, tears streaming down his cheeks, and Meir hurried to support his teacher. Salomon buried his head in the young man’s shoulder and wept loudly. “My baby, my poor little girl. She was perfectly fine when Rivka put her to bed; we never even heard a peep from her during the night, and now she’s dead.”

  Meir’s response was automatic. “Baruch ata Adonai…Dayan Emet (Blessed are You…the True Judge).” Since Talmudic times this was the prayer Jews said when first informed of a death.

  As the significance of Meir’s words reached him, Salomon’s wild weeping ceased, and he looked down at his clothing for a place to tear. He was wearing a new outfit for the festival, one originally made for Joheved’s wedding. Meir could see him hesitate and knew Salomon didn’t want to ruin his fine holiday côte. But his chemise had already been rent at his mother’s death. As Meir and the other students watched in trepidation, Salomon grabbed the beautiful embroidery and tore the neckline open nearly to his waist.

  For Joheved and Miriam, the next few days seemed almost a repetition of Grandmama Leah’s death. Yet some things were different. Their grandmother had been the rabbi’s mother, thus deserving of honor for his sake, but she was also a respected elder of the community in her own right, their vintner and women’s prayer leader. Nearly every Jew in Troyes had attended her funeral and visited their house during the week of mourning.

  But baby Leah’s demise went almost unacknowledged. Babies died regularly in their first year, and usually another child came along soon enough to console the parents. Besides, it was still Sukkot, and it was forbidden to mourn or lament during the joyous festival. Only Salomon’s students and a few of the men who studied with him regularly attended the funeral.

  The family members’ need for consolation was the opposite of when Grandmama Leah had died. Joheved and Miriam, who had deeply mourned their grandmother’s loss, felt little grief for the baby sister they had barely known. Rachel was almost relieved at the disappearance of this competitor for her parents’ attention, although she was old enough to know that she shouldn’t show it.

  Rivka, who had discovered baby Leah dead in her cradle, had recovered from her initial hysterics only to become terrified that this second death, so soon after Grandmama Leah’s, portended an imminent third visit from the Angel of Death. Sure that some lapse during her mother-in-law’s bereavement had brought this misfortune upon them, she clung tightly to her amulet and turned her efforts towards ensuring that all mourning rituals were carried out punctiliously.

  When Rivka was a child, her stepmother insisted that she cut her nails starting with the first finger, explaining that starting with the third finger caused the death of one’s children, with the fifth, poverty, and with the second, a bad reputation. Rivka was always careful to cut her thumbnail first, even if a different one needed paring, but maybe Salomon hadn’t been so meticulous. When she got up the nerve to ask him, he assured her that he invariably trimmed his nails in the same order: left hand, 4,2,5,3,1; right hand, 1,3,5,2,4. Scholars were taught to never pare any two nails in sequence because it caused forgetfulness.

  Still Rivka fretted about the next death, and only when Joheved reminded her that Anna’s baby had been the first recent death in their household, thus making little Leah the third, did Rivka become resigned to her fate. She had lost babies before, and this one was only a girl.

  Strangely, while Salomon had been the least bereft by his mother’s passing, he now suffered the most. Once he got over the initial disappointment at not producing a son, little Leah had been a joy to him. Rachel was starting to prefer the company of her sisters, and just as he was looking forward to cuddling another toddler on his lap as he studied, she was suddenly taken from him.

  It had to be his fault. Baby Leah couldn’t have committed any sins during her short lifetime. Was there some sin he’d forgotten to atone for at Yom Kippur, some person he had wounded yet neglected to ask for forgiveness, a vow unfulfilled? He searched his memory in vain for such a lapse, yet he knew it must exist. How many mourning fathers came to his Bet Din, begging the court to release them from a careless oath before another child died? At least those men knew what they’d done wrong.

  Sitting on the rushes that covered the floor of his house, he surveyed his three remaining daughters and felt a stab of regret that he would never know the little girl or young woman that baby Leah might have been. The infant had died sometime during the night, yet he’d gotten up and gone outside without even noticing anything was amiss. A sudden terror seized him—what if another of his daughters were to die in her sleep tonight?

  Emotions in turmoil, he surveyed the small group who had come to his house of mourning so he’d have nine men to pray with. Meir prayed with the family every day, but the other students had been encouraged to enjoy their Sukkot holiday. Today Hiyya ibn Ezra and Shemiah ben Asher, in addition to a couple of other foreign merchants and a few local men, sat in silence until services began. Because of the holiday, it was inappropriate for them to offer words of consolation.

  When they reached the place when one would usually say the Justification of the Judgment, Salomon paused, and Joheved sensed the distinguished visitors’ uneasiness. This bereavement prayer was never recited on Shabbat or during a festival, yet at the appointed time, Salomon stood up and said it alone. None of the men challenged him, but they didn’t join him either.

  Once the service was over, she could tell that the men stayed only long enough to be polite. Hiyya and Shemiah motioned to Meir to walk with them, and she followed at a distance.

  “I don’t understand why Salomon is so distressed that he laments even during the festival.” The Egyptian looked more puzzled than angry. “After all, he only lost a baby girl, and he already has three daughters. Now if the infant had been male…”

  “Perhaps this daughter wasn’t destined to be fruitful and build something great for him in this world,” Shemiah suggested.

  Meir shook his head. He didn’t want to criticize Salomon, but he couldn’t explain such a blatant disregard for accepted mourning practice. Meir no sooner closed the gate behind the men than Joheved and Miriam approached him. They too were upset with Salomon’s breach.

  “What was there to grieve over?” Miriam asked, lifting her hands towards the heavens. “Baby Leah died peacefully in her sleep and is surely in the Garden of Eden now.”

  Meir had had no answer for Miriam’s question. None of them dared ask Salomon directly, and he never offered an explanation.

  fifteen

  Winter 4834 (1074 C.E.)

  Gloom enveloped Salomon all winter. Pupils returning after the fall holidays noticed that their maître no longer began study sessions with a joke or funny story. Despite a successful wine harvest, the new vintage celebration at Hanukkah was subdued, and Salomon left the festivities early, pleading a headache.

  That night he dreamed that he was back in Mayence, attending synagogue with his mother. Dressed in her new violet silk bliaut, she looked younger, like when he first left home to study with her brother, Simon haZaken. The expression on her face was fearsome, and she proceeded to denounce him to the scholars.

  “Look how he ignores me, how little he mourns for me,” she screamed, “and after all I sacrificed for him. Well, I gave him something to mourn about. If he wouldn’t grieve for one Leah, he can grieve for another!”

  Then Uncle Simon stood up and pointed a finger at him. “Have you forgotte
n everything we’ve taught you?”

  Salomon woke up in a sweat, his heart pounding. How could he have forgotten the Talmudic discussion that began, “Why do a man’s children die when they are young?” The answer was a sword in his breast. “Because he did not weep and mourn over a kosher person.”

  Only fear of demons kept him from rushing to the cemetery immediately, and when the roosters began crowing at dawn’s first light, he was dressed and ready to visit his mother’s grave.

  “Please forgive me, Mama!” He threw himself down on the few tufts of grass that had grown since the funeral and cried out, “Have mercy on me and your granddaughters; pardon my iniquity, please, I beg you.” But he could not bring himself to weep.

  All that day, he was so visibly disturbed that Rachel, the only one not intimidated, finally asked him, “Papa, why are you so upset?” She inquired with the self-centeredness of childhood, “Did I do something wrong?”

  Salomon, ashamed that his emotions were so obvious, assured Rachel that she had done nothing to anger him.

  She was not deterred. “Then who did make you mad?”

  “Well, it’s not something anyone did.” He had no intention of revealing his nightmare, so he stroked his beard and finally thought of something else he could tell her.

  “You remember Robert, the monk from Montier-la-Celle, who comes to visit me and ask questions from time to time?”

  “The one who gives us grapes to make wine from?”

  “Oui, and for one of the Notzrim, he’s not so bad.” Robert’s naive interest in Torah had forced Salomon to formulate plain, simple explanations to deceptively deep questions. The process had honed Salomon’s intellect in a way that was different from teaching Talmud, and he’d come to relish their meetings.

  “He is leaving Montier-la-Celle to found an abbey at Collan.”

  Joheved couldn’t restrain herself. “But what about the wine, Papa?” Without the abbey’s grapes, their household income would drop considerably.

  “Don’t worry; the abbot at Montier-la-Celle has no intention of changing our current business agreement.” He was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “I will probably never see Robert again, and we had an argument the last time he was here. He asked me about the creation of man, and I should have been able to answer him without getting angry.”

  The students around the table came to attention. Creation was taught only to the most advanced pupils.

  “You see,” he told them, “Robert brought up the subject of ‘original sin’ and wanted to know what we Jews believed.” The confusion on Rachel’s face told Salomon that he needed to back up.

  “Original sin is what the minim believe is the nature of man. They say anyone not baptized, even babies, cannot enter the Garden of Eden in the World to Come and must spend eternity in the flames of Gehenna.” His voice, which had begun with mild derision, rose into fury. “How can they possibly think the Creator would condemn innocent babes to such torment?”

  Whether it was this horrible concept or her father’s angry voice, tears formed in Rachel’s eyes. Salomon fought to contain his outrage and decided that somebody else should speak until he calmed down.

  He turned to Meir and asked, “In the last chapter of Tractate Berachot, what does Rav Huna say about the creation of man?”

  Joheved knew the quote and felt relieved that she had not been forced to display her Talmud learning in front of Meir. He was sitting next to her, and she felt him tense in response. Lately she’d noticed that Benjamin and Miriam’s adjacent hands often vanished together beneath the table, and she suspected that Meir had launched a campaign to similarly take hold of her hand.

  He had begun by keeping his nearer hand on his lap, and each day he moved it closer to her, apparently waiting for her to bring hers down as well. Today, with a decision that had her pulse racing, Joheved was slowly moving her hand towards the table’s edge when Papa suddenly spoke to him.

  Meir snatched his hand back and rested it on the table. “Pardon me, Master Salomon, could you repeat your question?”

  Salomon did so, and Meir responded with alacrity.

  Rav Huna asks: What is the meaning of the verse in Genesis, “And God formed man,” the word “formed” being spelled with two yods?

  Of course Meir knew the reason why “formed” was spelled with two “yods” instead of its usual one, and he immediately provided it.

  The Holy One, Blessed be He, created man with two yetzers, two inclinations, one good and one evil, the yetzer tov and the yetzer hara.

  Salomon had Miriam bring them the Bible. “See,” he showed the words to Rachel, “the Hebrew word for ‘to form’ is yotzar and for ‘inclination’ is yetzer. It’s a pun, a play on words.” The Hebrew was written without vowels, so the two words looked exactly the same.

  “This teaches that we are not condemned at birth, because man can choose between his good and evil urges,” he concluded, this time keeping his voice steady.

  “But why did God create the yetzer hara?” Rachel asked, her eyes wide. “Why not just the yetzer tov?”

  The others at the table knew that the term, yetzer hara, had come to be associated, not with evil in general, but with the sexual urge in particular. They were curious how Salomon was going to edify his little girl about the yetzer hara.

  While waiting for Salomon’s reply, Meir sensed an almost imperceptible movement at his thigh, and with a quick intake of breath, he saw that Joheved’s hand had vanished from the table. His heart beating wildly, he reached down and captured her hand with his own. She flinched slightly in response, but didn’t pull away. His spirit was suddenly soaring, and he hoped his surge of happiness wasn’t obvious. But everyone except Joheved, whose concentration was focused on how strong and warm Meir’s hand felt on hers, was too interested in Salomon’s imminent answer.

  “Because if it were not for the yetzer hara, a man would not build a house, take a wife, beget children or engage in commerce,”

  the scholar explained, quoting Ecclesiastes. Rachel saw the abashed looks on the students’ faces and sensed that there was more to this discussion than she was being told. But whenever she brought up the yetzer hara, and how come none of the students would talk to her about it, all Joheved or Miriam would say was that she’d have to wait until she was older, much older, before they’d explain it to her.

  Every day for the next two months, ignoring both rain and snow, Salomon went to the cemetery and begged his mother’s forgiveness for not crying over her death. If it hadn’t been unlucky to visit the same grave twice the same day, he would have gone more often. When February came and went without his mood improving, his family began to wonder if his good humor would return in time for the raucous holiday of Purim in late March.

  Last year Anna had been too busy ministering to Grandmama Leah to take much notice of Purim. But when she saw how eagerly everyone anticipated the holiday, she approached Joheved and Miriam for an explanation.

  “Purim celebrates how Queen Esther and her cousin, Mordecai, saved the Persian Jews from Prime Minister Haman’s evil plan to exterminate them,” Joheved explained succinctly. “His scheme was thwarted when Esther convinced the king to nullify the decree.”

  “That’s enough history,” Miriam interrupted. “At Purim Jews read the Megillah (book of Esther) in synagogue, send gifts of food to friends and relatives, and give charity to the poor. But best of all, we feast, eat and drink to our heart’s content, and then some.” She continued with a grin,

  The Talmudic sage, Rava, said that on Purim a man must drink wine until he can’t tell the difference between “blessed is Mordecai” and “cursed is Haman.”

  With their love of food and wine, French Jews excelled in Purim revelry. After a day of fasting before the holiday, there was one banquet in the evening, followed by another the next day after services. Because Queen Esther’s position as a new wife enabled her to influence the king, betrothed and newlywed couples celebrated Purim with special enthusiasm.


  No one was sure how the decision was made, but it became common knowledge that Salomon, with two betrothed daughters, would host this year’s midday Purim celebration in his courtyard. After all, where better to observe a holiday that required excess drinking than at a winemaker’s? Salomon accepted the fait accompli reluctantly. But he only needed to provide the place and the wine; the community would supply the rest.

  Recruiting the requisite jongleurs and musicians would be easy this year. Two years after presenting her husband with their first son, Eudes, Countess Adelaide had recently given birth to another boy, Philippe, and the entertainers hired for his christening were still wintering in the palace.

  As the month of March approached its close, the Jewish community filled with nervous anticipation. For days the weather had been drizzling and overcast. Rain on Purim would be a disaster, and if the day before was wet, the courtyard would be too muddy for dancing. But damp weather did not hamper the children.

  They ran through the streets, eager to deliver Purim gifts and take others in exchange. Rachel was beside herself with glee as she waited for Rivka to decide which sweets she and Anna would deliver to whom. Someone seemed to be continually knocking at the door, and the dining table was piled high with dishes. Joheved and Miriam helped sort the gifts, trying to keep track of what they received and sent out again. Heaven forbid they should accidentally give an item back to the family who had originally sent it. But with all the coming and going, mix-ups were inevitable and a source of great amusement in the community.

  With great relief Joheved had stopped delivering Purim presents once she was betrothed. She could still see the looks of pity on the faces of the prosperous women who had condescendingly taken her small offerings and replaced them with much larger ones containing more staples than luxuries. Mama made Miriam stay home this year too, but even so, Miriam had no intention of missing the Purim frivolity. She and Benjamin concocted a scheme that was sure to fluster both Meir and Joheved. First, they moved Meir’s bedding next to Benjamin’s, directly above the girls’ bedroom. Then they waited impatiently until evening.