by Maggie Anton
Meir, who had begun to harbor suspicions about his wife’s recent absences, wasn’t happy about her embarking on another one. After overhearing Miriam complain that Joheved kept disappearing and leaving the kitchen chores to her, he’d followed her one day. She must have sensed his presence though, because instead of secretly meeting anyone, she’d led him on a wild goose chase through the alleys of Troyes. Still, he kept his misgivings to himself and ended up loaning her his mare.
Riding Meir’s horse, who knew the way home, saved Joheved the trouble of inquiring for directions to Ramerupt. Once in the estate’s vicinity, she found the right pasture almost immediately. She moved into position behind a mass of shrubbery and took the mirror in her hand.
However, an unexpected difficulty soon presented itself. As Joheved observed the coupling sheep and tried to make sure she captured a good likeness in the small mirror, she began to feel an uncomfortably familiar heat between her legs. It was impossible to watch a ram mount his ewe without yearning to experience the same act herself with Meir.
But if Joheved thought it was disturbing to watch the mating sheep, horseback riding in her aroused condition was torture. The jostling she received while trotting was intolerable, but walking back would take forever. She finally decided there was nothing to do but gallop back as fast as she could; at least that would get her off the horse the quickest.
When she finally reached her family’s courtyard, she was aflame with unrequited desire. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Meir was outside with his students, waiting for her. He rushed forward to help her dismount, and she prayed that he wouldn’t sense her frustrated passion.
Seeing the well reminded Joheved of how Meir said he used to quell his desire for her before they were married. Without a word to anyone, she pulled up a bucket of cold water, carried it into the privy, lifted up her skirts and dumped the bucket’s contents over her exposed flesh. The cold water raised goosebumps, but heaven be blessed, it also had the salutary effect she hoped for.
Joheved exited the privy with water dripping down her legs, then nonchalantly replaced the bucket and went inside to change her chemise. She realized that Meir was following her, but she couldn’t talk to him now.
“Could you please wait a moment while I change?” Alone in their room, Joheved quickly slipped the mirror under Meir’s side of the bed and chanted the incantation from Song of Songs as she changed clothes.
Under the apple tree I roused you; it was there your mother conceived you, there she who bore you, conceived you.
Thank heaven she didn’t have to chant the verse backwards. She repeated the words twice more and then opened the door to face her husband.
“What took you so long?” He advanced on her, his mouth a snarl of fury.
Joheved chose her words carefully; she didn’t want to lie. “It takes a long time to ride to Molesme and back, especially if you’ve never been there before.” She avoided Meir’s angry gaze.
“Look at me when you talk to me!” He grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her around. “What have you been doing that, as soon as you see me, you have to go wash yourself?”
“The ride back was dusty and hot—is it so terrible that I wanted to wash away the dirt from the road?” Joheved suddenly realized that Meir was jealous, that he had almost accused her of being unfaithful. How dare he distrust her after all she was doing to try to fix things between them!
“It was you who told me how effective cold well water is to cool you off when you’re hot and frustrated, which is what I feel every night when you get into bed and turn your back on me.”
She might as well have hit him. The blood rushed to Meir’s face; then he released her and slumped down on the bed.
“Meir, I’m sorry. It hasn’t been that bad, really.” How could she have used such hurtful words, especially so close to Rosh Hashanah, the Day of Judgment? She knelt in front of him and begged him, “Please forgive me.”
“You’re the one who should forgive me,” he replied sadly. “I’ve been so caught up in my own misery that I haven’t given much thought to yours.” He looked into her eyes and sighed. “Well, if all this fasting and praying doesn’t dispel the demon by Yom Kippur, I’ll write you a divorce. You deserve a husband who can…,” he hesitated while he tried to think of a delicate way to say it, “give you children.”
The words “divorce” and “children” were more effective at chilling Joheved’s insides than well water. “Non, I won’t accept a divorce, and Rabbenu Gershom decreed that no man can divorce his wife without her consent.”
She stood up and faced him. “Which I will never give you, never! I don’t want another man’s children. I want yours.” The thought of somebody else touching her intimate places made her feel ill.
She sank back down to the floor and burst into tears. But in her heart of hearts she knew that no matter how good a vintner she was, how much Talmud she learned, it would be bitter compensation for not having children. The shame would be a thousand times worse than being poor. Every time she saw another woman holding a child she’d be filled with bile, her affection for Meir eventually replaced by resentment. She clutched his legs convulsively. Ben Yochai’s magic had to work; it had to!
Meir looked down at the woman he loved weeping in his lap and stroked her hair. Imagining Joheved pregnant with another man’s child was almost more than he could bear. Curse this wretched demon that bound him and wouldn’t let him go. He sighed heavily. Maybe cursing the evil spirit was useless, but he was helpless to do anything else.
Now that he understood Joheved’s frustration, Meir felt even more reluctant to share his wife’s bed. That night he quickly volunteered when Rachel asked for a bedtime story, even though it only delayed the inevitable. But when Rachel asked for a Rosh Hashanah story, Meir’s mind went blank. Purim, Hanukkah, Passover—these were holidays with stories, not Rosh Hashanah.
“I’m sorry, Rachel, I don’t think there are any Rosh Hashanah stories in scripture,” he said. Just what he needed, another female he couldn’t satisfy.
“Are there any in the Talmud?”
There was something in the third chapter of Tractate Berachot. “I do know one from the Talmud, but it’s a ghost story. I don’t want to frighten you.”
“A ghost story!” Rachel’s face lit up. “Tell me, tell me. I’m not a baby any more—I won’t be scared.”
“All right. But be sure to tell your parents about any nightmares, so they can find three people to bless you,” he warned her. Something he had neglected to do, with disastrous results.
He made sure the bedroom shutters were latched and began speaking.
Once there was a pious man, who gave his last dinar to charity on the eve of Rosh Hashanah. His wife got angry, so he went and sat in the cemetery. There he heard the ghosts of two girls who had recently died, talking to each other.
One said: Today is Rosh Hashanah. Let’s go hear the Holy One decree what misfortune will happen in the world this new year. Her friend replied: I cannot come with you, since I am buried in reed matting. You go, and tell me what you hear.
“You see,” Meir explained, “her family was too poor to afford a proper linen shroud, and she was ashamed to be seen before the other ghosts.”
When the first ghost returned, she reported: I heard that anything planted at the time of the first rain will be destroyed by hail. So the pious man waited to plant until the second rain, and when everyone else’s crops were destroyed, his were not.
The next year, he went to the cemetery on Rosh Hashanah night again and heard the same two ghosts talking. This time the well-dressed one reported: I heard that anything planted at the time of the second rain will be blasted by a dry wind. So the man planted at the first rain, and when everyone else planted later, at the second rain, their crops were blasted and his were not.
“Your papa teaches us that the crops planted early have grown so tall and stiff by the time the second rain comes that hail breaks them, while the small flexible s
hoots are spared. However these young tender plants are most affected by the dry wind, not the older, tougher ones. Do you understand?”
“Oui, Meir,” she replied.
Then the man’s wife grew suspicious and asked him: Why is it that last year everyone’s crops were destroyed by hail and ours were not, and now everyone’s crops were blasted by wind and ours were not? So he told her the story. But a few days later, she quarreled with the mother of one of the dead girls and said to her: Shame on you for not burying your daughter in a proper shroud.
Sensing that the denouement was coming, Rachel looked up at Meir expectantly.
The next year, he went again to the cemetery and heard the two ghosts talking. But this time, when one suggested that they learn what misfortune would happen in the world that year, her friend refused, saying: We cannot, for the living have heard our words.
“Thank you, Meir.” Rachel yawned and rubbed her eyes. “That was a good story. But what happened to the pious man after that? Surely he wasn’t still poor after the two good harvests.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know; that’s all the Talmud says about him. But I suspect that even after his good fortune he never became rich, because whatever money he acquired, he gave to charity.”
There was only a week left before Rosh Hashanah when Joheved added the first drop of Ben Yochai’s potion to Meir’s evening drink. But she wasn’t able to complete the dose because, a few days before the festival, her husband took ill. All morning he was feverish, and after throwing up disner, took to his bed. He spent the rest of the day curled up under the covers, clutching his belly in pain.
By evening, Meir was nearly delirious with fever and unable to keep down any nourishment at all. Joheved, terrified that something had gone wrong with the magic elixir, spent the night by his bedside, trying in turn to spoon some soup into him and to get the chamber pot under him. She had no success at all with the former and only moderate success with the latter.
When it was light enough for her to see how terribly Meir had soiled himself during the night, Joheved realized that she would have to cast modesty aside and give her husband a thorough washing. Intending to get a bucket of warm water and some rags, she stopped when she saw the pitcher and basin outside the door.
Joheved silently gave thanks for her mother’s prudence. Sickrooms tended to attract demons, and one as foul as Meir’s even more so. When she washed her hands before crossing his threshold, any demons would be trapped in the water. The supplies Joheved needed were also waiting for her, as well as some clean bed linens (another silent thank-you to Mama).
After returning to the bedroom, she tried not to breathe in the stink as she rolled her barely conscious husband onto his stomach. This was the first time she had seen a man naked, and she kept expecting someone to walk in and scold her for her brazenness. It was impossible to clean him without looking at him, but she found that if she concentrated on a small area, it became merely skin, not much different from her own.
But when it came time to turn him over and bathe his private parts, she nearly panicked. Maybe she should get Baruch or Papa to do it? But that was ridiculous; she’d be running to them continually. She was Meir’s wife; they were one flesh, she told herself decisively. She could and should do this. Joheved put her arms under him, swallowed hard, and pushed him over.
Strange how that member, which had always felt so large and hard inside her, now appeared so humble and vulnerable. She picked up a wet cloth, wrung it out, and gingerly began to wipe clean the surrounding area. He twitched slightly when she accidentally brushed the fleshy thing, and she pulled her hand away.
Don’t be such a silly goose; do it now and get it over with. He’ll get cold if you leave him uncovered much longer.
Joheved gathered her courage and took hold of him, marveling at how this thing had once given her so much pleasure. She cleaned between all the folds, as well as around the sac below. She washed the dark curls of his lower beard and carefully patted him dry. Then she called downstairs and, while Baruch held the helpless man in his arms, she changed the bed linens.
But her work soon had to be repeated, and by the time the roosters crowed the next morning, she was washing her husband’s private parts with no more embarrassment than she felt washing his face after he vomited. Her concern had changed from what was coming out of him to what was not going into him. Even by the spoonful, he could scarcely tolerate wine or ale. All Joheved could do was give him a wet cloth to suck.
Unfortunately there was little help available from the rest of the household. Anna was ailing, and several of the students had taken ill as well. More people in Troyes were coming down sick every day, and merchants were trying to wrap up their business so they could leave immediately after the holy days. Benjamin had already left for Rheims, after desperately seeking and finally receiving, Miriam’s forgiveness.
Joheved spent another sleepless night at Meir’s side, and by morning she was so exhausted she didn’t realize it was Erev Rosh Hashanah until Miriam volunteered to lead the women’s evening service in her stead. After breakfast she struggled up the stairs and resumed her post next to the bed. Her head began to droop, and had just come to rest against the bed frame, when the door opened and there was Meir’s mother.
Resplendent in her holiday finery, Marona took a long look at the room’s occupants. Her daughter-in-law hadn’t combed her hair or changed clothes in days, and her son, with his pallor and hollow eyes, looked ghastly. She approached the bed, felt his forehead and sighed deeply.
Before Joheved knew what was happening, her mother-in-law was leading her to her old bedroom and tucking her into bed. “You get some rest now, dear, and don’t worry about Meir.” Marona’s voice was soothing. “I’ll take care of him for the time being. We don’t want you getting sick too.”
Then Marona went downstairs, where her anxious husband was deep in conversation with Salomon. “It’s not good.” She shook her head despondently. “You need to ride home and bring back as much wool swaddling as you can carry.”
After repeating the instructions to her bewildered spouse, she whispered fiercely to him, “I intend to stay here until our son is well. The Angel of Death has taken too many of our children already. I will not let him have this one!”
Joheved slept that night and the entire next day. When she felt Rachel climbing into bed with her, it took her a moment to realize that it was her sister’s bedtime. She had missed Rosh Hashanah services entirely. She jumped out of bed in a panic—what had happened to Meir?
“Shana tova (Happy New Year), Joheved.” Rachel knew what worried her older sister; she was worried herself. “I don’t think Meir is any worse than he was this morning. His mother has been tending him all day.”
“Shana tova to you too,” Joheved said, giving Rachel a quick hug. “Now it’s my turn for ‘shmira.’” She used the Hebrew word that meant both to watch and to guard.
When Joheved entered the sickroom, Marona was spooning some clear liquid into Meir. There were fragrant herbs burning in a charcoal brazier, and rather than linens, the laundry basket was half-full of used wool swaddling. Joheved eyed it with trepidation. How many times had it been emptied while she slept?
“Shana tova; I hope you slept well.” Marona tried to sound cheerful and confident. “You’re just in time. Now I can show you what to do before I go to bed.”
She lifted the covers to expose her son’s lower body, and Joheved couldn’t help but smile at Marona’s resourcefulness. Meir was swaddled as if he were an infant.
“I had your mother prepare some chicken soup, well seasoned with salt and garlic. But Meir gets only the broth, and very little of that at one time.” Marona demonstrated how she slowly allowed a few drops of broth into Meir’s mouth. Sure enough, after he swallowed, nothing came back up.
“The doctor came today, but I chased him away.” She continued to drip soup into her son. “He only wanted to bleed Meir, and I think we need to get more fluid int
o him.”
Salomon had called in the doctor, who had taken one look at Meir and concluded that the fellow would probably die before Yom Kippur anyway. Thus he was not too upset to be dismissed by the patient’s mother; he didn’t need another failure on his record.
From that night on, Joheved and Marona fell into a routine. Marona spent the daytime with Meir, while Joheved shared his nights, each feeding him broth, bathing him and changing his swaddling. At first Joheved found it difficult to feed him slowly enough, but either because she became more adept, or because Meir was getting better, she was eventually able to give him an entire bowlful without him vomiting. Yet as soon as the broth went in above, it seemed to come out below. Much of the time Meir was delirious. Only in early morning did his fever drop enough to give him some lucid moments, but this was sufficient to encourage Joheved greatly.
On Yom Kippur, Joheved spent the day at services rather than sleeping. Sure that her plot to expel the demon was exacerbating Meir’s illness, she needed to pray for forgiveness. By Sukkot, two weeks after Meir had first taken ill, the worst seemed over, and thus this traditionally joyful festival was particularly so for Salomon’s household. Yet Meir’s painful diarrhea continued, and Marona would only allow him to eat bread soaked in broth.
The day after Simchat Torah, he woke early and seemed unusually alert. He looked around and sniffed the scented air as if smelling it for the first time. “Mm—that smells nice. What it is?” Before Joheved could answer, he continued, his hands exploring the swaddling, “And what in heaven’s name have I got on?”
Joheved did her best to explain his circumstances, but he insisted, “Is this really necessary?”
“If you can ask for the chamber pot in time, then probably not,” she replied, hopeful that this might be the case. “But you’d best speak to your mother.”