by Maggie Anton
Aunt Sarah assured her that all was well. In fact, Miriam whispered to her—unwilling to provoke the Evil Eye—her progress was quite typical. When Joheved had gotten up that morning, she’d felt nothing unusual. But after using the chamber pot, she discovered liquid still dripping down her legs.
Miriam, and then Sarah, confirmed that her water had broken. Joheved insisted that she felt fine, but they sent her back to bed without breakfast. Then the household sprang into action, except for her. Baruch rode to Ramerupt to get Meir’s mother, Salomon hurried to the synagogue to bring home a Torah scroll, and the yeshiva students prepared for a day, or days, of prayers on her behalf.
Meir carefully hung his tefillin at the head of the bed, and then, to Joheved’s chagrin, he went out and returned with her own tefillin, which he silently arranged next to his.
“How long have you known?” she asked, too ashamed to look at him. No wonder he’d been so suspicious last summer.
“Oh, quite some time,” he replied nonchalantly. He didn’t want her to worry, not now. “Rachel doesn’t always close the door behind her when she comes down in the morning.”
“You don’t mind?” she asked anxiously, unable to accept what his actions implied.
“Of course not; every mitzvah you perform is to your credit.” Couldn’t he say something more reassuring than that? Mon Dieu, this might be the last conversation he’d ever have with her. Stop thinking like that! Don’t give Satan, the Accuser, an opening.
Meir fought to overcome his panic, and when he felt calmer, he took his wife’s hand and gazed into those incredibly blue eyes. “Joheved, I am proud to be married to such a righteous woman.
Once Salomon’s tefillin joined the other two pairs, Rivka ushered her son-in-law out. Then she unwrapped Ben Yochai’s birth amulet. It was a small scroll, inscribed with the names Sanvi, Sansanvi and Semangelaf, the three angels dispatched to capture Lillit. The three were urged to protect, help, deliver, save and rescue Joheved, daughter of Rivka, from all who seek her harm. This was followed by Psalm 126:
Adonai will do great things for us and we shall rejoice.
Restore our fortunes, Adonai, like the rivers of the Negev.
They who sow in tears shall reap with songs of joy.
Though he goes along weeping, carrying a seed-bag
He shall come back with songs of joy, carrying his sheaves.
Rivka attached the amulet to the footboard, while Rachel drew a circle in chalk around the bed. Then, with great concentration, Rachel chalked the magical inscription, “Sanvi, Sansanvi and Semangelaf, Adam and Eve, barring Lillit,” on the door and walls, rubbing out and meticulously redrawing any word that didn’t meet her standards. By the time she was done, Joheved was feeling occasional mild cramps, but nothing that justified the fuss everyone was making.
Still, she let them dress her in one of Meir’s chemises, to share his strength, and his sword, normally stored inside his chest near the bed, now lay on top, ready for battle. She drank Aunt Sarah’s medicinal teas and inhaled the sweet herbs burning on the brazier. Surrounded by her female relatives, all babbling excitedly, it was rather like a party.
But that had been hours ago and now it was nearly midnight. Joheved, her hair loose and disheveled, sweat dripping down her body in the warm room, prayed that she would never have to suffer like this again. Everyone agreed that the first child’s birth hurt the most. If she could endure this one, the others would be easier. She tensed and clutched Rivka’s hand as the next contraction gripped her, but the pain was accompanied by a new feeling, an urge to push so strong that she was forced to obey it.
“Rachel, go tell Meir that the child is nearly ready to be born.” At Joheved’s insistence, Aunt Sarah sent Rachel downstairs regularly with reports. “All right, Joheved, let’s get you onto the birthing stool.”
The bottomless chair was not particularly comfortable, and with the next urge to push, Joheved was unpleasantly reminded of using the privy, only worse. Her labor pains became unremitting; every push was torture, made bearable only by the knowledge that each one brought her suffering closer to its finish. Finally there was a burst of agony, and Joheved pushed with a strength so great that it seemed to come from outside her.
“Keep pushing, keep pushing,” Miriam urged her on, her voice high with excitement. “The head is coming now, I see dark hair.”
Joheved felt as though her bones were breaking, and the scream she had struggled so long to suppress tore from her throat. Then suddenly, it was over. Another urge to push came, but the pain was nothing compared to her previous effort.
“The head is out now; we’re almost there,” Aunt Sarah said, standing behind Miriam and letting her apprentice handle this so far uneventful birth. “Here come the shoulders.”
Joheved could feel the baby being pulled from her and then the joyous cacophony began. “It’s a boy! A boy! You have a son! Mazel Tov!” The baby let out a cry and the room was again filled with happy chatter; Rivka was sobbing and smiling simultaneously.
The new mother opened her eyes just wide enough to view her naked, squirming child, loudly protesting against being evicted from his warm abode, then she sank back against the stool. The pain was gone; the bone-wrenching agony was finally over. Joheved could barely speak, but she managed to make the blessing, “Baruch ata Adonai…Who is good and does good.”
She could hear Rachel shouting the news to those below, and she wished she could be there to enjoy her husband’s reactions, to hear him make the same blessing a parent traditionally makes at the birth of a son. She wanted to lie down again, but she wasn’t done. Another two pushes for the afterbirth, and then she felt gentle hands applying a soothing balm to the mouth of her womb.
Aunt Sarah had been more than amazed when Marona arrived with the alkanet salve in addition to an armful of ferns. “It’s a miracle,” she said, giving the woman a grateful hug. “I’d given up hope of ever finding alkanet bushes around here.”
“We have some growing near our manor,” Marona explained. “There’s nothing better for healing the inevitable wounds of childbirth, especially a woman’s first childbirth.” She smiled fondly at Joheved.
Downstairs, Meir and Salomon were being enthusiastically congratulated. Both shed tears and Meir found it difficult to finish the blessing without choking up. When Joheved screamed, he’d jumped up and started towards the stairs, but then he’d stopped, terrified, at the bottom step. For an interminable instant he was convinced the worst had happened, but then there was Rachel, grinning widely, yelling that he had a son. Before he knew it, he’d picked her up and was swinging her around the room. Then Salomon did the same.
Now, after what seemed like an eternity, Rivka was leading him upstairs to see his wife and new son. He took a deep breath outside the door and, recalling his sister, nervously stepped inside. All the women had gone except his mother, who was arranging fern fronds on the floor. She gave him a fierce hug and then joined Rivka in bidding him good night.
The scene before him could not have been more different from his last visit to a lying-in room. Joheved, her hair neatly braided, was sitting up in their bed, surrounded by cushions. At her breast, propped up by one of those cushions, was their new son, quietly enjoying his first meal.
Meir could feel the tears running down his cheeks. He tried to absorb everything before him, so he could keep this memory like a treasure, to take out and cherish whenever he wanted.
“Oh, Meir, isn’t he beautiful?” Joheved welcomed him. “Your mother says he looks just like you did when you were born.”
Meir approached slowly, reluctant to disturb the baby’s contentment. Nearly covered with swaddling, only the infant’s small face and a shock of black hair could be seen. “I think you look beautiful,” he replied, emphasizing the “you.”
He sat down just as the bells of Matins begin to chime. Tonight and every night until the boy’s circumcision, Meir was determined to stay up studying Torah in this room. A healthy birth by n
o means ended the need for protection from the forces of evil; for the seven days preceding the brit, mother and child were in great danger. From this moment on, until the boy entered into the covenant of Abraham, neither he nor Joheved would be left alone.
“Are you all right? I mean are you in pain or do you need anything?” Meir had heard her scream in agony not so long ago, yet she looked perfectly fine now.
“I’m mostly tired, that’s all.” It was odd, but even though Joheved knew she had been in terrible pain earlier, now it was only a vague memory, something she knew had happened to her but could no longer feel. “The baby’s stopped sucking; would you like to hold him?” She gently offered Meir the sleeping form.
He gingerly picked up his new son. The child was so small, he fit perfectly between his father’s palm and elbow. Meir was marveling at the miracle in his arms when there was a soft knock on the door. Meir didn’t want to say anything for fear of waking the baby, but Joheved called out for the visitor to enter.
Salomon walked quickly to where Meir sat, his eyes not leaving the babe for an instant. “I don’t want to disturb you, but I can’t sleep until I’ve seen my grandson.”
With practiced ease Salomon lifted the child and held him up to the light. “Baruch ata Adonai…Shehecheyanu,…Who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season.” He slowly recited the traditional prayer of thanksgiving, his voice choked with emotion.
Then he handed the bundle back to Joheved and kissed her hand. “Thank you for this precious gift. I’ll be back before dawn, Meir, so you can get some sleep.”
Joheved watched her father close the door behind him, and her happiness faded. He hadn’t asked about her at all; he had eyes only for his new grandson. Well, what did she expect? How many years had he been waiting for a male offspring?
But then she felt Meir staring at her, and when their eyes met, she knew that she was uppermost in his thoughts. His loving expression warmed her like a ray of sunshine that suddenly breaks through a cloudy sky.
“Shall we name him Salomon?” Meir whispered. A boy was named publicly at his circumcision, and even his parents never mentioned the chosen name until then. If Lillit, heaven forbid, should come looking for the child, he would be harder to find without a name.
“How about Samuel?” Joheved countered, reluctant to admit that she’d rather not use the name Salomon.
“My sister’s little boy is named Samuel.” Meir shook his head; the thought of a baby named Samuel prompted too many painful memories. “Besides, I think we should use a name from your side of the family. He is your parents’ first grandchild.”
“All right then, what do you think of Isaac?” She looked down at the baby and smiled. “That was my grandfather’s name.” Isaac was also the name of Grandmama Leah’s father; it would be a way to remember and honor her too.
“Maybe.” Meir nodded his approval, not wanting to say the chosen name out loud. Then he grinned at her. She was alive, the baby was alive—it was a miracle! “Then again, we could call him Issachar.” She returned his smile and closed her eyes.
For a while Meir sat there, watching her and the baby, asleep together in the large bed. Then he remembered he had work to do. He picked up his text and began to study.
The next six days passed uneventfully. Joheved’s milk came in, her bleeding tapered off and she remained free from fever. The baby sucked well and dirtied what seemed an inordinate amount of wool swaddling as a result. Downstairs, the kitchen was the hub of tremendous activity, the air saturated with the most delectable odors as Rivka prepared for the feast they were giving that evening in anticipation of her grandson’s Brit Milah.
Upstairs, Salomon sat by his daughter’s bed and worked on his kuntres. Mother and son were at their most vulnerable the day before the brit, but tomorrow the danger would pass. Right now Salomon needed to relieve himself. Meir, who should have been back already, had fallen asleep downstairs while listening to his students recite their lessons, and they had left him undisturbed. Salomon finally called Rivka upstairs so he could use the privy.
On his way back to the house, Sarah accosted him. “Brother, I need to talk with you,” she said soberly. “We have a problem.”
The look of alarm on Salomon’s face revealed that he had misunderstood her. “Don’t worry, Joheved and the child are fine,” she added. “This concerns another matter.”
“Can’t it wait until after the brit?” he asked, annoyance replacing relief. Rivka wouldn’t like being kept away from the kitchen.
“No, it can’t.” She leaned towards him and lowered her voice. “And we need to speak privately.”
“Very well, let’s go down to the cellar.”
Sarah followed him downstairs, where, to his consternation, they were soon joined by Baruch, Anna, Miriam, and the parchment maker’s daughter, now Sarah’s new maidservant.
“I thought you wanted to speak privately?” he said.
If Salomon was peeved now, it was nothing compared to how he felt once Sarah explained that her maidservant, Catharina, had grown disillusioned with worshipping the hanged one and wanted to convert. He had no idea why all these people had to be here with her, but he suspected rightly that they had chosen this moment to tell him because they hoped he’d be too happily occupied with his grandson’s Brit Milah to refuse.
He gazed from one serious face to another and asked, “Do you understand the consequences of this act?”
Salomon had expected Sarah to answer him and was taken aback when Catharina replied solemnly, “I know that I shall be a Jew and not a Christian, and that at the New Year, God will judge me, and if I am worthy, forgive my sins.”
He turned and warned her, “If I do this, you cannot remain in Troyes—it would be too dangerous, both for you and for us.”
“Nothing would please me more than to leave this city.” She spoke with unusual vehemence. “And the sooner, the better.”
“There’s not really any hurry,” Miriam interrupted Catharina by taking her arm. No one should think this had been a hasty decision. “When Papa hears us out, I’m sure he will agree.”
“Hears us out?” Salomon looked around the room and scowled. “Does everyone here have something to say?”
Baruch explained how Catharina had become friends with Anna, how their talks had caused her to reject her old religion. Sarah then verified that her maidservant knew the things a Jewish woman needed to know. But Anna made the clinching argument.
“I have spoken with Uncle Samson,” she announced proudly. “If Catharina converts, he will marry her and take her to live in Mayence. Nobody could possibly know her there.”
“I see you have given this much thought,” Salomon said slowly, stroking his beard. It was a perilous decision, but he could not deny a conversion to someone who truly desired to become a Jew, just because it entailed risk.
“Please, Papa,” Miriam beseeched him. “I know Catharina is sincere. And she will make a good mother for little Jacob.”
“Here is my ruling,” he said. “Until Yom Kippur is over, no one speaks of this matter to anyone but our family. Catharina remains one of the Notzrim in every way. The servants must suspect nothing.” He stared sternly at the group surrounding him. “Then, if Catharina still wishes to join the Children of Israel at Sukkot, I will convert her and perform the marriage. Afterwards, she and Samson must leave the city. Do you agree?”
Catharina nodded, too overcome to speak.
“Merci, Papa.” Miriam hugged him. She couldn’t wait to tell Joheved the wonderful news.
Baruch clasped his hand warmly. “Merci, Master, on behalf of my wife’s uncle as well.”
“Merci, Brother,” Sarah said teasingly. “At least you let me keep my maidservant until Sukkot.”
The next morning saw Salomon’s household in the kind of joyous tumult they hadn’t experienced since Joheved’s wedding. The previous night, Joheved had stayed indoors with Rivka and an ever-changing group of women visitors while eve
ryone else feasted in the courtyard and drank the vin diable, now called Vin Champagne. But today, after the ceremony, Meir and his father would host another banquet, and she would finally be free to go outside and celebrate with the others.
Joheved and Meir wore their nuptial finery, and she was relieved to see that she could still buckle the matching girdle. Even the baby was dressed in sumptuous garments. Rivka had saved a small amount of fabric from Joheved’s wedding bliaut, hoping to use it for just such an occasion, and her first grandson now wore a fine linen chemise, a blue silk mantle and a tiny ornamented hat.
The occupants of the synagogue’s women’s gallery could not restrain their delight at their community’s newest member, clothed like a miniature bridegroom. But all their enthusiastic chatter couldn’t take Joheved’s mind off the fact that very soon, her precious baby would have his blood shed in front of her very eyes.
Suddenly it was time. With great reluctance Joheved made her way downstairs, where Meir was waiting for her. Recently there had been complaints that it was not appropriate for a beautifully dressed young woman to sit among the men, but most people considered it cruel to remove the newborn from his mother’s arms at a time when he would most need her comfort. Salomon saw no reason to change things. Baby boys in Troyes had been circumcised on their mother’s laps for as long as anyone could remember, and that’s the way it would remain.
Meir assisted his wife to the center of the main floor, where two thrones were covered with fine cloth. One was for Elijah the Prophet, whose legend said he’d been rewarded for his zealous defense of circumcision with the promise that he would attend every one. The other was for Joheved, who would sit there holding her son while the ritual was performed.