Rashi's Daughters, Book III: Rachel

by Anton, Maggie

  It seemed odd that mourners dressed in black: she couldn’t help but imagine a procession of monks and nuns. Nowhere else did people wear special clothes to a funeral. But that was the custom in Toledo, and with a Jewish population of five thousand, there were enough funerals to make owning a black outfit a necessity.

  Strange also was Toledo’s custom of burying the dead in their shrouds, eschewing coffins. The first time Rachel saw a funeral procession, the corpse carried high above it, she’d stopped and stared in horror. A light drizzle caused the woman’s body to be clearly outlined under the damp shroud. But more upsetting were all the precious objects deposited in the grave. She didn’t know which was worse—women buried with jewelry or men entombed with their books. It was clear that the Jews of Toledo needed to study fewer secular subjects and more Talmud; the Sages strongly objected to such a wasteful practice.

  On the day of the full moon, with a sky so clear she didn’t need al-Zarqālī’s clock to advise her of the date, her flowers began. That night Eliezer didn’t return until it was almost dawn, and the next day, Friday, he reminded her that women in Sepharad didn’t attend synagogue while they were niddah.

  Rachel was outraged. “Even on Shabbat?” There was no point in asking why—the reason wouldn’t matter anyway.

  “That’s the tradition here.”

  “But I’m a stranger.” She smiled slyly. “How will they know I’m niddah ?”

  “If you go to services every week, without eventually appearing pregnant, someone will notice. Besides, you and I would know, and we have no right to violate their rules.”

  Eliezer’s tone of voice made it clear that he would not allow her to accompany him the next morning. So Rachel pretended to acquiesce and stayed in bed until he left for services. Once the house was quiet, she dressed and hurried to Calle del Ángel, where she didn’t have to wait long before a group of well-dressed women and children passed her, heading up the hill. None looked familiar, so she followed them.

  Toledo had at least a dozen synagogues; she could go to a different one each Shabbat when she was niddah, and no one would be the wiser—so long as she returned home before Eliezer.

  Rachel had counted on the women returning the same way after services, but when they turned to walk farther up the hill instead, she realized her mistake. They were likely dining elsewhere and wouldn’t be coming home for hours. In a panic Rachel hurried downhill, hoping against hope that she’d find her way. Confident that the women would lead her back to Calle del Ángel, she’d paid little attention to their route. And since it was the Sabbath, she carried no coins with which to pay a guide.

  It was past noon when she finally reached her lodgings, and she desperately needed to change her mokh and the wool in her sinar. Eliezer had to be home already, and he’d know she was lying if she said she’d merely been taking a walk.

  She stood in the courtyard and steeled herself for another argument with her husband. But before she felt composed, two figures stood up from one of the benches and walked in her direction. One of them was Eliezer, but the other was . . .

  Mon Dieu. What is Milo doing here?

  seventeen

  Milo stepped forward, his features etched with sympathy. “My lady Joheved sent me. Mistress Rachel, your mother is very ill and wants to see you . . . before she dies.”

  Rachel staggered backward. Milo took a moment to realize that Eliezer wasn’t going to steady her, and then reached for her arm. “Are you able to leave tomorrow?”

  Tears filling her eyes, Rachel gave Eliezer a questioning look. It would be a week until she could immerse, too long to delay. Unless he left with her, she wouldn’t even be able to hug him good-bye.

  “I must stay in Toledo.” Eliezer gazed at her pleadingly. “The winter caravan from Maghreb hasn’t arrived yet.”

  Rachel nodded weakly. Of course she had to return to Troyes, no matter how much she preferred to stay with her husband.

  Eliezer turned to Milo. “You’ll have to escort my wife for me, but I don’t see how you can stay at any inns if you are to protect both her person and her reputation.” It was unthinkable that Milo should share Rachel’s room; yet it would not be safe for her to sleep alone either.

  “My lady’s father prepared me for that eventuality. He recommended several Jewish communities on our return route where we may obtain hospitality, especially on the Sabbath, and I have a list of convents as well.”

  “Convents?” Rachel’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “Oui. Most have guest quarters for ladies. Since all good Christians are fasting from meat for Lent, you needn’t worry about forbidden foods.”

  “I see your return was carefully planned,” Eliezer said, buffeted with conflicting feelings.

  While he didn’t like his wife traveling alone with the handsome young steward, he consoled himself that Milo was too smitten with Joheved to attempt to seduce her sister. And though he would greatly miss Rachel’s sweet company, he felt a guilty relief at being able to spend clear nights at the observatory without feeling he was neglecting his wife. Now when Shavuot arrived and he finally had to leave, he and Abraham bar Hiyya might have sufficient results from their surveillance of the heavens to prove that Ptolemy’s planetary orbits were incorrect.

  Bundled in furs, Rachel left with Milo early the next morning. The palfrey Eudes bequeathed her had no trouble keeping up with Milo’s mount, and the two travelers covered far more ground each day than Rachel and Eliezer had done in the other direction. There was no difficulty finding Jews to house them in Sepharad and Provence, but as they rode further into Aquitaine, Rachel found herself sleeping with nuns as well.

  Oddly enough there were more clerics than Jews on the road, so many that often every table at a roadside inn was occupied when Rachel and Milo arrived for disner. Between the stink of cooked fish and a roomful of men who never bathed, Rachel was in no mood to tarry.

  “In all my travels, I’ve never seen such a multitude of churchmen, and their retainers, on the move,” Rachel complained when they were finally seated.

  “It was just as crowded on my way to Toledo,” he said. “Pope Urban has called a church council to meet at Piacenza in early March.”

  “It must be important.”

  Milo shrugged. “I’ve shared all my meals with men going to Piacenza, clerics and laymen, and none expect anything unusual—King Henry’s wife will complain about his affairs, various heresies will be condemned, the false pope Clement and his supporters will be denounced, and Urban will again prohibit any payment to priests for baptisms or burials. The most interesting item on the agenda should be the ambassadors from King Philip, who will attempt to appeal his excommunication for marrying Bertrade.”

  Rachel didn’t find these topics remotely interesting. She helped herself to more stew and retreated into her own thoughts. Joheved wouldn’t have sent Milo all this distance unless Mama was seriously ill. Or was this just another task to take Milo away from Ramerupt? What if the Angel of Death comes for Mama before I get home?

  Rachel was pondering whether she’d be more relieved or disappointed to miss her mother’s funeral, when Milo stood up. “It’s starting to snow,” he said. “We’d better leave if we want our horses saddled without delay.”

  They watched the sky anxiously as they rode north, dreading the sudden darkening that would be a blizzard’s first warning. “Perhaps we should head for Limoges instead of Clermont?” Milo suggested.

  “Absolutely not.” Rachel shuddered. “When some evil liar of a monk accused the Jews there of plotting with Saracens to destroy some church in Jerusalem, the bishop of Limoges insisted his Jews convert, and then expelled them when they wouldn’t.”

  “The convent of Aubeterre is just outside Clermont,” Milo said. “We’ll stop there if we can’t make the city before dark.”

  He wisely said nothing of the rumors surrounding the Church of the Holy Sepulchre’s destruction. Saracens had physically razed the structure, but some believed tha
t Frankish Jews had instigated it. Milo had heard that the Jews of Orléans were responsible. But that was over fifty years ago. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre had been rebuilt and pilgrims continued to worship there.

  “Milo, I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, coming all the way to Toledo to bring me home safely.” Rachel was glad to change the topic. “You have done my sister another great service.”

  His expression became wary. “I am your sister’s steward: it is my responsibility to fulfill her requests.”

  “We both know your devotion goes beyond mere service.”

  “If you are trying to trick me into breaking my vow, you won’t succeed.” He gave her an icy stare.

  “I’m sorry, Milo. I had no intention of testing you.” She was instantly contrite. “I was so worried about my mother that I forgot.”

  To ease his concerns, she dropped the subject. “I hope it doesn’t snow too heavily.” Tomorrow was Friday and she’d rather not spend the Sabbath in a nunnery.

  Neither rain nor snow fell as they headed north, but the slush and mud slowed the horses sufficiently that Rachel had no choice but to stop in Chapes the following Friday afternoon. There she seethed with frustration at being so close to Troyes yet unable to reach the city until Sunday.

  But Milo wasn’t bound by Jewish Law.

  “Your horse is stronger than mine,” she urged him. “You must ride on to Troyes and let my family know I’m almost home.”

  “I’ll get there as fast as I can,” he promised. “And then I’ll hurry back to bring you the news.”

  Rachel fretted out an anxious Shabbat, consoled only by the knowledge that her mare would be well rested for the final leg of the journey. Her hosts were lighting the lamps when she heard the sound of horse’s hooves outside. She took one step toward the door when it opened, and Milo’s relieved visage was illuminated.

  He addressed Rachel before she could ask the dreaded question. “Your mother is very weak, but she still lives.”

  Rachel sank back into her seat, tears of gratitude spilling down her cheeks. The next morning she ate hastily but refused to rush her morning prayers, including a lengthy plea for her mother’s health. She and Milo were halfway to Troyes when rain began to fall and the horses’ pace slowed on the muddy road. It seemed like hours before she could hear the city’s bells chiming noon in the distance, and her stomach growled in complaint at the meal she was missing.

  It was still raining when they entered the city, so Rachel was not alarmed to find her family’s courtyard uninhabited. She trudged into her parents’ kitchen and threw off her dripping cloak.

  “Mon Dieu!” one of the new maidservants shrieked, staring at Rachel as if she’d seen a ghost.

  The other girl grabbed Rachel’s sleeve to prevent her from leaving the kitchen. “What a time to return,” she muttered.

  Rachel shook her off and, terrified of what she would find there, bolted for her mother’s sickroom—which was empty.

  “Where is she?” Rachel screamed at the cowering maids.

  Milo handed Rachel her cloak. “The servants say she is being buried as we speak. If you hurry you can reach the cemetery in time. I must return to Ramerupt to manage things while my lord and lady are mourning here.”

  Rachel was too numb with shock to protest as Milo propelled her outside. Mama dead? It wasn’t possible. Didn’t Milo see her alive yesterday? Rachel railed at the heavens: couldn’t the Angel of Death have waited just one more day?

  The streets in the Jewish Quarter were empty, every shutter closed. It couldn’t be the rain; they must be at Mama’s funeral. Mama, who had no money to finance trading journeys or make large donations to charity; who didn’t curry favor with the wealthy and powerful women in the community. Quiet, pious Mama who never left home except to attend services and shop for food. Yet where else could everyone have gone?

  Rachel splashed through the muddy streets, grateful she was wearing her traveling clothes. Mon Dieu—her clothes. She must do kriah and tear them as a sign of her grief. Papa taught that a mourner who doesn’t do kriah is punished with death. She ducked into a doorway, trying to remember the Baraita from Tractate Moed Katan that explained how a woman did kriah for a parent.

  For all dead, even if he has ten shirts on, he tears only the outer one. For his father and mother, he does kriah on them all . . . both a man and a woman. Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar says: A woman tears her chemise first and turns it backwards; then she tears her outer garment.

  Outdoors in the rain, Rachel had no intention of following Shimon ben Elazar, especially since the Sages in Moed Katan also taught:For all the dead, he may baste the tear after shiva and sew completely after sheloshim; but for his father and mother, he may baste after sheloshim, but may never sew it completely. However, a woman may baste immediately (after the burial) for her modesty.

  Clearly this disagreed with Shimon ben Elazar, because a woman whose torn chemise was hidden wouldn’t need to baste her clothes immediately to protect her modesty. It was also clear that Rachel couldn’t arrive at her mother’s burial with her clothes intact. She was already standing, the posture Jewish Law required for performing kriah, so she reached for her bliaut’s neckline, took a deep breath, and ripped it down as far as she could.

  The noise shocked her with its destruction, and Rachel staggered at the knowledge that, just as this cloth had been torn apart and would never be repaired, so had her mother been torn forever from her life. Tears spilling down her cheeks, she tore her chemise, then wrapped her cloak tightly around her and raced up rue de la Cité toward the Près Gate that led to the Jewish cemetery.

  Her shoes and hose were soaked by the time she reached the crowd, and she sobbed with relief that they were still praying. Her cries were loud enough that those in the back twisted around in curiosity, and immediately a passage formed for her. Between her tears and the rain, she could hardly see, and the next thing she knew her son, Shemiah, was leading her to the graveside.

  Her arrival interrupted the heart of the funeral service, the Justification of Judgment. The hazzan hesitated in confusion and remained silent as she sank weeping into her father’s arms, Miriam and Joheved quickly joining the embrace. The four of them wept together until Papa finally looked up and realized everyone was waiting.

  With the newcomer one of the three principle mourners, the hazzan nodded in unspoken understanding and started over. He turned to face Jerusalem, and Rachel choked back sobs to join him, her family, and all the community in reciting the verses from Deuteronomy that affirmed the rightness of the Creator’s disposition of humanity.

  He is our Rock, His work is perfect; for all His ways are judgment; a God of truth and without iniquity, right and just is He . . . Great in counsel and mighty in deeds, Your eyes are open to all the ways of men . . .

  The mourners would say this prayer three times a day during shiva, the first seven days of mourning.

  As the funeral cortege prepared to exit the cemetery, Rachel reached down, snatched a handful of mud and grass, inhaled its earthy odor, and threw it over her shoulders while reciting the words from Psalms: “They shall flourish like grass of the field.

  Remember that we are dust.”

  When everyone attending the funeral had done the same, Mama’s soul would be permitted to leave her body yet prevented from returning home with the mourners. According to Tractate Sanhedrin, those buried during a rainstorm are assured atonement, and thus Rachel felt confident that Mama, who had few sins to atone for, would quickly find peace in Gan Eden.

  Inside the courtyard, bowls of water were set out for the community to wash their hands, another precaution against ruchot entering the house. Mourners were forbidden to wear shoes, and Rachel thankfully left her muddy boots at the door next to her sisters’. She may have missed being there when Mama took her last breath, but at least she had made it back for the burial.

  It seemed impossible that everyone attending the funeral could fit in the house, but no one dared return ho
me directly from the cemetery, because of the ruchot that would follow them. So the visitors squeezed into Salomon’s to eat and stay a while, waiting for the ruchot to give up and leave. They watched in silence as Rivka’s daughters ate their meal of consolation, dishes prepared by the community since mourners are forbidden to eat their own food.

  Rachel hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but she had no appetite. Still she emulated Joheved and Miriam when each took one of the boiled eggs. Papa once explained that mourners eat eggs after a funeral because eggs are round and have no mouth—round just as everything comes around in life, and no mouth just as mourners are quiet, accepting the Holy One’s judgment.

  Rachel struggled to choke down her egg, after which Miriam reached over to embrace her. “I’m so glad you are home.” Jews learn from Job that no one addresses mourners until they speak first, so this was the signal the community was waiting for. Now words of consolation flowed.

  It was well past sunset, with her children tucked into bed, before Rachel was finally able to be alone with her sisters. Upstairs in their old bedroom, Rivka’s three daughters were not quite ready to share their feelings about her death, but there were other, less-difficult, subjects to talk about.

  “I left the very day Milo found me in Toledo.” Tears of frustration trailed down Rachel’s cheeks. “But I still couldn’t get here before Mama died. The roads were terrible, and of course I couldn’t travel on Shabbat.”

  “We understand,” Miriam said soothingly. “Milo told us.”

  Rachel turned to her older sister. “You must do something to reward him, Joheved. Eliezer wasn’t happy about me traveling alone with him, but despite all his opportunities Milo never attempted any advances on my person. And he always found us a safe place to stay.”