Rashi's Daughters, Book III: Rachel

by Anton, Maggie

  But his courtyard remained undisturbed, and eventually the fighting diminished. Yet night brought no sleep for Elazar and his wife, who dared not go outside even to get water. Only with the silence of dawn did he open his door to admit his wife’s brother, whose family shared the courtyard with them.

  First he embraced his sister, then Elazar. “Praised be the Holy One. Our enemies are scattered. Bishop Johann’s men beat them back.”

  Elazar’s wife wept with relief. “Praised be His Holy Name.”

  “But eleven Jews didn’t get home in time and were killed,” he said. “The bishop was outraged. He arrested the worst offenders and cut off their hands as a warning that he would not tolerate violence against any of his townspeople.”

  “The mobs are gone?” Elazar whispered, not quite believing what he’d just heard.

  “When they saw that they could not prevail against Johann’s army, they rode off.”

  “Which way did they go?” A horrible thought occurred to Elazar, whose son was studying at the yeshiva in Worms.

  Fear clouded the man’s face. “To the north.”

  Elazar threw on his mantle and grabbed his sword. “If I stay off the King’s Highway, I can ride to Worms without being seen, warn the community, and bring my son home.”

  As the screams outside his courtyard grew louder, Elisha wished with all his heart to be in Troyes with Giuseppe and Judah, anywhere but Worms.

  He’d made a terrible mistake. When news came of the deaths in Speyer, the Jews of Worms couldn’t decide what to do. Some wanted to remain barricaded at home and let the authorities protect them. Others said they should accept the bishop’s offer of sanctuary in his palace. And thus the Jewish community divided into two groups.

  That was my first error, Elisha thought bitterly. His family should have gone with the bishop. Then came the second, trusting the burghers. His Edomite neighbors had sounded confident, assuring him that they would protect his family—once he’d left his valuables with them, for safekeeping. Oh what hollow, deceitful promises.

  Soon the marauders were at the city gates, thousands of them, more than anyone expected. They carried a corpse through the city shouting, “See what the Jews did to our fellow. They boiled him and poured the water in our wells to poison us.”

  When the burghers heard this, anyone capable of wearing a sword gathered, bellowing in outrage, “It is time to avenge our Savior, whom their ancestors killed. Let not one of them escape, not even a suckling in its crib!”

  Now, with the enemy at Elisha’s gate, the neighbors who swore to safeguard his family had disappeared. Elisha had no doubt what would happen next; he’d peeked out an upstairs window once and that was enough. Transfixed by the sight, he watched in anguish as a young family across the road was slain in its own home. First the husband’s body, blood flowing from multiple wounds, was thrown into the dirt. Then his wife was dragged out by her hair, her screams cut short by a sword driven into her chest. Last came their two children, impaled together on a spear, their small limbs still twitching. But there was another horror to be endured as the murderers proceeded to strip the bodies naked and drag them away. Elisha closed his eyes and staggered away from the shutters. Cries reverberated in his ears from other streets as he vomited into the chamber pot.

  Elisha fought back his nausea and stood up, fortitude coursing through him. His family wasn’t going to be slaughtered like sheep. “Better we should die by the Holy One’s hand rather than by the hands of His enemies,” he told his terrified wife.

  “Please, Elisha, not that,” she begged him, shaking with fright. “Tell the heretics that we’ll accept the Crucified One. Then they’ll leave us in peace.”

  “What?” he shouted. “Exchange the Holy One’s unity for a degraded idol? Deny Him and dishonor His Divine Name? How can you consider such a sin when one stroke will ensure our place in Gan Eden?”

  His wife shrank back and began to weep. “Then kill me first. I cannot bear to see our children slain.”

  They shut the two older children in another room. Then Elisha chose the largest, strongest knife from the kitchen and, tears streaming down his cheeks, began to sharpen it. A knife for kosher slaughter must have no nicks or imperfections that might delay the animal’s death. His wife never took her eyes off him, her mouth moving in silent prayer. Finally he was satisfied that the blade was perfectly honed. He looked up at his wife and they stared into each other’s eyes, gathering the strength they needed. Finally she nodded imperceptibly.

  “Please forgive the sin I’m about to commit against you, as well as the sins I’ve committed against you in the past.” He sniffed back tears. “I could have been a better husband.”

  “I forgive all your sins against me,” she whispered, her voice so hoarse he could barely hear her. “You were a fine husband.”

  She walked over and kissed his forehead, after which she continued to the cradle and picked up their infant son. “I would like to die with the baby in my arms.”

  Then she laid her head on the kitchen table and pulled her hair back, exposing her neck. They stared silently at each other for what seemed like hours; then she closed her eyes and, very slowly and deliberately, said the Shema. “Hear O Israel, Adonai is our God, Adonai is One.”

  Elisha knew what she wanted him to do, and as she drew out the final word, he forced his trembling hand to steady and slit her throat; then, before the baby could slip to the floor, he took the knife to his son’s throat as well.

  As if in a dream, Elisha watched his wife’s and child’s blood pool on the floor. His senses seemed extraordinarily acute: he felt his heart pounding like thunder inside him, tasted the tears and sweat mingling on his lips, and inhaled the sour stink of vomit that clung to his sleeve. Outside, the shouts and screams were reaching a crescendo.

  Smash! The clamor at his front door brought Elisha out of his trance. Quickly, he must get to his children before the door gave way. He grabbed the knife, wiped it on his sleeve and checked the edge. Thank Heaven it was still perfect.

  With a final glance at his wife and child, he entered the room where young Judah and little Miriam cowered in the corner.

  “Papa.” The girl rushed into his arms. “What’s happening? Why are you crying?”

  What possible explanation could he give? “It’s time for us to join our saintly ancestors in Gan Eden.”

  And which child to sacrifice first?

  Nine-year-old Judah must have realized what was going on, because he hurriedly pushed a chest against the closed door. “I understand, Papa. I won’t cry.”

  “Hurry now. Help me with your sister.” Elisha kept the knife hidden behind his back.

  “Close your eyes, Miriam, and say your bedtime Shema,” Judah urged her. “Going to Gan Eden is like going to sleep.”

  To Elisha’s relief, his daughter complied after he kissed her good night. When she lay bleeding on the sheets, he turned to his son, who was staring with wide eyes and quaking with fear. Judah was big for his age, and if he bolted, Elisha would never be able to catch him in time.

  “Come sit with me, Judah, and we’ll say the Shema together,” he said gently. He was suddenly very tired.

  Judah looked franticly around the room, desperate for an escape, but then he took a deep breath and stepped toward his father. Halfway there, his knees buckled and Elisha rushed to keep him from falling. They stood together, arms supporting each other, until Elisha heard the unmistakable sounds of wood splintering in the outer room.

  Trembling violently, Judah climbed onto the bed next to his sister and tried to hold his head steady over the edge as he recited the Shema. Elisha silenced his son’s final “one” with a quick, sure cut, and sank down beside him.

  As ax blades shattered the door in front of him, Elisha quailed at the grief his beloved Giuseppe would suffer. “Don’t worry, dear Giuseppe. We’ll see each other again in Gan Eden.” Then he affirmed his faith in the One Eternal God and plunged the bloody blade into his chest.
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  twenty

  His voice shaking, Samson turned to Rabbi Kalonymus, leader of Mayence’s Jewish community. “Rabbenu, I was not born into the House of Jacob. If I die sanctifying the Holy Name, what will be my lot?” Trapped inside Bishop Rothard’s palace with his family and other Jews fleeing Count Emicho’s bloodthirsty minions, Samson gripped the sword at his belt.

  The rabbi laid his hand on Samson’s arm. “You shall sit with us and the rest of the true converts in our circle in Gan Eden, along with Abraham Avinu, the first convert.”

  Upon hearing this, Samson slammed his fist against the stone wall, cracking the mortar in several places. “I will not stretch out my neck and be slaughtered like an ox. I intend to die like my namesake, taking the enemy along with me.”

  There were murmurs of approval until one of the elders shouted, “That’s fine for you, a man trained in arms. But what about the rest of us? The bishop may have intended to shelter us in his stronghold, but now there are thousands of defiant soldiers and burghers attacking his gate. The Holy One has decreed against us; we cannot be saved.”

  “Oh, Almighty One!” a woman cried out. “Where are all Your miracles our fathers told us about? Did You not bring us up from Egypt?” She broke down weeping. “And now You leave us in the power of our enemies, that they may destroy us.”

  The crowd quieted as Rabbi Kalonymus began to speak. “Despite the bribes we paid, the burghers have betrayed us and opened the city gates for Count Emicho and his army, numerous as sand on the seashore. Yet we will wholeheartedly defend, to the death if necessary, the Holy Awesome Name. Don your shields and gird your weapons, young and old, and join me in battle.”

  “Papa, why do the burghers hate us so?” Jacob asked Samson, his voice barely audible over the clanking swords being drawn.

  Samson, still mystified at the anger directed at him and Eliezer when they brought grain for the starving townsfolk, shook his head sadly. “I don’t know.”

  The Italian rabbi Amnon, visiting his sister for Shavuot, raised his sword high. “Have courage. Our enemies kill us for merely a moment, and with the sword, the easiest of the four deaths. Then we will dwell in Gan Eden forever.”

  Emicho’s men broke through into the palace courtyard on the Third of Sivan, the date that long ago Moses told the Children of Israel, “Be ready for the third day,” so they would be pure to receive the Ten Commandments. Bishop Rothard’s soldiers gaped at the advancing mob and fled.

  Crying out in one voice, “Hear O Israel, Adonai is our God; Adonai is One!” the Jews rushed their attackers. The courtyard echoed with the clang of metal against metal, shouts of battle lust, and, soon, shrieks of the dying and wounded.

  “Protect Catharina and the children,” Samson called to his son Jacob. Then he tucked his shield into position and, his heart racing, looked eagerly to where he could inflict the greatest injury.

  Most of the older Jews, plus some of the women, had not hung back but flung themselves at the marauders. Armed only with knives, they did what damage they could, but even if each managed to bring down several of the enemy before he fell, there would still be thousands outside to replace them.

  Hacking his way through the melee, Samson worked his way toward the gate. Once he found a fortified position, he could cut down his foes as they entered. A trail of bodies followed in his wake, as his long arm severed limbs of those imprudent enough to raise a sword against him. Blood surged through his veins as his memory was flooded with battles fought against the Mongols in his youth. Then too he had been one against many.

  Stay back, he reminded himself. Don’t continue assaulting one man until he’s dead, disable him quickly and move on to the next.

  The piles of twitching, moaning bodies grew around him, and still the enemy poured through the gate, too many out of reach of his deadly sword. There seemed no end to the devils. He looked up, thanking his lucky stars for the height that allowed him to see over everyone else.

  There were still pockets of fighting, but much of the courtyard resembled a slaughterhouse. Corpses lay everywhere, clouds of flies buzzing around those killed first. Samson felt a triumphant thrill that many were Emicho’s soldiers, but his heart sank as he recognized the women and children among them.

  Catharina! Where was Catharina?

  He spotted his tall redheaded son among those still engaged in battle, near the far wall. Catharina and the children stood behind him, knives held ready. Slashing his way through the mob, trying not to slip on the blood-soaked stones, Samson finally reached his family.

  “Hurry everyone.” Rabbi Kalonymus somehow made his voice heard above the tumult. “Follow me inside.”

  Suddenly there was an open door, and with Samson, Jacob, and the few remaining Jews wielding swords to defend the rear, the survivors of Emicho’s initial attack escaped into the palace. Following the rabbi though a maze of rooms and halls, they reached the bishop’s fortified treasury storeroom. Samson slammed the heavy door behind him and threw down the drop bars.

  They were safe—for the moment.

  Catharina flew into Samson’s arms as the room’s beleaguered inhabitants heaved great sighs of relief. But when they gazed around and realized who was missing, their tears began to flow. Their number had been reduced to less than one tenth of those originally in the courtyard. They wept silently, restraining their anguish and praying that the enemy would remain ignorant of their hiding place.

  The next morning, before dawn, one of the priests in charge of the treasury whispered through a small window, “Kalonymus, are you there? I’ve come with water. You must be thirsty.”

  The rabbi recognized the voice as one he could trust, but the vessel was too wide to fit between the window’s narrow bars. They improvised a tube to drink through, thus temporarily slaking their thirst. And so the remnant of the once great Jewish community, terrified and weak with hunger, hid in the storeroom until evening. After dark the priest came again with water, but this time there was also a message from the bishop.

  “Rothard wishes to save you, but he was forced to flee himself and no longer has sufficient strength to assist you,” the priest said. “Your God has abandoned you. Either accept baptism or bear the sins of your ancestors.”

  “The verdict against us has been decreed and we cannot be saved.” Kalonymus slumped against the wall. “Give us until tomorrow to respond.”

  But the rabbi didn’t need to ask his followers what to do. Rabbi Amnon eloquently spoke for all when he said, “We cannot ponder the Holy One’s ways. He gave us His Torah and therein commanded that we allow ourselves to be slain for the Sanctification of His Holy Name. How fortunate is the one to do His will. Not only does he merit eternal life, sitting among the righteous, but he exchanges a world of darkness for one of light, a world of trouble for one of joy, a fleeting world for one that endures forever.” Then Amnon sat down at one of the desks, found parchment and quill, and began to write.

  Catharina gazed around the locked room, its air heavy with the stench of the latrine they’d improvised in a corner, and her heart sank. They were trapped: fish in a net. It was too late for her, or any of them, to accept the bishop’s offer. None of them would leave this place alive.

  The following morning, it wasn’t the friendly priest at the window but, to their horror, one of Emicho’s men. Soon there were heavy footsteps on the roof, and those who remained of the once mighty Jewish community stared at each other, defiance burning in their eyes. The end had come, but it would be on their terms.

  The women screamed curses out the window, abusing and insulting the enemy.

  “In whom do you trust, a trodden corpse?” Catharina taunted them.

  “The disgraced, disgusting son of adultery,” her neighbor yelled.

  Rabbi Amnon’s sister was not to be outdone. “We will never exchange the Holy One for a hanged, crucified, dirty, abominable Nazarene, disgusting even in his own generation, a bastard, the son of a menstruant.”

  The women cheered whe
n this last blasphemy drew bellows of rage from the soldiers outside.

  “We cannot delay! Our foes are approaching!” A yeshiva student named Asher bared his neck. “Let us act like Abraham Avinu with his son Isaac, offering ourselves to the Holy One in Heaven. Whoever has a knife, come sacrifice me.”

  When everyone stepped back in shock, Amnon looked pleadingly at Kalonymus, who slowly nodded his approval. The Italian rabbi examined his sword, saw that its edge was perfect, and recited the blessing for ritual slaughter. Then, as all except Samson averted their eyes, he slit Asher’s throat and threw himself on his sword.

  They were still transfixed by the blood gushing from the two dying men when the sudden crash of falling ceiling tiles made them look up into a rain of arrows. Samson jumped onto a table, shield held high to protect those below. He slashed wildly at the enemy on the roof, forcing the archers back.

  Rabbi Amnon’s sister begged those with knives, “Do not spare our children, for the uncircumcised ones will capture them and raise them with their foul heresy.”

  In an instant she was surrounded by a frenzy of killing as husband slaughtered wife, parents sacrificed sons and daughters, and friend killed friend, their blood mingling on the floor.

  Catharina gazed at her children, standing silent as statues, and marveled that her family had survived until now. Suddenly Jacob fell at her feet, grasping at an arrow in his shoulder. She looked up at her husband, arrow shafts protruding from his body, and let out a bitter wail. “Will You bear this, Oh, Holy One, and keep silent at our extreme suffering? May Your servants’ spilt blood be speedily avenged!”

  She quickly ended Jacob’s agony, then her view shifted to a hole in the roof where light flooded in. “Oh, Angels in Heaven, has there ever been so great a sacrifice, even since the time of Abraham?”

  Her heart heavy as lead, she slit one child’s throat after another. Finally she clutched little Salomon to her breast and ended the life that had so recently filled hers with joy. Then as her youngest son slumped in her arms, she collapsed atop her children’s corpses, an arrow in her back.