by Marek Halter
Ruth appeared in the doorway, with little Yehuda in her arms. “At last!” she exclaimed. “A little laughter in this house where even the children are serious! It’s good to hear.”
A FEW days later, as Miriam was out walking less than a mile from Nazareth, Barabbas suddenly appeared beneath a big sycamore.
The sun was barely up. Miriam recognized his slender body, his thick goatskin tunic, his hair. Nothing about him had changed. She would have picked him out among a thousand men. She slowed down and stopped some distance from him. In the uncertain light of dawn, she could barely make out his features.
He did not move. He must have seen her coming from a distance. Perhaps he had been intrigued by this woman with her short hair, and had not recognized her immediately.
Neither said a word. They stood looking at each other, at a distance of more than thirty paces, both unsure how to make the first move or what to say.
Suddenly, unable to sustain her gaze a moment longer, Barabbas turned away. He went around the sycamore, climbed over a small stone wall, and walked away. He had a pronounced limp and kept his hand flat on his left thigh to steady himself.
Miriam remembered the wound he had received on the shore of the Lake of Gennesaret. She remembered him in the boat, carrying Obadiah in his arms. She remembered their violent quarrel in the desert on the road to Damascus. She remembered him with his leg bleeding, screaming in rage against her and against everything, as the daylight revealed Obadiah’s lifeless body.
That day, after she had abandoned him, Barabbas must have walked for hours with that bleeding wound before getting any care.
She had wiped these memories from her mind, as she had almost wiped Barabbas from her mind. Now she felt both compassion and remorse.
All the same, she was starting to feel sorry that she had met him again. She hated the fact that he had appeared to her, so close to Nazareth and to Yossef’s house. Without knowing why, she was afraid that seeing him and talking to him would mean she would no longer have Obadiah’s presence near her.
These thoughts were absurd, inexplicable. Just as inexplicable as the fact that she had been hearing Obadiah’s voice whispering to her for months now. All the same, Mariamne was right. It didn’t really matter if you understood. The soul saw what the eyes were unable to. And wasn’t Barabbas one of those people who only wanted to see with their eyes?
She turned around and went back to the house much earlier than usual.
Toward midday, she went to Joachim and said, “Barabbas is here. I saw him this morning.”
Joachim looked closely at her, but her face seemed expressionless. “I know,” he said. “He was here some time ago. He helped me a lot after your mother died, may God rest her soul. He had to leave Nazareth for a while, but he was planning to return. He has some things to tell you.”
TWO days passed. Miriam avoided any mention of Barabbas. Neither Joachim nor Yossef spoke his name.
At dawn on the third day, he appeared to her as she was walking away from the house. He was standing on the path, waiting for her. This time, she understood from his bearing that he wanted to talk to her. She stopped a few paces from him and looked into his eyes.
The day had only just risen. The dim light made his face look hollow, without in any way altering the gentleness of his expression. He made an embarrassed gesture with his hand. “It’s me,” he said, awkwardly. “You should recognize me. I’ve changed less than you have.”
She could not help smiling.
Encouraged by her smile, he went on, “It’s not only your hair that’s changed, it’s the whole of you. That’s obvious straightaway. I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time.”
Still she said nothing, but she did nothing to discourage him either. In spite of everything she had thought about him, she was happy to see him, to know that he was alive, and he could see that in her face.
“I’ve changed too,” he said. “I know now that you were right.”
She nodded.
“You’re not very talkative,” he said anxiously. “Are you still angry with me?”
“No. I’m happy to see that you’re alive.”
He massaged his leg. “I’ve never forgotten him. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. I was nearly crippled.”
She slowly bowed her head. “That wound is there to remind you of Obadiah. He made sure that I don’t spend a day without him either.”
Barabbas frowned. He was about to ask her what she meant by that, but in the end he did not dare.
“I was sorry to hear about your mother,” he said. “I suggested to Joachim that we should punish the mercenaries who killed her, but he refused.”
“He was right.”
Barabbas shrugged his shoulders. “It’s true we can’t kill them all. There’s only one man we must have done with, and that’s Herod. The others can find their way to hell all by themselves….”
She neither objected nor agreed.
“I’ve changed,” he said again, his voice harder now. “But I haven’t forgotten that Israel still has to be freed. I’m still the same when it comes to that, and will be for as long as I live. I’ll never change.”
“I thought as much. That’s good.”
He seemed relieved at these words.
“We and the Zealots pulled off a few things together. Herod keeps putting up Roman eagles on the Temple and the synagogues, and we pull them down. Or when there are too many hungry people in a village, we plunder the legions’ reserves. But we don’t go in for big battles anymore! Which doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind. We really have to resolve what to do. Before Israel is entirely destroyed.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything either. But from Joseph of Arimathea I learned the power of life. Only life can generate life. We have to hold life in one hand and justice in the other. That’s what will save us. It’s more difficult than fighting with spears and swords, but it’s the only way there will ever be justice in our land.”
She spoke very calmly, in a low voice. In the rising light, Barabbas looked closely at her. Perhaps he was more impressed by her determination than he would have liked to admit.
They fell silent for a moment. Then Barabbas smiled broadly, and his teeth flashed. “I’ve also been thinking about life,” he said in a rush, his voice quavering a little. “I’ve been to see Joachim and told him I want you as my wife.”
Miriam gave a start of surprise.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time,” Barabbas went on hurriedly. “I know we don’t always see eye to eye. But no other woman in the world is your equal, and I don’t want anyone else.”
Miriam lowered her eyes, suddenly intimidated. “And what did my father say?”
Barabbas gave a tense little laugh. “That he consents. And that you should too.”
She looked up, gave Barabbas the tenderest look that she could, and shook her head. “No, I can’t.”
Barabbas stiffened, then nervously rubbed his thigh. “You can’t?” he whispered, barely knowing what he was saying.
“If I had to take a man as a husband, yes, it would be you. I’ve known that for a long time. Since the day I found you on the terrace of our house trying to get away from the mercenaries.”
“Well, then?”
“I’ll never be the wife of any man. That, too, I’ve known for a long time.”
“Why? That’s stupid. You can’t say something like that. All women have husbands!”
“Not me, Barabbas.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Don’t be angry. Don’t think I don’t love you….”
“It’s because of Obadiah! I knew it. You’re still angry at me!”
“Barabbas!”
“You say you love life, you want justice! But you can’t forgive. Do you think I’ve stopped grieving? I miss Obadiah as much as you do…. No, you still want revenge!”
“No! No, you’re wrong….”
Miriam shook her head, a lump in her throat. She knew how angry and upset he must be feeling. And how humiliated. But how could it have been otherwise?
CHAPTER 17
“I DON’T understand. You don’t want a husband? Why not?”
It had not taken long for Joachim to find out about Miriam’s rejection of Barabbas. In spite of the rain teeming down on Galilee, Barabbas had come to him in the night, soaked to the skin and as pale as a corpse, and opened his heart to him.
Now, after prayers, everyone was sitting around the big table for the morning meal. It might have been better to wait for a more appropriate moment, but Joachim could not contain his anger. Pointing his wooden spoon at Miriam, he went on. “I don’t understand you, any more than Barabbas does! If you don’t like him, then say so. But don’t tell me that you don’t want a husband.”
His voice shook and his eyes were wide with incomprehension.
“That’s the way it is,” Miriam replied, in a humble but firm tone. “I have other things to do in this world than be a man’s wife.”
Joachim struck the table with the palm of his hand. They all jumped. Yossef, Zechariah, Elisheba, Ruth—all of them avoided looking at him. It was the first time they had ever seen him angry at his beloved daughter.
But Miriam’s words, her refusal, embarrassed them even more. Who was she to dare oppose her father’s choice, whatever it might be?
Only Mariamne was prepared to leap to Miriam’s defense. She was not surprised. How many times had her mother, Rachel, repeated that the aim of a woman’s life didn’t have to be to end up in the arms of a man?
“Solitude isn’t a sin or a misfortune,” Rachel would say. “On the contrary, it’s when she’s able to live alone that a woman can give the world what it lacks. That’s what men deny by forcing her into the role of a wife. We must learn to be ourselves.”
As if these very words had been spoken now, Joachim again hit the table, making the platters and the bread shake. “And if you’re alone, without a husband, who will help you, who will provide for you and make sure you have a roof over your head when I’m not here anymore?”
Miriam looked at him sadly. She reached out her arm across the table and tried to take his hand. But he pulled it away, as if trying to put his heart and his anger out of reach of his daughter’s tenderness.
“I know my decision hurts you, Father. But for the love of God, don’t be so impatient to give me to a man. Don’t be in a hurry to judge me. You know I want what’s best, just as you do.”
“Does that mean you’ll change your mind?”
Miriam sustained his gaze, then shook her head without replying.
“So, what am I supposed to wait for?” Joachim growled. “The Messiah?”
Yossef put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t let yourself be ruled by your anger, Joachim. You’ve always trusted Miriam. Why doubt her now? Can’t you give her time to explain?”
“Oh, you think there’s something to explain, do you? Barabbas is the best young man in the world. I know how much he cares for her. And he’s felt this way for a long time.”
“Oh, Joachim,” Elisheba said, with an affectionate glance at Miriam. “Saying that Barabbas is the best young man in the world is a bit of an exaggeration. Don’t forget he’s a thief. I know what Miriam must be going through. Becoming the wife of a thief—”
Zechariah interrupted her. “A girl must marry the man her father has chosen for her. Otherwise, what would happen to the order of things?”
“If that’s really the order of things,” Mariamne cut in, in as peremptory a tone as Zechariah, “then there must be something wrong with it.”
Miriam put her hand on Mariamne’s wrist to silence her.
Joachim gave Elisheba a withering look and pointed to the slopes above Nazareth, where Barabbas might well be wandering at this moment, in spite of the rain that was transforming the paths into muddy streams. “This thief, as you call him, risked his life to save mine! Why did he do that? Because this girl, my daughter, asked him to. I still remember that. I don’t have a short memory. My gratitude doesn’t vanish in the gray light of dawn.”
He turned to Miriam, and again pointed at her with his spoon.
“I, too, am sad about Obadiah’s death,” he said, his voice breaking. “I, too, will always remember the boy who took me down from the cross. But I tell you this, my girl: You’ve been wrong from the start in blaming Barabbas for his death. It was the mercenaries who killed him. The same people who killed your mother. No one else. Except that Obadiah was fighting. Because he was a brave boy. A fine death, if you want my opinion. For the freedom of Israel, for us! I wish I could die like him. There was a time when you would have said the same, Miriam.”
He paused for breath, and once again brought his fist down on the table.
“And I tell all of you this, once and for all,” he went on, head held high, a severe look in his eyes. “I don’t want anyone to call Barabbas a thief in front of me! Call him a rebel, a fighter, a resister, whatever you like, but not a thief. He’s head and shoulders above most of us. He has the courage to do what other people don’t dare, and he’s loyal to those he loves. And when he asks me for my daughter, I’m proud to say yes. No one else deserves her, only this thief.”
This powerful speech was followed by a glacial silence.
Miriam, who had not taken her eyes off Joachim, nodded. “What you say is right, Father. Please don’t think my refusal is due to resentment. I know that Obadiah, wherever he is, loves Barabbas, just as Barabbas loved him. I also think Barabbas is a courageous man, and he should be admired for that. I know as you do that beneath his fierce exterior he’s a good, gentle, tender man. As I said to him, ‘If I had to marry a man, it would be you.’ ”
“So do it!”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t? Why not, damn it?”
“Because I am me, and that’s how it is.” Calmly, unhurriedly, confidently, she stood up, and said to her father, as gently as she could, “I, too, am a rebel; you’ve always known that. We won’t achieve a better tomorrow through Herod’s death and the slaughter of his mercenaries. We’ll only achieve it through the light of life, through a love for mankind such as Barabbas will never be able to bring about.”
She turned, left the table and, without another word, went inside the house to join the children, leaving everyone dumbfounded.
Ruth was the first to break the embarrassing silence that had settled over them. “I haven’t known your daughter for very long,” she said to Joachim. “But what I do know of her, from having seen her at Beth Zabdai, is that she never yields. Whatever it costs her. Even Master Joseph of Arimathea had to admit it. But make no mistake: She loves and respects you as much as a girl can love her father.”
Overcome with emotion, Joachim nodded his head.
“If you’re worried about it,” Yossef said suddenly, “Miriam will always have a roof here. You have my promise, Joachim.”
Joachim stiffened, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’d let her stay with you, even if she wasn’t your wife?”
Yossef blushed to the roots of his hair. “I think you understand what I’m saying. This is Miriam’s home. She knows that.”
FOR the next few days, not only did Joachim’s mood not improve, but it also infected everyone. Mealtimes passed in heavy silence. Joachim tried as far as possible to avoid Miriam, and he was distant toward Yossef while they worked together.
Yossef did not take offense at this. The depression into which he had fallen after Halva’s death seemed to have lifted, to be replaced by a serenity, a peace that was not shared by the others.
Barabbas did not reappear. No one dared ask Joachim if he was still in the vicinity.
Then time d
id its work. Spring arrived, and the fields and groves burst into bloom. The children were the first to respond by leaving the house and running into the countryside to play.
There was a more forgiving expression now in Joachim’s eyes. More than once, he was heard joking with Yossef in the workshop. One day, at the end of a meal, he took Miriam’s hand. The others looked at each other and smiled with relief. Joachim kept Miriam’s hand in his while Ruth and Mariamne recounted, with much laughter, how young Yakov had started acting the prophet to his brothers and sister.
Ruth found this very amusing. “Your son has a real aptitude for it,” she said to Yossef. “He was better than all those people in Beth Zabdai. I wonder where he got it from.”
“A man was holding forth in the synagogue when I went there with Yakov the other day,” Zechariah said, only half laughing. “Yakov liked it a lot. You joke about it, woman, but he may have an aptitude.”
Ruth gave a sardonic chuckle and glanced at Miriam. She and her father, still holding hands, both laughed.
On another occasion, Elisheba took their hands and joined them on her belly. She still loved getting other people to feel the child inside her. “This boy moves as soon as he senses Miriam’s hand,” she said. “Don’t you feel it?”
Joachim laughed. “He runs about just as much when other people put their hands on your belly. All babies do that.”
“He’s different. He’s telling me something. Perhaps the day is not far off”—and here she winked at Joachim—“when you, too, will become a grandfather. It’ll happen, I’m sure of it.”
Joachim raised Miriam’s hand, then let go of it, and feigned a gloomy expression. “You’re very clever if you can tell me what’s in store for me, with a daughter like this one.”
In his voice, though, there was obvious tenderness and even amusement.
MARIAMNE was the only one to notice it: Although Joachim’s bad mood had abated, Miriam remained distant. Her nights were restless, and full of dreams that she refused to talk about the following day. At other times, she would wake very early. No longer at the crack of dawn, as before, but well before anyone in the house had woken. Mariamne decided to keep an eye on her. She lay in the darkness, eyes wide open, listening to her slip out of their bedchamber and waiting for her to return. Because it was still so dark, she knew that dawn was a long way away.