by Shira Nayman
We sailed along on our camels amid the dunes that rose and fell around us like static waves. I was mesmerized by the city, with all its odd shapes and glittering colors, which drew us as though reeling us in. And then, the sand beneath us changed, becoming steadily more solid as clumps of olive-green vegetation appeared, and then some scraggly bushes with spikey branches and spindly leaves. I peered down from the immense height of the saddle to see solid ground beneath the camel’s hooves, hard-packed soil that showed deep, jagged cracks, and up ahead, a little group of trees.
I was overcome by my first sighting of the Euphrates, which rose like an apparition from the horizon, wide as an ocean and dotted with waves.
The city had indeed seemed miles away, but all of a sudden, it lurched in all its enormity right up before us, dwarfing the enormous walls that bound it. We found ourselves before the massive carved wooden gate to the city, which was guarded by sentries wearing pointed metal helmets and elaborate breastplates. We dismounted from our camels and the guards ushered us through. We made our way along the winding canal sent by the Euphrates through the city, which shone darkly in the afternoon sunlight.
I could hardly believe the swarming crowds—such a variety that even a city girl like me, accustomed to the melting pot of New York City, was amazed. Bearded men in dark clothing clutched coiled papyri, their heads bowed; and by one fountain, a group of what I imagined were soldiers or fighters of some kind hung about—massive youths dressed in red cloth woven with gold, over which they wore chain mail and polished breastplates. A few women flitted in and out of the crowd, their faces covered by veils.
Rachel moved swiftly beside me, holding her veil tight. The din of sounds and unusual, abrasive smells left me faint and confused.
I felt a sudden sympathy for my older cousin from Australia, Natalie, as I recalled her first visit to New York when she was my age. We’d crossed the Brooklyn Bridge by foot, hitting Wall Street just as the crowd poured from the subway stations on their way to work, then wended through Chinatown and Little Italy, crossing to Tribeca and through SoHo into Greenwich Village. The sun was beating down by the time we reached Times Square and stood among the neon advertisements, tall as skyscrapers. It was a landscape I knew well, and I felt excited to be showing it to my cousin. She suddenly stopped in her tracks, her face hung with dismay.
“What’s wrong?” I’d asked.
She turned miserable eyes my way. “Where does it all come from?”
“What?”
She passed a hand before her. “All these people, all this noise. I don’t know, all this everything.”
I sent the Natalie of back then a silent nod of understanding. Now, hurrying along the streets of Babylon, I understood how she’d felt.
We came to a halt beside an imposing house made of white stone. Deborah reached into her robe, withdrew an enormous key, and put it into a large iron lock on the door.
We stepped into a high-ceilinged foyer, which gave off the same cold, pleasant feel and smell I always welcomed when entering an old church. We climbed a narrow stairway, several stories up, passing closed doors through which I could hear quiet sounds of human activity. At the top, we entered a long room: a patterned rug filled one corner; sheer fabric hung from the ceiling around it, creating a private little space in which I presumed Rachel slept. Several other rugs of more simple design lay about the room, almost completely covering the floor. Cubby-like shelves set into the wall held a collection of small bottles and pots; my eye was drawn to a little jar with a conical spout, glazed in pale, translucent green.
“Let’s rest for a short while before we go to the bathing house. The sun is still hanging quite high—we have time yet.”
Time for what, I wondered?
Rachel threw herself down on a rug in the middle of the room.
“I think I could eat an entire sheep,” she said. “I’m famished!”
My own stomach grumbled in response, and Rachel let out a little laugh.
“I see I’m talking for you, too! You’ll smell the roasting meat, soon enough. The servants have been up since before the sun, readying the pits. Anyway, hunger is said to be good luck.”
“Good luck?” I asked, my tone casual.
Rachel colored a little. “You know …” She turned shyly away. “Before the wedding.”
The wedding? Could Rachel be talking about her own wedding? Though she looked mature, she was surely no older than I was.
“Tell me again,” I said, trying to sound convincing, “about your betrothal.”
“You know the story as well as I do,” Rachel said. If she believed I knew the story, she nevertheless seemed delighted to have the chance to repeat it.
“I was seven and he was seventeen when our parents arranged the betrothal. He was always my favorite cousin.” Her voice held a delicate tremble. “And he still is.”
“You’ve been betrothed for half of your life,” I said, hoping to get a bead on Rachel’s age.
She nodded. “Only it seems like all of my life. I can’t remember when we weren’t betrothed.”
Rachel leapt up. “What am I doing still resting? Tonight’s the feast! I have so much to do—and then tomorrow—oh! How can it be, it always seemed so far off, but tomorrow, I will be married!”
Our session in the baths, a short walk from Rachel’s home, left me feeling calm and relaxed. Deborah had poured fragrant oils into the water, and now the reedy scent rose from my skin. Back in Rachel’s room, I sat on the rug beside her, as she slowly brushed her long, dark hair, her breath rising and falling in time with the strokes.
A soft clapping broke the silence; it was coming from the other side of the door. Rachel slipped by me, opened the door a crack, and then whispered for a few moments to whoever was there. When she glided back beside me, she looked worried.
“I’ve had word that Boaz needs me,” she said. Did she mean her fiancé? She had not yet told me his name. “My betrothed,” she added, looking away. I was now used to this oddly responsive reality—being supplied with exactly the information I needed whenever there was something I didn’t know or understand. How weird it would be if people continued to do this when I eventually return home to Brooklyn! It would be like living in a dream, things oddly organized around me.
My own thought echoed in my mind—when I eventually return home. What made me so certain that I would return home?
“Shoshana, did you hear what I said? We must hurry!”
“Boaz—?” My own voice came out sounding as if I were underwater. I almost expected to see bubbles rising up from my lips and disappearing into the air.
“Yes, you silly thing!” There was affection, but also exasperation in her voice. “He doesn’t have what he needs—I must go get his extra instruments and take them to him.”
Rachel grabbed a long piece of sheer fabric lying over a chair in the corner of the room. Beneath it was another similar sheer length, which I assumed was mine; it was soft to the touch, and almost transparent.
We hurried along a dark passageway. Rachel’s hands rustled about her head, making an intricate head covering and veil of the long swatch of fabric. I found I had a similar skill, my own hands darted about my face and head—a bit more clumsily, but not without success. I was surprised just how well I could see through the sheer fabric.
At the end of the narrow street, we threw ourselves into a throng of people crowding a small square. Jumbled sounds assailed me from the morass of animal life wherever I looked—donkeys tied to posts and strapped with sacks of all sizes, goats tripping along with panicked eyes, herded by shepherds in raggedy robes, unusual birds in rough cages, displayed on wooden benches—along with the guttural tones of languages different from the one I was speaking with Rachel.
The street turned to shallow steps and we found ourselves in the thick of the market. On either side I glimpsed small cave-like rooms, crammed with goods: sharp-smelling cheeses, vats of olives, pastries that smelled of honey. Fruits—apples, pears, fi
gs, grapes, overripe plums. Also nuts and spices—cardamom, cinnamon, cloves. Onions and garlic, acrid-sweet wine, and a yeasty, syrupy odor like sweetened beer. I stumbled a little, made dizzy by the smells, which were now inviting, now off-putting. My stomach somersaulted between unsettling nausea and the rumbles of deep hunger.
One little cave-room, well-lit by a roaring wood-burning oven, gave off the smell of freshly baked bread. On a wooden rack in the front of the store were dozens of crusty rounds; the upper shelves held loaves in remarkable shapes—some like the conical hats I’d seen, others like human heads, ears, and hands.
We came to the top of the stair-like pathway and ducked into a doorway, which gave on to a steep rise of steps. I was breathing hard as I tried to keep up, following behind Rachel, who bounded up the steps effortlessly. Soon, we were before a narrow doorway so low we had to stoop to enter. Inside was a windowless room; in the corner, a woman crouched before a stone hearth ablaze with fire. A putrid scent wafted over from a pot, furiously bubbling over the flames. She turned as if by instinct; she could not have heard anything over the roar of the fire. The woman’s face was deeply wrinkled and streaked with soot. When she wiped the sweat from her brow, I was surprised to see that her hand looked quite youthful.
“Rachel, beautiful bride,” the woman said, smiling.
“My new mother,” Rachel said by way of greeting, her own face relaxing into a warm smile. “Boaz sent me for his instruments.”
The woman’s face went serious again. A wordless communication passed between them; the woman wiped her hands on her apron, then crossed to the far corner and retrieved something from a wooden chest. She emerged from the shadows back into the blazing light, and it was then that I saw how beautiful she was; her dark eyes burned with intelligence. She handed Rachel a large leather pouch, which Rachel slid into what must have been a hidden pocket of sizable proportions on the inside of her robe.
“Will Boaz need to fumigate?” The woman asked, glancing toward the cauldron. “The potion needs still a quarter day to meld.”
Rachel shook her head. “He said nothing of fumigation. He only asked for his instruments.”
The two women leaned into a quick embrace, and then Rachel turned and left the room.
I searched the woman’s face; I saw wariness, but also interest in her eyes.
The way back down was easier.
“How does it feel, having a new mother?” I asked, curious to know more about the woman, whom I assumed was Boaz’s mother.
“She has taken me into her family as a daughter,” Rachel said. “Since I am orphaned of my mother, as you know, I am especially happy. She helps Boaz in his work, making the fumigations and other medicines.”
“When will the fumigations be ready?” I asked, fishing for information. I was so curious, but also aware of not wanting to give away the fact that I knew so little about—well, about everything.
“They’re better when they’re richer,” Rachel said. “Boaz likes to leave them boiling for close to the full day. Sunrise to when the first shadows fall. Then, when he pours them over the hot coal, the smoke is thick and has an oiliness to it. It’s easier to breathe in the thick smoke, that’s what Boaz says. The medicine works better that way, and faster.”
Free of the market, we found ourselves on a dirt road so heavily trodden it felt like smooth tarmac beneath my feet. The buildings grew steadily shabbier. Soon, we were passing structures made of mud mixed with straw. I glanced into one every now and then: they were little more than hovels.
At one point, I turned to see that Rachel had loosened her head covering to expose her face, twisting it cleverly along her forehead to make it into a headscarf. I reached up and with a few deft movements achieved the same effect. The air rushing over my features felt wonderful! My eyes darted to an open doorway, through which a troubled sound floated—a rasping cough, high-pitched and desperate. I came to a halt and peered through the smoky light. Within, I saw a painfully thin woman, clutching a small child whose hollow eyes shone with despair. There was an aching moment of silence, as if the world had screeched to a halt.
Tears sprang to my eyes. I turned to see that Rachel’s face was grim.
“Come, Shoshana,” she said, taking my arm. I opened my mouth to speak, but she only shook her head sadly. Without uttering a single word, she communicated what she needed to convey: We can’t stop here, there’s a whole city of such scenes. People who need our help, people who need saving. We must go on. There is nothing we can do.
I wanted to protest her wordless message—We can’t help everyone, that’s true. But perhaps we can help this one child, this one mother?
Rachel took my face in her hand, as if to steady my thoughts, to make me see reason.
“Come, we need to go,” is all she said. I offered the smoky doorway one last glance. Sensing my attention, the mother turned her head and our eyes met; in her face, I saw utter hopelessness. She didn’t expect me—or anyone—to help her.
A dry wind sprang up. We hurried along and soon broke free of the winding cobblestone streets and found ourselves in more open territory, where the roadway was wide and flanked by grand stone buildings. I found myself thinking about other wide boulevards I’d once seen in Paris, with my family: Montparnasse, the Champs-Élysées, Bonne Nouvelle, Montmartre. To think, that wonderful city was possibly modeled on this ancient one!
We turned a corner, and Rachel came to a halt before a colossal temple topped by a massive golden dome. Beneath the dome was a grotesque statue of a creature that seemed part human, part monster; it had a cruel mouth and enormous ears. Rachel turned pale.
“Eater of babies,” she said, her eyes glowering. “How I hate his greedy mouth.”
Eater of babies? What could Rachel mean?
“I hate him, too,” I said.
“There’s no place I loathe more in all the world then this Esagila. The Temple of Moloch.”
Raw emotions passed across Rachel’s features: disgust, fear, pain.
“But we have no choice. Boaz is waiting for us.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Rachel looked surprised, as if she’d assumed I knew exactly what we were doing, as if we were one mind joined together, parceled off into two different people.
“We had to get Boaz’s surgical instruments from his mother. A baby is hurt.”
“Where?” I asked.
“In the temple,” she said. “Below.”
She spoke with finality, as if that was all she was willing to say.
The streets around the temple were eerily empty; where had the throngs of people gone? Rachel scanned in both directions, up and down the street, as if checking for something.
“They’re all inside,” she said, addressing the question that had sprung to my mind, “and everyone else knows well enough to keep away.”
We ducked into a side alley so narrow we had to turn sideways to inch our way down. The walls were moist and oily; I used my palms to push away slightly so that my face would not rub up against the unpleasant surface. Rachel did the same, and together we sidestepped our way away from the light of the street and deeper into what felt like a horizontal tunnel. We seemed to be burrowing into some terrifying place, away from everything I had ever known.
Rachel came to a stop. “Help me,” she said in a low and formidable voice. I saw she was pushing hard against the wall. I did the same, throwing the full weight of my body against the oozing stone. Something gave. A panel slid open and we fell into the darkness as the stone quickly slid back into place behind us. An unpleasant odor made me feel sick and I let out a little groan.
“Shhh, you have to be very quiet,” Rachel said. Her voice still held its fierce tone, even at the pitch of a whisper. I had no idea what we were doing or where we were going. A hundred questions buzzed in my mind, but I knew it was impossible to ask them now. I had no choice but to put myself in Rachel’s hands. I moved quietly beside her, my full attention focused on trying to tread i
n her exact footsteps. She, at least, seemed to know where she was going.
Again, she came to a halt. I heard a soft creaking. A door opened, releasing a glow of hazy orange light. We moved into a small room and the unpleasant odor became almost unbearable. In the corner, lit by a halo of light thrown down by a torch placed high on the wall, a man crouched over a bundle of rags. As we moved closer, I saw that it wasn’t a bundle of rags, but a baby. It lay splayed on the floor, its limbs at odd angles. My heart pounded with fear. Could the baby be dead? But no, its eyes were wide, staring at the man, its face contorted in pain.
I was desperate to ask Rachel what was going on. Why were we here?
We crossed to the corner and Rachel crouched down beside the baby, her face filled with sadness.
“This is what they do to their babies …” she said. The man, who I assumed must be Boaz, put his hand on Rachel’s and silently nodded.
“Three, tonight,” he said, his voice deep and low. “The ceremony is still going on. There will likely be more.”
“Boaz, how did you manage?” Rachel asked.
“Nahum inserted himself. He managed to catch this baby before he went into the flames.”
This must have been what Rachel had meant earlier, when she said that Moloch was an “eater of babies.”
“Two had already been sacrificed,” Boaz said. “Everyone was in such ecstasy, no one noticed Nahum. He put the baby in his robes and brought him here, to me. The child seems to have some broken bones …”
Just then, a man emerged from the shadows. Something seized within me, as if I’d been struck in a strange and beautiful way; a quiet gasp escaped me as I struggled to make sense of the peculiar whirl of feelings that had suddenly taken hold. I could not take my eyes off this stranger. I realized, then, that he was staring at me; perhaps he felt it, too.
“That is Nahum,” Rachel said.
“Nahum.” The name fell from my lips. In a moment, he was beside us. He spoke quietly to Rachel, glancing at me every few seconds, his eyes tender and concerned.