by Shira Nayman
Finally, he turned to me. “Are you all right?”
I’d never heard a voice like that before—deep, serious, but also touched with humor. I found myself gazing into eyes of a crystal green I’d never encountered before, like tinted glass and yet filled with warmth.
The most absurd thought sprang into my head: I want him to be mine!
Why on earth would such a thought cross my mind? This man was a complete stranger—I knew nothing about him!
In a flash, I remembered the story my mother had told me since I was little, my favorite of her large collection of personal anecdotes: the way she’d fallen in love at first sight, as she always put it, with Papa. “It was just like in a storybook,” she’d say. “Violins playing, thunderbolts striking, the whole deal.” I knew the words by heart; how many times had I asked her to repeat it? She always said the same thing: “My heart raced like a jackhammer, I could feel I was bright red in the face. It made no sense at all, and yet all the sense in the world. There he was, the most handsome man in the whole world, crossing the room. I’d never laid eyes on him before, and yet this was the thought that popped into my mind: I’m going to marry that man. I’m going to have his children. You could have blown me down with a feather! But that feeling was the strongest thing I’ve ever felt.” My favorite part came next. “Life has its ups and downs, to be sure. But that feeling has never wavered for me, all these years. Not once.”
Could that be what was happening to me? Love at first sight? Here, deep beneath the ground in some awful cave, filled with a disgusting smell. More than two millennia before my own time, in the biblical land of Babylon!
The man reached out a hand, which I took, in a daze, allowing him to help me to my feet.
“It is disorienting down here, is it not?” he said. There, again, that strange mixture of kindness, strength, and humor.
From the corner of my eye, I could see that Boaz was removing the horn stopper from a large animal-skin container. He poured dark purple liquid over the patch of stone next to the baby. The tawny, deep scent of wine wafted toward me. Gently, Boaz slid the baby onto the cleaned patch, and the little boy let out a tiny high-pitched mewl.
“What is he going to do?” I asked.
“I do not know,” Nahum said. “Perhaps the shoulder is dislocated, and he needs to put the bone back into the joint.” He paused, seemed to be thinking.
Boaz had turned his attention to the pouch Rachel had brought him. He loosened the leather-thong ties and carefully unfolded it. Inside, arrayed in a series of wide pockets, were metal tools. They glinted in the fluid light. Boaz’s face transformed; it seemed eerily still, and his eyes glowed with concentration.
I was reminded of someone else, far away in time, with just this kind of expression. It took a moment to place, and then the image came clear: I saw again the photograph my mother had in her study, up on a high shelf—black and white, enlarged, in a thin gold frame—of her father, Grandpa Jack, decked out in surgical gear, bent over a patient in the operating theater.
Now, the details of the picture came back to me so vividly it was as if I were looking right at it—the strong lines of my grandfather’s forehead, the straight nose disappearing behind the surgical mask, the eyes holding that very same expression I was seeing not twenty yards away in Boaz’s eyes, as he examined his instruments.
The memory of Grandpa Jack, as I had known him for the first and only time in my life, back—I mean, forward—in time, in Melbourne, and then on our adventure to Broken Hill and farther into the Australian bush, now came leaping back. I felt suddenly weak-kneed and, alarmingly, found myself sliding to the floor. Nahum caught me and guided me into the shadows by the wall, where a thin rug was set on the floor. He gestured for me to sit. Gratefully, I sank onto the rug, which was comfortable and soft.
How Grandpa Jack would have loved being here with me. My mother had conveyed to me how passionate he’d been about his work. He’d kept a sense of wonder about surgery, about medicine, through a thirty-year career, cut short by an early death. And here was Boaz, that same sense of wonder marking every inch of his being.
He chose several instruments: one that looked like forceps, and a short, narrow blade, setting them aside. Then, he began, very carefully, to remove the baby’s wrapping. Rachel joined me where I rested in the shadows. I covered my eyes. I couldn’t bear to look.
“Boaz has given the baby some wine,” she said. “That will help him. He will feel little pain.”
The baby was surprisingly quiet. Every now and then, I heard it whimper.
I counted the minutes, closed my ears to the sounds, closed my thoughts as best I could and tried to be as still as a statue. I was aware of Rachel’s warm hand in mine.
Finally, sensing it was all over, I opened my eyes. Boaz was approaching; over his shoulder, I could see that Nahum was wrapping the baby, who seemed, miraculously, to be asleep.
“Is the baby going to be all right?” I said, before Boaz had a chance to say anything.
“The baby will survive, God willing,” he said, a faint smile at the corner of his lips. “I’m happy, finally, to meet you, Shoshana. Thank you for helping Rachel fetch my instruments.”
“But I did nothing—” I said. Boaz stopped me with a gesture of his hand.
“You are her friend. There is nothing more important in life. Speaking of friendship, I see you have met Nahum.”
There was something so decisive about each of these three young people, Rachel, Boaz, Nahum; you could see it in their faces. I wondered—is this what it was to feel in the grip of one’s destiny?
Now it was Boaz who seemed to be studying me—perhaps wondering about something that was lacking in my face?
“Rachel tells me you’re thinking of joining us,” he said, “on the banks of the Ahava. Ezra has decreed that Zerubbabel will lead us; he is a fine choice, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
He paused, seemed to be trying to gauge the effect of his words. “But you must excuse me.”
He leaned down and said something to Rachel, then returned to Nahum, who handed him the baby. The two men exchanged words and then Nahum glanced in my direction. He turned and walked toward me.
I rose; we stood facing each other, Nahum peering into my face. His piercing gaze seemed to strip away my veil. It’s as if I’ve known you all my life, a strange little voice whispered inside my head. And as if I will know you always. This peculiar murmuring should have frightened me. And yet it didn’t. Looking into Nahum’s eyes, I felt the terrifying frenzy of the day recede; it was as if we were suddenly, wonderfully alone together.
“Zerubbabel will be at the wedding ceremony tomorrow evening,” Nahum said. “You will meet him then and make your decision.” He said this with quiet conviction, as if my decision to accompany them had already been made.
“Though perhaps now is not the time to discuss such matters.” Nahum glanced across at Boaz, who was carefully rocking the baby. “That poor child …”
“You saved him,” Rachel said.
Nahum nodded.
Rachel turned to me. “Have you ever seen a ceremony?” she asked.
I shook my head, no.
“It’s not a good idea,” Nahum said.
“She should know,” Rachel said, her mouth grim. “Then, maybe, she’ll understand.”
She took my hand. “Come. We should leave Boaz and Nahum. They need to take the baby to his new home.”
Nahum moved aside. Whatever Rachel had in mind for me, Nahum had clearly decided not to protest.
“I’ll see you at the wedding,” he said, with that same intense gaze, “and then later, on the banks of the Ahava River …”
We left by way of a small door that opened onto a corridor dimly lit by firebrands placed high on the wall. Immediately, I noticed the odd sound: a muffled but terrifying roar. We moved quickly, reaching a long, narrow staircase that wound down like a spiral. Rachel paused at the top and gave me a meaningful look.
“Prepare your
self,” was all she said.
I took in a sharp breath, and we descended into darkness as the light from the torches on the walls above us receded. The air felt increasingly damp. Down, down we went, this time burrowing deep beneath the surface of the earth. The roar intensified and soon I could hear a din of voices, blaring in unison, wailing and high-pitched screeches, shouts and calls that were chilling. We reached the very bottom and Rachel pushed on a huge wooden door. The moment it gave, a deafening sound blasted through—a hundred times louder than it had been. I slammed my hands over my ears, but this did little to protect me from the awful, gut-wrenching explosion of noise. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the murky light which rose and fell and left giant shadows moving around the cavernous space. We were in a massive pit, a great underground stadium. I craned my head trying to estimate just how far down the pit extended; below was an enormous bonfire spitting up flames that arced and roared. Hundreds of people were writhing, dancing, and stamping on the mud steps curving all the way up the sides of the pit. With increasing horror, I realized that many of the hoard were stark naked; others were scantily dressed in what looked like bits of rag, haphazardly tied to parts of their bodies.
Rachel was trying to communicate something. Of course, she made no attempt to speak—I’d never have been able to hear her—but she was gesturing, pointing into the pit. I peered down, straining the muscles of my neck, and then I saw it: the enormous statue with the terrible grin, teeth bared, arms raised, its monstrous claws extended as if for attack. The same frightening figure fixed to the top of the temple that had caused Rachel to halt in disgust.
Moloch.
Flames erupted from the statue’s mouth, and then poured from its eyes. The statue was literally spewing fire. A sudden, even more deafening sound erupted: a thunderous beating of drums that sounded like the pounding of a thousand bongos.
Rachel gripped my arm; I turned to see her nodding in a different direction, closer to where we stood pressed up against the sweating mud wall. I followed her gaze. An unnaturally tall man towered above the crowd, dressed in scarlet robes embroidered all over with gold thread. He was so tall he looked like he was standing on stilts. Beside him, a woman was throwing her body about in hysterical movements, her eyes rolling back. She was holding something—her mouth was twisted in a grin, making her look like one of those awful Punch and Judy puppets that used to scare me as a child. She threw whatever she was holding to the man. Was he some kind of priest? Expertly, he caught it. I could hardly believe what my eyes were telling me, but there it was, undeniable: little arms and legs flailing as the infant flew the short distance from the woman to the man.
I couldn’t bear to watch what was certain to happen next. I covered my eyes and felt a sob burst from my throat. “No!” I shrieked and turned, frantic to find the door through which we had entered. Everything reduced to only one thought: I had to escape! I found myself pushing and pulling and then I was back in the near-darkness, leaping up the curved stairs, charging my way out of there, fleeing with all my might. I didn’t care if Rachel followed me—all I cared about was leaving this ghastly place. Round and round, upward, the muscles in my legs almost seizing with the effort, lungs aching as they labored against the thick air.
Finally, after what seemed an age, I burst from the hard-mud stairwell back out into the corridor, where the mild light flickered all around. I collapsed, panting and sobbing. I felt as if I had come to the end of the line—the last possible place on earth, through time, that I could bear. I felt I simply could no longer go on.
The hard-packed dirt of the floor was cool against my face; I breathed in its earthy scent. A terrible pain ballooned in my head, shooting down my neck like knives. And then, a voice as gentle as could be, but saying the most awful words. It was Rachel. She must have been following me.
“It is true,” Rachel said. “They give their babies to the priest, to throw into the flames.”
As I found my breath, I realized I was crying.
Why? I heard the voice in my head call out. Why would a mother do such a thing?
Rachel seemed to be able to carry on the conversation without me having to utter a word.
“They are pagans,” Rachel said. “That is what they believe. They are told by the priests that they must sacrifice children to Moloch to calm his fury, and they do it willingly. They get themselves into an ecstatic frenzy—you saw them. They’re no longer human.”
The disgust in Rachel’s voice was gone. Now, there was only sadness.
“You see, the return to Jerusalem is not only for us. I know it sounds impossible—but it is for the world. We need to restore not only the Temple, but the way of the Temple. That is a sacred duty of our people.”
I sat up. My breath steadied and my tears subsided, and then Rachel handed me a square of cloth she pulled from the hidden pocket of her robe.
“Now, do you understand?” she asked.
I had no idea what she meant. I wiped away my tears with the soft piece of cloth.
“Do you see why this place could never be home? No matter how many generations of our family are born here? When I say we’re going home, I don’t only mean Jerusalem, the city. Home is finding out where you belong.”
Something wavered in Rachel’s eyes.
“We were cast out of the country of our forebears. Here, we can only ever be outcasts. Now, it is time for us to journey back, to rediscover who we are.” Rachel was looking at me in a curious way.
This was all too much. I felt so very tired. I could not make sense of what Rachel was saying. She seemed to be talking in clever riddles. I didn’t want to hear anymore, see anymore; I only wanted to go home myself. Not the kind of home Rachel was talking about, some idea or concept having to do with her political and religious convictions. No, I wanted my home: Brooklyn in the early twenty-first century. I wanted my mama’s arms around me, the soothing sound of my papa’s voice, the feel of my little brother, Billy, in my arms as I told him everything was going to be okay.
But it wasn’t going to be okay. I was here in this terrible place, so far from everything I knew and everyone I loved. I had never felt so completely alone.
By the time we got back to Rachel’s house, I felt numb. So much had happened in the course of this overwhelming day. I’d reached my wit’s end. We lay quietly on the rugs in Rachel’s room. I closed my eyes. Moments flashed in my mind all mixed up, tumbling over each other: some unbearable, and others just confusing. Then, an image of Nahum coming out of the shadows emerged from the chaos and I felt suddenly calm. I closed my eyes and that feeling welled up again. I’d never felt anything like that before. Destiny.
I had no idea what destiny meant, not really. Everything seemed to be slipping from my grasp. But then, what had made sense on this journey of mine? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!
I opened my eyes to see Rachel rising from the mat. She walked to the window; a small clay pot on the windowsill held three red roses with long stems and little green leaves. I joined her by the window.
“They’re perfect,” I said, leaning to smell the roses.
Rachel plucked a stem from the pot and held the bloom to her nose. “The smell of paradise,” she said, breathing deeply. “Deborah’s an angel. She knows I love them. Sometimes, she brings me lilies. They’re my favorite. But it is a far walk to pick them where they grow by the river.”
Her face broke into a smile. “Like your name!” she said. “I never made the connection. Same as my favorite flower!”
It made me nervous, hearing Rachel point this out. I was always named this way—after my friend’s—my relative’s—favorite tree or flower. But this was one of my secrets; Rachel realizing this felt dangerous.
I suddenly remembered the poor little infant! How could we be talking about flowers?
“How’s the baby?” I asked, my voice so tiny, I might have been a baby myself.
“I didn’t see signs of bruising or bleeding. Boaz is certain he will live. He will
be given to a childless Jewess, who will raise him as her own.”
Plucked from the flames, I thought: reprieved from a pagan death to be brought into the Jewish fold.
Together, we looked out of the window. Several men in tunics walked abreast, filling the space of the roadway. Behind them, a stooped man urged two donkeys forward with a stick, and a line of women carried clay pots on their heads, likely filled with water.
“Are you going to miss all this?” I asked.
Rachel turned startled eyes my way.
“I never thought about that,” she said, absently taking a rose petal between her fingers.
“I just wondered … You’ve been here your whole life,” I said.
The petal drifted to the floor. She took hold of another, which also came loose, and then another.
“We’ve always talked about returning. On fast days, we turn our hearts to Jerusalem, and our hunger and our longing for our home are one and the same.”
The door opened. It was Deborah, carrying a large urn of warm water and a basket of dried lavender sprinkled with cloves. She left and returned a moment later with a small basket from which a tantalizing scent wafted, placing it beside the urn. I could see the basket held a mound of little round cakes as well as some plump dried fruits that looked like figs.
“Let’s just have one or two,” Rachel said, reaching for a cake. “To take the edge off our hunger.”
I reached into the basket; the cake was still warm! I bit into it and heavenly flavor filled my mouth. The cake was filled with a purplish paste, a kind of fruit I’d never before tasted. I savored every bite, had to stop myself from gobbling down the whole basketful.
We stripped down to our cotton underclothing, then dipped squares of linen into the water to wash our faces, arms, and hands. I breathed in the wonderful lavender-clove scent, hoping the dreadful images from the underground cavern beneath the temple would loosen their grip on my mind. We sat on the stone floor to wash our feet and legs.
“Are you nervous?” I found myself asking. Rachel gave me an uncomprehending look.