Apprentice (19 page)

“If we only harvested when green, we'd have less flax and no seeds,” my
aris
added. “Not only are the seeds necessary for next year's crop, but their oil brings extra profit.”

“Flax from yellow stalks is perfectly satisfactory for spinning common linen thread,” Mari said. “But you know how Mother is—everything has to be the best.”

I sighed, doubtful that I would ever be skilled enough to weave from green flax thread.

The wind was stronger on our walk home, and I held tight to Mari's arm. “Wouldn't cutting with a scythe be faster and easier?”

“Unfortunately, cutting exposes the fibers, which interferes with the next stage of the process.”

“The next stage?” I thought harvesting the stalks was all we needed to do.

“You'll understand soon, because that stage begins when the sheaves you saw in the field today are delivered to the villa tomorrow.” Mari squinted to keep the gusts of sand out of his eyes. “Or whenever this blasted windstorm subsides.”

Early in the morning two days later, as the slaves hustled to sweep and shake out all the dust the east wind had blown into our house, a wagon full of green flax sheaves rolled into the outer courtyard. There Mari and my other brothers dropped the stalks into the troughs we'd used for fermenting beer. The wind was still blowing, but not hard enough for the flax to fly away. I wished I could be inside studying with Grandfather, but unless I understood how flax became linen, my ignorance would leave me vulnerable to those who wanted to cheat me or were merely incompetent. So I watched carefully.

“Now we cover the flax with mud,” Mari said. “Once the sun warms it, the outer bark will begin to rot and separate from the fibers inside.”

“During which time the stench is horrific,” Keshisha added. “Pray for a strong east wind to blow it away from the house.”

Mari shot Keshisha a look of annoyance. “After four or five days, we examine the stems. The test is to pull one between the nails of your thumb
and index finger.” Mari demonstrated on an imaginary stalk. “When it's ready, the outer straw falls away easily.”

“And when it does?” I was beginning to sense that the process of turning flax plants into linen thread was far more complicated than I'd anticipated. Back in Kafri all this work had been done near the flax fields, not at our home.

“Then we remove the flax and flush the foul solution out of the troughs as quickly as possible.” Keshisha scrunched up his nose in disgust for emphasis. “And make sure the slaves clean out every trace of it unless we want to taste it in our beer this fall.”

“Nobody needs to clean them out until we've finished with the yellow flax next month,” Mari told Keshisha, sounding exactly like Achti when she knew something I didn't.

“If this flax weren't Mother's, none of us would stand for you polluting our beer troughs.” Keshisha emptied a bucket of mud into the nearest trough and stomped off toward the house.

By the time the stalks were completely buried with mud, it was time for the midday meal. I ate in silence, increasingly annoyed with Keshisha's complaints. Was he upset because the flax came from my and Achti's fields? It was too bad if he didn't like doing all that work; he benefited from Mother's fine linen as much as anyone in our family.

Keshisha hadn't been exaggerating about the stink, however. I never thought I would welcome the east wind, but within a week I was thankful at how effectively the dry desert air dissipated the stench. When Mari and Mother agreed that it was time, my brothers tied rags across their noses as they dragged the stalks out and trampled them, while our slaves simultaneously rinsed them with clean well water.

Just when everyone was looking forward to being rid of the stench, Mother had a shock for us.

“While the troughs are still full, I want the entire household to bathe in them,” she announced. “First the men, then the women and children, and finally the slaves.”

It wasn't only Keshisha who howled in protest. My brothers objected so vigorously that Father had to quash the near mutiny himself. “You will all do as your mother orders.” He spoke in a voice that brooked no opposition. “I am going to get undressed now, and anyone who is not in a trough by the time I'm soaking will be thrown in.”

With that, I left along with the other women. But I stayed within
earshot, just beyond the south wall. I could hear some indistinct grumbling, and it seemed that my brothers and Father's students must have obeyed him. But I was wrong.

“No!” Keshisha yelled. “You're not getting me in there.”

There was a great deal of scuffling, followed by a loud splash and much masculine laughter. I peeked around the corner and nearly burst out laughing myself. Only the men's heads could be seen above the flax water, and each one was holding his nose.

It wasn't too long before Mother came outside, and I darted back behind the wall. “You may all get out now,” she directed them. “Rinse off here first. Then go down to the canal and soak there until you no longer stink.”

There was a flurry of activity, with much water being splashed around. Then I heard Tachlifa call out, “Race you to the canal,” and in a few moments, all was silent.

Now it was the women's turn. Under Mother's watchful eye, I gingerly lowered myself into the foul water and then, holding my nose, held out my other hand to help Rahel in.

“I assume there is an imperative reason for this,” Shayla said to Mother.

“Flax water has great healing power, especially for skin disorders.” Mother leaned back cautiously so her hair and scalp was submerged. “And it makes one's hair look most attractive.”

We all followed her, each helping another ensure that their hair was thoroughly wet. Just when I thought I couldn't stand the stench any longer, Mother stood up.

Once outside the troughs, we quickly grabbed the buckets and doused ourselves with well water. The men were making so much noise in the canal that it was easy to find a sheltered spot well away from them for our ablutions. Between the broiling sun and my desire to rinse out every trace of flax water, I couldn't get into the canal fast enough.

But afterward I had to marvel at my hair's silkiness and how soft and smooth my skin felt. And when I washed Rami's hands and feet later, the sensation of his clean skin against mine was so agreeable that I didn't want to let go.

The next day, just in time for Shabbat, the troughs were empty and the green flax drying on the roof. Mari warned that danger of decay was over only when the woody core was completely dry, which usually took a
few days. After that we could delay breaking the fibers as long as we liked, although he preferred that we finish the green flax before the yellow flax harvest began. Breaking the fibers produced no evil odors, but I dreaded having to endure the stench again when the yellow flax was rotting in the troughs.

By then the east wind season would be nearly finished.

There was no sign of Achti or Pushbi at synagogue that Shabbat, and guilt shot through me when I realized I hadn't seen them since Pesach. The likely reason was that Pushbi went to a different synagogue than we did, one closer to her home, and that Achti now attended services with her mother-in-law. After all, if Achti had married into a family from another city, I wouldn't expect to see her again, except on rare occasions.

I didn't know how far Pushbi lived from Kimchit, but I resolved to visit Achti the next time I had an afternoon free after writing amulets in the morning. That would be just before Shavuot, the festival seven weeks after Pesach, when Jews celebrate receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai. By then the green flax fibers would be processed, so I could tell Achti all about it.

With the end of spring, the east wind seldom blew for more than one day at a time and rarely with the intensity of earlier in the season. So too ended any chance of rain until winter storms returned. It was a perfect time for flax to dry.

The next step was rather fun, especially for the children. The dried flax needed to be broken in order to separate the fibers from the bark and pith. This involved laying the bundles on a hard surface, and then beating them vigorously. A lusty competition as to who could break the most bark the fastest immediately ensued, with the women spending only slightly more time beating flax than they did preventing the boys from hitting one another.

Eventually the waste piled up on the floor, leaving the long, clean fibers in the beaters' hands. Now we waited anxiously as Mother surveyed the scene. If the flax had not been properly rotted in the troughs earlier, the excessive amount of waste would make our failure apparent to all. It seemed to me that there was a great deal of waste, which wasn't actually wasted but would be further processed into rougher, sturdier thread for weaving canvas. But Mother was beaming, so she must have been pleased with our efforts.

Now we were almost done. The final procedure, always women's work, involved passing the remaining bundles through flax combs to separate the individual fibers. Mother made us use three different-size combs: first a coarse one with its nails set fairly far apart, then one with medium separation, and finally the finest, with short, slender tines set close together. Over and over I drew the flax through the tines, until my arm hurt from the continual motion and every short fiber had fallen away.

It might be months before all the flax was combed, especially once the yellow flax had been harvested, and any woman who found herself with spare time would continue the process. When the east winds returned in the fall and made it impossible to work outdoors, we would congregate in an interior room to comb, spin, and weave. The ultimate result would be lengths of fibers that were separated, smoothed, and aligned in parallel, as thin and soft as human hair—ready to spin into linen thread that was both incredibly fine and strong.

Two days before Shavuot, I spent the afternoon on the roof watching for the boat that would bring my eldest brother and his family to Sura to celebrate the festival. When the Temple still stood, Shavuot was when Jews in Eretz Israel brought the first fruits of the wheat harvest as a thanksgiving sacrifice. Here in Bavel, pilgrims came to Ezekiel's Synagogue, especially after the Rabbis established that Shavuot was the very day that Moses had received the Torah.

The sun was low on the horizon when I saw a barge slow and finally stop at the dock near our villa. I raced down to the canal and threw myself into my eldest brother's arms. “Yenuka, it's so good to see you. Father only told us today that you'd be coming for Shavuot.”

“That's because he knew you'd spend every moment on the roof looking for our boat,” he replied.

Blushing, I grabbed Guria's hands and helped her up the bank. Seeing Yenuka again made me realize that I'd missed him, even though I was now big enough that he no longer had to protect me from my other brothers' pranks and teasing.

“I can't wait to see all the pilgrims at Ezekiel's Synagogue.” My words came out in a rush. “Father says that thousands and thousands of people come to celebrate the festival at his tomb. Imagine hearing the Ten Commandments and Ezekiel's own words read from scrolls written by the prophet himself.”

While all that was true, I also looked forward to Shavuot as a chance to see Achti and find out what her married life was like. Between visiting my land, which Mari wanted me to do weekly while the wheat and flax were nearing harvest, and writing amulets, I'd had little free time to find Pushbi's house. And when I finally did, she and Achti weren't home. At least that's what their doorkeeper said. I slunk away, wondering if he didn't know who I was or didn't care.

I felt guilty to acknowledge it, but I was relieved that Abba bar Joseph had gone home to Machoza for Shavuot. Nearly every session I could feel his eyes boring into me, and the temptation to peek at him was surely equal to the one that compelled Lot's wife to look back at burning Sodom. When I failed and let my gaze meet his, I tried to scowl with displeasure, but his expression registered only triumph.

Oddly, Abba almost never looked at Rami, even when Rami was speaking. And when the two of them argued over how to interpret a certain Mishna or Baraita, which was often, Abba's voice would rise with anger while he stared obdurately at the floor. Rami, who had studied long enough that he could usually best Abba in these contests, was not a magnanimous victor, and I found myself torn between satisfaction and sympathy at Abba's humiliation.

I wished Abba would go study somewhere else.

Yenuka's family wasn't the only one to stay with us for Shavuot. Tachlifa's betrothed, Pazi, arrived the next day with her twin sister, Tazi, and Tazi's husband, Samuel. I couldn't take my eyes off the twins, who looked so similar that I could only tell which was which because of Tazi's pregnancy. Not that Pazi was particularly slender; both were short, plump, and bubbly, regularly giggling behind their hands. I was surprised to find that I was taller than my soon-to-be sister-in-law. I hadn't realized how much I'd grown recently.

Since it wouldn't be proper for unmarried Pazi to share a room with Samuel and Tazi, that evening brought me another roommate—one with an extravagant wardrobe. My mouth dropped in amazement the next morning when she let me see the gifts she'd brought our family.

“I know I shouldn't be giving these out until just before the wedding.” Pazi displayed one magnificent silk after another, every color of the rainbow and more that weren't even in rainbows. “But I don't think my sisters-in-law would like it if I wore a beautiful new outfit for the festival while they wore their regular clothes.”

“They probably wouldn't,” I said, nearly speechless with awe. Where had Pazi gotten all these gorgeous fabrics? Not only were they perfectly dyed, but each had a distinct pattern in its weave. Some were woven with various sized stripes, others with chevrons, squares, and other geometric designs. They had to be worth a fortune.