Rashi's Daughters, Book II: Miriam (6 page)

Sarah put down her wine cup and thought for a moment. “I suppose it was better than marrying a stranger. But even though it’s traditional for a childless widow to marry again after three months, both of us were still too grieved to celebrate our wedding properly.”

“Could we please discuss something else for a change?” Miriam asked, her eyes filling with tears.

But Rivka was not going to change the subject. “I was waiting at the bakery when Fleur asked me if we’d found a new husband for Miriam yet, it being three months since she had been widowed.”

Conversation at the table halted as Rivka continued, “If we hadn’t, Fleur hoped that we might consider her cousin, Leontin, whose year of mourning for his late wife is almost over.”

Miriam gasped, and her pale visage grew almost white. Her father, on the other hand, began to redden perceptibly as he struggled to control his anger.

“How desperate does she think we are to imagine that I would accept such an
am haaretz
for a son-in-law?” Salomon stood up menacingly. “Leontin can barely read Torah and wouldn’t know what to do with a tractate of Talmud if it fell in his lap. My daughter will not marry an ignorant boor, no matter how rich he is!” He slammed his fist down on the table.

Rivka stood up and put her hands on her hips. “I didn’t say I thought Leontin would be a good match for Miriam, but I do say the best cure for her unhappiness would be to get her married as soon as possible.” She stared defiantly at her husband. “At least I’m looking out for our daughter’s interests, while you’ve got your nose buried in your books.”

Meir could see the storm clouds gathering. He picked up little Isaac and asked Sarah if it was time to make sure all the chickens were safely in their coop. She quickly agreed, and as soon as he closed the door behind them, Salomon exploded.

“How dare you suggest I’m neglecting my daughter!”

“Oh
non
—you’re such a doting father.” Rivka’s words dripped sarcasm. “You teach them Talmud and to pray with tefillin. Well, as soon as the Cold Fair starts, I want you to find Miriam a husband.” Her voice brooked no argument.

“I will not be hurried about this.” Salomon’s voice was equally firm.

“You think a bridegroom will just come to us, like before,” Rivka shot back. “But our daughter’s a widow now; it won’t be so easy.”

Miriam had enough of everyone discussing her as if she weren’t present. “That’s right, Mama, I’m a widow now, not a child, so you and Papa can’t marry me off if I don’t want to.” The rest of the family stared at her in astonishment. This was the most she’d spoken in weeks. “And right now, I don’t want to, so you can stop fighting about it.”

“Well,” Rivka was almost speechless. She turned and pointed her finger at Salomon. “This is your fault. They’re just like you. All book learning about petty legalities and no consideration for what’s really important. I’ve had enough!” She stalked out the door, slamming it behind her.

Salomon stood up and yelled, “Don’t you walk out on me.” He lifted his wine cup, and his horrified daughters were sure he was going to throw it at the closed door. But after a visible struggle, he set down the cup and addressed them with a saying from chapter four of Pirke Avot.

Now the strong man isn’t just someone who won’t follow his
yetzer hara
, his inclination toward evil, but also the one who conquers his anger. The man who is enraged but restrains his angry words and doesn’t answer quickly—this is true strength.” With these words Salomon strode out into the salon.

“Papa may have conquered his
yetzer hara
, but I am definitely not content with my portion.” Miriam headed for the door. “I’m going to bed.”

Meir peeked in, and seeing all was calm, deposited their sleepy child in Joheved’s lap. “Maybe this would be a good time for the rest of us to go to bed.”

“What about Mama?” Rachel asked. “I don’t want to go to bed until she comes back.”

Meir looked at her with a puzzled expression. “I just saw her going upstairs, talking with your Aunt Sarah. Sarah was saying something about how she had to marry again three months after her husband died and she didn’t recommend it.”

 

The next morning at breakfast, neither Salomon nor Rivka showed any sign of poor temper. Rivka was humming a little tune as she served the stirabout, fruit, and cheese, and Salomon smiled as he asked everyone how they slept the previous night. He, himself, he informed them, had slept excellently well.

“By the way, Miriam, I had a long talk last night with your mother and aunt.” He paused to slice himself some more cheese. “As you reminded us, you are indeed an adult now, but that doesn’t end my obligation. The prophet Jeremiah tells us:

And in Tractate Kiddushin (marriage), we learn that to marry off his daughter,

He smiled sympathetically at her. “So you see that finding you a husband is a mitzvah I cannot neglect.”

“Salomon, I see that if you didn’t have children you would probably teach Torah to the cats,” Rivka gently interrupted him. “Please tell Miriam what you propose to do.”

“
Ma fille
, Sarah reminded us that your grief is too fresh for you to think about a new husband,” Salomon said. “We think it best to have your availability circulated at the Cold Fair, and then your suitors can present themselves at the Hot Fair, at which time you’ll consider their offers.”

Sarah gave Miriam’s hand a squeeze. “I have no doubt that you will have many suitable matches to choose from, one of which will appeal to you.” Sarah didn’t mention how they had come to this conclusion, that the rigors of childbirth ensured that young widowers greatly outnumbered young widows.

“You will have our guidance to help you make your choice, but it will be your decision,” Rivka concluded, refilling her grandson’s bowl with Miriam’s leftover stirabout. “Le Bon Dieu willing, you can be married next summer.” She looked at Miriam hopefully.

“
Merci
, Papa.
Merci
, Mama,” Miriam replied softly. Now she was safe for at least six months.

 

But if her family expected Miriam’s disposition to improve now that the pressure to marry was gone, they were disappointed. When Samuel and Marona spent Shabbat in Troyes, Miriam’s decline could not be ignored. Miriam’s hair used to be the same lustrous chestnut color as Joheved’s, but now it was as dull as weathered wood. Her grey eyes with their dark circles looked drab and colorless compared with Joheved’s vivid blue or Rachel’s dazzling green. And she was so thin.

“Salomon, please excuse our interference, but you are family and ...” Samuel paused, unsure how to best broach the subject. “My wife and I couldn’t help but notice how pale and gaunt Miriam has become. Perhaps Marona should make her a tonic? She knows some excellent remedies.”

“If you have a tonic to heal a broken heart, I’d order a thousand of them,” Salomon replied sadly. “She won’t eat, she won’t drink wine, she cries in her sleep. I have to keep her from sharpening the pruning knives for fear that she might injure herself.” He shook his head and sighed, “Rachel tells me that Miriam is dreading Hanukkah, that she can’t bear celebrating the new vintage that killed her Benjamin.”

Samuel put his arm around Salomon’s shoulders. “Let her spend Hanukkah with us. Marona will be glad to have a young face around.” His voice softened. “She still mourns for our daughter, Hannah, and the two of them can comfort each other.”

“I don’t know,” Salomon said.
Send Miriam away?

“Nobody can match my wife’s cooking for putting flesh on your bones, and if Miriam won’t drink wine, Marona’s ale is as heartening as you could want.” Samuel’s enthusiasm was growing. “One month with us and she’ll be as good as new.”

Rivka needed no convincing. “Perhaps the bad air in Troyes is upsetting Miriam. Some time in the country, breathing clean, sweet air, should be an excellent change for our daughter.”

Sarah knew what Miriam really needed: someplace far away from Troyes, with new people to meet and different things to do; with nothing there to remind her of her loss.

J
udah ben Natan made a point of looking away as the plump young maidservant smiled seductively, then bent down and set a pitcher of ale on the table between him and his older brother. But his sibling gave her a wink, and when she returned with a steaming bowl of stirabout and a platter of smoked herring, he slipped her some coins. She paused halfway to the kitchen, counted her money, and blew her admirer a kiss.

Judah grimaced, then leaned across the table and complained to his brother, “Azariel, is your
yetzer hara
so strong that you find it necessary to bed the serving wench at every inn?”

Azariel chuckled and helped himself to the stirabout. “What’s it to you who I bed? It takes the same amount of time to get from Paris to Mayence no matter how I spend my nights.” The easy availability of women at most inns was a perquisite for the merchant who had to travel long distances.

What Azariel said was true, but Judah couldn’t leave things be. “You just spent the last month home with your wife, too.”

“Listen little brother, you’ve made your opinion clear.” Azariel was starting to get annoyed. He and Judah made the round-trip between their home and the yeshiva twice a year, once for Passover and once for the Days of Awe, and they usually enjoyed each other’s company.

Judah pulled his bowl away when Azariel tried to refill it. “I guess when the Creator handed out the
yetzers
in our family, you got the
yetzer hara
and I got the
yetzer tov
.”

“I readily admit that you received the good looks, but no
yetzer hara
? That’s impossible.” Azariel smiled, refusing to be baited.

Both men, with their black hair, dark eyes, and finely chiseled features, were handsome, but Judah’s nose was a bit straighter and his jaw more square. At least his jaw looked squarer; his brother’s was hidden under a beard. Judah was just starting to grow a moustache.

“My passion is for Torah study, not seducing women,” he announced virtuously.

Azariel eyed him skeptically over his cup of ale. “Don’t tell me you’re still a virgin?”

Judah’s blushing silence was answer enough, and Azariel continued, “But you’re almost twenty. You must have some
yetzer hara
, every man does. Don’t tell me Lillit doesn’t visit you?”

“Since you insist, I admit it.” There was no point in denying it; Azariel could always tell when he was lying. In fact, the demon Lillit had visited Judah only the previous night. At first he had the horrible suspicion that Azariel had made this particular comment after noticing the stained sheets, but then he relaxed. The inn’s sheets were so badly discolored that nobody could possibly tell a new stain from an old one.

Sure enough, his brother merely inquired salaciously, “And what form does she take when she visits?”

“None of your business!” In Mayence or Paris, Judah would immerse in the
mikvah
the morning after he dreamed of Lillit, but that was impossible now.

The dream was the one Judah usually had, where invisible hands began to caress his thighs and what lay between them. He’d try to push them away but be unable to move. Not daring to look, he’d feel the demon mount him from above, Lillit’s favorite position. He’d try to escape, but the more vigorously he moved, the better Lillit liked it, until she finally forced him to spill his seed. He hated those vile dreams, he hated how remembering them gave him an erection, and right now he hated his brother for bringing up the subject.

Azariel folded his arms in front of him and leaned back in his chair. “You’ve been ill-tempered this whole trip. What’s wrong?”

What is wrong with me?
How could Judah tell Azariel that he missed Daniel, his old study partner? Slim with grey eyes and light brown hair, Daniel had come to study at the yeshiva two years ago. A serious student, only a year younger than Judah, they had become friends immediately.

Daniel didn’t have Judah’s breadth of Talmud knowledge, but once he took on a subject he was determined to mine its complete meaning. He and Judah questioned each other furiously until they were sure they understood every nuance, sometimes arguing late into the night. But now Daniel was gone. He’d returned to Cologne to get married and join his family’s business.

Their last days together had been before Shavuot, when they had feverishly sought every opportunity to be together. As the time came to say good-bye, it was all Judah could do to keep from grabbing Daniel and begging him not to go. They embraced awkwardly and Daniel kissed his cheek. Alone in their room that night, Judah had cried himself to sleep.

Azariel saw that his brother’s anger had turned to sadness. “Did you have a fight with your mother and Uncle Shimson before we left?” he asked gently.

Judah nodded, relieved that Azariel had given him something else to discuss. He and Azariel were actually half brothers. Azariel’s mother had been their father, Natan’s, first wife, but she had died in childbirth. Natan’s brother Shimson soon found him a new wife, Alvina, his own wife’s younger sister. Judah was still small when Natan had died, but Alvina didn’t remarry. She devoted herself to increasing Natan’s wealth for her son, the scholar. They continued to live with her sister and Shimson, one big happy family. Except recently they weren’t so happy.

“Was it another argument about you getting married?” When Judah nodded again, Azariel lowered his voice conspiratorially. “What was the matter with the girl this time?” He stabbed a herring with his knife and waited.