Rashi's Daughters, Book III: Rachel (45 page)

 

Eliezer waited until they’d finished the first chapter of Tractate Rosh Hashanah before sharing the calendar’s secret. “Eventually the Edomites made it too dangerous to send messengers from Eretz Israel to the Diaspora to announce the new month. That’s when Hillel II allowed the rules of intercalation to be publicized.”

His audience sat up straight, their attention rapt as he continued, “There are four criteria to determine the calendar.”

“I know two of them,” Meir said, shifting awkwardly in his seat as he attempted to find a less-painful position. “Passover must be in the spring, and a month must begin at the new moon.”

“Meir is correct. The calendar must combine both solar and lunar aspects,” Eliezer replied. “Since the solar year is 365 days and a month is 29½ days, we need a cycle that contains both a whole number of years and a whole number of months. Long ago, astronomers in Bavel established a workable cycle of 19 years, or 235 months. They found that if you alternate months of 29 and 30 days, a month will always begin with the new moon.”

“That’s why Elul is twenty-nine days and Tishri is thirty,” Miriam said. “And why, when we have two Adars, the first is full and the second deficient.”

“I assume the Sod ha-Ibur calculated where in the nineteen-year cycle these extra months should go,” Joheved speculated.

“
Oui
. We add a second Adar seven times during the nineteen years,” Eliezer said. “In years three, six, eight, eleven, fourteen, seventeen, and nineteen.”

Miriam leaned forward eagerly. “What year are we in now?”

“We’re in year fourteen, so there were two Adars.”

Rachel had sat silently, deep in thought, when suddenly she frowned and looked her husband in the eye. “You said the months alternate between twenty-nine and thirty days, but this year both Heshvan and Kislev were full.”

“And next year they’ll both be deficient,” he challenged her in return. “That brings us to our third and fourth rules.”

The room grew quiet with anticipation. Many Jews knew about the nineteen-year cycle and how to add an extra Adar, but now they’d come to the more complicated rules, the secret ones.

“As Miriam reminded us, Elul is always a deficient month, with twenty-nine days,” Eliezer began. “However, our Gemara mentions the
beit din
making Elul full, thirty days, as a favor.

Meir explained, “This means they arranged for a day between Shabbat and Rosh Hashanah, when fresh food could be prepared for the holiday, or between Shabbat and Yom Kippur so those who died in the preceding afternoon would not remain unburied for two days.”

“Thus we manipulate the calendar so that neither Rosh Hashanah nor Yom Kippur falls on Friday or Sunday,” Eliezer said.

“I see,” Rachel nodded with understanding. “If either Holy Day fell the day before or the day after Shabbat, we would have two days in a row when you couldn’t cook or hold a funeral.”

“Which would be a hardship for the people.” Eliezer finished his wife’s thought. “But instead of changing the length of Elul as the
beit din
did, today we change Heshvan or Kislev, sometimes adding an extra day to Heshvan, making it full instead of deficient, and sometimes by shortening Kislev from thirty days to twenty-nine.”

“What is the fourth rule?” Rachel asked. Surely the other three were sufficient.

“It is based on the section of our Gemara that discusses the
molad.
” Eliezer took a deep breath before continuing. He’d saved the most complicated rule for last.

“Oy,” groaned Meir. “Understanding the
molad
is more aggravating than my bad back.

A
molad
, the birth of the new moon, was the exact moment when the sun and moon were in conjunction. However, due to the sun’s brightness, the moon is invisible at that time, which complicates determining when a new month begins. The subject was abstruse even for the Talmud, necessitating one of Salomon’s longest commentaries.

“It’s not that difficult,” Eliezer insisted. “Let’s go back to our Gemara, where Rav Zeira says:

Eliezer tried to curb his impatience when four confused faces stared at him blankly. “Imagine the sky at sunset on Rosh Hashanah. Since the new moon trails behind the sun, the first sliver of the new moon will be observed immediately after the sun sets, as the sky darkens; but only for a brief time until the moon itself sets.”

No one challenged this so he continued. “Remember, the new moon cannot be seen in Jerusalem until at least six hours have passed since
molad
. . .” He paused for them to consider this. “So for any
molad
that occurs at noon or later, no one will be able to see the moon until the following day.”

Miriam was quick to demonstrate her understanding. “Because six hours later the moon has already set.”

“Exactly.” He smiled with relief as the others nodded their agreement. “Since Rosh Hashanah may begin only after the new moon of Tishri is sighted in Jerusalem, we delay
yom tov
a day if the
molad
occurs after midday.”

“And if that day is Sunday, Wednesday, or Friday, we must delay another day,” Meir added. “Otherwise Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur would occur immediately before or after Shabbat.”

“This coming year the
molad
will occur on Shabbat, at two hours past noon, so the fourth rule postpones Rosh Hashanah to the next day.” Eliezer waited to see who would continue his reasoning.

It was Joheved who spoke. “But the third rule says that Rosh Hashanah may not fall on Sunday, so we delay an additional day to Monday.” She smiled at the others. By this time everyone knew that the upcoming New Year would be celebrated on the last Monday of September.

“That’s why Heshvan and Kislev will both be deficient this coming year, to make up the two days that Rosh Hashanah was delayed,” Rachel said, proud of her comprehension.

That evening, after Eliezer showed her how to determine the
molad
anywhere with the astrolabe, she asked him, “You’re an astronomer; tell me how accurate is this cycle? Did the Sod ha-Ibur make any mistakes?”

He grinned and nodded. “The lunar part is very accurate; after six hundred years the calculated
molad
will only be an hour off from true conjunction.” Then he sighed. “But the solar calendar gains a day every 224 years.”

“Don’t worry.” Rachel laughed seductively. “It will take ten thousand years to be off a month and there’s sure to be a new Sanhedrin in Jerusalem before then to fix it.”

He pulled her into his arms. His wife had immersed in the Seine three days ago, and he didn’t care what would happen in ten thousand years. Abraham bar Hiyya had determined that the Messiah would come long before then.

twenty-five

Heavy autumn rains pelted the windows, and outside the wind howled, but Salomon’s cellar was warm and sweet smelling from the new vintage’s fermentation. Rachel give silent thanks that the storm had delayed its attack until after Sukkot, saving her family the unhappy choice of dwelling in a wet
sukkah
or not performing the mitzvah. When the weather cleared, she and her sisters would return to the vineyard to collect straw ties and vine props, but today they did indoor chores, cleaning the winemaking equipment and sharpening pruning knives.

“What’s bothering you, Joheved?” Miriam asked as she handed a knife back to her older sister. “This is the third blade you’ve sharpened that still has a significant burr.”

Curious how Joheved would respond, Rachel restrained her pique that Miriam had returned her poorly sharpened knives without the slightest concern that something might be bothering her. Not that Rachel wanted to share how discouraged she felt that the fuller Albert recommended had turned out to be less competent than she expected—or her frustration that Eliezer would spend yet another winter and spring in Toledo.

Joheved sighed. “I don’t know what to do about Shlomo. He doesn’t want to go to school.”

“He doesn’t want to study Torah?” Rachel blurted out, almost dropping her knife. “Papa’s namesake?”

“I’m so ashamed.” Joheved blinked back tears.

“Maybe it’s the school itself Shlomo doesn’t like . . . or his teacher.” Miriam glared at Rachel. “Judah hated his when he was young, yet he became a
talmid chacham
.”

“Perhaps he misses his family,” Rachel suggested, trying to be more helpful. “Or he resents being sent away while his brothers and cousins study at home.”

“Of course he’d prefer to study at home,” Joheved replied. “But Meir is occupied with the new yeshiva, and I have even less time now that all those boys are boarding with us.”

Meir’s back had continued to plague him, preventing his regular rides between Ramerupt and Troyes. So Salomon chose to split the yeshiva: the younger students to study in Ramerupt with Meir while the older ones remained in Troyes.

“I’d love to teach Shlomo, but I’m already teaching all the women I can handle.” Miriam held up her knife to inspect the blade, and then, satisfied, took up another. “I had no idea my Torah class would be so popular.”

“Why can’t Hannah teach him? She’s not getting married until Hanukkah,” Rachel suggested. “And if Hannah gets pregnant right away, Leah can take over.”

To Rachel’s surprise, Miriam supported her. “Shlomo’s only beginning Torah study, Joheved. Surely your daughters are competent to teach him.”

“I suppose we can try it and see if he likes his studies better.” But there was more doubt than hope in Joheved’s voice.

 

A few weeks later, Joheved burst into her father’s kitchen shortly before
disner
, her face brimming with excitement. She headed straight for Rachel, who was tasting a pot of stew, and embraced her. “I owe you a debt of gratitude for suggesting that Hannah teach Shlomo.”

Rachel put down the spoon and grinned. “So he no longer hates his studies?”

“
Oui
, that’s true. He’s doing quite well now,” Joheved replied. “But that’s not why I’m here. It’s about Jacob.”

“What about Jacob?” Concern etched Salomon’s face.

“He’s talking. And not just a few words but whole sentences.” Smiling broadly, Joheved began speaking faster. “He’s been sitting with Hannah and Shlomo as they study, and one day when Shlomo stumbled over a verse Jacob corrected him. When I asked Jacob, I discovered that he’s not only understood the weekly Torah portion for some time now but he’s memorized nearly every verse.”

Her audience stared at her in amazement.

“That’s not all,” Joheved continued proudly. “You should hear his questions. Last week when Hannah taught about Noah’s Ark, Jacob asked why Noah didn’t have any children when he was young, like normal people do, but only after he was five hundred years old.”

“Meir must be relieved,” Miriam said.

“Meir never had the slightest doubt about our son’s abilities.” Inexplicably Joheved blushed.

She had become pregnant with Jacob shortly after Meir began “kissing that place” as a prelude to using the bed. With the Talmud teaching that the quality of a child is proportional to the quality of the act that conceives him, Meir assured her that the boy would outshine their older children. Despite the phenomenal pleasure Joheved experienced, she hadn’t quite shared her husband’s confidence. Now he’d been vindicated.

She noticed that the stew was almost boiling over and picked up a spoon from the table to stir it down.

“Wait, Joheved.” Too late Rachel grabbed for her sister’s arm. “That’s a milk spoon—the one Anna uses to make cheese.”

“Oh no.” Her face flaming, Joheved snatched the errant spoon from the stew and threw it in a pan of soapy water. She turned to her father. “Papa, what are we going to do?”

Rachel frowned. “Don’t tell me we have to throw the stew out?” When was Joheved going to realize that Rachel was in charge of Papa’s kitchen?

Salomon stroked his beard. Jewish Law demanded a strict separation of milk and meat. Dairy and meat dishes were never served at the same meal, and a plate or utensil used for one could not be used for the other without washing it in between. His daughters gazed at him anxiously, awaiting his decision.

“When did Anna last use the milk spoon?” he asked.

“I think it was yesterday morning,” Miriam said. “Or maybe the day before.”

Salomon nodded. “In that case I will permit the stew, the spoon, and the pot because . . .” He paused to let his daughters come to their own conclusions first. “Most important, there is more than sixty times as much meat in the pot as milk on the spoon. Also the spoon has not been used for over twenty-four hours.” He smiled at Joheved. “And we cannot say that you used the spoon to give the stew a better taste.”

When Rachel hugged him with relief, he added, “But to avoid further problems, wash the spoon in hot water before anyone uses it again.”

Embarrassed at her negligence, Joheved brought the subject back to her son. “This week, with the binding of Isaac, Jacob asked us why Abraham didn’t tell Sarah about sacrificing their son, and if that’s why she died afterward.”

“So my youngest grandson is indeed Jacob Tam.” Salomon’s eyes twinkled with pleasure as he made a mental note to answer Jacob’s questions in his Torah commentary. Yet his voice held a chilly warning.

A child this brilliant would inflame the demons’ jealousy. Better everyone should continue to call the boy Jacob the Simple to fool the evil spirits, protecting him from their enmity.

Joheved clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in fear at how she’d just endangered her son. “Never mind, it’s nothing important,” she stammered. “Let’s go eat.”