Rashi's Daughters, Book II: Miriam (16 page)

Judah jumped up. “I can’t leave without saying good-bye to Rabbenu Isaac.” Whether Miriam agreed to marry him or not, this would be his last night in Mayence.

“Well, don’t take too long about it,” Azariel said.

 

Judah raced to the yeshiva and heaved a sigh of relief to see a light in the rosh yeshiva’s study window. A quiet knock on his teacher’s door brought the old man himself to answer it.

“Judah, what brings you here at this hour?”

“I’ve come to say good-bye, Master. I’m leaving Mayence tomorrow morning.”

Isaac’s brow wrinkled in concern. “Judah, perhaps I was overzealous when I threatened you with
herem.
”

“I’m not going because of the
herem
,” Judah said. “My brother has returned and we have to leave immediately for Troyes so I can meet my
bashert
.” He smiled. “So I suppose, in a way, that I am leaving because of the
herem
. Thank you.”

“Your
bashert
is in Troyes?”

“
Oui
. Her father is their rosh yeshiva, and my brother assures me that she knows Hillel, Shammai, and Ben Azzai.”

“But Salomon’s older daughters are already married. And Rachel can’t be of marriageable age.”

“The middle daughter was widowed last fall, Master.”
My teacher knows these girls?

“You’re going to marry Miriam?”

“So far she’s only agreed to meet me, but I’m sure my brother can negotiate a betrothal agreement.” Judah squinted at Isaac. “But how do you know her?”

“Miriam is my niece. Her mother, Rivka, is my sister.”

“Then I shall be your nephew!” Judah embraced his teacher and bounded for the door. “Everything turned out for the best.”

“Wait,” the rosh yeshiva called after him. “Let me write a few lines to my brother-in-law before you go.”

As Isaac busied himself with quill and ink, Judah began looking forward to studying at a French yeshiva. That’s why there were so few Frenchmen who studied here; the others must be going to Troyes now. And the fewer there were, the more the Germans felt safe in insulting them. But nobody would harass him in Troyes, not married to the rosh yeshiva’s daughter.

The more Judah thought about it, the more he knew that Miriam was the one he’d been waiting for. He remembered the saying in Bereshit Rabbah, the Midrash on Genesis:

Therefore some men find an effortless match, like Isaac, who looked up to find his bride standing in front of him. But from others, and Judah knew he must be one of these, the Creator demands great effort, perhaps even suffering, before attaining the match prepared for him in Heaven. Jacob was exiled from his home and had to work years for his beloved Rachel.

Judah took his teacher’s letter and hurried through the courtyard gate. Once he was married to Miriam he would no longer suffer sinful thoughts or be tempted by the likes of Natan. His
bashert
would save him.

Leaving Mayence, Judah and Azariel joined the springtime throng of merchants heading west to the province of Champagne. Judah gaped at the large number of people who apparently shared his destination, and whenever he saw a young man, he couldn’t help but imagine a potential rival.

 

In Troyes, the last thing Miriam wanted to think about was Judah or his potential rivals. But Rachel, sure that Judah was the hero who would dry Miriam’s tears, filled her ears with talk of
amour
. Every day Rachel asked Papa how long until Judah arrived.

“I don’t know,
ma fille
,” was his constant reply. “Azariel can’t possibly get to Mayence and back in less than a month.”

Miriam had a different question for him. “Papa, Judah ben Natan can’t be my
bashert
. For how could Benjamin have wanted to marry me so much if he wasn’t the right one?”
And how could I have wanted to marry him so much as well?

Salomon turned to her and sighed. “In Tractate Moed Katan, we learn that a man may betroth a woman on the Ninth of Av, even on such a black fast day mourning for Jerusalem’s destruction, lest another man precede him. Yet how can that be, the Gemara asks, if a couple is paired even in their mothers’ wombs?”

He put his arm around her shoulders. “The answer is that, although a man is fated from Heaven to marry a certain woman, if another man prays for her fervently, the Holy One may listen to him.” He continued sadly, “Even so, the original decree will ultimately be fulfilled. The man who prayed will die and her intended partner will then marry her. Perhaps the Merciful One took pity on Benjamin and allowed him to die rather than see you married to somebody else.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks as Miriam remembered how happy Benjamin had been in his last days. Had the Holy One really answered Benjamin’s prayer and let him die thinking that she would be his? But if so, what about her suffering? And why hadn’t she died so that Benjamin could marry his
bashert
?

Salomon gave her a hug. “If the Holy One intended you for Judah, then somehow you will know.”

Over the next few weeks, each time she thought of Benjamin, Miriam reminded herself of her father’s words. Snatches of verses from Psalms tumbled through her thoughts.

Would He indeed show her the path to choose? And would she recognize it?
Oui
—if the Holy One’s path to a happy life and children were before her, she would see it.

Trusting in the future was more difficult when Miriam performed the springtime vineyard chores. Some of her best memories were of working with Benjamin, training the new shoots and trimming the canopy of leaves to achieve the best exposure of the grape bunches to sunlight, spending hours discussing the angles at which the various branches should be made to grow. It was as if they had been planning their future. Thank Heaven she’d be banished from the vineyard with everyone else when the grapevines flowered, and thus spared the memories the blossoms’ scent would evoke.

 

Fortunately she was soon so occupied with midwifery that she had little time for reminiscing. Many merchants in Troyes traveled during the six months between the Cold and Hot fairs, and it seemed as if last summer each one had returned from his journey and almost immediately impregnated his wife.

“I’ve never seen so many babies born in the spring,” Sarah complained as they walked home after their third birth that week. “I’m exhausted.”

“I think I can handle the night births now,” Miriam said. “I’ll be sure to call for you if I need help.” After spending the winter as midwife to hundreds of sheep, most pregnant with twins, assisting one woman, in labor with one child, was no longer an ordeal.

“All right. You can go out at night by yourself until the wedding.” Sarah smiled and gave her a knowing look. “Then I’ll take over so you can stay home at night with your new husband.”

My new husband
. Miriam gathered her courage. “What was it like to marry again so soon after your first husband died?”

Sarah stopped in her tracks, causing several nearby peddlers to approach and offer her their wares. Waving them off, she took Miriam’s arm and pulled her close. “My marriage to Eleazar wasn’t a love match like yours, but what little time we had together was pleasant enough. However, we were only married a month before he left for Constantinople. On the way home, his caravan was attacked by bandits and he was killed.”

“How terrible for you.”

Sarah paused. “Honestly, he had been gone so long I’d almost forgotten I was married.”

“So you didn’t grieve for him?”

“I was shocked when the news came, of course, and sad for his death, but his brother certainly grieved more than I did.”

“You must have liked Eleazar’s brother well enough,” Miriam said. “Otherwise you could have asked for
halitzah
.”

Sarah sighed. “It wasn’t as simple as that. Eleazar’s family didn’t want to lose his
ketubah
, and most folks thought it wasn’t fair for me to inherit all that property after such a short marriage. I didn’t want trouble, so three months after Eleazar’s death, I married his little brother, Levi.”

“Was it difficult marrying someone who would always remind you of your first husband?”

Sarah shook her head. “Levi was fifteen years old, still a yeshiva student. Instead of a husband with a beard, I had one with pimples.”

Miriam wanted to hear more about that second marriage, but when they arrived at the courtyard gate, Aunt Sarah said, “I’m tired. Maybe we can talk again after I take a nap.”

Aunt Sarah was clearly not eager to discuss that second marriage. But as Joheved pointed out, Miriam had a choice. If Judah didn’t appeal to her, she would wait and see if someone else at the Hot Fair did. She thought back to the babies she helped deliver recently, the yearning she felt as she washed, salted, and swaddled them. And the sense of loss when she handed them back to their mothers. How long would she have to wait for the day when the baby born would be hers?

 

Meir was also thinking about procreation, about the way Judah had debated him on the subject. Admittedly it had been over six years ago, and there is a great deal of difference between a thirteen-year-old boy and a man nearing twenty, but Judah was obviously still a great admirer of Ben Azzai, and Meir doubted it was because he approved of learned women. Several times Meir approached Salomon to discuss his concern about Judah, only to hesitate and allow another student to speak.

One morning Meir was helping little Isaac stack colored wooden blocks in the salon when Salomon sat down beside them.

“Can three people play?”

“Of course.” Meir pushed some blocks toward Salomon.

Salomon picked up a yellow one and paused, as if deciding where to place it. “Meir, it seems that you have something on your mind.”

“Judah ben Natan was in Worms at the same time as I was ...” Meir’s conscience told him to share his misgivings with Salomon, yet it seemed wrong to prejudice Miriam’s family on the basis of a brief conversation so long ago.

Salomon slowly put his block on top of the pile. “And?”

“Rabbenu.” Meir’s voice held a warning. “Keep in mind that Judah was a boy when I knew him.”

“I understand.” Salomon congratulated himself on his perception. Meir had been apprehensive. “Was Judah interested in Ben Azzai when you knew him?”

“
Oui
. He admired Ben Azzai very much.”

Salomon stroked his beard. “I’d rather Miriam not wed a devotee of the hidden Torah.” Ben Azzai, a mystic, died trying to understand the mysteries of the Torah. “It can be dangerous to study such things, and she’s already been widowed once.”

“Judah ben Natan was not interested in the arcane.” Meir’s tone was adamant. “I believe that he wanted to model himself after Ben Azzai’s devotion to Torah over all else.” Meir emphasized the words “all else.”

Salomon frowned. “Do you mean that Judah shared Ben Azzai’s view that devotion to Torah should be a man’s only passion?”

Isaac added a red block to the pile, and Meir reached out to steady them. “When I became betrothed, Judah and I had a discussion, a debate actually, about marriage and procreation. For every text I quoted that praised them, he quoted one that disparaged them.”

“Maybe he was arguing for Torah’s sake?”

“I don’t think so,” Meir said. “Judah seemed dismissive of women, or maybe he was afraid of them. His final text was Ben Azzai’s explanation of why he wouldn’t procreate.

Salomon shook his head. “There are many faults I can overlook in a Torah scholar, but I cannot allow my daughter to marry a man who believes his passion for Torah excuses him from fathering children.”

With a scream of glee, Isaac chortled as his tower of blocks collapsed.

“But that was six years ago,” Meir said, gathering up the fallen blocks. “A boy may think he’ll be able to control his
yetzer hara,
while a man knows better.”

“We shall see.” Salomon sat stroking his beard, lost in thought while Meir and Isaac began building another tower.

A month later the Mai Faire de Provins opened, filling both the Old Synagogue and the New Synagogue with an influx of merchants on Shabbat. While Miriam busied herself with delivering babies, Rachel scrutinized every stranger who bore even a superficial resemblance to Azariel ben Natan, but to no avail. She was frustrated that she could only attend the Old Synagogue, where her family prayed, rather than the New Synagogue, where most of the foreign merchants went.