Rashi's Daughters, Book II: Miriam (56 page)

But Joheved was satisfied just to sit and hold her son until he needed to go back to his wet nurse. So Miriam took Rachel’s hand and gave herself over to the music’s joyous rhythms. She was alive, Joheved was alive, their two babies were alive—and she had successfully circumcised both of them.

 

The Cold Fair closed on a Friday, and the following Sunday was a snowy Christmas Day, giving Miriam an extra week to enjoy her sisters’ company. For Monday and Wednesday, the second and fourth days of the week, were obviously unlucky days to begin traveling, and nobody departed on Tuesday under the malevolent influence of Mars.

Some merchants did start out on Sunday morning, ignoring the Notzrim holiday, but Eliezer preferred to wait, since the most auspicious time to begin a journey was on Thursday just after dawn, when the planet Jupiter ruled both the day and hour. Thus Salomon’s courtyard was lit by torchlight that morning as Rachel loaded the last of her luggage on the cart and said a tearful good-bye to her family.

Hugs, kisses, promises to see each other again at the Hot Fair, and then they were gone. A gust of cold blew around Miriam’s legs, and, shivering, she ran back inside to don her tefillin and say her morning prayers.

“Before I go back to Ramerupt I want to thank you for all you did for me while I was ill,” Joheved said, taking her hand as they walked home after services. “I asked Rachel to find you another ruby, to replace the one I drank.”

Miriam took a deep breath. “You may not feel thankful when you hear what I’m going to say.”

Joheved looked Miriam in the eye. “I can’t have any more children, is that it?” She didn’t wait for an answer, adding, “It’s all right; five healthy children, may the Holy One protect them, is more than enough. And with two boys and two girls, Meir has fulfilled his mitzvah to procreate no matter whose standard he uses.”

Miriam shook her head. “Your labor was difficult, but I see no reason why you won’t be able to have more children—eventually. However, Aunt Sarah and I agree that for your own safety, you shouldn’t get pregnant again until next year.”

“So, since I’m not nursing I’ll have to do something to prevent it,” Joheved said.

“I strongly recommend that as soon as you’re healed, you start using a
mokh
.” The
mokh
, a wad of wool smeared with mint oil and inserted into the woman, was the most effective contraceptive Miriam knew, but it required more diligence than drinking some herb-laced wine. It was also not as unobtrusive; so some husbands didn’t like it.

“I thought the Talmud restricts who can use a
mokh
.”

“I’ve studied that Baraita carefully,” Miriam replied. “And the interpretation is ambiguous. Here’s what it says:

Joheved’s forehead creased with worry. “Does this apply only to these three women or to any woman whose pregnancy is a danger to herself or her other children?”

“It depends on what Rabbi Meir means,” Miriam said. “Does he intend that these three women
must
use the
mokh
, in which case the Sages say that they, and other women,
may
use it? Or that the three
may
use the
mokh
, in which case the Sages say that they, and other women,
may not
?”

“How does Papa explain it?” Joheved asked.

Miriam shook her head. “He says that ‘use the
mokh
’ means they are permitted to use it to avoid pregnancy, but the Sages prohibit this because the man would be wasting seed.”

“But that can’t be right.” Joheved’s voice rose. “Women aren’t commanded to procreate; surely the Sages wouldn’t forbid a woman whose life is in danger from using a
mokh
.”

“I agree with you.” Miriam’s voice was firm. “I believe the Baraita is concerned with these three women because none of them are likely to get pregnant.”

Joheved paused to consider this interpretation. “So they can safely rely on Heaven’s mercy.”

Miriam nodded. “Thus Rabbi Meir says that, although pregnancy is unlikely, they either must or may use a
mokh
; while the Sages say that, since pregnancy is unlikely, they needn’t or shouldn’t use one.”

“Therefore a woman in true danger may certainly use a
mokh
.” Joheved sighed with relief.

“And Rabbi Meir might require her to do so,” Miriam added.

“But what about the man wasting seed?” Joheved asked. “If he’s wasting seed when she uses a
mokh
, wouldn’t he be wasting seed when she uses a sterilizing potion or they turn over the table?”

“Yet both of those are permitted,” Miriam finished her sister’s thought. “Do you think Papa is wrong?”

“If he means that an ordinary woman may not prevent pregnancy, no matter how dangerous it is for her, then I believe he’s wrong.”

“So do I,” Miriam said with determination. “And I will recommend every option to my patients who must avoid pregnancy. Which reminds me—I also have some herbs for you to take.”

Joheved gave her sister a hug. “I still want to thank you, for everything. I know it must have been difficult, what with Alvina visiting, Aunt Sarah being sick, and your own new baby too. At least nobody else is due to deliver until spring.”

Miriam blushed. She didn’t deserve any thanks; she was a midwife and Joheved was her sister. “It was difficult . . . sometimes, especially with Aunt Sarah taking so long to recover. Alvina does help with the children, but sometimes they’re too much for her. I have the feeling that the Cold Fair may be Alvina’s final visit to Troyes.”

Joheved shrugged. “So you and Judah will take the children to Paris to see her. It’s not that far.”

“I suppose so. If we leave on a Sunday we can get there before Shabbat.”

“I’m glad Rachel stayed until Thursday, even though Sunday ought to be the best day to start a journey,” Joheved said. “When you leave on Thursday you have to stop for Shabbat after only two days of traveling.”

“Sunday may be more convenient, but considering how dangerous a long trip is, I think most people would prefer to begin one when the stars are the most favorable.”

Joheved sighed. “I wonder what day Eliezer’s father and brother started their last journey.” Miriam tried to remember what day Benjamin had left Troyes for the last time, but she couldn’t recall. She did know that it wasn’t a Thursday; he had departed with plenty of time to get to Rheims before the Sabbath.

U
ntil Miriam became Avram’s apprentice and began checking the babies three days after he circumcised them, she had no idea that so many Jews lived only a short ride away from Troyes. The women obviously used a local Edomite midwife but sent to the city for a mohel.

She usually rode past her family’s vineyard without a second thought, but now it was in bloom. She’d avoided subjecting herself to the blossoms’ scent on her ride to Payns, but when heading home she wondered if it was time to test her feelings. Ten years ago Benjamin had died, and only when she smelled the flowering vineyard would her deepest emotions be exposed. It would be like picking off a scab; once removed, the sore would either open up again or reveal unblemished skin.

So when the vineyard came into view, Miriam slowed her mare and allowed the heady fragrance to take her back in time. Tears welled in her eyes as she recalled that warm afternoon when Benjamin first kissed her, and with a sigh of resignation, she accepted that this wound would never fully heal.

Yet to her surprise, another memory came flooding back—her wedding night, when she and Judah had thrown the grape blossoms decorating their room out the window and spent the rest of the evening studying Talmud. She had to admit that she was proud of marrying Judah. He was a fine scholar, a very handsome man, and he treated her with respect and kindness. Heaven knows how her marriage to Benjamin would have turned out. Probably her children wouldn’t be nearly such good scholars, or so good-looking. Miriam smiled and sighed again as she thought of them. Judah had given her three wonderful sons, the lights of her life. Just thinking of them made her breasts ache, and Miriam realized with a start how low the sun was in the sky. It was almost time to nurse little Elisha.

She rode back to Troyes, still sorting out her feelings. Her reverie ended abruptly when one of the guards at the Prés Gate motioned her toward him.

“
Bonjour
, Mistress,” he greeted her. “I haven’t seen your father coming through my gate recently. I hope all is well.”

“All is well,” Miriam replied. “The vineyard is blossoming and we don’t work in it during this time.”
How odd that the guard suddenly wants to converse with me.
For years her family had been passing through this gate every day on their way to the vineyard, and he had never said more than
bonjour
.

“Since you’re here today, maybe you could help us with this fellow.” He indicated a dark-haired young man fidgeting nearby.

The youth’s clothes, while finely made, were clearly not of the local style, and a saddlebag lay at his feet. His swarthy complexion further proclaimed his foreignness.

“It’s unusual for a stranger to arrive alone at this gate, especially with a saddlebag and no horse,” the guard said, scowling at his prisoner. Merchants usually came in caravan, entering through one of the western or southern gates that led to the fairgrounds.

“And he doesn’t have any merchandise, only his clothes and some books.” The guard showed one of them to Miriam.

The young man protested vigorously in some unfamiliar language as she opened the book, and he stared at her in shock when she addressed him in Hebrew. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now. I’ll take you to the synagogue.”

She turned back to the guard. “He’s one of my father’s new students.
Merci
for finding him for us.”

The guard nodded for the young man to go. As he left with Miriam, she heard the guard saying, “Her father, the vintner—you’d never know it to look at him, but merchants come from all over to study with him.”

“Shalom aleichem. What’s your name?” Miriam asked the foreign youth as they walked.

“Aleichem shalom. My name is Aaron ben Isaac.”

“By the way, this year we’re studying Tractate Sanhedrin, not Kiddushin.” She waited to see his reaction.

“I also have Sanhedrin . . .” He stopped short and stared at her. “You recognized my book?”

“I’m Miriam, Salomon ben Isaac’s daughter.” She smiled at his consternation. “He taught me Talmud, along with my two sisters, and I assume you’re here to study with him as well.”

Aaron looked at her with suspicion. “Where I come from nobody teaches girls Talmud.”

“And where do you come from?” Miriam asked coldly.

“My family lives in Sepharad, in Cordoba.”

“You came all that way alone? Not speaking our language?” Her opinion of the stranger softened.

“I traveled with merchants to Provins, but they stopped there to attend the fair,” he said. “Then my horse came up lame, so I had to leave him at a village nearby. The blacksmith said he wouldn’t be healed for weeks.”

“That must have been quite a journey.”

Aaron grinned widely, displaying a missing tooth whose gap made him look like a mischievous child. “I managed.”

Miriam began to reassess her judgment of Aaron. Of course he was surprised that she studied Talmud; he was from Sepharad, where they considered teaching one’s daughter Torah like teaching her lechery.

“You heard about Papa’s yeshiva all the way in Cordoba? He’ll be pleased.”

“Everyone said the Talmud masters were in Ashkenaz, but on the way I heard about the yeshiva in Troyes, and I was quite relieved not to travel all the way to Mayence.”

As Aaron continued to talk about the Talmud academies he’d studied at—he’d even spent a year in Damascus—and how they compared to each other, Miriam surreptitiously scrutinized him.
Was it the hot weather that caused men from the south to dress so flamboyantly?

His chemise’s neckline was cut so deeply that his chest hair was exposed above it. And while young men usually wore their
bliauts
knee length or above, Aaron’s was so short that his
braises
were clearly visible. Miriam tried not to stare, but what were they made of?

“Pardon me, Aaron.” Miriam had to say it twice to get his attention. “I’ve never seen
braises
like yours. Are they common in Cordoba?”

Aaron lifted up his
bliaut
to better display his
braises
, which were either dark brown or black. “They’re leather, but made from a thinner part of the hide than shoes. They’re very comfortable for riding. Most men in Cordoba have them.”

Miriam quickly averted her gaze from the skintight material encasing Aaron’s thighs. Leather
braises
would be difficult to clean, but maybe men in Cordoba wore regular linen
braises
underneath. She certainly wasn’t going to ask him and turned her mind to more practical matters. Aaron hadn’t mentioned knowing anyone is Troyes, and with the Hot Fair approaching he’d be hard-pressed to find lodgings. Well, there was always room for another student in the attic.

“You must be hungry,” she said. “We’ll go to our house first, and then to the synagogue.”

 

By the time the Hot Fair began, Aaron was at home in the attic and in the yeshiva. The other students doted on stories of life in Sepharad, especially his married life, since he’d been wed for a year. Salomon was thrilled with Aaron’s knowledge of Talmud, interpretations gleaned from years of study with Sephardic scholars.