Rashi's Daughters, Book II: Miriam (65 page)

“Playing the game is a sin. I don’t want to be tempted to do it, so I can’t stay here and teach in Papa’s yeshiva. I’ll be attracted to one new student after another. It will be torture.”

“So you’d go back to Paris?”

“
Non
, not there.” Return to Paris and listen to his mother complain how he’d shamed her by getting a divorce? Heaven forbid.

“Then where would you go?”

“I don’t know, maybe to Orléans.”

“If you want to avoid temptation, I doubt that city would be a good place for you to live. It’s populated by so many Ganymedes that even the archbishop is one.”

“You must think I’m being stupid.” He couldn’t bear to look at her, he felt so ashamed.

“Just not thinking clearly.” Maybe Miriam was right to worry about him; what if he didn’t have any plans because he intended to commit suicide? It wasn’t ethical to divulge her business transactions, but she had to let him know that Aaron wasn’t worth killing himself over. “Let me show you something.”

She removed a ledger from a nearby cabinet and pointed out several listings. There was the date, Aaron’s name on the right, the amount she advanced him, and then a description of the item he’d sold, including its previous owner. He’d pawned quite a few pieces of jewelry during the Hot and Cold fairs, all acquired from different men. Prominent among them was a black pearl ring sold in the summer and a topaz ring in the winter—both obtained from Natan ben Abraham.

Judah knew that Rachel intended him to feel disgust and outrage at Aaron’s promiscuity, but his heart sank as despair, not anger, flooded him. So that’s what Aaron had been doing on all those late nights. Judah’s eyes filled with tears. All those men had enjoyed physical pleasures with Aaron that he would never share, could not even imagine.

Rachel reached out and tilted his head up so their eyes met. “Have another talk with Miriam. Tell her what’s in your heart. There must be a solution you two can agree on.”

 

Teeth chattering, Miriam wrapped the towel around her damp hair, pulled her fur-lined mantle tightly around her body, and raced down the street from the synagogue to the bathhouse. The attendant was waiting, and in no time Miriam was enveloped in steaming water, the icy
mikvah
only an unpleasant memory. It was one thing if Judah didn’t want to use the bed, but the other consequences of
niddah
made life too awkward: not handing him things directly, not sharing dishes with him, not touching him, even accidentally.

If she continued to avoid those things, people would notice and gossip, speculating that she was a
moredet
, a rebellious wife who refused to use the
mikvah
in order to avoid relations with her husband. So when there was a break between winter storms, she took the opportunity to immerse and get it over with. With any luck, she wouldn’t be
niddah
again until Alvina was weaned.

As she soaked in the warm bath, Miriam wondered again how long should she wait for Judah to approach her. Rachel had divulged their conversation, and that she thought Judah was reconsidering. Miriam wanted to be patient; as long as he and the children continued to live with her, no decision was a decision.

No
—
that would be impossible
. She’d wake up every morning worrying that he might leave that day. Tonight she would let him know that she had used the
mikvah
, and then they would talk. Or at least she would.

When she handed Judah a plateful of meat at
souper
and then sat down next to him, his alarmed expression made it clear that he recognized the significance of her actions. In addition, she made a point of scooping stew out of his bowl with her bread, and when she announced that she would be going to bed early, Judah resigned himself to everyone’s expectations and said he would join her shortly.

“I have a confession to make,” Miriam said once they were alone. “The letter that Aaron wrote to you before he died—I read it. That’s why I didn’t send it to Paris. Forgive me, but I was afraid someone would read it.”
There, that should provoke a response from him.

“Then you know that Aaron and I never did ...” Judah hesitated, unsure what word to use.

“But you were planning to, you were waiting for him in Paris.” It was half question, half accusation.

“I knew he intended to come to Paris, but, honestly, I don’t know what I intended to do.” Relief coursed through him at being able to talk about it.

“You weren’t planning to run off with him?” Miriam looked at him in surprise. “I thought that’s why you asked about my conditional
get
before you left.”

“I hadn’t planned anything after Paris. I just wanted to be with him. I know—it was wrong, it was a sin, but . . .” He trailed off helplessly and looked away, but not before she saw the tears in his eyes.

Miriam sighed. How could she be angry with Judah? All he’d done was love someone he shouldn’t have, someone who was now dead. She couldn’t help remembering Aaron’s words: “We have committed a sin, if it is a sin to love, yet the One who created me in His image made me to love you.”

She said gently, “But why does this make you want a divorce? He’s dead now.”

“How could you possibly understand?” Judah’s voice began to rise. “I’ll never love anyone as much as I loved Aaron, and he died without us consummating our love. I never even kissed him, and I wasn’t able to say good-bye to him.”

Miriam knew she shouldn’t say it, but she did. “I was widowed in
erusin
, remember, from a man I loved more than the world, and even today I miss him and wish that we had laid together before he died, no matter what the consequences.”

Judah stared at her in dismay. “You still mourn him after all these years?”

Miriam nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Benjamin died alone too, less than a month before our wedding, and I didn’t say good-bye to him either. At least you got that love letter from Aaron; I’d give anything to have one from Benjamin.”

She hadn’t spoken of him in years and now the words wouldn’t stop. “He was treading grapes by himself, and during a stormy
bouillage
the fumes overcame him and he drowned in the vat. How do you think I feel, every year, when I have to help with the vintage, when I must climb into that vat of fermenting grapes? And working in the vineyard holds a hundred memories more.”

“I’ll never forget Aaron then,” he whispered as the enormity of this knowledge sunk in. “Not as long as I study Talmud.”

She nodded again, then reached out and took his hand. They would both always be mourners; they should be able to comfort each other. “So you see that in some ways I understand you very well. But what I don’t understand is why you want a divorce.”

After all they’d shared, he had to tell her the truth. “When Shimson was so ill and Rachel told me that you might be dying too, I swore to the Holy One that if He healed you both, I would never even think carnally about another man.” He took a deep breath. “But I can’t use the bed with you without thinking about men.”

“But that’s why we say Kol Nidre at Yom Kippur,” she said. “To nullify vows to Him that we can’t keep.”

“Not a vow with our sons’ lives at stake.”

“Then ask Papa to convene a beit din. They can annul any kind of vow.”

“I can’t confess my vow to Papa, Meir, and some other scholar, probably Shemayah.”

“But . . .” Miriam tried to think of something else, but he interrupted her.

“Since I can’t fulfill my marital duties, you are entitled to a divorce.”

“You intend to be celibate for the rest of your life?”

“If the monks can do it, so can I,” he replied. “You know what it says in the fifth chapter of Tractate Sukkot, the section that Papa explains as referring to the male organ.

Mine has been starving for almost a year, and it’s not hungry anymore. You’re a young woman. You need a husband who hasn’t taken a vow of celibacy.”

But Miriam didn’t find great pleasure in using the bed. In fact, chastity was a small price to pay for keeping her children. The knowledge that she would never nurse a baby once little Alvina was weaned saddened her far more than the thought of not lying with a man again. Judah was mourning Aaron, but she was mourning all the children she would never have. Suddenly she had the answer.

“Judah, I have another confession to make, and I apologize for not telling you sooner,” she said. “You realize that this last pregnancy almost killed me?”

He nodded and she continued, “Even with ginger tisanes I cannot expect to survive another. I remembered you saying that a scholar should father as many children as he could, so I was afraid to tell you.”

“Even if you can’t have more children, you shouldn’t be celibate.” But he didn’t sound so sure.

“If nuns can do it, so can I.” She threw his words back at him. Aunt Sarah had been celibate for years.

“But how can I stay here, where everything I see reminds me of Aaron?” He didn’t want to be like her, where winemaking had made her mourn her beloved for over ten years.

“Unless you give up Talmud, you’ll be reminded of him no matter where you go. And here, you won’t be alone.”

“If I stay, I won’t be able to teach in the yeshiva.” His expression was heavy with sadness. “I suppose I could work on Papa’s
kuntres
, but I won’t ever have someone special to study with again.”

“I know someone here in Troyes who could be your new study partner, someone who’s as learned as you are.” Miriam’s eyes were shining with excitement. “Someone you won’t worry about having an improper relationship with either.”

He tried to hide his disappointment. “I appreciate your offer, but I don’t think you could attend lectures in the yeshiva with me, not with a new baby.”

Miriam began to chuckle. “Not me. I’m not your equal in knowledge. Besides, now that Rachel is living in Troyes all year, I already have someone to study with.”

“Then who?”

“Why Papa, of course. He hasn’t had a study partner in twenty years because there wasn’t anyone here at his level. But I bet he would love to study with you if you asked him.”

Study with Salomon? With the rosh yeshiva? But why not? Why shouldn’t the rosh yeshiva have a study partner like other scholars did? For the first time since Purim, Judah smiled.

W
hen the lambing threatened to overwhelm Joheved, Miriam offered her assistance. Judah still slept in his own linens as though she were
niddah
, so why not spend a month or two in Ramerupt? Nobody in Troyes was expecting a baby anytime soon.

The weeks approaching Passover seemed to fly by. Alvina began sleeping through the night, a treat for Miriam after spending an exhausting day with the laboring ewes. Since both Moses and Shemayah’s families were invited to spend the festival week in Ramerupt, Joheved asked Zipporah and Judita to come early and help with the lambing as well.

Watching Zipporah and Isaac together at meals, Miriam couldn’t help but remember how shy Joheved had been with Meir at first. Like her prospective mother-in-law, Zipporah blushed whenever she encountered Isaac and almost never addressed him, apparently finding it easier to talk to his brother. For his part, Isaac definitely preferred conversing with Judita when the alternative was his little sisters.

Late one morning Miriam had returned to the room she shared with her nieces to change Alvina’s swaddling, when she heard Meir and Isaac on the landing.

“You said you needed to talk to me alone.” Meir sounded impatient.

The door closed in the bedroom next to her, but Miriam could clearly hear the two voices through the wall.

“Papa, is it true that when you and Mama conceived me, you had some magical device that gave you the
yetzer hara
of a ram?”

“Who the devil told you that?” Meir was angry now.

Isaac stood his ground. “I think I overheard one of the older students talking about it. Is it true?”

Miriam had told Rachel about Joheved’s magic mirror, and she’d surely told Eliezer. Apparently the story was still being passed around, a dozen years later.

Meir sighed. “
Oui
, something like that is true.”

“Because it would explain why my
yetzer hara
is so strong,” Isaac said. “Maybe when I was conceived, I got the
yetzer hara
of a ram too.”

“Most boys your age think their
yetzers
are strong.”

“Mine is too strong.” Isaac sounded scared. “Lillit comes to me at night.”

“I know it’s difficult for you, but how can I help?”

“Rav Hisda said that if he had married at fourteen, Satan would have had no influence over him. I’ll be fourteen next year, Papa. Would you let me get married then?”

Miriam was blushing at the subject of this supposedly private conversation, but she didn’t dare leave her room and risk discovery. Now if only Alvina would stay quiet.

Meir was chuckling. “Zipporah is rather young, but since you’re so eager, I’ll talk to Shemayah about it.”

“Uh, Papa. There’s another thing.” Odd, but Isaac sounded more anxious than before. “I studied in Tractate Kiddushin, that

“That’s correct.” Meir’s voice held suspicion.

Isaac’s words came so quickly that Miriam could barely understand him. “So I can’t marry Zipporah. I don’t find her attractive. I want to marry Judita, Moses haCohen’s daughter.”

For a moment there was silence, then a door banged open. “Joheved,” Meir bellowed. “Joheved, where the devil are you?”