The Cairo Codex (39 page)

Andrea smiled and nodded.

“It’s as though the Virgin was prescient,” concluded Ibrahim, “expecting the diary to be read someday.”

“Don’t get carried away, Professor,” Mostafa said. “Answer this for me: Why did the family come to Egypt? Why take such a big risk? Was King Herod chasing them, as the Gospels of Matthew and John tell us? Somehow I’m beginning to think nothing is quite as it once seemed.”

“There was a single defining occurrence involving James that made Joseph decide to go to Egypt,” offered Isaac. “Although there were many cultural and political reasons causing their readiness, the tension between the Jews and the Romans was at a new high. It was like waiting for another sandal to fall away. Joseph had stopped taking James into Jerusalem to find work because it was no longer safe. Then something happened that served as a turning point.” Isaac explained the incident of the eagle Herod had built above the gate entering the Temple and its consequences for the young men involved.

“What did this have to do with James?” Mostafa asked.

“James was the one who pulled down the eagle. But he was only about nine years old, so they released him,” explained Isaac.

“Joseph found this to be a major sign.” Amir joined the dialogue. “Telling the family to leave Palestine. It made sense to Joseph that the land of Moses, the place where Moses was found as a child and from which he led the Exodus, was the best place for his family. Mary was hesitant because of having just given birth. But with Rachel, the midwife, along, Mary tells us she was assured of a safe journey.”

“So you’re telling us that the story about Herod killing all newborn sons in order to eliminate the Messiah might not be a true story? Damn! Are any of the stories surrounding the Holy Family true? Or are they all just metaphors?” Mostafa was thoroughly exasperated.

“We have no evidence to tell us this story is true,” said Ibrahim, stroking his beard mercilessly. “Keep in mind, the killing of newborns appears in the Bible more than once . . . but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true . . .”

“How are we to make sense of all of this?” lamented Mostafa. “The Christian narrative is being changed and we hold it delicately in our hands. Allah, help us.” After an uninterrupted pause, he continued: “Let me complicate our work with the most fundamental of questions. Was Mary a virgin? And, further, was she a perpetual virgin, as the Copts believe?”

Justine assumed that, like many Muslims, Mostafa believed Mary to have been a virgin when she gave birth to the prophet Jesus. It said so in the Koran, which followers of Mohammed understood unwaveringly as the word of Allah. However, unlike Ibrahim and Amir, the Muslims in the room separated virginity from divinity. Mary’s virginity didn’t necessarily establish Jesus as the Son of God.

Before the question could be answered, Mostafa’s assistant waved urgently from the hallway. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and stepped out into the hall. Within moments he returned, his complexion pale. “I’m afraid I have to deal with an urgent matter. I’d suggest we reconvene at ten in the morning. Professor, can we be ready to proceed at that time?”

“Ten will be fine,” responded Ibrahim. “We’ve made copies of several translated pages responding to the question of Mary’s relationship with Joseph.”

Everyone nodded. Until this question was answered, no one could return to business as usual.

“As you like, Professor. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Mostafa rushed from the room.

On the morning of Passover, a fierce pounding on the side of the cave startles me. Although our family members are awake and sitting at the table, the eastern sun has not yet flooded the rough sandstone floor, so they remain in the shadows.

“Down there! Show yourselves!” commands an unfamiliar voice. The pounding continues. Shards of an earthen jug—shattered by a soldier’s careless boot—scatter around the work area and tumble into the cave’s walkway.

Earlier, I started the charcoal fire, replaced the grate, and set on a pot of water for tea. Joseph, James, and Jesus remain below, finishing their tea and getting ready for the festive day ahead. I see the uniformed soldiers enter the kitchen area above. Now my hand tightens on my husband’s shoulder.

The soldiers shuffle from foot to foot, their boots kicking at the fire. Sparks fly into the air and dance on the hard surface near the exterior worktable.

“I’ll go—the rest of you stay here,” directs Joseph as he steps out into the open.

“What do you want?” he demands of the soldiers.

“We want your sons, old man,” one of the Roman soldiers commands. “Emperor Augustus has decreed that more soldiers are to be conscripted into his army. The prefect Julius Alexander will be here in a few days, and we must give him a full accounting of all of the young men in the village. How old are your sons?” Two of the soldiers rummage through nearby family belongings.

Joseph hesitates. Our oldest works on the canal, so they know of him. “James is of seventeen years and Jesus is but eight,” he replies as James steps outside and takes his place beside his father. I realize that I must keep Jesus from joining his father and brother. I hold on to his arm tightly. He nods as though to say, “I know what you require.”

The soldier in charge stares at James with contempt: “So, this must be the canal worker.”

“I am,” James says with the irritability of a firstborn son who has not been allowed to eat during the first days of Passover.

Stay calm, my son. My own anger, mixed with fear, tightens my chest. Don’t let your temper get you hurt again.

“When the prefect arrives in a few days, you will report to the canal zone ready for travel.” The spokesman among the soldiers towers above Joseph and James, his stature enhanced by the hulking uniform and polished weaponry of the Roman military. He directs his comments to James, ignoring Joseph.

“Where will I be going?” James inquires forcefully.

“That is not for your ears. Just do as you are told.” The soldier turns sharply on his heels, ready to walk east into the village.

Before the soldiers can take their leave, Joseph cries out, “We had an agreement with Rome. The Israelites in Egypt do not participate in the benefits of the empire. We pay more taxes and keep to ourselves. We are to be left alone.”

“Things change, old man.” The soldier laughs, turning to the others, who join in his ridicule. “The Emperor is not bound by agreements with the Israelites. If you do not report,” he warns James, “the consequences will be swift . . . for you and your family.” His expression leaves little doubt that he relishes whatever vengeance might lie ahead.

Four oil lamps glow with a golden aura, replacing the sunlight receding to the west. I spread the finely mended linen cloth from Grandmother Faustina over the table before adorning it with clay dishes and single-stemmed jasmine and oleander. Our family members take their places for the Seder, each holding his or her own secret. They are pensive, subdued. Rachel, with an air of giddiness, is the exception. Even Samir looks somber.

I wonder why he is so quiet. Samir is often the most talkative among us—the first to greet, the first to tell of good news. So many mysteries today . . . I feel the tension in James, his pent-up rage. Tears form in my eyes.

Joseph reaches out and pats my arm, then breaks the silence over the first cup of wine. “God be with us on this day of Passover. We bring our hearts to you and seek your counsel. Let us begin.” Relieved to begin, the others look to Jesus expectantly.

Jesus does not need encouragement; he is ready to ask the question reserved for the youngest: “Why is this day different from all others?” Glancing at James, he says this in a tone revealing the significance of the question he has asked each year since he was two. Now he understands it.

Joseph begins the familiar story of the suffering of the Jews in Egypt. Each word holds tenderness, fragility.

“Finally,” concludes Isaiah, who customarily shares in the storytelling, “the Lord decreed the death of all first-born Egyptian sons. But He passed over the houses of the Children of Israel. The Pharaoh sent his soldiers after the fleeing Israelites, who crossed the Red Sea just before them. Moses lifted his rod and the sea closed in over the soldiers, drowning them in deep waters. Moses and the Children of Israel wandered in the Sinai for forty years and camped at the base of Mt. Sinai, where God gave Moses the Ten Commandments. Sadly, Moses died before the Children of Israel reached the Promised Land.” Isaiah pauses breathlessly as though he has climbed the mountain himself.

Forty years. Forty years. Such patience, such endurance. Would that my sons had such qualities. Now our oldest will be challenged again by the Romans—he may not be able to survive it this time.

As though James has read my thoughts, he lowers his head just moments before his father’s invitation.

“Let us pray,” Joseph says.

We drink the remains of our second cup of wine, wash our hands, and share a small amount of matzah passed around the table. We are silent once again as the rituals of this important evening are observed. Even more than usual, our actions are deliberate, as though our very salvation depends upon them.

Rachel chooses a small piece of lettuce and dips it in the charoset of apples, cinnamon, nuts, and wine. “Bitterness dipped in mortar,” she says. I, too, place charoset on a tiny piece of matzah and take a bite. The others follow.

“Thank you, Lord, for the delivery of our people from the hands of the Pharaoh and for these eight years in your presence here in Egypt,” says Joseph.

Thank you, Lord, for these eight years, and the many gifts of this sacred land. Are they coming to a close? Will God take Egypt away from me too?

After our family has consumed all the lamb we can hold, a small piece of the remaining matzah is eaten with a sip from the third cup of wine. Earlier, I poured some wine for the Prophet Elijah and set it at one end of the table. It was Elijah, my husband reminds us, who told of the coming of the Messiah. “And this coming will be soon, very soon,” he says. We are silent and wait.

Opening the Book of Psalms, Joseph says, “I have a blessing fitting for us today.

“By the streams of Babylon, there we sat and

Wept at the thought of Sion!

There on the poplars we hung up our harps, when

Our tyrants asked for a song;

Those who had harried us bade us be merry, ‘Sing us a song of Sion,’

they said.

But how can we sing the Eternal’s songs, here, in a foreign land?

Jerusalem, if ever I forget thee, withered be this hand! May my tongue cleave to my mouth, if ever I think

not of thee, if ever I prize not Jerusalem above all joys!

“Next year,” he continues, “may we celebrate Passover in Jerusalem.” Each of us turns to stare at him. Even though this is a traditional closing for the Seder, it’s the first time in seven celebrations in Egypt that he has suggested we will find ourselves at home next year. The family elders coddle their cups with both hands and examine them like crystal balls.

“Jerusalem? Jerusalem?” starts Noha. “When have you spoken of Jerusalem?”

“All these years in the land of Moses and you have not spoken of a return to Jerusalem,” says Isaiah. The two boys nod in agreement. Samir puts his arm tightly around Rachel’s shoulder.

Expressions of gratitude and regret, anticipation and sadness appear on our family’s faces. I gaze at them one at a time. “Let us listen to Joseph.” My voice is strengthened by the inevitability of his resolve. “He has something important to tell us.”

“That is so,” he says, “that is so.” He explains the morning’s visit from the Roman soldiers and the conscription of our oldest son.

The rage that has been simmering in James all though the Passover dinner now explodes. He blurts out, “I won’t report to the Roman army! We need the monies I earn at the canal. Father needs my help!” His face reddens as he speaks, and he grips the wooden spoke as though it is a weapon.

Samir adds sympathetically, “They came to our home too. I am to be taken into the Roman army within the week.”

Startled, Rachel says, “I didn’t know. Why did you not tell me, Samir?”

“Being with child is a great joy for both of us, I didn’t want to spoil these moments with unhappy news.” Rachel begins to cry.

Samir glances at our oldest son. “Might we move to Alexandria?” he asks. “There is a large Jewish community there, and I have many family members who would welcome us. We would be invisible to the Romans there . . . it’s a big city.”

“And I hear of a great lighthouse and library,” Jesus says, eyes wide with the wonders of this remarkable vision. He claps his hands, and then quickly places them into his lap when he notices that his brother’s rage hasn’t abated. More softly, he says, “The Rabbi told me our Holy Scriptures are being translated into Greek there.” He looks around the table, expecting others to rally to Samir’s idea.