Lilah (22 page)

The wheels raised clouds of dust as they turned, and made an almighty din. There was never a moment's silence. There was always shouting, weeping, the braying of mules, the groaning of camels. Even at night. At night, in fact, the camp, with all the hearths lit, was like a river of fire. Occasionally I was reminded of the river of stars that crosses the
sky, which since ancient times the people of Susa have called the way of Gilgamesh.

Some claimed that to walk from the front to the rear of our column while it was resting would take from dusk to dawn.

And, of course, it was alive with incidents, both comic and tragic. Dozens of wagons overturned, and hundreds of men and animals were injured. There were disputes, love affairs – some open, some secret – births, marriages and deaths. There were even two murders, and a few thefts, on which Ezra, like Moses, had to pass judgement.

One night, Sogdiam saved my life by surprising a snake slithering silently two paces from my bed. Although he is not the nimblest of men, he killed it with his kitchen chopper. These snakes were the thing we feared most: small but extremely poisonous, constantly thirsting for the milk in our pitchers, they killed more than a hundred women and children during the two months of our journey.

My most beautiful memory is of what I learned during those days. I acquired the most wonderful of skills: that of helping women in childbirth. I learned to support a woman during delivery, to control the rhythm of her labour, to welcome the baby's head and sometimes its limbs, to draw it out into the light so that it can take its first breath, to make sure that first breath is sweet.

Yes, that was the beauty of those days.

Then, one afternoon, we crossed the Jordan, and the next day we saw the hills of white stones surrounding Jerusalem.

I had to interrupt this letter because night fell. We don't have enough candles or lamp oil, and there's no point in my wasting them on writing a letter in the dark – to someone whose address I don't even know.

The night was quieter than many others, with no attacks, no screaming, no injuries. We were all able to get a little rest, and are starting the day with renewed strength. It is a strange thing to be surprised every morning by the rising of the sun and to wonder if we will live long enough to see dusk.

It is all over for the beautiful, elegant Lilah. My tunic is no more than a long strip of cloth I've worn and washed too many times. The one garment I still have left that is at all becoming is my shawl, although the colours are so faded now, they can barely be told apart. My hands have carried so many sacks, so many stones, so much firewood and have been torn on so many thorns, they look like those of the workers in my uncle Mordechai's workshop.

And my face! We have no mirrors, but whenever I happen to glimpse my reflection in a pail of water I scare myself. Almost nothing remains of the beauty
that stoked Parysatis' jealousy. Now, the Queen would not even look at me.

I don't suppose you would either.

My skin is dry and weatherbeaten. Every day there are longer, deeper lines in my brow. There are fine lines at the corners of my eyes and lips, like cracks in glazed pottery that has been roughly handled. My face seems to have aged ten years.

Blazing sun, wind, rain, scorching heat, hail and frost, these are the ointments that have produced such fine results – that, and the fact that I grimace more than I smile.

The soles of my feet are covered with calluses from the rope sandals I wear. But I'm happy to wear them. Without them, I would have to walk barefoot, as many do, over the hot, sharp stones.

A week ago, for the first time, I lost a tooth. I'm still able to hide the gap because it's at the back of my mouth. But I can write it here, because there is little chance that you will read this letter.

Last night I thought about that for a long time, as I waited for sleep. There are so few ways for me to get this letter to you. Perhaps I could persuade Sogdiam to leave me and go back to Susa. But, brave as he is, it would be a long and dangerous journey for someone whose legs are not strong. Although it is hardly less dangerous for us to stay here and ruin our bodies and hearts.

Yes, our hearts. For among all the injustices that punctuate our days, nothing could be more unjust than the fact that our bodies and minds are becoming ugly in this beautiful country, this land of milk and honey that the Everlasting granted to Abraham and Jacob, Moses and Joshua, Sarah and Leah, Rachel and Hannah, and all those who preceded us.

I can assure you, Antinoes, that when I first set eyes on Jerusalem, I really saw the land of milk and honey, the good, vast land, inexhaustible in its sweetness and riches, which had so often held our imagination spellbound as children in Babylon, Jewish children exiled and far from home.

It was the end of spring, and the earth had come back to life. The fruit trees – cherry, peach, plum – were in blossom. Olive trees swayed, grey and silky, on the hillsides. Cliffs of pale rock rose on the ridges like languid hands. Great cedars and ageless oaks lent their shade to the flocks. Lambs leaped between bushes of sage, thyme and myrtle, arousing the smell of the earth like a lover drawing fragrance from the body of a woman. And where ploughshares had passed over it, the earth was almost as red as blood, like real flesh.

And there amid the hills, like a jewel in its casket, Jerusalem lay waiting. The walls, built from the smooth, pale stone of the cliffs, gleamed white.
There are no bricks here: everything is of stone, as if those who built Jerusalem had imitated the Everlasting making mountains.

Everything was calm and peaceful. As we approached we made out more clearly the cracks in the outer walls. But there was nothing disturbing in that. Swarms of swallows sang above the ruins, where they had built their nests. Stones that had once been the base of defence towers were held entwined by opulent shrubs with little yellow flowers. Agave, tamarisk and even olive trees had long been growing between the cracked blocks, from which the mortar had oozed like sap.

Water gushed from invisible springs beneath the walls and we discovered pools so pure and blue that they did not seem real.

No, there was nothing threatening about any of this. It seemed as if the city, with an almost maternal gentleness, welcomed the fields and hills in a perfect, unbroken dialogue.

Alas, our sense of serenity stemmed merely from our joy in finding what we had so long desired. It was a fantasy, a lingering dream that would soon fade. I know now how hard those stones are, and that the ruins represented violence and hate. I have learned that the calm was nothing more than the aftermath of defeat and destruction.

Now, when I close my eyes and dream of beauty,
of the milk and honey I thought I saw when we arrived, I cannot help weeping. Why is it that the most magnificent flowers conceal the deadliest poison?

Although Ezra had sent Zachariah and some of the young zealots ahead to inform the inhabitants of our arrival, we were not greeted with much enthusiasm. After all, Nehemiah had left behind him the memory of a huge effort that had ended in terrible failure. In addition, the city is not large, and in our caravan there were nearly as many people as those already living there.

You can imagine, Antinoes, what it must have been like for the inhabitants of Jerusalem to discover this multitude on the hills. Twenty thousand men and women, ten thousand wagons raising dust and scattering the flocks, a whole noisy nation on the march. And now this impatient, disorganized rabble was coming to a halt outside their walls.

We sang and sounded horns to proclaim our joy and relief at having arrived. We spent a whole night dancing, the most joyful I was ever to know. Our hearts relaxed, like a bow after the arrow has flown. Without drinking a single cup of wine or beer, we were intoxicated because we had at last seen our Jerusalem.

When the next day dawned, it was raining. We were exhausted, although our minds were still dizzy with joy. But we had only to go through the Water Gate, as it was called, to grasp the scale of the task awaiting us.

Inside, Jerusalem was as ruined as its outer walls. Half of the houses were unoccupied. Many were roofless, half burnt, the walls torn apart. A terrible stench rose from disused wells. Occasionally, one house had collapsed on top of another. Entire streets were filled with rubble.

When the old men of the city led Ezra to the Temple he howled with distress. Nehemiah had completed it but already it was devastated. Where once there had been doors, there were now fragments of charred wood. The altar for burnt offerings had long since been profaned – its cracked basin had become home to ten cats as wild as tigers and a playground to their offspring. A tamarisk had overrun the great staircase at the entrance. In the open hall, more tamarisks and a medlar tree rose higher than the walls, whose crenellations had collapsed. In places, there were signs of fighting. Carved stones and columns had been broken with heavy mallets. Thick grass grew between the marble flagstones, pushing loose the sanctuary steps. The right-hand wall gaped open, as if a monster had walked through it. As for the great courtyard
outside, the inner walls were no more than remnants, and the flagstones were piled high with refuse.

The following night, there was no singing or dancing. The darkness was filled with the cries of Ezra, the Levites and the young zealots. They tore their tunics, covered their heads with ashes and prayed until dawn.

And so here we were, as distraught and helpless as Jerusalem's inhabitants. A few old men gathered round Ezra and joined their lamentations to his.

But after the tears, the rage and the despair, decisions had to be made. Ezra wanted to proceed immediately with the purification of the Temple. Many of the priests and the Levites, Sherevyah, Hashabaya and their brothers, supported him.

It was then that Yahezya spoke for the first time. He had always lived in Jerusalem. Thin and gentle in face and body, he had welcomed us with unreserved kindness. As Ezra and his people debated, he spoke up in his polite manner: ‘I understand your impatience, Ezra. You came here to rebuild the Temple. You find it in this terrible condition and no task seems more urgent. But look around you. Thousands of you are at the gates of Jerusalem. You don't know where to pitch your tents. I dare say a great many will have to settle in the valley that leads to Hebron. Unfortunately, the land there is
disputed. Do you think the Moabites and Horonites, Gershem, Toviyyah and all the other kings and chiefs around the city are simply going to accept you? Don't forget, Ezra, it was their brute force, their wickedness, that reduced Jerusalem to the ruin that so distresses you. Every time we raise a stone, they tear it down. Nehemiah suffered because of them. He confronted them. Nehemiah is dead. They are still here – or their sons are. Do you think they'll leave you in peace when it would be so easy for them to make you suffer?'

Yahezya's grey-green eyes looked at us calmly. In spite of the gravity of his words, his voice was gentle.

‘It might be more sensible to build solid roofs,' he went on. ‘With so many of you, it won't take long to rebuild those houses that are not so badly ruined. You have wives, mothers and children to shelter. The Temple is unclean, but it's been unclean for a long time. The only thing Yahweh is impatient for is your success, Ezra. If Toviyyah brings war and bloodshed to your tents, you will only be slowed down even more.'

One of Ezra's young zealots laughed sharply. ‘Obviously you've been living in Jerusalem for a long time, Yahezya. Listening to you, it's clear why the Temple of Yahweh is in such an unspeakable state. Who are you to say what the Everlasting is
impatient for? He led us here, holding His hand firmly over Ezra. What are you afraid of? It's this Toviyyah of yours who should be afraid of us, because we're here through the power and will of Yahweh.'

Many nodded.

I knew that Yahezya had spoken the truth, but I did not protest. Wasn't it largely my doing that our people thought like this? Hadn't I said endlessly that we must fear nothing and trust to Yahweh's protection in all things?

I kept silent. Not that Ezra would have listened to me anyway: he had not cared about my opinion for a long time, since well before we arrived in Jerusalem. He simply wanted me near him. Doing the sensible thing no longer mattered to him, nor to those who crowded round him, their mouths full of praises.

The meeting went on for some time, but the final decision came as no surprise. Ezra declared that our most urgent duty was to proceed with the purification of the Temple.

As Yahezya had predicted, we had to pitch our tents as far away as the valley of Hebron. Then Ezra asked the Levites, priests and others who would be working in the Temple to fast for two days, living on nothing but prayers, in order to be in a state of purity to undertake the task awaiting them.

But the way things came to pass was, alas, quite different . . .

Axatria and I were washing linen when Sogdiam came to find us, all excited, and urged us to go with him to the Water Gate.

Ezra had been there since morning, leading the fast with the help of the priests who would be involved in the purification. The most fervent of the men in our caravan were there too, praying with the priests and the Levites, packed together so tightly that it was impossible for us to get through. The women had climbed the little hill opposite the entrance to the city on the other side of the pools. By the time we joined them, rumours of an unusual event had already spread.

From our vantage-point, we could see the white she-camels, the white mules and the magnificent costumes that had emerged as if by magic from the city. A murmur swept through the crowd like a wave. Awed and fearful, someone whispered, ‘It's Toviyyah, the great servant of Ammon!'

I recognized the name – Yahezya had mentioned it. Some around us thought that the white mules and camels had appeared overnight by a miracle, but Sogdiam explained kindly that he had seen them come an hour earlier by the north road. They had entered Jerusalem through the Jericho gate.