Rashi's Daughters, Book II: Miriam (18 page)

He turned to Salomon and met his pensive gaze. “However I must disagree with both Shammai and Hillel. I believe that a scholar should never consider himself as having fulfilled this mitzvah. He should father as many children as possible, for who knows what
talmid chacham
might issue from his wife’s womb next?” This was what the rosh yeshiva wanted to hear; Judah was sure of it. Proof that, in one very important regard, Judah did not admire Ben Azzai.

Sure enough, Salomon’s eyes twinkled back at Judah as the discussion continued with debates over whether a man is considered to have fulfilled the mitzvah of procreation if his children die in his lifetime (he has), or if he has only daughters but they give him grandsons, or vice versa?

“He also has,” Judah pointed out. “According to a Baraita that states, ‘Grandchildren are as children.’ ” He was ready to explain further but was silenced by the bells of Sext chiming noon.

Salomon held up his hand. “That’s our lesson for today. After
disner
my students will learn this section of Talmud, while I attend to some important business.”

“You expounded very well, Judah.” Meir grinned and then whispered in his ear, “Now we’ll see if your actions are as fine as your words.”

Judah gulped out a thank-you. Expounding Torah was easy, but now he was about to meet a strange young woman and try to somehow convince her to marry him. His stomach twisted with anxiety. Please, he prayed, don’t let her be like the others; don’t let her look at me with hunger and greed.

 

Salomon’s household was also tense. At least Rivka had a day’s warning in order to prepare what she hoped would be a betrothal feast. She and Anna had scoured the markets for the finest meat and produce, while Johanna had ordered several kinds of fragrant breads. The rose petal bread was colored a delicate pink, other loaves were saffron yellow and parsley green, and a few were rich with raisins and candied fruit.

Rachel had come home, overflowing with tales of Judah’s Talmudic prowess. But when it came to his appearance, she couldn’t resist teasing Miriam. She had been so enthusiastic earlier that she knew no one would believe her if she said Judah was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. So she lied shamelessly.

“Now I know why he’s remained unmarried so long.” Rachel shook her head sadly. “Such a terrible disfigurement; he must have been injured as a child, but I suppose you won’t notice it in the dark. Besides, it doesn’t matter what he looks like, as long as he’s a
talmid chacham
.”

“And I suppose he’s hunchbacked and covered with warts too.” Joheved clearly didn’t believe her little sister.

“
Mais oui
. How did you know?” Rachel tried not to giggle. “And he’s bald as well, there’s not a hair on his head.”

Miriam didn’t believe any of this either, but why would Rachel lie? What was she hiding? Could it be that Judah resembled Benjamin? Was he short with brown curly hair?

Miriam’s throat tightened with fear, and she forced herself to swallow. “Please, Mon Dieu. If Judah ben Natan is my
bashert
, let him be as different from Benjamin as two men can be, so that I won’t be haunted by memories of Benjamin when I see him.”

Rivka handed her daughters the empty pitchers. “If you have nothing better to do than make jokes, you can go down to the cellar and fill the wine flasks.”

“Miriam, don’t go outside.” She grabbed hold of her daughter’s yellow silk sleeve and pulled her back. “It shouldn’t look like you’re so eager to meet our guests. Wait for them to come inside and then bring out the wine.”

Suddenly there was the sound of men’s voices at the gate. The party entered the house to the sight of a beautifully set table and the smells of a delicious meal. Rachel raced to greet Salomon, while Joheved welcomed her husband more sedately. Judah’s eyes darted anxiously around the room, looking for the missing daughter, and then Miriam walked in from the kitchen, carrying a flask of wine.

Even a cursory glance at Judah was enough for Miriam to see that her little sister had been teasing her outrageously. She shot Rachel a look of disgust before turning back to Judah in relief. He was handsome, yes, but more important, he looked nothing like Benjamin. Judah was taller, slim and dark, with not so much as a wave to his hair, much less any curls. Benjamin’s beard had been wild and bushy, while Judah barely had any facial hair at all. The Holy One had answered her prayer.

Miriam’s expression filled Judah with a joyous relief of his own. Finally—a woman who looked at him without covetous eyes. And she was slender too, a far cry from the fleshy women his brother liked. It seemed to Judah that she looked familiar, and he decided it must be her resemblance to her uncle in Mayence. He said a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty for leading him to his
bashert
, this woman who was everything he had asked for.

Brimming with confidence, Judah washed his hands and sat down at the long table. He scarcely noticed the excellent quality of the food and immediately joined in a discussion of whether it should be a mitzvah for women to procreate. Opinions fairly flew around the room.

“A Mishnah in the sixth chapter of Yevamot clearly states,

“But Torah addresses both men and women, as it is written:

“Yet it is also written, ‘Replenish the earth and conquer it.’ Conquest is a male action, not a female action. Men conquer women, women do not conquer men.”

“How can procreation be a mitzvah for the man and not for the woman? He can’t be fruitful and multiply without her.”

“The Tosefta on Yevamot teaches that men are forbidden to drink sterility potions, yet a women may do so.”

“It’s only right that women be exempt from procreation. The Merciful One would never issue a commandment whose performance regularly endangered a person’s life.”

They debated through dessert. Judah needed no further convincing, but he noted with pleasure that Miriam gave her views with as much assurance and knowledge as the male students. Anxiety replaced pleasure, however, when servants began clearing the table and the students got up to leave. Soon there were only the
parnas
, and his son and daughter-in-law, and Salomon’s family left sitting with him and Azariel.

Azariel broke the silence. “Mistress Miriam, my brother has a present for you.”

Isaac haParnas scowled at this breach of etiquette. Gifts were not exchanged until after an agreement had been reached, and as he understood it, while Judah had made his intentions known, Miriam had not yet accepted his offer. But his frown softened into a smile as Judah presented Miriam with a bag of strawberries.

“Strawberries.” Miriam couldn’t help but smile as she inhaled the ripe berries’ sweet fragrance. She rarely got to eat them; they were too expensive to buy for the whole yeshiva. “How did you know? Did my father tell you?”

Judah felt a small stab of guilt for possibly misleading her. “I saw a peddler selling them on our way here, and since I’m fond of strawberries myself, I thought you might like some.”

Salomon coughed to get everyone’s attention. “Miriam, I know we conceded that you needn’t choose a new husband until the Hot Fair, but perhaps you’d like to take a walk with Judah and see how you feel about him.”

“All right. It should be pleasant along the Seine this time of year.” Could she really decide to marry him after just a short walk? She turned to her mother. “If the leftover trenchers are ready, I can help Anna distribute them when we leave.”

Judah’s heart began to pound as his doubts assailed him.
What am I going to say to make her want to marry me?
Except for his mother, he’d never been alone with a woman or even had a conversation with one.

Still, he had no choice, and he paced the courtyard as Miriam put on her cloak and head covering. He was startled by the number of beggars who approached them at the gate, but Miriam and the maidservant calmly and efficiently got the meal-soaked serving breads into the many outstretched hands.

“They know our yeshiva is larger than the usual household, which guarantees more leftovers,” she explained with a pang. One of the early bonds between her and Benjamin was the knowledge that each had grown up eating the bread trenchers, their families too poor to give them away.

Determined to concentrate on Judah, she tried to think of something noteworthy to say. At first it was easy. Sharing the strawberries while they walked, Miriam pointed out the various landmarks they passed as they made their way toward the river. It never occurred to her that Judah might be even more nervous than she was.

“This is the Old Synagogue, the one where my family usually goes.” She slowed at the stone building. “It’s cooler in the summer, but in the winter it’s terribly drafty, and sometimes we pray in the New Synagogue if it’s too cold out. Most Jews in Troyes attend one synagogue regularly, except when they’re having a fight with someone, and then they go to the other one for a while.”

Judah nodded and sighed. In Paris his mother seemed to be constantly changing synagogues, depending on which family he had most recently insulted by refusing to marry their daughter.

“Behind the synagogue, toward the castle,” Miriam pointed northward, “is Rue de Vieille-Rome, where the
parnas
and the other rich families live.” They walked silently past the giant cathedral, partially hidden behind scaffolds. “Grandmama said that some barbarians burned down the old cathedral about two hundred years ago, and the bishops have been trying to get a new one built ever since. You can barely see Bishop Hugues’s palace behind it.”

Scarcely aware of what she was saying, Miriam kept up her running commentary until they reached the St. Jacques Gate. Soon the city walls towered behind them, and they turned onto the towpath that paralleled the gentle Seine. All this time Judah, his throat nearly paralyzed with fear, had said nothing.

Her own anxiety growing, Miriam remembered that Judah had wanted a wife who knew the difference between Hillel and Shammai, and she searched her memory for some interesting debate between them. Of course—there was the story of how Hillel and Shammai dealt with converts in the second chapter of Tractate Shabbat.

She brought up the topic of the two sages and quickly quoted the Gemara.

She continued with a few more stories about potential converts approaching the two sages, but Judah remained silent.
Why isn’t Judah saying anything? Is he even listening to me? What is the matter with him?

Judah was lost in his own thoughts. As they stood watching the river, he had been reminded of how he and Daniel had studied together at a grassy spot near the Rhine, and he recalled that Daniel had worn a cloak that was almost the same dark green as Miriam’s. No wonder Miriam looked familiar. It wasn’t her uncle she resembled; with her hair covered by the cloak’s hood, she bore a remarkable likeness to his old friend.

Miriam couldn’t stand his silence any longer. She faced him and began to cry. “Did I pass your test? They told me you were interested in Hillel and Shammai.” She didn’t try to wipe away the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Why don’t you answer?”

Confronted with Miriam suddenly weeping on his account, her terrified suitor had no idea what to do. “Please don’t cry. I was listening, honestly.” In desperation Judah began repeating the Gemara she had just finished, but that didn’t seem to help. Near tears himself, he stammered, “I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean to ignore you ... It’s just that I’ve never been this close to a woman before, except for my mother.”

In a panic, he grabbed her hand and begged her, “Please don’t be distressed. It’s just that you look so much like my old study partner, I was enthralled just looking at you.”

Then, like a drizzle turns into a squall, he unburdened himself to her. He told her not only about Daniel, but about how his mother and uncle had repeatedly tried and failed to get him married, and how the rosh yeshiva had threatened to put him in
herem
. When Azariel told the story, he made Judah sound heroic, bravely refusing to compromise what was right, but to hear Judah’s side was to know his frustration and despair.

Miriam’s tears dried as she filled with empathy for him. It was hard to lose someone you loved. “This last year has been terribly lonely for you, hasn’t it?”

He nodded sadly. “Are you still upset with me?” When she smiled and shook her head, he said, “Forgive me if I said the wrong thing, but I really am inexperienced and shy when it comes to women.”

She couldn’t resist teasing him. “You can’t be that shy with women; you’re holding my hand and we’ve only just met.”

As she expected, he dropped her hand immediately, his face as red as the beets they had eaten at
disner
. “You won’t tell your father?” He looked around nervously.

“He won’t mind,” she said, amused at his consternation. “After all, he thinks we’re going to be married.”

“And are we?” Judah was suddenly serious.

“That depends,” Miriam replied, equally serious at first. Then, with smiling eyes, she added, “I haven’t shown you that I’ve studied Ben Azzai yet.”

“You don’t have to recite any more Talmud. I knew you were my
bashert
as soon as I saw you.”

Miriam’s heart began to pound. He sounded so confident. But she didn’t have to make up her mind now; she could equivocate and see who else offered for her at the Hot Fair.