Apprentice (12 page)

“Please.” I tried not to whine.

“It's not my decision alone. We need to get your mother's permission.”

To my shock, Rahel took my hand and nearly dragged me into the house. I blinked a few times as my eyes adjusted to the change in light from the sunny garden to the dimly lit anteroom. Mother was sitting with a couple of older women I'd seen at synagogue and another, plumper one I didn't recognize. Evidently they were Mother's social equals, because all four sat on the same number of cushions. I would never have dared to disturb them, but Rahel strode right in. She greeted the visitors warmly, kissing each one's wrinkled cheek in turn before beckoning me to join them. I kissed the women's cheeks as well, but I was too frightened to speak.

Rahel didn't waste any words either. “Haviva, your daughter wishes to become my apprentice.”

Mother and her companions all stared at me appraisingly, just as Rahel had done earlier. There was no escape from their scrutiny, and I would have been grateful if the earth had opened and swallowed me. Somehow I was compelled to speak, and again the words were not the ones I would have planned to say.

“I want to learn more about magic, Mother.”

Mother surprised me with her question. “And what about your Torah studies with your father and grandfather?”

I answered truthfully, though I realized it made me seem like a dilettante. “I want to study Torah too.”

The thinner women from synagogue rested her chin on her hand before turning to Mother. “Torah study could give your daughter merit, so her incantations would be more effective. But would she have time for both after she's married?”

To my further astonishment, Mother chuckled. “It's lucky she'll be
living with her sister, then.” Like one sharing a small joke, she added, “Achti is already so proficient at managing a household that I doubt she will require, or appreciate, any assistance from Hisdadukh.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The visitors smiled and nodded in approval, and with tears streaming down my face, I rushed into Mother's arms.

Rahel gave me a few moments to savor my victory before saying, “Hisdadukh and I must return to our work.” She bowed slightly and pulled me toward the door. “Thank you for allowing us to interrupt. Now I'm sure you have other matters to discuss.”

I was late getting up the second day of the following week, and by the time I came downstairs to break my fast, Father and his students had already left for court. Unlike midday and evening meals, eating in the morning was informal. Nobody would rouse sound sleepers unless it was an emergency, for what if they were in the middle of an important dream or their souls had difficulty returning? Mother ate early, but my sisters-in-law, especially those with babies who got up in the night, tended to wander in over a longer period of time than my brothers.

Shayla, Rahel, and Achti were nowhere to be seen, but Beloria and Mariamme beckoned me to join them. A kitchen slave served me porridge and bread, the latter fresh and warm from the oven, and I drank in the wonderful aroma. Bread was always wheaten, but the porridge grain varied—sometimes wheat and sometimes barley. Today's was my favorite, porridge prepared from wheat that had been roasted first, making it crunchy, with a nice toasty flavor.

Both women were nearly done. Just as I resigned myself to eating alone, Rahel appeared at the top of the stairs. She waved and then quickly moved her hand to cover a yawn.

Beloria smiled. “Those early months of pregnancy are so tiring, even if a woman sleeps from sunset to sunup and in the afternoon.”

“She'll be more tired later.” Mariamme's head bobbed up and down in agreement. “Once the baby comes.”

Rahel sat next to me, and after some polite questions about her health, our two companions left. Rahel's appetite must have improved, because she was served twice as much porridge as I had eaten, plus some goat cheese for her bread. She had just finished the cheese when I looked up to see Mother bearing down on us.

“I am relieved to see that I don't have to wake you up.” Mother sounded pleased rather than annoyed. “My husband just sent word that a skilled potter cannot pay her
karga
, and that we should ask about her at the slave market today.”

Rahel shoveled down her porridge in her eagerness to finish. “I'll be ready to leave immediately.”

Mother turned to me. “You can come and help choose your new maidservant.”

We, along with our ubiquitous attendants, were soon on the road to central Sura, where Rahel and I had plenty of time to say our morning prayers as we walked. She had only taken me to one other bowl installation, and that house was also far from the city center, so I was bubbling over with excitement at my first chance to see Sura's souk on a market day.

But a question nagged at me. Not wanting to display my ignorance in front of the slaves, I approached Rahel and whispered, “What is a
karga
?”

“
Karga
is the Persian poll tax,” she replied. “It's the same amount for everyone aged fifteen through sixty, and only the Magi don't pay it.” She paused for emphasis. “If you can't, whoever pays it for you acquires you as a slave.”

So that was how people got to be slaves. And why a slave like Nurse, who lived in a prosperous household, might not want to be freed. Unable to pay the
karga
herself, she'd just be sold into slavery again and could end up somewhere worse. I had to admit that our slaves' presence made me feel more secure in the large city, in addition to proclaiming our high status.

My thoughts were interrupted when Rahel continued talking. “The king also levies a land tax,
tasqa
, but only landowners pay that,” she said. “The owner pays with a share of his produce, so rich people pay more and tenant farmers, the
aris
who don't actually own their land, owe nothing.”

We entered a street where both sides were lined by plastered brick walls. Now and then we'd pass an open door or gate and I'd get a glimpse into the homes and courtyards behind those walls. At one intersection Mother consulted Rahel before turning to the right. We continued through a maze of roadways, and my throat constricted as I remembered how easily I'd gotten lost in the alleys of Kafri. I held tight to Rahel's hand.

There were other people out walking, most carrying baskets and jars, and we began to see shops interspersed among the houses. Soon the road narrowed into a shaded
mavoi
, shops outnumbered the houses, and I could smell spices and foodstuffs. Vendors yelled to us from their carts, the bold ones shoving their wares almost into Mother's and Rahel's faces. There were tall stacks of baskets, canvas sacks of every size hanging from hooks, and pyramids of fall produce like pomegranates, squashes, and root vegetables. I was surprised to see racks of ready-made sandals, since the cobbler always came to our home and measured each family member individually before making our shoes.

But I was more surprised that almost none of the men were wearing tefillin. Grandfather, my brothers, Father, and all his students wore the small black leather boxes, one tied on the forehead and the other strapped on the hand. Inside each box was a piece of parchment inscribed with four Torah verses, including “bind them as a sign on your arm…and between your eyes,” “them” being words of Torah. They wore these all day, every day except Shabbat.

Back when we lived in Kafri, my brothers used to tease one another by hiding their tefillin, so that at least once a month the day would start with someone yelling, “Who took my tefillin?” followed by much scuffling and chasing around until the errant items were retrieved. Now that we lived in Sura, however, the game had lost much of its popularity.

Lingering in the souk was not on Mother's schedule. She consulted with a slave, and we turned onto a narrower
mavoi
, and after a block, onto another even darker alley, one so narrow that we could only walk two abreast. Eventually we reached our destination, a walled compound closed with a heavy gate. Someone inside had heard us approach, because the gate creaked open a slit and a moon-faced man stuck his head out.

“I understand that there is a skilled potter who cannot pay her
karga
,” Mother announced.

“If the woman is to be believed, there are two.”

Mother's eyebrow rose. “Two?”

“She says her daughter is almost as skilled as she is.”

Rahel spoke up. “We need a potter's wheel to test them.”

“I'll take you to her shop,” the man said. “You can see for yourself.”

“Anyone with a shop should be able to pay their
karga,”
Mother said. “Is her husband a gambler or drunkard?”

“Even worse,” he answered. “Her husband is a camel driver who hasn't come home in almost two years.”

Mother and Rahel let out simultaneous groans. “An
agunah
,” Rahel whispered. “No wonder she's too poor to pay
karga
.”

As we walked to the poor woman's shop, I thought sadly of her plight, a Jewish woman's worst nightmare. When a widow or divorcée's marriage ended, she received sufficient funds for taxes from her
ketuba
, the money her marriage contract obligated her husband, or his estate, to pay her. A young widow or divorcée, especially one with a profession like pottery, would likely attract a second husband.

But an
agunah
, whose husband has disappeared, was still considered his wife. She could neither collect her
ketuba
nor marry again. And if she had no family to help support her, she would eventually become impoverished.

“I loaned her money for last year's
karga
.” The man shrugged. “But she admits she cannot repay me, nor can she pay this year's tax.”

“I understand,” said Mother as we stopped in front of a table covered with ceramic vessels.

Rahel immediately began to examine them, and a thin, tired-looking woman came out to greet us. Before she could speak, she noticed the slave dealer with us and tears welled in her eyes.

“These pots look sturdy,” Rahel said to her. “But I would like to see how you make them.”

Mother, Rahel, and I followed the potter into the shop, where an even thinner girl around my age was turning clay on a potter's wheel. Rahel spoke gently to her, and the clay took on various shapes—a deep pot, a flat plate, a round bowl, a tall vase—before ending up as a wide-mouthed jar.

Rahel nodded at Mother, who turned to the slave dealer and said, “The girl appears competent. How much for both of them?”

The man named an amount that made Mother frown. “That will more than pay a year's
karga
,” she protested. “I thought you said this year's tax wasn't paid yet.”

“Skilled potters are worth more than ordinary slaves.” He looked back at the girl with a leer. “And the daughter is a virgin.”

That was the wrong thing to say to Mother, especially with me, her own daughter of the same age, standing next to her. “My husband is Rav
Hisda, who was recently appointed to Rav Huna's
beit din
. I'm sure he would agree that since you merely loaned this woman the money for her
karga
, instead of paying it yourself, she merely needs to pay back what she owes you.” Mother's voice was silky. “I assume you have the loan papers properly sealed and witnessed.”

His moon face flushed with anger. “Very well, pay me what you think is appropriate.”

Mother attempted to mollify him. “I also need a maidservant for my daughter.” Mother pointed at me. “Do you have anyone relatively young with experience in hairdressing and makeup? She needn't be a virgin, but it would help if she could weave.”

His expression brightened. “You are in luck. One of Sura's most prominent matrons just sold me one of her own personal slaves. Apparently her husband found the girl too attractive.”

Mother and Rahel exchanged glances, and the slave dealer quickly added, “She had only praise for the girl's work and assured me that the fault was entirely her husband's. Indeed, she was quite distraught about selling her.”

“Let's see her, then,” Mother said, “in addition to any others you have with those qualifications.”

As soon as we entered the slave dealer's courtyard, my initial enthusiasm was replaced by fear and revulsion. The slaves for sale were a piteous bunch who looked at us for the most part with longing or loathing, although some merely stared with vacant eyes. My heart broke for the poor potter and her young virgin daughter, and I couldn't wait to get away from this horrible place.

Rahel took my hand, and we followed Mother and the dealer to where the younger females were kept. I couldn't bring myself to look, but after examining samples of their spun thread, Mother instructed three of them to undo my hair and style it anew.

Without a mirror, I had no idea how I looked, but Rahel shrugged and said to Mother, “I don't think there's any question which is the best hairdresser.”

“Hisda would prefer someone less attractive in our home,” Mother replied. “Not such a distraction for his students.”

I forced my eyes up, and I knew immediately which one they meant. She was about Achti's age and had similar coloring, but her features were
just different enough to make her a beauty while my sister was merely pretty. Her eyes pleaded with me, begged me to rescue her.

“I like her, Mother,” I announced. At least there was one slave here I could help.

Mother hesitated, and I added, “Rahel said she's the best.”

“If she's not too expensive,” Mother finally agreed.

So we ended up with three new slaves—two for Rahel and one for me. Rahel's were Imarta and her daughter, Haruta. Mine was called Zahra.

During the walk home, I took the opportunity to ask Rahel, “Why don't the men in Sura wear tefillin? You said that nearly everyone who lives here is Jewish.”