Authors: Maggie Anton
My eyes widened at the extent of his expertise. “I'll take them all.” I especially wanted the miscarriage spell for Achti.
“I'm not done.” He scowled at my impatience. “If a demon's name is known, I can inscribe an amulet to exorcise it, and if you have a specific enemy, I can write one to suppress him.” He stopped to smile. “I even have an amulet for winning at chariot races. It's quite popular.”
“I don't think I'll need that last one,” I said. “We don't have chariot races in Bavel, and I only expect to be here through the fall.”
“I'll buy one though,” Salaman said enthusiastically.
“Your chariot race amulet won't be ready until the twenty-fifth,” the scribe told Salaman. “But the others are generic, and I can write them on the first day after Pesach.”
“Can't you write it for me now?” Salaman leaned forward and grinned conspiratorially. “I was hoping to attend some chariot races during Chol haMoed.”
The scribe sighed in acquiescence, and I placed a handful of ribbons on the table. “Will this be sufficient?”
“For the chariot race amulet, certainly,” he replied.
We haggled good-naturedly while he wrote the amulet for Salaman, until we agreed on somewhat less than my entire supply of ribbons for the total. On our walk back, I allowed Salaman to scold me for letting the scribe take advantage of my relative inexperience with bargaining, for I was convinced I'd gotten the better deal. I teased him in return that an amulet for winning at chariot races could scarcely be effective if everyone else at the hippodrome had one.
Rabbi Avahu's gate had just come into view when Salaman turned to me. “I heard that your brother calls you something less formal than Hisdadukh.”
“My siblings have called me Dada since I was a baby.”
“Only your siblings? What about your friends?”
“I've lived a sheltered life. I don't have many friends.”
Then came the question I was dreading. “Well, then, what did your husband call you? Surely not Hisdadukh.”
“No, he called me Dodi.”
Salaman's blank expression made me recall that he didn't know Hebrew, and what he said next proved it. “I like it better than Dada, which does sound like a baby's name.”
I gathered my courage and risked insulting him. “Even so, I'd rather you didn't call me that.”
To my surprise, he nodded. “I understand. Would you mind, then, as your first friend here, if I called you Dada?”
“Since I don't have any siblings in the West, it would be nice to hear someone say it.” It would help me think of Salaman more as a brother than a suitor.
Whether because it was different from my family's celebration in Bavel or because it reminded me of it, the Pesach festival meal at Rabbi Avahu's was a disappointment. Considering how unconcerned Jews in the West were about demons and drinking pairs, I was not surprised that there was no blood on the doorposts of Rabbi Avahu's house. But I still intended to drink only an odd number of cups of wine. I was surprised, however, that instead of sitting on chairs or cushions, we were given individual couches to recline on.
I tried to hide my regret that, with only a few children present, the lively Ma Nishtana session I so enjoyed at home was limited here to the
three questions concerning the matzah, bitter herbs, and roasted meat cited in Mishna. Nobody mentioned anything about staffs or shoes, while in Sura everyone eagerly anticipated getting new sandals for Pesachâsandals they would wear for the first time at the festive meal. The matzah was already neatly stacked on our tables, and of course none of the serious men here would have dreamed of snatching it from another's.
Rabbi Avahu told the Exodus story well, with occasional embellishment by his son, Rabbi Chanina, and his colleagues Rabbis Abba and Chiya. But the majority in the room seemed more interested in the upcoming meal. As expected, I sat with the women, and for the early part of the evening, I was occupied with keeping Yehudit interested in the proceedings. Once my daughter went to bed, however, I was forced to listen to my companions' conversation, which started with complaints about how much work it was for women to prepare for Pesach and how exhausted they were from the arduous process.
I was beginning to feel sympathy for these women when the subject changed to other aspects of being a rabbi's wife. I told myself it was the wine speaking, but it was distressing to listen as both Rabbi Abba's and Rabbi Chiya's wives made several attempts to elevate their husbands' status at the expense of Rabbi Avahu's.
After the third ritual cup of wine, which was the minimum they'd imbibed, I cringed when Rabbi Abba's wife turned to Susanna and said, “My husband is every bit the equal of Rabbi Avahu and shows him extra honor only because of his wealth.”
Rabbi Chiya's wife was quick to add, “Though fewer people attend my husband's classes on Jewish Law than Rabbi Avahu's homilies, it should be compared to two merchants, one selling precious stones and the other knickknacks.” She smiled smugly. “Since only a select few can afford the precious stones, the knickknack merchant will attract more buyers.”
“My husband created that parable,” Susanna interjected, “in order to assuage Rabbi Chiya's hurt feelings.”
Frowning, Rabbi Chiya's wife declared, “My husband only accompanies Rabbi Avahu home each day out of respect for his relationship to the governor.”
Susanna promptly pointed out that her husband had accompanied Rabbi Chiya home just the day before.
I'd had enough and craned my neck to listen to the men. But their conversation was no improvement. Until this time I'd envied Susanna her
handsome, learned, and rich husband, but now I saw the jealousy she had to contend with, jealousy Rabbi Avahu obviously had to deflect as well. I thought of Mother and Father, and how fortunate they were that nobody would begrudge Father's wealth and position as long as Rav Nachman and Yalta were there to attract all the resentment. But this brought to mind images of the Pesach meal my family was enjoying at that very moment without me. A wave of homesickness and longing to see my son washed over me.
It must have been my foul mood that caused me to say what I next did to the women: “Pesach is the Festival of Freedom, when we celebrate how Elohim freed us from bondage in Egypt. Yet everywhere I go in the West, there are slaves, Jewish slaves, and nobody has redeemed them. Doesn't the Torah say that Hebrew slaves in Eretz Israel are to be freed after six years?”
The room was suddenly so quiet that I could hear the waves of the Great Sea outside.
Rabbi Avahu turned to me and replied, “The law only applies when Jews are sovereign in our own land. Now that Rome rules us, and enslaves us, it is better that poor Jews sell themselves to other Jews rather than become slaves of idolaters.”
The merchants and their families hurried to say their good-byes, Rabbi Chiya's wife among them. Next Susanna, her daughter-in-law, and Rabbi Abba's wife, pleading fatigue, excused themselves too. Except for the slaves, I was the only female left in the room, but I was determined to redeem the evening by listening to the scholars discuss the laws of Pesach. Salaman had stayed as well, but I didn't dare speculate why.
Much as Father began his lessons, Rabbi Avahu started with Mishna. “Even the poorest in Israel does not eat without reclining, and they should give him no fewer than four cups of wine, even if they come from the charity plate,” he recited.
The other rabbis nodded, and after a glance to see if I was following, he continued with a Baraita: “All are obligated to drink these four cupsâmen, women, and children. Rabbi Judah asked what the purpose was for children to drink wine and said, rather, we give them roasted grain kernels and nuts on Pesach eve so they will ask questions and not fall asleep.”
Rabbi Abba added another Baraita on the subject: “Rabbi Eliezer said we snatch matzah on the night of Pesach on account of the children, so they shouldn't fall asleep.”
At this point I expected a debate to resolve the difference between how Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Judah said to keep the children awake or, at a minimum, for someone to question what it meant to “snatch” matzah.
But Rabbi Chiya continued with another Baraita instead. “A man is obligated to gladden his children and his household on the festivals, but how does he gladden them? Men with what is suitable for them and women with what is suitable for them.”
Rabbi Avahu inclined his head in my direction. “A Baraita teaches that while men are gladdened with wine, women in Eretz Israel are gladdened with new white linen clothes and women of Bavel with new colored clothes.” His voice rose at the end as if asking was this true.
“I can't speak for the West,” I said, “but in Sura the women do receive new colored garments at Pesach.” I didn't add that men also got new clothes then, but, frustrated with the lack of debate, I found the courage to ask, “Going back to Rabbi Eliezer, what does he mean by snatching the matzah?”
My question probably astonished the men, for it was some time before Rabbi Chanina said, “Perhaps he explains why we take the table of ritual foods away early, so the children will ask why it is removed before we've eaten.”
Rabbi Abba disagreed. “Since food makes children drowsy, we take the matzah away before they eat their fill of it and fall asleep.”
Rabbi Chiya added another possibility. “We hurry to eat the matzah before they fall asleep.”
Rabbi Avahu may have known something of customs in Bavel because he replied, “Maybe Rabbi Eliezer physically grabs it off the children's plates to get their attention.”
To my disappointment, there was no attempt to reach a conclusion. Rabbi Chanina continued with a Baraita teaching that when the Temple stood, rejoicing at festivals was done by eating the sacrificial meat, but now we rejoice with wine.
I was reminded of the story Yochani told me about Rabbi Yohanan's grief after Reish Lakish died. Hoping that Rabbi Yohanan would be consoled if they found him a new study partner, his colleagues sent him the brilliant young scholar Rabbi Elazar ben Pedat. But no matter what Rabbi Yohanan said, Rabbi Elazar would reply with a Baraita that supported him.
Finally the infuriated Rabbi Yohanan sent him away, crying, “You are
not like Lakish. Whatever I said, he would pose twenty-four objections, and I would give twenty-four resolutions, so that in the end the law was clear. But you only tell me that a Baraita supports me, and of this I am well aware.”
I was well aware that I would hear no scintillating debate tonight, only one tedious Baraita after another, like Rabbi Elazar ben Pedat produced. I needed no more evidence that Father was right about the superior sages and students in Bavel. I covered a yawn with my hand and excused myself to go to bed, thankful I'd be celebrating Pesach in Sura next year.
Rabbi Avahu accompanied me out, and when we reached my doorway, he said, “I thought you'd be interested to know that a Baraita teaches, âThe Law of Hebrew slaves is in effect only when the Jubilee year is in effect, as it is written: Until the Jubilee year he shall serve you.' Thus until the Jubilee is observed again, all laws concerning Jewish slaves, including that they are freed after six years, are also not observed.”
“I appreciate you teaching this to me,” I replied, gratified that he'd taken my question seriously.
Judging by the crowds at the chariot races, most of the Jews in Caesarea were taking advantage of Chol haMoed, the intermediate days of Pesach when work was forbidden but few other restrictions applied. Located next to the sea, the hippodrome benefited from ocean breezes that kept the stands cool despite the direct sunshine and also dispersed the smell of so many sweating bodies packed together. Salaman told me that it held over fifteen thousand spectators, and I was sure I'd never seen so many people in one location before.
At first I was worried that we wouldn't find a place to sit, but Salaman confidently led Yehudit and me up the steep stone steps. Here families sat high up in the semicircular stands, where the children could get a good view, both of the races and of boats in the harbor. There were plenty of Jews sitting nearby, differentiated only because their baskets contained matzah instead of bread and cakes. The afternoon looked to be a warm one, and I was glad to see a large wineskin slung across Salaman's broad chest.
What an exciting day. The hippodrome here was larger than in Sepphoris, allowing twelve chariots to compete at once. At the signal, the doors opened and they dashed out, either one man driving two horses
or two men with four horses, depending on the race. Both men and horses wore matching colors, so it was easy to distinguish one team from another.
Immediately everyone was on their feet, waving their arms and cheering. The chariots circled the track seven times, their drivers so determined to win that they thought nothing of forcing another chariot out of the way. The crowd roared their approval of the most appallingly risky maneuvers, and when the horses approached the finish, the already raucous noise reached new heights.
Salaman was eager to test his new amulet and made a show of asking Yehudit which colors to bet on. Just to make a contest out of it, I had him place small wagers on different ones for me. With my scant experience of chariot races, I could of course only guess which to choose.
What with continually jumping up and down in the open stands, not to mention all the wine we were drinking, I was exhausted when the final race was over. After collecting our winnings, Salaman hoisted Yehudit over his shoulder, and she was asleep by the time we reached the bottom of the steps. Everywhere I looked, men and women staggered by with slumbering children in their arms. It was a long walk back to Rabbi Avahu's, and how I envied those children being carried.
We attended two more chariot races that week, and by the end of the third my enthusiasm was waning. There had been one serious collision, involving several chariots, and though no one was killed, two of the horses were so severely injured that they had to be dispatched where they fell. To my horror, quite a few people in the stands were visibly savoring the spectacle.