“Let the apprentices do that,” Asher said.
“I don’t mind.”
Asher gripped Ezra’s left arm to stop him. He had tears in his eyes. “Why did Jude do it, Ezra? Why did he have to chase after that man? If he hadn’t been so hotheaded . . . if he had just waited another minute, he would still be alive.”
“I know, I know . . . I don’t understand it, either.” Nor did Ezra understand why, if one of the three brothers had to die, it had been Jude instead of him.
“Please go home, Ezra. Give your arm a chance to heal. Give me a chance to figure out how I can make a living here without Jude.” He yanked the apron over Ezra’s head. “Come back tomorrow.”
Ezra did what his brother asked, walking back through the streets the way he had come. But before he returned to the house of assembly to research the man’s question about the Sabbath, he went back to Jude’s house to talk with Devorah. As the shepherd of God’s people, he couldn’t let her wander away from God in her grief.
He found her sitting in her courtyard with a group of neighbors, and was glad to see that she had other women with her, making sure she wasn’t grieving alone. Devorah’s expression stiffened when she saw him, a mask of anger as if he had no right to be alive when Jude was dead. “Devorah, could you please step outside the gate for a moment so we can talk?” he asked. She rose, carrying the baby in her arms, leaving the gate open.
“You asked me why God took Jude,” he said, wasting no time. “Why He didn’t answer your prayers. You wanted to know how a loving God could let Jude die. I asked the same questions, believe me, and I confess that I still don’t know the answers. But as much as I want to blame God for allowing it to happen, I also blame my brother. He let his temper take control instead of waiting for God’s vengeance, and it cost him his life. I tried to stop him—” He had to pause, the memory still fresh. “I was too late. God knows I blame myself.”
Devorah stared at the ground, rubbing her daughter’s back as the child rested against her shoulder. Ezra exhaled. “It’s easy to have faith when we get everything we want from God, everything we pray for. But when we don’t, we have to decide if we want His will or our own. We can’t manipulate God by a display of faith or by our actions. Only idols can be manipulated. God is sovereign, and He will do what He wills, for His purposes. And those purposes are often hidden from us.”
He glanced up again and saw a tear rolling down Devorah’s face. “I admit I don’t like God’s will when it means that my brother has to die. God no longer seems to fit the tidy little portrait I’ve drawn of Him. But God doesn’t change, Devorah. Only our image of Him can change—and any image we create of an infinite God is an idol.”
He wanted to reach for her hand but couldn’t. Instead, he rested his hand on the child’s head for a moment. “The question we have to ask, the question I ask myself is, will we allow grief and disappointment to erect a barricade between us and God? Or will we allow God to be the barricade, the shelter, between us and our sorrow?”
Ezra knew his words to Devorah were true. Yet as he returned to the house of assembly, alone, he wished that his heart would begin to believe them, too.
Chapter
21
BETHLEHEM
Amina awoke on a soft sleeping mat in Hodaya’s home, feeling rested for the first time in three days. She rolled over and saw that Sayfah was already awake, curled into a tight ball, staring at nothing. Amina wasn’t surprised that the first words her sister whispered to her were, “I don’t want to stay here.”
Sayfah had repeated those words endlessly, ever since they’d come to live with Hodaya. Once again, Amina asked, “Why not? We have food and warm beds. Hodaya is good to us, isn’t she? We’re safe here.”
The straw-filled mat rustled as Sayfah shook her head, shivering. “We don’t belong here. The Jews are our enemies. They hate us because we’re Edomites.”
“But where else can we go?” Amina still struggled to comprehend that she and Sayfah were orphans, their parents and brothers all dead. Today was the first morning that she hadn’t awakened in a panic, ready to scramble out of bed at the sound of her father’s angry shouts.
The discovery that Hodaya lived with her son Jacob and his family—the son who had wanted to send her and Sayfah back to their own people—alarmed Amina at first. But Jacob was rarely home, working during the day with his two sons—lanky, dark-bearded young men who were about the same ages as Amina’s brothers.
“I didn’t say good-bye to Mama,” Sayfah whispered. She always whispered now, and she spoke only to Amina. She hadn’t said a word to anyone else, answering Hodaya’s questions with a nod or a shake of her head.
“I don’t think I did, either,” Amina said, trying to remember. She had been angry at being left behind, frightened of being alone in the house at night.
“I just turned and ran,” Sayfah said. “The stampede knocked Mama down, and I just left her there on the ground!”
“If you hadn’t run, you’d be dead, too.” All of their playmates were, the girls Amina had tried to keep up with in the marketplace, the girls who’d never waited for her.
“I should be dead. I wish I were.”
“Sayfah, don’t say that!”
“Why not? It’s true. We should both be dead—not living here with the people who killed our family.”
Amina stood and rolled up her mat, pushing aside the images of her friends’ trampled bodies and matted, bloodied hair. For the first time in her life she was thankful she was a cripple. If she’d been whole, she would have died along with them. And she didn’t want to die. She liked living here under Hodaya’s care.
“I miss Mama,” Sayfah said. “I want to tell her I’m sorry.” She never mentioned missing their father. Amina couldn’t deny the relief she felt at no longer needing to live in fear of him. Nor would she miss his ridicule and beatings. But would life with the Jews be any better? For all she knew, Hodaya’s son might prove to be just like her own father. Or worse.
She offered Sayfah her hand to pull her to her feet. “Come on. It’s time to get up.” A moment later, Hodaya came to the door.
“Are you awake? You girls don’t have to hide in here, you know. Come out and be part of the family.”
They dressed and followed Hodaya out to the courtyard where Jacob, his wife, Rivkah, and their two sons were already eating breakfast. The family also had two married sons who lived with their wives nearby. Hodaya passed Amina a basket of fresh flatbread, still warm from baking. “Sit down, please, and help yourself.” Amina obeyed, unused to sitting and eating with the men.
“Jacob just told us some distressing news,” Hodaya said. “I don’t want to upset you girls or cause you any added grief, but I believe you have a right to know.” She gestured for him to tell it.
“We’ve finished digging a mass grave just outside of town. We didn’t know what else to do with . . . with the people from your village who didn’t survive. We’re burying them today.”
Sayfah laid down her bread, her face as white as linen as she blinked back tears. Amina reached for her hand.
“I’m sorry,” Hodaya said. “I was afraid it would upset you, but I thought you should know. I don’t think the burial is something you should see, but if you want to go and say good-bye, I’ll go with you.”
Amina shook her head. “I don’t want to,” she said, remembering the carnage outside the square. “Do you, Sayfah?” Her sister shook her head.
“I don’t blame you,” Hodaya said, stroking Amina’s hair. “Better to remember your loved ones the way they were when they were alive. Maybe we can visit their grave in a few days, instead.”
“Whenever you’d like to go back to your village and look for survivors, I’ll take you.” Jacob said.
Amina stared down at her lap, unsure what to say. She didn’t want to go back there, especially with Jacob, a man she feared, a man who didn’t want her and Sayfah. “I’ll be glad to go with you,” Hodaya said. “I want you t
o know you’re welcome to live with me for as long as you’d like, but Jacob feels we should offer you the opportunity to go home to your people. I’ll understand if that’s what you decide to do. You must have other relatives, no? Or maybe there’s something from home you’d like to bring back here to remember your family by?”
Sayfah tugged Amina’s arm and leaned close to whisper. “I want to go home. We need to find our own people.”
Amina was still reluctant. Should she let Sayfah go by herself? “All right,” Amina finally said. “We’ll go. Sayfah wants to.”
A few days later, Jacob readied his donkey cart after breakfast and helped his mother onto the seat. Amina and Sayfah climbed up beside her. He led the animal as they followed the road out of Bethlehem, passing through the square by the marketplace with its terrible memories. The plaza looked the same as it had before the killing, as if Amina had only imagined the carnage. But the lingering stench of death hovered in the air. Thankfully, the road to her village was no longer strewn with bodies, and at last they rounded a curve for their first glimpse of home.
Nothing remained. The cluster of houses where Amina had lived all her life was gone, razed to a heap of blackened stones and mud bricks baked to a dull red in the fiery heat. Ghostly tendrils of smoke curled from the scattered ruins, and the wind raised clouds of dust that stuck in her throat and parched her lips. Amina couldn’t guess where their house had been. She longed to turn and run, to leave this scene of desolation, but she couldn’t move from her seat on the cart.
“Oh, Jacob,” Hodaya breathed. “What have you done?”
“We went house to house searching for survivors before we burned it, Mama. We made sure there was no one left behind in the village. From what we could tell, the houses had already been ransacked before we got there. All the livestock was gone, too. It seems the survivors took whatever they could find and fled.”
Amina remembered the man from her village who’d come into her house and stolen all their food. He had even taken Abba’s goats.
“But these were people’s homes,” Hodaya said. “Why did you have to burn them?”
“So the people wouldn’t come back. They’re our enemies, Mama. They planned to kill all of us, remember? How can we live peacefully alongside people who are determined to slaughter us?”
“Well, from the look of it, they haven’t come back.”
“No. Although they might have gone into hiding when they saw us coming.”
“Where, Jacob? There’s no place to hide.”
Amina closed her eyes. She couldn’t view the site any longer. She felt Hodaya’s arm encircling her shoulder. “This must be so hard for you girls. I’m so sorry for you. But listen, before we give up, I want to do everything possible to reunite you with a family member. Are you sure you don’t have relatives somewhere?”
A memory flickered through Amina’s mind. “Sometimes during the harvest festival, Uncle Abdel came from another village to celebrate with us. I remember him and our aunt . . . and we had some cousins . . .”
“Do you know which village they came from?”
Amina looked at Sayfah. She shook her head. “I don’t think our villages have names,” Amina said.
“Was it nearby?” Jacob asked. “Because if so, it probably burned as well.” Sayfah covered her face. Amina longed to do the same. It was too much to bear.
“Enough of this,” Hodaya said. She gave Amina’s shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “Let’s go home. I don’t know how many more years the Holy One will give me, but I’ll take care of you girls as my very own daughters for as long as I live. Come, Jacob. Take us home.” He wheeled the cart around toward Bethlehem, traveling back the way they’d come. No one spoke on the return trip as Amina clung to her sister’s icy hand. Sayfah was the only family she had left, but she wasn’t the same as before, as altered as their ravaged village.
“I don’t want to go back with the Jews,” she wept as they neared Bethlehem. But Amina did. She felt safe with Hodaya.
The moment they reached Hodaya’s house and climbed from the cart, the weaver beckoned to them. “Come, girls. Follow me.” She led them into the storeroom where she kept her sacks of cloth until market day. She opened several bags, pulling out bolts of beautifully dyed wool. “Pick whichever color you like, Amina. You, too, Sayfah. The first thing we need to do is make you some new clothes.”
Amina didn’t move. She was afraid to touch the cloth, afraid to believe she could wear clothes made from such beautiful material. Sayfah covered her mouth as if to hold back a cry.
“Do you like this one, Amina?” Hodaya asked. “Or maybe this one? This color would look beautiful with your lovely auburn hair. . . . But you choose.”
Amina still couldn’t move. Hodaya reached to take both of her hands. “I feel so badly for what our people did to your village. You girls have nothing. Please, let this gift show you how sorry I am. Pick one. And Sayfah, too. Please?”
Slowly, fearfully, Amina moved forward and made her choice, selecting the one that complemented her hair. She chose a lovely shade of pale gold for Sayfah, who refused to choose for herself. “We know how to sew,” Amina said as she held the soft cloth in front of her. “Mama taught us how.”
“Good. Because my eyes don’t see as good as they used to.”
“We can do other chores, too,” Amina said. “We used to help Mama cook and clean and take care of the animals. Sayfah and I used to milk Abba’s goats. Right, Sayfah?” Her sister didn’t reply. She stared at her feet, holding the new cloth at arm’s length, as if it might burn her skin.
“You girls will be a big help to Rivkah and me with three hungry men to feed. They go out to the pasturelands for long stretches of time, so we need to prepare a lot of food for their trip. And believe me, they return home very hungry!”
Amina closed her eyes, feeling dizzy as a rush of emotion flooded through her. It was all too much—losing her family and the only home she’d ever known—and yet she felt unimaginably happy, as if she’d found something she hadn’t even known was missing. She wrapped her arms around Hodaya’s waist, embracing the kind, gentle woman so tightly she nearly knocked her over. “Thank you,” Amina said. “Thank you for everything!”
“Oh, my sweet child. I’m the one who is blessed. I always wanted daughters of my very own.”
Chapter
22
CASIPHIA
Reuben chose the house he would rob with care, the same way he’d chosen each Babylonian he’d killed when he’d fired his arrows on the thirteenth of Adar. A wealthy Babylonian lived here, a man who worked for the Persian government and lived alone with his servants. Children cried when they awoke in the night and women screamed, so Reuben had decided on an easy target the first time. The Babylonians owed him. The Jews had been victorious a month ago, so Reuben had a right to take whatever spoils he wanted.
He watched from the shadowy alley, waiting in the dark until the oil lamps behind the shuttered windows finally went out. Then he waited some more to make sure the household slept. The cold night drizzled rain. It beaded on Reuben’s hair and shoulders, but at least the clouds hid the moon’s light, making it perfect weather for tonight’s work. He shivered in his new robe, the one he had stripped from his enemy the day Abba died. He had washed off the blood in the river, let it dry in the sun, then hid it from his mother. Now whenever he ventured into the Gentile neighborhoods of Casiphia he took off his kippah and his fringed robe—everything marking him as a Jew—so he could walk the streets unnoticed.
Reuben had devised this plan to rob the Babylonians a week after Abba died, on the night his Uncle Hashabiah had come to his house. Reuben hadn’t wanted to speak to his uncle, still furious with him for saying God had willed for Abba to die. Reuben refused to go to the house of assembly with him, refused to recite the special prayers for the dead. Was that the reason for his uncle’s visit? Reuben had tried to leave, but Hashabiah insisted he stay and hear what he had to say.
?
??There’s something you should know,” his uncle began. “As your closest relative, it’s my responsibility to make a decision about the forge and your family’s future.”
Reuben sprang from his seat. “But I’m Abba’s firstborn son. It’s my job to take care of our family.”
Mama laid her hand on Reuben’s arm, coaxing him to sit down. “Let him finish, son.”
Hashabiah’s face showed no emotion. He continued as if delivering a memorized speech. “Your father would be proud of you for your willingness to take responsibility, Reuben. However, I’m sure you realize you’re too young to take over his blacksmith work.”
“I’m not . . . I know how to do everything. Abba taught me—”
Hashabiah ignored him, addressing his words to Reuben’s mother. “One of your husband’s workers has offered to buy the business. The profits from selling the forge and all the tools can provide an income for your family for a long time. And he agreed to let Reuben continue working for him.”
Reuben couldn’t stay seated. “You can’t sell my inheritance! My father made me his partner. The shop is mine and—”
“Your father is gone. You and he will never be partners.” Reuben’s mother covered her face and wept.
“Leave our house!” Reuben shouted, furious with Hashabiah for hurting her, for reminding her of what would never be. He lunged at his uncle, trying to push him out the door. “Go away and leave us alone!”
His uncle was stronger, able to hold Reuben back. He pinned Reuben’s arms to his sides and wouldn’t let go, shaking him until he stopped struggling. “Stop it! You may not want to hear this, but your mother has to. She’s a widow with a young family to raise and no means of support.”