At last his uncle finished his business deal and sank down on a cushion across from Reuben. “What brings you here? Why aren’t you at work?”
“I’m ready to buy back Abba’s blacksmith shop. You have to help me.”
“How can you possibly buy it back?”
“I have money. More than enough.” He dropped the money pouch onto the table. “You brokered the deal the first time—ask him to sell it back to me.”
Hashabiah picked up the heavy pouch and loosened the drawstring to look inside. “Where did this come from?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“That’s not your concern.” Reuben snatched it from him, tying the pouch onto his belt again. “Did you ask him where the money came from when he bought my father’s shop fourteen years ago? What difference does it make?”
“It makes a huge difference.” Hashabiah’s frown deepened. “I’ve been worried about you for a long time, Reuben. I fear you’ve acquired this gold through illegal means and—”
“Listen, I’m no longer a child you can shake your finger at. I’m twenty-six years old. You committed a sin against me when you arranged this deal fourteen years ago, and now you owe it to me to make it right.”
“I don’t think he’s willing to sell, Reuben. There’s nothing I can do.”
“You can’t? Or you won’t? Maybe you and I should go talk to Casiphia’s elders. I’d like to explain to them how you cheated me out of my inheritance after my father died a hero’s death.”
“The elders know all about the arrangement I made for your family. I consulted them after your father died and asked their advice. I wanted you and your mother to be taken care of properly. The elders agreed this was the best solution.”
“If they agreed, then you’re all a bunch of thieves and crooks. Is it any wonder I have no respect for any of you?” Reuben’s anger grew hotter in spite of his best efforts to control it. “My father built that shop with his own hands. Those are his tools, his anvil, his grinding stones. The smithy is all I have left of him, and I want it back. I can pay for it. You owe it to me to help me.”
“My conscience is clear in this matter, Reuben,” Hashabiah said, spreading his hands. “But in the years since your father died, you’ve earned a reputation in this community as a black sheep. Even if you did buy back the shop, I’m not sure anyone would do business with you. You never attend prayers at the house of assembly. In fact, you didn’t even come to hear your own brother read the Torah for the first time when he became a Son of the Commandments. He looks up to you, but you’re hardly a good example for him to follow.”
“Can you blame me for not attending after the way you and the elders treated me?”
“And when one of your sisters was betrothed,” Hashabiah continued, “you weren’t among us to help make the arrangements or provide the dowry. I took care of everything for her out of my own resources—and I have daughters of my own to provide for.”
“Why didn’t you ask me? I could have paid for her.”
“Because we don’t know where your money comes from, Reuben. How could the Holy One bless a bride who starts her marriage with a stolen dowry? You’re not part of our community. You live here and work here, but that’s all. You don’t worship with us or pray with us or celebrate or grieve with us. You don’t follow the Torah. Your mother says she has no idea where you go or what you do when you go out at night.”
“You’ve been spying on me? Asking questions about me?”
“No. It’s the other way around. Your mother has come to me countless times, asking for help. She believes you’ve been stealing. She’s worried you’re becoming a drunkard. She told me about your Babylonian friends, and she fears she’s losing you to their bad influence. I never told her how the authorities found your dagger at a murder scene because it would break her heart. But I did tell her that if I knew how to draw you back to us, I would gladly do it. And it’s true, I would.”
“Make him sell me my inheritance, and maybe I’ll start coming to prayers again.”
“Reuben, if he doesn’t want to sell—”
Reuben shot to his feet. “I know there’s a law in the Torah somewhere that says you have to give back a man’s inheritance. It can never be sold permanently—right?”
Hashabiah thought for a moment as he stood, as well. “In the Year of Jubilee, yes, property must be returned to its original owner. But that only pertains to the ancestral property we inherit in the land of Israel. We can’t own land in Babylon.”
“Abba owned that blacksmith shop!”
“No, not really. We pay fees and taxes to the Persians for our land and businesses.” He gestured to his own booth. “The Persians can reclaim this anytime they want to.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He let his breath out in a rush, as if Reuben had punched him. “Listen, may I give you some advice, Reuben? You’ve become a very fine craftsman, so I’m told. If owning your own forge is so important to you, why not use your money to buy another one? Rejoin our community and earn back our people’s trust, and I’m sure you’ll make a fine living. An honest living.”
Reuben shook his head. “It wouldn’t be the same. My father built that forge himself. He worked hard for every tool he owned, and he wanted me to inherit everything.”
“We’re getting nowhere,” Hashabiah said. “Look, I’m going to explain something to you, and I hope you’ll listen—really listen. Our inheritance isn’t composed of physical things like tools and blacksmith shops. Our inheritance is the covenant our ancestors made with God—”
“I’m leaving.” Reuben started to go, but Hashabiah grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“When you forsake your true inheritance as a son of Abraham, you’re killing our people just as surely as our enemies did when they killed your father. One lost descendant of Abraham means that all the generations that would have come from you will be lost, as well. Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re accomplishing what the enemy failed to do fourteen years ago. You’re finishing their work and letting our people die out, one by one. Is that what you want?”
“Let me go,” Reuben said in a low voice.
Instead, Hashabiah’s grip tightened. “The inheritance you need to reclaim, Reuben, is your covenant with God. And I will gladly help you do that.” He finally released Reuben, waiting for his reply. But Reuben was too furious to say another word. He strode from the shop, nearly knocking over a customer on the way out, the pouch full of gold bouncing heavily against his side as he walked. He may as well give it away to the beggars in the streets for all the good it would do him, or to the ragged Babylonian children asking for alms to buy bread.
He kept going, heading for the hangout he shared with his friends—his only true friends—hoping to find leftover wine from last night. What good was all the gold in the world if he couldn’t have the one thing he wanted most?
Chapter
34
BETHLEHEM
Amina knew Hodaya was dying, but she wasn’t prepared to let her go. “What will I do without you?” she asked as she knelt beside her, listening to her gasping breaths. Hodaya’s hand felt cold as it lay between Amina’s.
“Lean on God.” Amina had to bend close to hear Hodaya’s whispery voice. “Lean with every step you take . . . just like you lean on your crutch. . . . You’re God’s child.”
Hodaya passed in and out of consciousness during her last days, but she seemed at peace, not struggling against the angel of death. Hodaya’s family gathered around her, hungry for their last moments with her. When Amina took her turn sitting beside her, she could tell something was bothering Hodaya. “Please tell me what’s wrong,” Amina said when they were alone. “You know I would do anything for you.”
Hodaya struggled for words, as if trying to put her thoughts together. “Sayfah,” she finally whispered. The name came out like a sigh.
“My sister? What about her?”
“Make things right.”
Amina looke
d away, knowing what Hodaya meant. Her parting from Sayfah fourteen years ago had been too abrupt. Neither of them had been willing to give in to the other, and so they’d separated. Amina hadn’t heard from her sister since. For a long time, she’d resented Sayfah for choosing their uncle instead of the new life they had with Hodaya. Why couldn’t Sayfah understand Amina’s unwillingness to go where she was treated cruelly, unloved and unwanted? In the first years after Sayfah left her, Amina had been afraid to visit or make contact with her, fearing Uncle Abdel would change his mind and force Amina to live with him. She avoided the market outside Jerusalem whenever they visited the city so she wouldn’t run into him. But Amina was a grown woman now, twenty-two years old. It was time to mend the rift with her sister. Her adopted family had taught her that celebrating the Day of Atonement and asking the Holy One for forgiveness meant asking others for forgiveness and making amends.
“I’ll do it,” she promised Hodaya. “I’ll find my sister and make things right.”
A few days later, Hodaya died in her sleep. The grief Amina felt was even greater than when her parents had died. She wept for days along with Hodaya’s family, finding comfort in the arms of Jacob’s wife, Rivkah, whom Amina had grown to love.
A month later, when Amina’s new family traveled to Jerusalem for the Feast of Weeks, she asked Jacob to take her to Sayfah’s village. “I promised Hodaya I would visit my sister and make amends,” she told him. “Would you take me? I’ve been wondering what happened to Sayfah.”
“Of course,” Jacob said. “You should have asked me sooner, Amina. Why did you wait so long?”
“I was afraid to go, afraid my uncle would change his mind and force me to stay.”
“I understand. And I want you to know I will never allow that to happen.”
She and Jacob and his oldest son left Jerusalem at dawn the morning after the feast. As she limped along beneath clear, early-summer skies, she fluctuated between anticipation at seeing her sister and dread at seeing her uncle. They reached the village entrance a few hours after dawn, and Jacob spoke with the elders who were seated there. “We’re looking for Amina’s uncle Abdel and sister, Sayfah. Do you know where we can find them?”
“Sayfah lives in her husband’s home, not with Abdel. You will need to ask her husband’s permission. I will take the girl there because she is an Edomite, but you Jews must wait outside our village.”
“I’m sorry,” Amina told Jacob. “I promise not to be long.”
“Take your time, Amina. We’ll wait.”
As soon as she entered the village, Amina longed to turn around and run back. It was so much like the village where she was born with the same low, mud brick houses, the same style of pottery and clothing. The villagers were Edomites like her, and the people who stared at her as she limped past resembled the ghosts of her lost family. They had the same facial features Amina’s family had—that she had. She even saw a child with her own reddish-brown hair color.
Sayfah gave a little cry when she recognized Amina and set down the toddler she held as they fell into each other’s arms. “I thought I would never see you again,” Sayfah wept, clutching her tightly. She looked the same, only taller and older, and even more beautiful than she had as a girl. She was a woman now, twenty-five years old, and resembled their mother.
“You’re so beautiful!” Amina said when they finally released each other. “The elders told me you’re married now. Is this your son?” She gestured to the wailing child clinging to Sayfah’s leg.
“Yes,” she said, lifting him again. “I have two sons older than him, too. I live here with my husband and his parents.”
Sayfah’s house was simple but larger than the one where they had grown up. Judging by the array of cooking pots and the beautiful hearth and outdoor oven in the courtyard, Sayfah’s husband was more prosperous than Abba had been.
“What about you, Amina? I suppose you’ve married a Jew by now?”
“No, I’m not married.”
“Good. You’ve come back to find a husband among your own people.”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, I came to see you and find out if you’re all right. It’s been much too long. And . . . and I also wanted to ask you to forgive me for not moving here with you. The way we parted seemed much too abrupt.”
Sayfah looked away for a moment before turning back. “I was very angry with you, at first. But it was cruel of Uncle Abdel to say he didn’t want you, and I knew you were probably better off with Hodaya. She understands how things are for you, being a cripple.”
“I also came to tell you Hodaya died a month ago. I thought you’d want to know. She was so good to us, adopting us when we were orphans.”
“Yes. She was good to us. I’m sorry to hear she died.” Sayfah paused, playing with a strand of her son’s dark hair. “But if Hodaya is gone, you have no one but me. Hodaya’s sons never wanted us.”
“Jacob and the others have changed. I’m part of their family now. And I worship the Jews’ God, in His temple in Jerusalem. I’m here for one of His feast days, in fact.”
“How can you worship with them? You aren’t Jewish.”
“After you left, Hodaya told me that Uncle Abdel may not want me for his child, but the Holy One did. The more she taught me about Him, the more I wanted to learn all the Jewish customs and beliefs, so I could worship Him.” Amina didn’t tell Sayfah how the Almighty One had answered her prayer to rescue her from their uncle. That salvation had been the seed of her growing faith.
“So that’s it? Now you’re Jewish?”
“I’ll never really be Jewish by blood, but Hodaya took me to the mikveh to wash. Then I made the required offering and—” She paused at the sound of men’s voices, shouting inside the house. Sayfah flinched as she glanced over her shoulder, and Amina saw a momentary look of fear in her eyes.
“Is he calling for you? Do you want me to leave?” Amina asked.
“No. It’s okay. Please stay a little longer.” But the loud voices brought back memories for Amina of the fear and abuse she’d suffered. Thankfully, the years of peace in Hodaya’s home now outnumbered those years.
“Tell me about your life, Sayfah. Are you happy?”
“Uncle Abdel made a good match for me, considering I’m an orphan with nothing to bring to a marriage. My husband is a good man. I hope to bear him many more sons.” Amina noticed that Sayfah hadn’t answered her question. “How about you? Are you happy?” Sayfah asked instead.
“Yes. I work as a weaver like Hodaya, and I love it. In fact, before Hodaya died, our woolen cloth was in such demand with so many orders to fill, we didn’t need our booth in the marketplace.”
The men began shouting again, sending a current of fear through Amina. “I need to leave,” she said. “Jacob is waiting for me. The festival ended yesterday, and we’re traveling home to Bethlehem this morning. But I’m so glad I came.” She hugged Sayfah once more.
“Will you come and visit me again? My husband won’t let me visit you since you live in Bethlehem with Jews.”
“Yes. I would love to come again.”
On the way home, Amina thanked Jacob for taking her and for waiting for her. They caught up with the rest of his family, and she chattered on and on about Sayfah from her seat on the cart. “I didn’t get to meet her husband or her other two children, but I saw her youngest son, and . . . Oh, dear! I never asked my nephews’ names.”
“I’ll take you again,” Jacob assured her. “I’m glad your sister is happily married and doing well.” He turned serious for a moment, then said, “You know, I asked Mama several times if I should find a husband for you. Mama always said you weren’t ready yet.”
“It’s true, I wasn’t. I didn’t want to leave Hodaya. She needed my help, especially these past few years. And there was so much I still wanted to learn from her.”
Jacob reached up to rest his hand on Amina’s arm. “Please don’t think I’m trying to get rid of you, because that’s the last thing I wan
t to do. But would you like to marry and have a home and children of your own someday?”
“Yes . . . I think so. . . . But I don’t see any suitors knocking on your door, asking for my hand. I know I have two things against me—I’m crippled, and I’m a Gentile. I’ll always be an oddity.”
“Mama was both of those things, too.”
“I know. But she arrived as a baby, not as an enemy refugee after a terrible war.”
“Would you like me to make inquiries about a husband? I’ve seen your devotion to our God. You’re accepted as one of us now.”
The cart rocked as it hit a rut in the road, and Amina gripped the seat. She took her time as she formed an answer to his question. She knew nearly all the eligible men in Bethlehem. She’d grown up with them, traveling in caravans to the feasts and gathering for local celebrations. She’d seen them in the marketplace when she’d worked there with Hodaya and had never felt a spark of love or attraction for any of them—at least not the way Hodaya had described falling in love with her husband, Aaron.
“Hodaya told me your father fell in love with her just the way she was,” Amina finally replied. “She told me to wait for a man who loved me, too.”
“I understand. But just say the word, and I’ll talk to the other fathers about finding that kind of a husband for you.”
The offer filled Amina with fear rather than anticipation, especially when she recalled the shouting in Sayfah’s house and the look of fear on her sister’s face. “No, thank you. . . . Maybe when I’ve finished grieving.”
“Whatever you decide, Amina. But please know you don’t have to leave my home. You’re welcome to live with Rivkah and me just as when Mama was alive. You’re part of our family.”
“Thank you.” His warm words brought tears to her eyes.
“Mama loved you very much, you know,” Jacob said. “You were the daughter she and Abba never had.”
“I know.” And as they traveled on, Amina grieved all over again for the kind woman who had saved her and made her part of her family, the woman who had brought her into the family of God.