Keepers of the Covenant (23 page)

B
ETHLEHEM

A
mina 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 looked 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 want 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.

B
ABYLON

D
evorah clung to her husband as they lay in bed, unwilling to let him go. Alone in their room with the children asleep, she finally had a chance to say good-bye to him in private. The hottest days of summer had passed, and Ezra would leave in the morning for the long, hazardous journey east to the Persian capital of Susa. He and a delegation of Jewish elders would make inquiries with the proper officials and ask for an audience with King Artaxerxes. They would request permission to return home to the Promised Land. Devorah couldn’t imagine it; Babylon was the only home she’d ever known, while Jerusalem was a far-off place she’d only read about in the Torah and sung about in psalms.

As she held Ezra for what might be the last time for many months, Devorah recalled her last night in Jude’s arms, and the loving words he had whispered to her. She’d had no idea it would be their last night together.

The brothers were very different, and her marriage to each man was also different. She’d loved Jude from the very beginning and never doubted he loved her in return. She’d married Ezra in obedience to the law, not for love, wanting a son to carry Jude’s
name. She never dreamed she would grow to love Ezra or find so much joy with this quiet, introspective man, the father of her children. Devorah often thought of her first husband, but she had now been married to Ezra nearly three times as long as to Jude.

She listened to Ezra’s steady heartbeat as she lay in his arms and knew he was still awake. “You’re not sleeping?” she whispered.

“I can’t. I’m nervous and excited and hopeful and cautious all at the same time.”

“Do you suppose that’s how Moses felt the night before he went to speak to Pharaoh?” she asked, trying to lighten his mood.

“Perhaps.” She heard the smile in his voice. “I’m wishing I had his miraculous powers. A staff that transformed into a snake might help. Or the ability to turn the Euphrates River into blood.”

“You have the same God as Moses on your side.”

“That’s true.”

“I wish I knew how long you’ll be gone.”

“You’d better plan on at least six months. But long or short, we’re determined to wait in Susa and not give up until our petition has been heard and granted.”

“I don’t know how to say good-bye for that long.” She nestled closer, savoring his warmth, realizing how very much she would miss him. “Tell me the truth, Ezra. Is this trip dangerous? Could you die?” She hadn’t dared to ask before now, but with his caravan loaded and ready to leave at dawn, she needed to know.

“It’s a two-hundred-fifty-mile trip, so I suppose there are certain dangers along the way. I don’t know much about traveling since I’ve only been out of this city once before, years ago, to visit Casiphia. But I think the biggest danger is the risk the Persian king will interpret our petition as a bid for independence from the empire and as rebellion against his authority—in which case I suppose he’ll execute us.”

Devorah shuddered. “I promise I’ll pray every day and ask the Holy One to keep you safe.”

“Thank you, but it’s much more important to ask God to give us success in convincing the king.”

“Fine. I’ll tell the Almighty One Ezra’s safety doesn’t matter—only his petition.”

He tightened his arm around her shoulder, laughing softly. “All right, Devorah. You may ask for both. . . . If I’m successful, and the king grants another decree like the one under King Cyrus, you’ll face the daunting challenge of leaving Babylon and traveling to Jerusalem to start a new life. This is the only home you and our children have ever known. Jude and your parents are all buried here. Does it bother you to leave here?”

“My grandfather wished he could return to the Promised Land. He would often say, ‘I wish I could go home.’ The way he talked about Jerusalem made me long to see it, too. But I sometimes wonder if we’re too old to start a brand-new life. I’m thirty-eight and you’re nearly fifty. There are so many unknowns in such a journey.”

“But do you want to go with me, Devorah? I can’t leave tomorrow without asking you that question. I want you by my side when I return to Jerusalem more than anything else—but you don’t have to come. You can stay here with Jude’s son and raise him here, if that’s what you want.”

She started to speak, but he stopped her. “No, listen. I know you didn’t love me when we married. And I know we’ve been too busy in the years since then to talk about our feelings for each other very often. One of my greatest failings as a husband is that I’m not very good at expressing how I feel. But I want you to know I’ve grown to love you, Devorah—more than I ever could have imagined. God knew what He was doing when He made you my wife. I’ve never dared to hope you could love me as much as Jude. But I’m thankful every single day that you agreed to marry me.”

Devorah’s eyes filled with tears. She hugged Ezra tightly, struggling to control her overflowing emotions so she could speak. “You’ve shown me your love, Ezra. Jude grabbed a sword and fought to protect me from a physical enemy. You’re willing to fight an invisible enemy, not only for my sake but for our children’s sakes. You’re taking your life in your hands and daring to approach the king—for us. That’s love.” She released him and pulled back to take his face in her hands and look into his eyes. “I never thought I would love any man as much as I loved Jude. But I do love you, Ezra—just as much as him. Maybe more because we’ve had more years together.” Tears filled his eyes at her words. “I’ll miss you when you’re away and grieve your absence just as I grieved for Jude. And of course I’ll go with you to Jerusalem. There’s no doubt in my mind that my place is by your side.”

“I’ll miss you,” he whispered.

“And I’ll miss you, too. More than words can say.”

Neither of them slept well, and morning came much too soon. Devorah held her husband one last time while they were still alone for one final, tearful good-bye. “I hate that my work takes me away from you for so long,” Ezra said. “I hate leaving you and the children all alone. I’m so sorry.”

“Asher will look after us. Your work is more important. When God grants you success, it will change our people’s lives. It will change history.”

“Amen . . . I think I understand why God said, ‘It’s not good for man to be alone.’ You show me a side of the Holy One I don’t see in myself: His compassion. I’m too hard on people, too impatient with them. I’m always afraid if I show mercy, people will use it as an excuse to sin. You’ve helped me temper the law with His grace. And you’ve made countless sacrifices so I could do the work God gave me. And now I’m asking for one more. Can you forgive me for leaving you?”

“Of course I forgive you. Just be safe. And come back to us soon.”

He started toward the door, and Devorah bent to fold up their bedding. But Ezra halted and turned back to her. “I’ve been trying to think of what to say to our children, and it’s almost harder than planning my words to the King of Persia. I know they’re too young to understand the importance of what I’m doing. The twins, especially, seem resentful that they have to share their father with the entire community. And now my work will take me away for many months.”

“They aren’t resentful. It’s just hard for them to be the sons of such a great man.”

“I’m not a great man. I’m a servant of God, as we all are. It’s just that He has called me to serve Him as a leader.”

“The boys don’t understand that now, but someday they will. They’re good children at heart and not rebellious in a bad way. I know they love and admire you.”

“I may have to miss their bar mitzvah. Will they forgive me for that?”

“Ask them.”

She set aside the bedding and held him close one last time, then went out to the courtyard to fix breakfast. Ezra had decided to leave right after eating, the way he always did, as if merely going off to another day of work. Ezra and the twins would walk to the house of assembly together to pray, then the boys would go to the yeshiva, and Ezra would leave for Susa. Devorah whispered a prayer for him as he prepared to give them his parting instructions.

“As I get ready to leave for Susa to ask the king of Persia to let our people go,” Ezra began, “I’ve been thinking about Moses. He had two sons, just as I do. Do you remember their names?”

The twins thought for a moment. “One was Gershom . . .”

“ . . . and the other was Eliezer.”

“Yes. Very good. And what are they remembered for?”

The boys looked at each other, dumbfounded. Devorah didn’t know the answer, either. “We’ve never heard anything about them,” Shallum finally replied.

“And maybe that’s a good thing,” Ezra said. “Too often, we hear about a person only when he does something wrong or something great. And that’s my wish for all of my children. I hope I hear stories about your greatness when I get home—or else nothing at all.”

“We promise, Abba.” The boys grinned, and Devorah knew they understood their father’s attempt at humor. But where would she find the wisdom to deal with the twins all alone while he was gone?

“I know I can count on you boys to take care of your mother and sisters for me,” he continued. “But don’t be in a hurry to grow up. I’ll miss so much as it is. Most painful for me is not hearing you read Torah for the first time in the house of assembly. I hope you can forgive me for not being there on such an important day. Sharing your father for the Holy One’s work can be your offering to Him, your sacrifice. All of us would like to do great things for God, brave and memorable things, but He’s asking you to live without your father for several months. Can you do that willingly?”

“Yes,” Judah said. “But we’ll miss you, Abba.” Shallum nodded.

“Pretend I’m in the next room. Live as if I were.” He stood, and Devorah knew he wanted to leave before they all began to weep. First, he said a tender good-bye to Jude’s daughters. Abigail was seventeen and betrothed to a fine young man from the community. Ezra had made the arrangements, but he didn’t know if he would return in time for her wedding. “I’m sorry, Abigail. It’s such an important day for you, and I should—”

“It’s okay, Uncle Ezra. I understand.” She gave him an embrace.

“And you, Michal. You will be a grown woman by the time I return. Maybe you’ll be in love by then, as well.”

Devorah watched Jude’s daughters hug Ezra good-bye, knowing how much they’d grown to love him, the only father they remembered. And he loved them, too. Then he knelt down and opened his arms to their three youngest daughters. “Come here,” he said. “Look, I have tears in my eyes. See? Remember these tears when you’re angry with me for being so far away. Remember how very sad I was to leave you. Only the Holy One could take me away from your mother and you. For no other reason would I leave you. But I believe God commands me to go and speak to the king. Sometimes He asks us to do very hard things, and we must obey Him.”

Devorah wiped her eyes, thinking what a tender, softhearted man Ezra was beneath the tough, unyielding exterior he presented to their community. And also how much he had changed in the years since they’d married. They gave each other one last, lingering hug. “Be safe,” she whispered. Then she stood with her daughters at the gate, waving to him as he walked to the house of assembly with their sons.

“We won’t let Abba out of our sight again when he comes home, will we Mama?” her youngest daughter said.

“No, we certainly won’t.” She had lost Jude, and now she was losing Ezra. But he had never been hers to keep. He belonged to the Almighty One and to the people He’d been called to lead. He turned and gave a final wave, wiping tears from his eyes, before disappearing around the corner.