Return to Me (12 page)

“We ran into the maze of streets, everyone scattering as we tried to escape the flames. Jacob and I each clung to one of Mama’s hands, and I could see the terror in her eyes. She led us toward the stairs to the temple, up to where my father was, groping through the smoke. My eyes stung and watered from it. The air felt as hot as the
khamsin
winds that blow in from the desert. But we never made it to the temple. A group of soldiers appeared through the haze, marching straight toward us. Mama tried to turn around and run the other way, but there were soldiers behind us, too. Mama pushed Jacob and me to the ground, shoving us beneath something on the side of the road—a cart or a table, I don’t remember what it was. But she didn’t have time to hide with us. The soldiers attacked her. One of the men threw her to the ground, climbed on top of her . . .”

Iddo no longer tried to stop his tears. It was impossible. Dinah rested her head on his shoulder. “When the soldier was finished, he pulled out his knife and killed her. He slit my mother’s throat in the same cold, practiced way that my father sacrificed sheep.” He stopped and covered his face with his hands, unable to speak.

After a moment, he felt Dinah lean away from him. She pulled his hands down from his face and said, “Then what happened, Iddo?” He shook his head, unwilling to tell her the rest. “Please,” she said softly. “Tell me.”

He drew a breath. Exhaled. “Jacob and I had been clinging to each other, but my brother suddenly broke free and crawled out of our hiding place before I could stop him. He went to
Mama, calling for her. . . . And the soldier killed him, too. He lifted him up in the air by one leg and . . . and smashed his head against the stones.” Iddo closed his eyes to shut out the image, but it was still there. It would always be there.

“And all that time,” he said when he could speak again, “all that time as I watched them kill my family, I stayed hidden. I was a coward, Dinah, so I hid.”

“No. You were a child.”

He shook his head. “In all of my nightmares, I’m hiding beneath that cart again. I always tell myself to get up this time, to help my mother, to save her before the soldier kills her. I promise to hang tightly to Jacob this time and not let go. But even in my dreams I can’t move. I don’t help my mother, and I don’t stop my brother from crawling out and going to her. Night after night I’m too cowardly to move.”

“You were just a child,” she said again. “How could you defend them against soldiers with swords? No one could possibly blame you for what you did.”

“No one has to. I blame myself.” Iddo ran his hand over his face, wiping his eyes. “Now you know why I never wanted to talk about what happened. I didn’t want you to know the truth. I was too ashamed to tell you that I was a coward. And my cowardice is the reason why I lived while all the others died.” He looked up at Dinah, her face clearly visible now in the dawning light. He expected to see revulsion in her eyes. She would despise him from now on, and he deserved it. Instead he saw pity. And love.

“Yes, you lived, Iddo,” she said, stroking his face. “And now our nation and our people will live, too. We have three beautiful children who wouldn’t be alive today if you had died. Seven grandchildren—maybe eight by now if Deborah had her baby. Think of all the generations who will live after you because you had the wisdom to stay hidden.”

“It was cowardice.”

She shook her head. “And where does the Almighty One fit into your story? If He thought you were a coward, why did He allow you to survive?”

“So He could punish me with exile. And He is still punishing me by sending these nightmares, forcing me to relive my shame.”

“Your nightmares come from your own imagination, not from the Holy One. Thousands and thousands of our people were either killed or exiled by the Babylonians. And from what I can see, the same fate met those who believed in God and those who didn’t, good people and bad people, heroes and cowards. Even Daniel the Righteous One was sent into exile, wasn’t he? He certainly wasn’t a coward, am I right?”

“Yes. You’re right,” he mumbled.

“But you said it yourself, Iddo—our punishment has ended and God is restoring us. If it was His will to destroy our people, He had plenty of chances to do it. But do you believe that He’s showing mercy now?”

“He must be because we’re back in Jerusalem.” Where the sky was growing brighter and brighter, painting the dawning sky pink, turning all of the scattered building stones into gold.

“Then if He’s showing you mercy, nothing else matters. Put the past behind you.”

She was right. God’s people weren’t merely coming home, they were rebuilding the temple. Soon, when the altar was finished and the first sacrifices were slain, Iddo could ask God to forgive him for all his sins.

Dinah took his hand again. “Afterward, Iddo. What happened afterward?”

“What do you mean?”

“After you crawled out from your hiding place?”

“I don’t know . . . I . . . I remember staying hidden for a very long time . . . until I got hungry. The soldiers finally left, and I couldn’t bear to stay there any longer and see my mother
and my brother, so I crawled out to search for food. I walked through streets that were black with smoke and blood and soot. Day or night? I didn’t know. I had to step over countless bodies because there was no way around them. I was trying to find my way to the temple to look for my father, but none of the streets looked familiar.

“Eventually, I reached the open square at the base of the temple mount where the stairs and the empty ritual baths were. I found a group of survivors all huddled together, guarded by soldiers. But when I saw that these people had food, I didn’t care about the soldiers. I was so hungry that I ran toward the survivors and grabbed a piece of bread from a woman’s hand. She didn’t stop me. She was half-crazed with terror and grief, and she let me have her bread. She kept calling me Gideon, thinking that I was her son. She wanted so much to believe that I was him, so I let her. I never learned her name. She took care of me all the way to Babylon, but she lost her mind from grief not long after we arrived. She had suffered so much abuse that she didn’t know who she was anymore, let alone who I was. By then, the Jews who had been carried to Babylon during the first and second exiles all had homes in the city and they took care of all the women and orphans after we arrived, making sure we were fed and had places to live. You know the rest, Dinah.”

“Yes, I know the rest.”

Morning had come, and it was time to start the workday. Iddo heard the shuffling and murmuring of people moving around in some of the nearby tents, women grinding wheat between stones to make flour, the crackle of kindling when it caught fire. He wrapped his arm around Dinah’s shoulder and pulled her close. As a lonely orphan, Iddo had never imagined that he would love another person again. Or be loved by anyone.

“All my life I’ve hated the Babylonian people,” he said. “Hated
being among them, looking at them face-to-face. I saw in each one of them the features of the man who slaughtered my family.”

“I understand,” she said. “And now that you’ve told me the very worst of it, Iddo, tell me what you remember from before the Babylonians invaded.”

“When we still lived in Anathoth?”

“Yes. Tell me what you remember about the good days.”

He lowered his head into his hands again. His head ached, hammering as hard as it had during those long months in Jerusalem when he was always thirsty, always hungry.

He heard Dinah’s cousin Shoshanna singing as she prepared breakfast in a neighboring tent, and he remembered that his mother used to sing, too. “My mother loved Shabbat. She used to say it was her favorite day.”

“Why?”

“Because she didn’t have to cook or clean or wash anything for an entire day. She could rest and play with us, sing to us.”

“And your father?”

Iddo reached through the open tent flap behind him and picked up the ram’s horn that the priest had given him to use for practice. As he ran his fingers down the shofar’s long, gentle curve, another buried memory suddenly came to him. His father had taught him to make a buzzing sound with his lips, making them vibrate against each other. Iddo imitated the sound, stiffly at first, but it became easier and easier as he continued doing it, letting his lips relax. Dinah watched him, saying nothing.

“That was how my father played the shofar. He said his lips did all the work. The horn simply made the buzzing sound louder so it would carry into the distance.”

“Show me, Iddo.”

“I’ll wake the entire caravan.”

“Do it softly, then.”

He repeated the buzzing sound with his lips, then lifted the
shofar and pressed the narrow end of it against his mouth. The shofar gave a short
toot
. “Abba said he used his tongue to make the calls. He would go ‘tu, tu, tu’ with his tongue against the mouthpiece. I remember now!” Iddo held it to his lips again and made another soft
toot
, wary of blowing too loudly and waking his neighbors—or sending the ones who were already awake into a panic. He lowered the horn to his lap. It was a start.

Dinah leaned against him, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. Across the valley from them, the sun had risen in splendor behind the mountain, so blindingly bright he had to look away.

“What would I ever do without you, Dinah?” he murmured. “When God created the paradise of Eden, He said that everything was good except for one thing—it was not good for the man to be alone. So He created Eve to be Adam’s helper. And He gave you to me when I was all alone. Do you know what that word
helper
really means?”

She pulled back to look into his eyes and shook her head.

“It means so much more than simply baking my bread and sharing my bed. Moses used the same word to describe what God does for us. ‘He is your shield and helper and your glorious sword.’ You’re stronger than I am, Dinah. You always have been. I need you in the days ahead to help me face all of my battles. I’m so blessed to have you by my side.”

S
unlight leaked through the crack beneath the tent covering when Yael opened her eyes. She smelled smoke from the campfire, the aroma of flatbread baking, and heard the low mumble of voices outside. Her father’s sleeping mat was empty. She sat up beneath the sagging roof, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, then lifted the tent flap to look outside. Safta Dinah had spread the rug on the ground for breakfast and Zaki, his grandfather, and her own father all sat around it, eating.

For a second night, Iddo’s nightmares had awakened Yael, and once again she had poked her head outside the tent to study the night sky for a while. She had lain awake for so long that now she had overslept. She quickly put on her outer robe, tied the belt around her waist, then crawled outside to sit beside Abba on the rug. No sooner had she sat down when Iddo and Zaki both stood.

“Are you ready to go, Mattaniah?” Iddo asked.

“Go without me,” Abba said, waving him away. “I have plans.”

“What plans are more important than morning prayers?”

Abba looked away for a moment, then up at Iddo. “I’m going to walk over to the local village this morning.”

Yael was suddenly wide awake. “May I go with you, Abba?” He didn’t seem to hear her.

“What is your business in a Samaritan village, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Abba looked uneasy as he ran his fingers through his beard. Yael could tell that he did mind Iddo’s question. “Well . . . I went for a walk while you were gone yesterday and found a nice piece of land that I would like to farm. I’ve decided to talk to the village elders about leasing it or buying it from them.”

“Wait. You’re
buying
the land? We don’t have to purchase land, Mattaniah. The Holy One gave all of it to us.”

“I understand,” he said, rising to his feet. “But I’m going to offer to pay for it as a gesture of goodwill. The villagers aren’t happy about us ‘invading’ their country, as they see it, and so—”

“That’s a very bad idea, Mattaniah. You’re setting a bad precedent for the rest of us. The local people will expect everyone to pay for land from now on.”

“Look, the patch of land I have in mind already has a small grove of olive trees and a few fig trees on it. The property is neglected and overrun with weeds, but it’s close enough for me to farm and still live here in Jerusalem. It’s also close to the local village, so I thought I would make friends there.”

“Come to prayers with us, first. I think you should discuss this with our leaders.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Abba said. “My mind is made up.”

Yael tugged on his robe to get his attention. “Abba, may I please—?”

He held up his hand, warning her to wait and not interrupt. “I want this piece of land, Iddo, and I’m going to make the elders an offer.”

Iddo exhaled. “Listen, aside from the issue of buying or
not buying, we need builders with your experience to help us with the temple. We have plenty of men who can farm the land already.”

“I understand. But I became a builder by necessity, not by choice. Our fathers were brought to Babylon as slaves and put to work. None of us had a choice.”

“I thought you liked your work as a builder. You had a good business in Babylon.”

“It was work, nothing more. None of us could own land in Babylon, and I want to work the land. I’ve agreed to live near Jerusalem and to perform my duties as a Levite, and I’ll keep that promise. But in between those duties I want to grow wheat and olives and grapes.”

The two men studied each other for a long moment. Yael took advantage of the brief silence to tug on Abba’s robe again. “May I come with you today? Please, Abba?”

He looked down at her in surprise, as if he had forgotten she was there. “Don’t you have work to do here with Safta Dinah?”

Yael stifled a groan at the thought. How could she make him understand how she felt, confined like a sheep in a pen that was too small? She longed to explore the world the way she used to do in Babylon, to meet interesting people like Parthia and learn fascinating things instead of cooking all day. She stood and went to Safta Dinah, wrapping her arms around her for a rare hug, hoping to win her over. “You don’t mind if I go with Abba, do you, Safta? Please?”

She brushed a strand of hair from Yael’s eyes. “Are you sure that it’s safe to go near the Samaritans, Mattaniah?”

“I’m not afraid,” Yael said.

“The pagans often choose wives as young as Yael,” Safta added. “And she’s a lovely girl.”

Abba appeared to be thinking. “Well . . .” Yael tensed, preparing to beg some more. “I guess you can come with me,” he
finally said. “I might seem less threatening to the Samaritans if I have my little daughter along.”

Yael squirmed out of Safta’s arms and quickly fetched the wooden comb. She stood submissively while Dinah untangled all the snarls and braided her thick hair into a long plait that hung down her back. It was a small price to pay for a chance at freedom. A few minutes later Yael skipped along the Kidron Brook beside her father, thrilled to leave their campsite, the braid thumping against her back. They took a different path than the one the women took when they went for water and headed toward a cluster of low stone houses across the valley. The sun grew hotter and hotter as it climbed in the sky, but Yael didn’t care. She felt like dancing beneath it.

As they came to the outskirts of the village, Yael spotted a small shrine similar to the ones she’d seen in Babylonian neighborhoods like Parthia’s. “Look, Abba. Someone made an offering to the gods. Do they worship Marduk and Ishtar here?”

“Don’t ask questions, Yael. Just stay beside me and keep quiet.” He reached for her hand.

A group of men sat on a rug outside the unwalled village as if guarding the entrance. Yael paid no attention to the conversation as Abba stopped to talk with them, gazing instead down the main road into town. The stone houses sprawled in a haphazard circle with an open area in the middle, where ragged children played and chickens pecked in the dirt. Another group of squealing children chased after a goat, waving their arms as they tried to herd it back to its pen. The village looked dirtier than the Jewish community where Yael had lived in Babylon. Rubbish littered the street and the stench of manure made her want to pinch her nose closed. She turned back to her father as the sound of the men’s voices grew louder, and she heard one of them say, “You must talk to Zabad, our village leader. The land belongs to him. Come. I will take you to his house.”

Yael gripped Abba’s hand tightly as they entered the village, crossing the open area. The children stopped to watch as they passed, staring wide-eyed as if they’d never seen strangers before. Yael smiled and wiggled her fingers in a friendly wave but none of them returned the gesture. The man led them across the plaza and down a shadowy lane. The house at the end of it was the largest one in the village and stood apart from the others. They walked through an open gate and into a broad, sunny area paved with cobblestones and bustling with activity. It reminded Yael of Zaki’s house back in Babylon, with women of all ages laboring busily over their chores. One woman ground grain, another kneaded dough, a third shaped the dough into flat rounds and laid them on a hot stone to bake. An elderly woman with a face as brown and wrinkled as a raisin ran a shuttle back and forth through the long, vertical threads of a loom. Beside her, a wispy girl with dark, curly hair tried to spin a clump of wool into a strand of yarn. It seemed as though none of the women dared to look up as she and Abba halted in front of the door to the house. A boy Zaki’s age stood guard.

“This is Mattaniah, one of the new Jewish settlers,” their guide told the boy. “He would like to speak with Zabad.”

“This way,” the young man said.

Abba let go of Yael’s hand. “Wait out here with the women,” he said as he followed the others into the house.

Yael looked around again. The women glanced shyly at her before quickly lowering their heads. She wandered over to the girl who struggled to spin the yarn. “Slow down, Leyla,” the old woman chided. “It takes patience to spin. If you go too fast the yarn will turn out lumpy and will be useless.”

The girl concentrated on her work but the strand of yarn frayed and snapped. “Oh, I can’t do this! It’s too hard!” She dropped everything into her lap and looked up at Yael. “Do you know how to spin?” she asked.

“No, and I don’t want to learn either, but Safta Dinah says I have to.”

The girl laughed. “My name is Leyla. What’s yours?”

“Yael.”

Leyla laid her work aside and stood. Her pale skin was nearly transparent, the color of the moon on a bright, sunlit day. Her dark eyes looked large in her thin face, the way Mama’s had before she died. Yael could see fine, blue veins beneath Leyla’s skin.

“I’ve never seen you in our village before, and I know everyone,” Leyla said. “Are you one of the people from that big caravan that’s camped in our valley?”

Yael nodded. “We used to live in Babylon, a long way from here.”

“How old are you?” Leyla asked.

“Ten.”

Leyla smiled. “We’re the same age.” But she looked very small and frail to be ten years old. They talked for a while, and Leyla explained that her father had three wives and several sons but she was his only daughter. She pointed to the boy who had led Abba inside—he had emerged from the house again to stand in the doorway—and said, “That’s my brother Rafi. He’s going to inherit everything Abba owns someday. Rafi is the only friend I have.” Yael could see the resemblance between the two. Rafi had the same beautiful wide eyes, the same head of dark, loosely curled hair. He wore it longer than Jewish boys did, and it encircled his head like a thick halo. “Abba doesn’t let me play with the village girls,” Leyla continued, “because he’s afraid I’ll get sick if I run around outside. Will you be my friend?”

“I would love to!” Yael remembered the wish she had made on a falling star and was pleased that the moon goddess had answered it so soon. “I don’t have any sisters or brothers at all,” Yael said. “I used to have a friend named Zaki, but he never wants to have fun anymore.”

“Then I’ll be your friend from now on. I think the stars must have brought us together.” Yael’s heart beat a little faster. The stars? Was Leyla a believer, too? She followed Leyla around to the side of the house where a little pen held a small herd of goats. Yael leaned against the fence, petting the goats that wandered over to her. Their heads felt knobby beneath their stiff, rough fur. “You and your father are Jews, aren’t you?” Leyla asked after a while. Yael hesitated before finally nodding. “My father is Jewish, too,” Leyla said.

“He is? I thought all of the Jews went to Babylon.”

“My father’s family didn’t. His grandfather hid in the mountains when the soldiers came so he wouldn’t get taken away. Soldiers brought my mother’s family here from a different country. Mama died when I was born and so my grandmother—the one who’s trying to teach me to spin—takes care of me now.”

“My mama died, too,” Yael told her.

“We’re so much alike, aren’t we? Both the same age, and we both lost our mother. We’re going to be best friends, I just know it.” Leyla reached for Yael’s hand. “Come on, let’s go back and sit in the shade. I get dizzy if I stand in the sun for too long.” They walked back to Leyla’s grandmother and sat on a rug beneath the overhanging roof. Vines climbed up the wooden supports and hung over the top making a cool, shady place to sit.

“Your necklaces are very pretty,” Yael said, admiring the pretty stones and feathers and other objects hanging from thin leather thongs around Leyla’s neck.

“They’re amulets.” Leyla fingered the one that looked like a small embroidered pouch. “I get pains and fevers sometimes, and my grandmother says the amulets bring good luck from the gods and keep the fever away.”

“My friend Parthia gave me this moonstone for good luck.” Yael pulled it out from beneath her tunic to show her.

“It’s beautiful. The moon goddess is very powerful.”

Yael’s heart beat a little faster. “Do you worship the moon goddess?”

“Yes, my grandmother and I do.” Leyla eyed her curiously. “But I didn’t think Jews like you did.”

“Most of the people I know don’t believe in her,” Yael said, “so I have to keep it a secret. But my mother worshiped her and so do I.”

Leyla smiled. “You don’t have to keep it a secret here. Why don’t you live in our village from now on? We could be best friends.”

“I don’t think I can live here, but Abba wants to plant a garden near here. If I get a chance, I’ll study my star charts and see what the stars say about—”

“You know about astrology?”

Yael jumped when Leyla’s grandmother interrupted them. She had forgotten that the old woman was sitting right behind her. Why had she blurted it out? Zaki said Jews would kill a sorceress and Leyla’s father was Jewish.

The older woman came to crouch beside her. “It’s all right, Yael. We look to the stars for guidance, too.”

Yael gave a sigh of relief. This was all too wonderful—finding a new friend and people she could share her beliefs with, without fear. “I’ll bring my star charts the next time I come,” she said. “We can study them together.”

“And I’ll make an offering to bribe the goddess so she’ll let you come back again,” Leyla said. “We’ll be best friends.”

Abba’s voice interrupted before Yael could reply. “Time to go, Yael.” He stood in the courtyard with Leyla’s brother, beckoning to her.

“Can’t we stay a little longer, Abba?”

He shook his head. “Come on.” She gave Leyla a quick hug then rose and took Abba’s hand as they left the village and started across the valley to their campsite.

“I liked that village, Abba. Can we live there? I made a new friend.”

“We need to live with our own people.”

“Leyla’s father is Jewish like us.”

“Yes, I know. He told me. I made him an offer on that piece of land I want to buy, but he says he needs a few days to consider it. But even if I buy or lease the land from him, we’re still going to live with Iddo and Dinah and the others in Jerusalem.”

“Will I get to play with Leyla again?”