It was nearly Purim, the spring feast before Passover. Scythopolis was the largest city we had come to since Jericho and there was construction everywhere, including a wide street being paved in perfect basalt squares. We passed a building that looked like a temple and I gaped at the statue of a nude man in front of it, the finely chiseled face and full lips—the naked sex dangling between his thighs like a cluster of grapes.
I had seen few graven images and I had never seen an uncircumcised penis. We found an inn run by Jews and that evening, after changing into clean clothing, began our fast and went to the synagogue. Right in the middle of the reading of the scroll, my stomach began to growl.
Most important, Aaron would not be arrested and Father would be safe. That night we stayed up late on the roof with the other guests beneath the full moon. At home, my cousins would play games into the night and sleep late the next day, shortening the time until sundown when they could eat at last.
But here there were no games, and the little children had already eaten and fallen asleep beside their mothers. I was by then miserable with hunger, my stomach twisting into a fist.
But as the night wore on I began to pray for the comfort of sleep. Suddenly I was very awake. Another man, who had walked with us from the inn to the synagogue earlier, shook his head. Why must they martyr themselves when, in a few more days, Herod will be dead? May the Lord make it so! I stared at Joshua, my heart hammering. I uncurled in agony to follow him. After rummaging around, Joshua took my hand and laid a stale piece of bread in it. I should give it back. I should throw it down.
I ate the bread in quick bites as I followed Joshua back up to the roof. We ran back to the roof to find everyone on their feet staring at the sky. And then I saw why: The moon, so full and white when we had gone down into the house, was partially sheathed in shadow.
Would it go out? What evil could do that? And then I knew. I began to tremble, my skin having gone cold and then hot at once. A wail filled my ears. It came from my throat.
But as she did, my stomach lurched and I doubled over and vomited at her feet. It was only a little amount, the bread having come out in pale bits shamefully illuminated by the light of the disappearing moon. I began to cry, the acrid taste in my mouth and nostrils, as my mother gathered me up and carried me past the mess to the corner.
I was by now beside myself, shaking, hot tears tracking down my face. The world could be ruined by the smallest of actions. For striking a rock, Moses had never entered the Promised Land. I jerked away from my mother, ran to the clot of men, and found my father. I grabbed his sleeve. The Lord winks at us. He blinked at me in the darkness, and then chuckled.
It had not bothered me so much that my mother did not understand, but hearing this from my father—and in the face of such obvious disaster—I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my life.
But there—see? The moon is emerging again. Sure enough, the shadow had moved a little bit away. I watched as it began to retreat, my fear subsiding the tiniest increment. He patted my back. But if it will make you feel better, we will immerse tomorrow. Not until the third time did I feel any measure of relief, and even then not until I went outside that evening and saw that the moon was whole once more.
My father broke out with a great cry and tore his clothes. Joshua did likewise. I simply cried. The students who said they had not instigated the taking down of the eagle survived, and I hated them for it. I hated them because I knew Aaron was not among them—Aaron who would have condemned Herod until the last of his life for sheer love of the law. And then I cried harder because I wished he had not loved the law so much.
For nights to come I shivered beneath my blanket and dreamed of the students burning in the fires. But I loved it because Father was safe. Nothing could touch us here. I came to know Sepphoris by its sounds. Voices of children my own age wafted up from farther down the hill where the farmers kept their houses and tended their vineyards. Roosters crowed throughout the day. At times I could hear one of the distant shepherds playing a flute.
And always there was birdsong. That spring when it rained, water trickled from the roof into the channels of the cisterns below. It was a good sound, the sound of water.
Moss clung to the stones of the houses, so that even on sunny days the air near any house seemed to smell of rain as pines rustled overhead. What is his name? That year was the first that I did not go to the Temple for Passover.
Instead, we watched the families that left together, my heart full of jagged envy as they sang their psalms out the city gate.
Eleazar had fallen ill weeks before and been unable to leave with the rest of the priests. I saw the way his wife, old Zipporah, covered her face with her hands when she thought no one was looking.
It made me afraid for Eleazar, whom I had grown fond of, and I prayed for him. Was I going to keep from that as well? I did briefly consider it, but I knew better than to rely on my stomach to do what it was told.
Then, a few days later, the first pilgrims began to return. Too early. Some of the pilgrims started throwing stones at them in protest. The king retaliated by sending in his army.
They massacred the people. Pilgrims—men, women, children. Thousands dead! Three thousand died in the massacre that Passover. The tinderbox had exploded. It was only the beginning. Reading Group Guide. By clicking 'Sign me up' I acknowledge that I have read and agree to the privacy policy and terms of use.
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