SO JUDAH LEFT HEBRON AND HEADED north, with his flocks and herds, into the time warp. He wanted to establish a new life for himself. His brothers’ company was painful. It constantly reminded him of the crime he had committed, though he didn’t need their presence as a reminder; often, as he lay in bed at night trying to seek refuge in sleep, he would see images of Joseph after he had been dragged out of the pit, with his wounds still raw and ugly. And the silence to which Judah felt bound, the complicity for which he thought he would never be able to forgive himself, stuck in his throat like a chunk of meat that he could neither swallow nor cough out.
It was all difficult for him, but the worst of it was having to live so close to his father’s grief. The old man was a fragment of his former self. Misery had hollowed out his eyes and made the flesh wither on his bones. On seeing him, Judah would be overwhelmed with guilt and pity. He wanted to say, “Don’t grieve, Father. It will all come right in the end,” but the words would have been a self-indulgence, with no reality to back them up. The only honest thing he could have said was, “We lied to you, Father. We sold Joseph into slavery. He may still be alive.” But would saying this be a kindness? Or would it break his father’s heart and push him right into the abyss?
Telling the truth wasn’t a choice, though; it wasn’t his decision to make. Or was this thought too a mere excuse for cowardice? Was loyalty to his brothers a virtue? Was it a betrayal of his father, or a way to keep his father alive, or both?
The whole matter was too complex and humiliating to contemplate. Better to pull up stakes, move to a place where no one had ever heard of his family, and begin again.