Leah
I did not sleep with my husband on the first night of our marriage—none of us slept that night. When Judah and I emerged from the bridal chamber, blushing and embarrassed, the family cheered, his brothers slapped him on the back, and my new sisters gathered around to look me over. Judah’s mother, who told me to call her Rosana, introduced them quickly: Ona, married to Eleazar; Morit, married to Simon; and Neta, married to Johanan.
I smiled at each of them, and Rosana placed a wrapped parcel in my hand. “Run along outside until you find Judah, then climb in his wagon. We want to be out of Jerusalem before they close the gates.”
I blinked, surprised to hear we were leaving so quickly. The gates closed at sunset, so if my parents were going to show up at my wedding, they would have to come soon.
I went outside where neighbors and friends were embracing Mattathias and his sons. I saw Judah hitching a mule to a wagon at the end of the line. I walked to the corner and peered down the street, afraid I would see my parents approaching. I had said farewell to my mother when Judah arrived at the house, but Father had been out, only Adonai knew where.
When a quick survey revealed no sign of my family, I walked down the line of wagons, remaining close to the buildings to avoid being drawn into a conversation. After just being married, what did I have to say? I still had a thousand emotions to sort through, a hundred feelings to decipher and interpret.
“There you are.” Judah’s eyes lit when he saw me, and before I could respond, he had placed his hands around my waist and lifted me onto the wagon seat. I thanked him and slid over, leaving room for him to join me, but he turned and said something to his brothers.
I opened the parcel Rosana had pressed into my hands. Inside the parchment wrapper I found a honey cake that proved to be delicious. The light texture rested easily on my nervous stomach, and its sweetness brought tears to my eyes . . . or had my tears sprung from something else?
Judah reappeared, yelled instructions to one of his brothers, and climbed into the wagon with me. He gave me a quick smile, then hesitated. “Is something wrong?” he asked, concern in his eyes.
I shook my head and blinked away the tears. “I was . . . feeling grateful. Your mother is so kind.”
“Oh, that she is.” He gave me a curious look, then glanced down the street. “I do not see your people. Should we ride by your house on the way out?”
I shook my head. “You are my family now, so I will go where—when—you go.”
“All right.”
He clucked his tongue against his teeth and picked up the reins. Ahead of us, the caravan of wagons began to move. Neighbors waved and said noisy farewells. Some even threw wedding flowers and called, “Blessings to the bride!” and “May you be as fruitful as Rachel and Leah!”
I gritted my teeth as we traveled the crowded streets, for I could have walked faster than the wagon. I wanted nothing more than to be through the gate, away from Jerusalem, before—
“Daughter! Wait!”
I cringed at the sound of a familiar voice, then slowly turned my head. My father was coming down the street, wobbling on his unsteady feet as he waved at our wagon. When Judah pulled on the reins and stopped the mule, my heart stopped, too.
“S-son.” Father gripped the side of the wagon and gave Judah a drunken smile. “Let me be-be the first to congratulate you, Son.” He blinked up at my new husband. “If sh-she gives you any trouble, do not be afraid to take a switch to her. That will bring her right around.”
I turned away, unable to look at my father or my husband. Was this some kind of punishment from HaShem? I was supposed to honor my father, but for years I had feared and dreaded him. Perhaps this was what I deserved.
“Good to see you, sir,” Judah said, and I heard the chink of the reins as he lifted them. “Be well and prosper. Shalom.”
Then we were moving again, though I kept my eyes averted as we pulled away.
“He is gone,” Judah said after a while. “You need not be afraid.”
I studied my husband’s face as he guided the mule through the streets. I had never discussed my father with Judah, but apparently he understood without being told.
Perhaps this understanding was part of marriage. If so, I was grateful for it.
I finished the honey cake and wiped the sweet stickiness from my fingers with the parchment wrapper. We passed through another round of farewells as we rode out of Jerusalem’s western gate, then I settled back and rested my hands in my lap.
Thus far, marriage pleased me well. Judah had proven himself kind and thoughtful, and he was attractive to my eyes. His brothers seemed pleasant enough, and their wives, while not exactly welcoming, had not been unkind. His mother was sweet and his father pious. My father had been pious in public and apathetic toward godly matters at home, so perhaps HaShem would look on me more favorably now that I had aligned myself with holier people.
One thing seemed clear—I did not believe Judah would behave like my father, but I did not plan to test him. My mother angered my father nearly every day, but I would obey Judah completely and do whatever he asked. I would not prod him to anger, and he would not beat me. Our home would be a place of peace and safety, and I would not become a withdrawn, cowardly woman like my mother.
“Leah?” Judah’s voice interrupted my reverie.
“Yes?”
“Are you all right? I thought you might be tired.”
I nodded. “I am . . . a little. But if you want me to stay awake, I will.”
“No need for that. The sun will set soon, so if you want to climb in the back and sleep, go ahead. I put blankets in the corner, in case you wanted to rest.”
My heart warmed to know he cared about such a small thing. “Thank you,” I said. And then, because he seemed to want me to rest, I climbed into the back, found the blankets amid the bundles and chests, and lay down next to a crate of nesting hens.
I smiled as I closed my eyes. My friends and I had harbored a rosy view of marriage in our younger days. We would giggle as the Torah teacher read from the Song of Songs, and we would sigh when he said that love was better than wine. Though I had never been taught to read, I had memorized many of the words, and they seemed to echo in the darkness around the creaking wagon: “I belong to the man I love, and he belongs to me.”
I exhaled a long sigh. Despite the uncertainty of the future, I had escaped my father’s house. I did not know Judah Maccabaeus well enough to sigh over him, but if love could be built on a foundation of gratitude, I was halfway to loving him already.