WHEN I CAME TO, I was face down in fine, silky sand. Immediately, I felt the scorching heat; the hair on the back of my head burned from the sun. Through my loosely fitted garments, I could feel an intense warmth. I did not, however, feel hot. The air was dry, and a brisk wind rose and fell, whooshing with hollowness.
Rising to my feet, I looked around. Everywhere were fields of sand and above me, a vast blue sky without cloud, a bright orange sun directly overhead. I felt as if I were the only person alive; for a moment, I wondered with alarm whether I’d been catapulted far forward in time, rather than backward, to beyond the end of the human race.
Now I knew why the wind sounded strange: there was nothing to break its movement, no trees or houses or any living thing around which it might swirl and nestle. Only desert sands that shifted with the gust’s whims, sliding with sluggish grace into new flattened curves. But wait—what was that up ahead, in the distance? Shielding my eyes with my hand, I thought I could make out an astonishing sight: a massive city with buildings reaching upward, high into the sky. And all around it, glinting waters that wavered in and out of view. I squinted and the fantastic image vibrated, seemed to vanish, then leapt back to view. Could it be a mirage? My throat was parched, hot tears sprang to my eyes.
I had the feeling I was being watched. I turned to see a young woman walking toward me, draped in white linen, her head wrapped in a turban, a sheer veil covering her face. Behind her I could see camels: some resting on the sand, others beginning to heave themselves up, their enormous bodies lunging with awkward, fluid motions.
As she came closer, she raised her arm in a wave, and then, she was upon me. She slid the veil from her face.
“No, it’s not a mirage. Though it always seems that way when it first appears,” she said. “Don’t worry, Shoshana. It looks farther away than it is. We’ll be there soon.”
The girl’s dark eyes gleamed with warmth; her voice was deep and honeyed, and it took me a moment to register the guttural-sounding language. I flashed once more on my mother, singing me to sleep with the concoction of Jewish prayers recalled from her childhood. It definitely sounded like the Hebrew of my mother’s sleepy prayer singing. Now, I remembered what Sarah had said—that the Jews spoke Aramaic in ancient times. Was it possible that this was the language I was hearing? As I’d come to expect, I understood every word and knew that as soon as I opened my mouth to speak, I would have command of the same language.
“Before you know it,” she said, “we’ll be able to see the river. How beautiful the tower looks from here! You can even see the hanging gardens. One can almost forget …” Her voice trailed off. She shook her head, as if to dislodge an unpleasant thought, and then smiled, revealing a set of pristine white teeth; a dimple creased one cheek. It was a distinct, radiant smile, which made me think at once of my grandmother back in Australia. I felt a sharp pang of homesickness.
That unbearable feeling that had plagued me before now overcame me again. I couldn’t imagine what Grandma was thinking, so far away in place and time. What had happened to everyone? Where were they? A new thought derailed me … what if I was still there but also here? I’d heard of parallel universes, but never thought they could actually be real. What if—what if—but I was distracted from the thought by my new companion, who was looking at me quizzically, awaiting a reply.
“The tower, the hanging gardens, the river …” I echoed what she had just said, rolling the unfamiliar new words around in my mouth.
“I do love the Euphrates,” the girl said, as if reminding herself of something. “I go down to her banks, outside of the city, where the grass grows so thickly, and I tell her my thoughts and dreams.” She paused, then said, “In my own mind, I call her Mother Euphrates. There! That’s a secret I’ve never told anyone!”
The Euphrates. I flashed on Jimmy, so far away—another universe, another time—patting the earth and calling it his mother.
A massive tower … the hanging gardens … the Euphrates River …
Could it be? Had I landed in—Babylon?
“It’s so exciting, isn’t it?” the young woman asked. “We’d had hopes when King Cyrus ascended, but for it all to happen so quickly!” She grabbed my shoulders and gave me a quick, impetuous hug. “I can hardly wait to read the edict to Father. It was certainly worth the trip to the royal scribes to get a copy, don’t you think?”
“Can I hear it, now?” I asked.
“That’s a fine idea,” she said. “Funny—I must have read the papyrus to myself ten times, and yet the words still feel like a surprise.”
She reached into her garment and pulled out a piece of rolled papyrus tied with twine. After removing the twine, she unfurled the page and began reading in a ceremonial voice:
The Edict of Restoration.
Let it be known to all, the edict of Cyrus, King of Persia, at the end of his first year on the throne:
Concerning the house of God at Jerusalem, let the temple, the place where sacrifices are offered, be rebuilt and let its foundations be retained, its height being sixty cubits and its width sixty cubits, with three layers of huge stones and one layer of timbers. And let the cost be paid from the royal treasury. Also let the gold and silver utensils of the house of God, which Nebuchadnezzar took from the temple in Jerusalem and brought to Babylon, be returned and brought to their places in the temple in Jerusalem; and you shall put them in the house of God.
“There,” she said. “Undeniable. We’re to be allowed to return home!”
Why did what she read sound familiar? The name of the king—Cyrus—and the reference to Nebuchadnezzar and the temple. Someone had mentioned these things to me, and recently—even yesterday. Yesterday? What did the days mean, anymore? When was yesterday in this strange, new world? Back in Lithuania? Yes! That was it! Sarah had talked about this very period when we were down by the Sventoji River! Her favorite period in Jewish history—the return of the Jews from their exile in Babylon back to Jerusalem, where they would rebuild the destroyed temple, inaugurating the period of the Second Temple. Sarah’s recitation of the last passage in the Torah that filled her with such hope rang in my ears—let him ascend!
I’d been flung back in time exactly to that period, Sarah’s favorite! It was as if all the girls I was meeting—my maternal forebears—were scripting my journey as it unfolded! How was I ever going to make sense of any of this?
Now, this girl who, like my other recent companions—Talia, Darlene, Sarah—seemed to know me, and whose name had not yet been revealed, re-rolled the papyrus and slipped it back inside her robe.
“How long has your family been here?” I asked.
“Why, the same as yours!” she said, a furrow forming in her brow. “Since the expulsion.”
“Yes, of course, I know that,” I said, a little flustered. “I guess I mean I was just thinking …”
The girl nodded. “Oh, I see,” she said, as if intuiting some meaning in my words that was beyond my own reach. “The memories of home—they’ve faded. After almost fifty years, well, in some ways, they’re not really our memories, but in other ways, they are.”
Every time she said the word home, I felt an awful pang.
“Our great-grandparents hold some memories of our home, though I suppose they were still young children when they were forced to flee. But for their parents—home was alive in their hearts. Some of the elders still live—”
She was studying my face in that uncanny way. “Shoshana, have you doubt?”
“What do you mean?”
“About the return? Do you not feel the pull—of our ancestral home?”
My heart certainly ached with longing—for my family, for my own time and place. Was it possible that this girl felt those same feelings for Jerusalem?
She seemed suddenly to remember something, and gently took my hand. “We really must hurry. Deborah will have some sharp words for us, no doubt.”
We headed back to where a few camels were still heaving themselves to their feet. I found myself gliding lightly across the dunes. The leather sandals I was wearing seemed ingeniously constructed for this terrain: the smooth soles skimmed over the surface, preventing sand from getting into the shoe.
We reached the camels and the group of people attending to them—about fifteen men and women, all dressed the way we were, busying themselves with the animals, attending to the goods and supplies draping over them every which way, adjusting the heavy, beautifully embroidered materials that served as padding and saddles and headgear designed to keep sand from the camels’ eyes. A slender woman approached, drawing away her veil to address us. She was middle-aged, with refined features and gentle eyes.
“Rachel, I told you girls not to run off,” she said, sounding like a mother indulging a young child. So, my new companion—certainly one of my ancestors—was named Rachel.
Rachel kissed Deborah on both cheeks. “All those hours on a camel—you know how restless I get!”
The older woman received Rachel’s kisses with delight and then turned to me. “Here, Shoshana, you must be thirsty.” She handed me an animal-skin container, which looked exactly like the kind I’d seen in movies set in ancient times.
I knew my name here was Shoshana, since Rachel had already called me that. A vague memory rustled up from one of our many trips to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, where a little nametag labeled each plant, tree and bush. We’d read somewhere that in the Bible, Shoshana meant lily, and Mama had explained that in modern times, the name was understood to mean rose.
I tipped the animal skin and drank greedily. As the water poured through me, I could feel my strength returning.
“The sun makes fools of us all. The city looks so far away—” Deborah said. “Come, your camel’s ready.”
She led me to a camel folded down on its knees; it gave me a funny look, half serious, half amused. Even sitting, it looked enormous, like a large hill I was now supposed to climb. The embroidered crimson cloth on its back was stiffer than it looked; I noticed ridges up one side and realized they were little steps I could climb to reach the saddle. In a matter of minutes, I was perched on top, surveying the desert landscape around me. I held on tight as the camel loped to its feet.
And then we were on our way. I felt a surge of excitement as we sailed along; suspended in mid-air, dipping widely and yet smoothly, up and down, I was overcome by an astonishing sense of freedom. The pale-yellow sand stretched out to a horizon that hovered in the distance like the lip of an all-encompassing sea.
After a time, the city that had wavered far away like a mirage solidified in the near distance, a glittering conglomeration of fantastic shapes: buildings of smooth stone, others that looked like temples, their gold and silver surfaces refracting the sun’s rays. Rising to an impossible height was a massive structure of stepped terraces covered in a profusion of greenery, dotted all over with colored flowers. Could this be the famed Hanging Gardens of Babylon—a long-lost great wonder of the world? To the west of the gardens, a slim tower rose into the sky, reflecting multicolored beams of light, its tip buried in cloud. It appeared to be encrusted with jewels, glinting in broad swatches with gold-flecked blue, breaking the sunlight into bright flashing spears. Encircling the thin tower, a thousand steps snaked in an evenly described spiral. I only vaguely remembered the Tower of Babel from my Bible stories—recalled that the tower was called “Babel” because after it was built, God imposed a gaggle of languages on the people, who could no longer understand each other. The opposite, in a way, to what was happening to me—being miraculously granted the ability to speak and understand whatever language came my way!
My tongue felt suddenly sticky with all the languages that had come to me on this journey, as if from the tower itself before me—Afrikaans and Yiddish, and now most likely Aramaic, the language of parts of the Old Testament. I felt as if I were a vessel through which history was pouring itself—and yet at the same time, I also sensed a new stirring within that I was somehow getting closer to a mystery that had everything to do with me.
We sailed along on our camels amid the dunes that rose and fell around us like static waves. I was mesmerized by the city, with all its odd shapes and glittering colors, which drew us as though reeling us in. And then, the sand beneath us changed, becoming steadily more solid as clumps of olive-green vegetation appeared, and then some scraggly bushes with spikey branches and spindly leaves. I peered down from the immense height of the saddle to see solid ground beneath the camel’s hooves, hard-packed soil that showed deep, jagged cracks, and up ahead, a little group of trees.
I was overcome by my first sighting of the Euphrates, which rose like an apparition from the horizon, wide as an ocean and dotted with waves.
The city had indeed seemed miles away, but all of a sudden, it lurched in all its enormity right up before us, dwarfing the enormous walls that bound it. We found ourselves before the massive carved wooden gate to the city, which was guarded by sentries wearing pointed metal helmets and elaborate breastplates. We dismounted from our camels and the guards ushered us through. We made our way along the winding canal sent by the Euphrates through the city, which shone darkly in the afternoon sunlight.
I could hardly believe the swarming crowds—such a variety that even a city girl like me, accustomed to the melting pot of New York City, was amazed. Bearded men in dark clothing clutched coiled papyri, their heads bowed; and by one fountain, a group of what I imagined were soldiers or fighters of some kind hung about—massive youths dressed in red cloth woven with gold, over which they wore chain mail and polished breastplates. A few women flitted in and out of the crowd, their faces covered by veils.
Rachel moved swiftly beside me, holding her veil tight. The din of sounds and unusual, abrasive smells left me faint and confused.
I felt a sudden sympathy for my older cousin from Australia, Natalie, as I recalled her first visit to New York when she was my age. We’d crossed the Brooklyn Bridge by foot, hitting Wall Street just as the crowd poured from the subway stations on their way to work, then wended through Chinatown and Little Italy, crossing to Tribeca and through SoHo into Greenwich Village. The sun was beating down by the time we reached Times Square and stood among the neon advertisements, tall as skyscrapers. It was a landscape I knew well, and I felt excited to be showing it to my cousin. She suddenly stopped in her tracks, her face hung with dismay.
“What’s wrong?” I’d asked.
She turned miserable eyes my way. “Where does it all come from?”
“What?”
She passed a hand before her. “All these people, all this noise. I don’t know, all this everything.”
I sent the Natalie of back then a silent nod of understanding. Now, hurrying along the streets of Babylon, I understood how she’d felt.
We came to a halt beside an imposing house made of white stone. Deborah reached into her robe, withdrew an enormous key, and put it into a large iron lock on the door.
We stepped into a high-ceilinged foyer, which gave off the same cold, pleasant feel and smell I always welcomed when entering an old church. We climbed a narrow stairway, several stories up, passing closed doors through which I could hear quiet sounds of human activity. At the top, we entered a long room: a patterned rug filled one corner; sheer fabric hung from the ceiling around it, creating a private little space in which I presumed Rachel slept. Several other rugs of more simple design lay about the room, almost completely covering the floor. Cubby-like shelves set into the wall held a collection of small bottles and pots; my eye was drawn to a little jar with a conical spout, glazed in pale, translucent green.
“Let’s rest for a short while before we go to the bathing house. The sun is still hanging quite high—we have time yet.”
Time for what, I wondered?
Rachel threw herself down on a rug in the middle of the room.
“I think I could eat an entire sheep,” she said. “I’m famished!”
My own stomach grumbled in response, and Rachel let out a little laugh.
“I see I’m talking for you, too! You’ll smell the roasting meat, soon enough. The servants have been up since before the sun, readying the pits. Anyway, hunger is said to be good luck.”
“Good luck?” I asked, my tone casual.
Rachel colored a little. “You know …” She turned shyly away. “Before the wedding.”
The wedding? Could Rachel be talking about her own wedding? Though she looked mature, she was surely no older than I was.
“Tell me again,” I said, trying to sound convincing, “about your betrothal.”
“You know the story as well as I do,” Rachel said. If she believed I knew the story, she nevertheless seemed delighted to have the chance to repeat it.
“I was seven and he was seventeen when our parents arranged the betrothal. He was always my favorite cousin.” Her voice held a delicate tremble. “And he still is.”
“You’ve been betrothed for half of your life,” I said, hoping to get a bead on Rachel’s age.
She nodded. “Only it seems like all of my life. I can’t remember when we weren’t betrothed.”
Rachel leapt up. “What am I doing still resting? Tonight’s the feast! I have so much to do—and then tomorrow—oh! How can it be, it always seemed so far off, but tomorrow, I will be married!”
Our session in the baths, a short walk from Rachel’s home, left me feeling calm and relaxed. Deborah had poured fragrant oils into the water, and now the reedy scent rose from my skin. Back in Rachel’s room, I sat on the rug beside her, as she slowly brushed her long, dark hair, her breath rising and falling in time with the strokes.
A soft clapping broke the silence; it was coming from the other side of the door. Rachel slipped by me, opened the door a crack, and then whispered for a few moments to whoever was there. When she glided back beside me, she looked worried.
“I’ve had word that Boaz needs me,” she said. Did she mean her fiancé? She had not yet told me his name. “My betrothed,” she added, looking away. I was now used to this oddly responsive reality—being supplied with exactly the information I needed whenever there was something I didn’t know or understand. How weird it would be if people continued to do this when I eventually return home to Brooklyn! It would be like living in a dream, things oddly organized around me.
My own thought echoed in my mind—when I eventually return home. What made me so certain that I would return home?
“Shoshana, did you hear what I said? We must hurry!”
“Boaz—?” My own voice came out sounding as if I were underwater. I almost expected to see bubbles rising up from my lips and disappearing into the air.
“Yes, you silly thing!” There was affection, but also exasperation in her voice. “He doesn’t have what he needs—I must go get his extra instruments and take them to him.”
Rachel grabbed a long piece of sheer fabric lying over a chair in the corner of the room. Beneath it was another similar sheer length, which I assumed was mine; it was soft to the touch, and almost transparent.
We hurried along a dark passageway. Rachel’s hands rustled about her head, making an intricate head covering and veil of the long swatch of fabric. I found I had a similar skill, my own hands darted about my face and head—a bit more clumsily, but not without success. I was surprised just how well I could see through the sheer fabric.
At the end of the narrow street, we threw ourselves into a throng of people crowding a small square. Jumbled sounds assailed me from the morass of animal life wherever I looked—donkeys tied to posts and strapped with sacks of all sizes, goats tripping along with panicked eyes, herded by shepherds in raggedy robes, unusual birds in rough cages, displayed on wooden benches—along with the guttural tones of languages different from the one I was speaking with Rachel.
The street turned to shallow steps and we found ourselves in the thick of the market. On either side I glimpsed small cave-like rooms, crammed with goods: sharp-smelling cheeses, vats of olives, pastries that smelled of honey. Fruits—apples, pears, figs, grapes, overripe plums. Also nuts and spices—cardamom, cinnamon, cloves. Onions and garlic, acrid-sweet wine, and a yeasty, syrupy odor like sweetened beer. I stumbled a little, made dizzy by the smells, which were now inviting, now off-putting. My stomach somersaulted between unsettling nausea and the rumbles of deep hunger.
One little cave-room, well-lit by a roaring wood-burning oven, gave off the smell of freshly baked bread. On a wooden rack in the front of the store were dozens of crusty rounds; the upper shelves held loaves in remarkable shapes—some like the conical hats I’d seen, others like human heads, ears, and hands.
We came to the top of the stair-like pathway and ducked into a doorway, which gave on to a steep rise of steps. I was breathing hard as I tried to keep up, following behind Rachel, who bounded up the steps effortlessly. Soon, we were before a narrow doorway so low we had to stoop to enter. Inside was a windowless room; in the corner, a woman crouched before a stone hearth ablaze with fire. A putrid scent wafted over from a pot, furiously bubbling over the flames. She turned as if by instinct; she could not have heard anything over the roar of the fire. The woman’s face was deeply wrinkled and streaked with soot. When she wiped the sweat from her brow, I was surprised to see that her hand looked quite youthful.
“Rachel, beautiful bride,” the woman said, smiling.
“My new mother,” Rachel said by way of greeting, her own face relaxing into a warm smile. “Boaz sent me for his instruments.”
The woman’s face went serious again. A wordless communication passed between them; the woman wiped her hands on her apron, then crossed to the far corner and retrieved something from a wooden chest. She emerged from the shadows back into the blazing light, and it was then that I saw how beautiful she was; her dark eyes burned with intelligence. She handed Rachel a large leather pouch, which Rachel slid into what must have been a hidden pocket of sizable proportions on the inside of her robe.
“Will Boaz need to fumigate?” The woman asked, glancing toward the cauldron. “The potion needs still a quarter day to meld.”
Rachel shook her head. “He said nothing of fumigation. He only asked for his instruments.”
The two women leaned into a quick embrace, and then Rachel turned and left the room.
I searched the woman’s face; I saw wariness, but also interest in her eyes.
The way back down was easier.
“How does it feel, having a new mother?” I asked, curious to know more about the woman, whom I assumed was Boaz’s mother.
“She has taken me into her family as a daughter,” Rachel said. “Since I am orphaned of my mother, as you know, I am especially happy. She helps Boaz in his work, making the fumigations and other medicines.”
“When will the fumigations be ready?” I asked, fishing for information. I was so curious, but also aware of not wanting to give away the fact that I knew so little about—well, about everything.
“They’re better when they’re richer,” Rachel said. “Boaz likes to leave them boiling for close to the full day. Sunrise to when the first shadows fall. Then, when he pours them over the hot coal, the smoke is thick and has an oiliness to it. It’s easier to breathe in the thick smoke, that’s what Boaz says. The medicine works better that way, and faster.”
Free of the market, we found ourselves on a dirt road so heavily trodden it felt like smooth tarmac beneath my feet. The buildings grew steadily shabbier. Soon, we were passing structures made of mud mixed with straw. I glanced into one every now and then: they were little more than hovels.
At one point, I turned to see that Rachel had loosened her head covering to expose her face, twisting it cleverly along her forehead to make it into a headscarf. I reached up and with a few deft movements achieved the same effect. The air rushing over my features felt wonderful! My eyes darted to an open doorway, through which a troubled sound floated—a rasping cough, high-pitched and desperate. I came to a halt and peered through the smoky light. Within, I saw a painfully thin woman, clutching a small child whose hollow eyes shone with despair. There was an aching moment of silence, as if the world had screeched to a halt.
Tears sprang to my eyes. I turned to see that Rachel’s face was grim.
“Come, Shoshana,” she said, taking my arm. I opened my mouth to speak, but she only shook her head sadly. Without uttering a single word, she communicated what she needed to convey: We can’t stop here, there’s a whole city of such scenes. People who need our help, people who need saving. We must go on. There is nothing we can do.
I wanted to protest her wordless message—We can’t help everyone, that’s true. But perhaps we can help this one child, this one mother?
Rachel took my face in her hand, as if to steady my thoughts, to make me see reason.
“Come, we need to go,” is all she said. I offered the smoky doorway one last glance. Sensing my attention, the mother turned her head and our eyes met; in her face, I saw utter hopelessness. She didn’t expect me—or anyone—to help her.
A dry wind sprang up. We hurried along and soon broke free of the winding cobblestone streets and found ourselves in more open territory, where the roadway was wide and flanked by grand stone buildings. I found myself thinking about other wide boulevards I’d once seen in Paris, with my family: Montparnasse, the Champs-Élysées, Bonne Nouvelle, Montmartre. To think, that wonderful city was possibly modeled on this ancient one!
We turned a corner, and Rachel came to a halt before a colossal temple topped by a massive golden dome. Beneath the dome was a grotesque statue of a creature that seemed part human, part monster; it had a cruel mouth and enormous ears. Rachel turned pale.
“Eater of babies,” she said, her eyes glowering. “How I hate his greedy mouth.”
Eater of babies? What could Rachel mean?
“I hate him, too,” I said.
“There’s no place I loathe more in all the world then this Esagila. The Temple of Moloch.”
Raw emotions passed across Rachel’s features: disgust, fear, pain.
“But we have no choice. Boaz is waiting for us.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Rachel looked surprised, as if she’d assumed I knew exactly what we were doing, as if we were one mind joined together, parceled off into two different people.
“We had to get Boaz’s surgical instruments from his mother. A baby is hurt.”
“Where?” I asked.
“In the temple,” she said. “Below.”
She spoke with finality, as if that was all she was willing to say.
The streets around the temple were eerily empty; where had the throngs of people gone? Rachel scanned in both directions, up and down the street, as if checking for something.
“They’re all inside,” she said, addressing the question that had sprung to my mind, “and everyone else knows well enough to keep away.”
We ducked into a side alley so narrow we had to turn sideways to inch our way down. The walls were moist and oily; I used my palms to push away slightly so that my face would not rub up against the unpleasant surface. Rachel did the same, and together we sidestepped our way away from the light of the street and deeper into what felt like a horizontal tunnel. We seemed to be burrowing into some terrifying place, away from everything I had ever known.
Rachel came to a stop. “Help me,” she said in a low and formidable voice. I saw she was pushing hard against the wall. I did the same, throwing the full weight of my body against the oozing stone. Something gave. A panel slid open and we fell into the darkness as the stone quickly slid back into place behind us. An unpleasant odor made me feel sick and I let out a little groan.
“Shhh, you have to be very quiet,” Rachel said. Her voice still held its fierce tone, even at the pitch of a whisper. I had no idea what we were doing or where we were going. A hundred questions buzzed in my mind, but I knew it was impossible to ask them now. I had no choice but to put myself in Rachel’s hands. I moved quietly beside her, my full attention focused on trying to tread in her exact footsteps. She, at least, seemed to know where she was going.
Again, she came to a halt. I heard a soft creaking. A door opened, releasing a glow of hazy orange light. We moved into a small room and the unpleasant odor became almost unbearable. In the corner, lit by a halo of light thrown down by a torch placed high on the wall, a man crouched over a bundle of rags. As we moved closer, I saw that it wasn’t a bundle of rags, but a baby. It lay splayed on the floor, its limbs at odd angles. My heart pounded with fear. Could the baby be dead? But no, its eyes were wide, staring at the man, its face contorted in pain.
I was desperate to ask Rachel what was going on. Why were we here?
We crossed to the corner and Rachel crouched down beside the baby, her face filled with sadness.
“This is what they do to their babies …” she said. The man, who I assumed must be Boaz, put his hand on Rachel’s and silently nodded.
“Three, tonight,” he said, his voice deep and low. “The ceremony is still going on. There will likely be more.”
“Boaz, how did you manage?” Rachel asked.
“Nahum inserted himself. He managed to catch this baby before he went into the flames.”
This must have been what Rachel had meant earlier, when she said that Moloch was an “eater of babies.”
“Two had already been sacrificed,” Boaz said. “Everyone was in such ecstasy, no one noticed Nahum. He put the baby in his robes and brought him here, to me. The child seems to have some broken bones …”
Just then, a man emerged from the shadows. Something seized within me, as if I’d been struck in a strange and beautiful way; a quiet gasp escaped me as I struggled to make sense of the peculiar whirl of feelings that had suddenly taken hold. I could not take my eyes off this stranger. I realized, then, that he was staring at me; perhaps he felt it, too.
“That is Nahum,” Rachel said.
“Nahum.” The name fell from my lips. In a moment, he was beside us. He spoke quietly to Rachel, glancing at me every few seconds, his eyes tender and concerned.
Finally, he turned to me. “Are you all right?”
I’d never heard a voice like that before—deep, serious, but also touched with humor. I found myself gazing into eyes of a crystal green I’d never encountered before, like tinted glass and yet filled with warmth.
The most absurd thought sprang into my head: I want him to be mine!
Why on earth would such a thought cross my mind? This man was a complete stranger—I knew nothing about him!
In a flash, I remembered the story my mother had told me since I was little, my favorite of her large collection of personal anecdotes: the way she’d fallen in love at first sight, as she always put it, with Papa. “It was just like in a storybook,” she’d say. “Violins playing, thunderbolts striking, the whole deal.” I knew the words by heart; how many times had I asked her to repeat it? She always said the same thing: “My heart raced like a jackhammer, I could feel I was bright red in the face. It made no sense at all, and yet all the sense in the world. There he was, the most handsome man in the whole world, crossing the room. I’d never laid eyes on him before, and yet this was the thought that popped into my mind: I’m going to marry that man. I’m going to have his children. You could have blown me down with a feather! But that feeling was the strongest thing I’ve ever felt.” My favorite part came next. “Life has its ups and downs, to be sure. But that feeling has never wavered for me, all these years. Not once.”
Could that be what was happening to me? Love at first sight? Here, deep beneath the ground in some awful cave, filled with a disgusting smell. More than two millennia before my own time, in the biblical land of Babylon!
The man reached out a hand, which I took, in a daze, allowing him to help me to my feet.
“It is disorienting down here, is it not?” he said. There, again, that strange mixture of kindness, strength, and humor.
From the corner of my eye, I could see that Boaz was removing the horn stopper from a large animal-skin container. He poured dark purple liquid over the patch of stone next to the baby. The tawny, deep scent of wine wafted toward me. Gently, Boaz slid the baby onto the cleaned patch, and the little boy let out a tiny high-pitched mewl.
“What is he going to do?” I asked.
“I do not know,” Nahum said. “Perhaps the shoulder is dislocated, and he needs to put the bone back into the joint.” He paused, seemed to be thinking.
Boaz had turned his attention to the pouch Rachel had brought him. He loosened the leather-thong ties and carefully unfolded it. Inside, arrayed in a series of wide pockets, were metal tools. They glinted in the fluid light. Boaz’s face transformed; it seemed eerily still, and his eyes glowed with concentration.
I was reminded of someone else, far away in time, with just this kind of expression. It took a moment to place, and then the image came clear: I saw again the photograph my mother had in her study, up on a high shelf—black and white, enlarged, in a thin gold frame—of her father, Grandpa Jack, decked out in surgical gear, bent over a patient in the operating theater.
Now, the details of the picture came back to me so vividly it was as if I were looking right at it—the strong lines of my grandfather’s forehead, the straight nose disappearing behind the surgical mask, the eyes holding that very same expression I was seeing not twenty yards away in Boaz’s eyes, as he examined his instruments.
The memory of Grandpa Jack, as I had known him for the first and only time in my life, back—I mean, forward—in time, in Melbourne, and then on our adventure to Broken Hill and farther into the Australian bush, now came leaping back. I felt suddenly weak-kneed and, alarmingly, found myself sliding to the floor. Nahum caught me and guided me into the shadows by the wall, where a thin rug was set on the floor. He gestured for me to sit. Gratefully, I sank onto the rug, which was comfortable and soft.
How Grandpa Jack would have loved being here with me. My mother had conveyed to me how passionate he’d been about his work. He’d kept a sense of wonder about surgery, about medicine, through a thirty-year career, cut short by an early death. And here was Boaz, that same sense of wonder marking every inch of his being.
He chose several instruments: one that looked like forceps, and a short, narrow blade, setting them aside. Then, he began, very carefully, to remove the baby’s wrapping. Rachel joined me where I rested in the shadows. I covered my eyes. I couldn’t bear to look.
“Boaz has given the baby some wine,” she said. “That will help him. He will feel little pain.”
The baby was surprisingly quiet. Every now and then, I heard it whimper.
I counted the minutes, closed my ears to the sounds, closed my thoughts as best I could and tried to be as still as a statue. I was aware of Rachel’s warm hand in mine.
Finally, sensing it was all over, I opened my eyes. Boaz was approaching; over his shoulder, I could see that Nahum was wrapping the baby, who seemed, miraculously, to be asleep.
“Is the baby going to be all right?” I said, before Boaz had a chance to say anything.
“The baby will survive, God willing,” he said, a faint smile at the corner of his lips. “I’m happy, finally, to meet you, Shoshana. Thank you for helping Rachel fetch my instruments.”
“But I did nothing—” I said. Boaz stopped me with a gesture of his hand.
“You are her friend. There is nothing more important in life. Speaking of friendship, I see you have met Nahum.”
There was something so decisive about each of these three young people, Rachel, Boaz, Nahum; you could see it in their faces. I wondered—is this what it was to feel in the grip of one’s destiny?
Now it was Boaz who seemed to be studying me—perhaps wondering about something that was lacking in my face?
“Rachel tells me you’re thinking of joining us,” he said, “on the banks of the Ahava. Ezra has decreed that Zerubbabel will lead us; he is a fine choice, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
He paused, seemed to be trying to gauge the effect of his words. “But you must excuse me.”
He leaned down and said something to Rachel, then returned to Nahum, who handed him the baby. The two men exchanged words and then Nahum glanced in my direction. He turned and walked toward me.
I rose; we stood facing each other, Nahum peering into my face. His piercing gaze seemed to strip away my veil. It’s as if I’ve known you all my life, a strange little voice whispered inside my head. And as if I will know you always. This peculiar murmuring should have frightened me. And yet it didn’t. Looking into Nahum’s eyes, I felt the terrifying frenzy of the day recede; it was as if we were suddenly, wonderfully alone together.
“Zerubbabel will be at the wedding ceremony tomorrow evening,” Nahum said. “You will meet him then and make your decision.” He said this with quiet conviction, as if my decision to accompany them had already been made.
“Though perhaps now is not the time to discuss such matters.” Nahum glanced across at Boaz, who was carefully rocking the baby. “That poor child …”
“You saved him,” Rachel said.
Nahum nodded.
Rachel turned to me. “Have you ever seen a ceremony?” she asked.
I shook my head, no.
“It’s not a good idea,” Nahum said.
“She should know,” Rachel said, her mouth grim. “Then, maybe, she’ll understand.”
She took my hand. “Come. We should leave Boaz and Nahum. They need to take the baby to his new home.”
Nahum moved aside. Whatever Rachel had in mind for me, Nahum had clearly decided not to protest.
“I’ll see you at the wedding,” he said, with that same intense gaze, “and then later, on the banks of the Ahava River …”
We left by way of a small door that opened onto a corridor dimly lit by firebrands placed high on the wall. Immediately, I noticed the odd sound: a muffled but terrifying roar. We moved quickly, reaching a long, narrow staircase that wound down like a spiral. Rachel paused at the top and gave me a meaningful look.
“Prepare yourself,” was all she said.
I took in a sharp breath, and we descended into darkness as the light from the torches on the walls above us receded. The air felt increasingly damp. Down, down we went, this time burrowing deep beneath the surface of the earth. The roar intensified and soon I could hear a din of voices, blaring in unison, wailing and high-pitched screeches, shouts and calls that were chilling. We reached the very bottom and Rachel pushed on a huge wooden door. The moment it gave, a deafening sound blasted through—a hundred times louder than it had been. I slammed my hands over my ears, but this did little to protect me from the awful, gut-wrenching explosion of noise. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the murky light which rose and fell and left giant shadows moving around the cavernous space. We were in a massive pit, a great underground stadium. I craned my head trying to estimate just how far down the pit extended; below was an enormous bonfire spitting up flames that arced and roared. Hundreds of people were writhing, dancing, and stamping on the mud steps curving all the way up the sides of the pit. With increasing horror, I realized that many of the hoard were stark naked; others were scantily dressed in what looked like bits of rag, haphazardly tied to parts of their bodies.
Rachel was trying to communicate something. Of course, she made no attempt to speak—I’d never have been able to hear her—but she was gesturing, pointing into the pit. I peered down, straining the muscles of my neck, and then I saw it: the enormous statue with the terrible grin, teeth bared, arms raised, its monstrous claws extended as if for attack. The same frightening figure fixed to the top of the temple that had caused Rachel to halt in disgust.
Moloch.
Flames erupted from the statue’s mouth, and then poured from its eyes. The statue was literally spewing fire. A sudden, even more deafening sound erupted: a thunderous beating of drums that sounded like the pounding of a thousand bongos.
Rachel gripped my arm; I turned to see her nodding in a different direction, closer to where we stood pressed up against the sweating mud wall. I followed her gaze. An unnaturally tall man towered above the crowd, dressed in scarlet robes embroidered all over with gold thread. He was so tall he looked like he was standing on stilts. Beside him, a woman was throwing her body about in hysterical movements, her eyes rolling back. She was holding something—her mouth was twisted in a grin, making her look like one of those awful Punch and Judy puppets that used to scare me as a child. She threw whatever she was holding to the man. Was he some kind of priest? Expertly, he caught it. I could hardly believe what my eyes were telling me, but there it was, undeniable: little arms and legs flailing as the infant flew the short distance from the woman to the man.
I couldn’t bear to watch what was certain to happen next. I covered my eyes and felt a sob burst from my throat. “No!” I shrieked and turned, frantic to find the door through which we had entered. Everything reduced to only one thought: I had to escape! I found myself pushing and pulling and then I was back in the near-darkness, leaping up the curved stairs, charging my way out of there, fleeing with all my might. I didn’t care if Rachel followed me—all I cared about was leaving this ghastly place. Round and round, upward, the muscles in my legs almost seizing with the effort, lungs aching as they labored against the thick air.
Finally, after what seemed an age, I burst from the hard-mud stairwell back out into the corridor, where the mild light flickered all around. I collapsed, panting and sobbing. I felt as if I had come to the end of the line—the last possible place on earth, through time, that I could bear. I felt I simply could no longer go on.
The hard-packed dirt of the floor was cool against my face; I breathed in its earthy scent. A terrible pain ballooned in my head, shooting down my neck like knives. And then, a voice as gentle as could be, but saying the most awful words. It was Rachel. She must have been following me.
“It is true,” Rachel said. “They give their babies to the priest, to throw into the flames.”
As I found my breath, I realized I was crying.
Why? I heard the voice in my head call out. Why would a mother do such a thing?
Rachel seemed to be able to carry on the conversation without me having to utter a word.
“They are pagans,” Rachel said. “That is what they believe. They are told by the priests that they must sacrifice children to Moloch to calm his fury, and they do it willingly. They get themselves into an ecstatic frenzy—you saw them. They’re no longer human.”
The disgust in Rachel’s voice was gone. Now, there was only sadness.
“You see, the return to Jerusalem is not only for us. I know it sounds impossible—but it is for the world. We need to restore not only the Temple, but the way of the Temple. That is a sacred duty of our people.”
I sat up. My breath steadied and my tears subsided, and then Rachel handed me a square of cloth she pulled from the hidden pocket of her robe.
“Now, do you understand?” she asked.
I had no idea what she meant. I wiped away my tears with the soft piece of cloth.
“Do you see why this place could never be home? No matter how many generations of our family are born here? When I say we’re going home, I don’t only mean Jerusalem, the city. Home is finding out where you belong.”
Something wavered in Rachel’s eyes.
“We were cast out of the country of our forebears. Here, we can only ever be outcasts. Now, it is time for us to journey back, to rediscover who we are.” Rachel was looking at me in a curious way.
This was all too much. I felt so very tired. I could not make sense of what Rachel was saying. She seemed to be talking in clever riddles. I didn’t want to hear anymore, see anymore; I only wanted to go home myself. Not the kind of home Rachel was talking about, some idea or concept having to do with her political and religious convictions. No, I wanted my home: Brooklyn in the early twenty-first century. I wanted my mama’s arms around me, the soothing sound of my papa’s voice, the feel of my little brother, Billy, in my arms as I told him everything was going to be okay.
But it wasn’t going to be okay. I was here in this terrible place, so far from everything I knew and everyone I loved. I had never felt so completely alone.
By the time we got back to Rachel’s house, I felt numb. So much had happened in the course of this overwhelming day. I’d reached my wit’s end. We lay quietly on the rugs in Rachel’s room. I closed my eyes. Moments flashed in my mind all mixed up, tumbling over each other: some unbearable, and others just confusing. Then, an image of Nahum coming out of the shadows emerged from the chaos and I felt suddenly calm. I closed my eyes and that feeling welled up again. I’d never felt anything like that before. Destiny.
I had no idea what destiny meant, not really. Everything seemed to be slipping from my grasp. But then, what had made sense on this journey of mine? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!
I opened my eyes to see Rachel rising from the mat. She walked to the window; a small clay pot on the windowsill held three red roses with long stems and little green leaves. I joined her by the window.
“They’re perfect,” I said, leaning to smell the roses.
Rachel plucked a stem from the pot and held the bloom to her nose. “The smell of paradise,” she said, breathing deeply. “Deborah’s an angel. She knows I love them. Sometimes, she brings me lilies. They’re my favorite. But it is a far walk to pick them where they grow by the river.”
Her face broke into a smile. “Like your name!” she said. “I never made the connection. Same as my favorite flower!”
It made me nervous, hearing Rachel point this out. I was always named this way—after my friend’s—my relative’s—favorite tree or flower. But this was one of my secrets; Rachel realizing this felt dangerous.
I suddenly remembered the poor little infant! How could we be talking about flowers?
“How’s the baby?” I asked, my voice so tiny, I might have been a baby myself.
“I didn’t see signs of bruising or bleeding. Boaz is certain he will live. He will be given to a childless Jewess, who will raise him as her own.”
Plucked from the flames, I thought: reprieved from a pagan death to be brought into the Jewish fold.
Together, we looked out of the window. Several men in tunics walked abreast, filling the space of the roadway. Behind them, a stooped man urged two donkeys forward with a stick, and a line of women carried clay pots on their heads, likely filled with water.
“Are you going to miss all this?” I asked.
Rachel turned startled eyes my way.
“I never thought about that,” she said, absently taking a rose petal between her fingers.
“I just wondered … You’ve been here your whole life,” I said.
The petal drifted to the floor. She took hold of another, which also came loose, and then another.
“We’ve always talked about returning. On fast days, we turn our hearts to Jerusalem, and our hunger and our longing for our home are one and the same.”
The door opened. It was Deborah, carrying a large urn of warm water and a basket of dried lavender sprinkled with cloves. She left and returned a moment later with a small basket from which a tantalizing scent wafted, placing it beside the urn. I could see the basket held a mound of little round cakes as well as some plump dried fruits that looked like figs.
“Let’s just have one or two,” Rachel said, reaching for a cake. “To take the edge off our hunger.”
I reached into the basket; the cake was still warm! I bit into it and heavenly flavor filled my mouth. The cake was filled with a purplish paste, a kind of fruit I’d never before tasted. I savored every bite, had to stop myself from gobbling down the whole basketful.
We stripped down to our cotton underclothing, then dipped squares of linen into the water to wash our faces, arms, and hands. I breathed in the wonderful lavender-clove scent, hoping the dreadful images from the underground cavern beneath the temple would loosen their grip on my mind. We sat on the stone floor to wash our feet and legs.
“Are you nervous?” I found myself asking. Rachel gave me an uncomprehending look.
“About what?”
“The wedding, of course!”
Rachel let out a little laugh. “What a strange question!”
How could she have thought my question strange? Surely, it was the most natural question in the world to pose to a fourteen-year-old girl on the eve of her marriage!
“I told you, Boaz and I have been betrothed forever! A week hasn’t passed in all my life in which I haven’t seen him. Ever since I can remember, I was told that Boaz and I were to be married. Now, it’s happening!
“And I am excited about the return. To answer the question you asked—no, I don’t think I’ll miss—this place. We’re finally going home, after all these years. Can you imagine? Fifty years …”
There it was again—that look of absolute faith in Rachel’s face.
I suddenly remembered the expression on Talia’s face (my mother!), a face not filled with light, but hung with shadow, Talia standing on the pathway in Broken Hill, talking about how she’d never felt as if she’d belonged.
Something struck me like a bolt of desert sun. Perhaps this is what Talia, my mama as a teenager in Australia, had been longing for! Unshakable belief, a solid feeling of belonging. I wondered—had Mama ever found what she was looking for?
My mind’s eye suddenly filled with other images of my mother from the time of my earliest memory. Mama smiling, laughing, singing us songs, turning even the most mundane activity into play; Mama looking at Papa with love, even adoration—no trace of the achy longing I’d seen in Talia’s face at Broken Hill. Somehow, she’d made her peace with whatever was troubling her that day we flew over the Victorian landscape in Grandpa Jack’s plane, gazing down at the rocky outcroppings and scraggly savannah vegetation. Whatever my mother’s journey had been, I felt certain she’d found her own sense of home.
My own heart squeezed. Would I ever make it beyond—this? Would I find my true place in the world?
“Shoshana?” Rachel’s voice broke through my reverie. It was still there—that blindingly bright look in her face, her eyes like strange, beautiful jewels.
Deborah had draped some lengths of white cloth over a block of wood by the basin; now, we used these to dry ourselves.
“Don’t you see? Returning to Zion, to Jerusalem, will make us whole again.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, stepping back into my dress.
Rachel crossed to where a piece of colorful fabric was hung on a rod and pulled it aside to reveal an alcove, filled with clothing and other objects—blankets, pillows, and a wooden shelf full of trinkets. I made out a few little sculptures and what looked like necklaces and other jewelry hanging on a rack.
“Being in exile—it was like we were broken. A people torn apart.”
Rachel chose a pale blue robe from a pile of clothing arranged on a large pillow and returned to where I was sitting on the rug.
“But Rachel, everything I’ve seen—” I passed my arm before me in a wide arc, to indicate the magnificence of what I had encountered here, in Babylon: the splendor of her existence, the unearthly gardens reaching up into the sky, the glistening tower studded with gems. “How could all of this have anything to do with a broken people?”
Rachel pulled the robe over her head then sat beside me.
“I know you know the difference,” she said, “between visible beauty and invisible suffering.”
She swept her own arm about the room, though her movement was agitated, as if her intention was to wipe it all away.
“You were there with me, with Boaz.” She paused. Was she about to say and Nahum? And oh—there it was again! My own cheeks burning merely at the thought of his name!
“You went with me into that dreadful pit. You saw what this place is really about …”
When she spoke again, her voice was hard.
“You’re wrong. Whatever beauty there is here is ruined. Underneath everything is—well, the pit. Not the kind of beauty I could ever believe in. Or give my life over to.”
I knew exactly what Rachel meant, recalled again that moment—so far away, now—at the Belle Meade Mansion, surrounded by splendor, Mama muttering to Papa, built on the backs of slaves. And the haunting photograph in the gift shop, the expansive living room with its high windows and elaborate ceiling moldings, etched with the ghostly outlines of the superimposed image of the slave quarters. My mind’s eye trembled now with images from my journey, cycling one after the other: Talia, my mama as a girl, talking about her little friend who lived in the orphanage, taken from her family, stolen! The very idea of a child being stolen filled me with grief. And Joel, my grandmother’s beloved friend and protector, pointing to the color of his skin, the anguish in his eyes as he spoke of the reality facing his grandchildren who lay sleeping, curled up together on the packed-mud floor of his hut. And the glowing light of a thousand flames, devouring the village of Dusiat, the thunderbolt crack as the synagogue doors succumbed, the great burning timbers collapsing inward as the fire spewed outward. Fire leaping back through the centuries, down into the vile pit we’d just fled that was burning still. My whole body felt filled to the brim with grief, as if the hellish fires throughout history were blotting out all hope, all belief in the goodness of humankind.
And yet, Rachel’s eyes were glowing with something else: belief, faith, hope. There was something mesmerizing about the light that shone from her and seemed to lift to the heavens with a message, as if her entire being was what was meant by the word prayer.
“Don’t you see?” she said. “We’re meeting on the shores of the Ahava precisely because we’re ready—and, praise be to God, finally able—to throw off the chains of all this beauty and return to our true heart …”
I desperately wanted to feel what she was feeling, to join her in the bottomless reservoir that was her sense of home. But I felt shut out, as if there were a thick pane of glass separating us. Despair leapt to my throat like an ugly toad.
“But you’ve never been to Jerusalem! Nor have your parents—or your parents’ parents. Isn’t this your home? How do you know that going there won’t be—I don’t know, a new kind of exile?”
My exasperation only seemed to deepen Rachel’s calm and resolve.
“It’s hard for people to leave everything they know,” she said. “I understand that. That’s why so many refuse to leave. I can’t blame them. They’re comfortable here. They have a routine, everything they need. But if that’s all a person knows, if that’s all they care about or want—well, then it becomes dangerous. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. That if you forget where you’re from, if you forget your home, you are lost. No matter how comfortable your house is, how much food you have to eat”—she picked up one of the fruit cakes and threw it back into the basket with distaste—“captivity is captivity.”
Rachel fell silent. I found myself tuning in to sounds I hadn’t realized were in the background: delicate chirpings, tinkly and hesitant, as if an entire army of baby birds were opening their mouths for the first time.
How easy it was for Rachel to make light of other people’s connection to where they had lived the whole of their lives. What did she know of homeless wandering? Of being cast far away from everything and everyone you had ever known and loved? She talked of the terrible captivity—of her great-great-grandparents being flung out of their beloved Jerusalem, of being strangers in someone else’s land. But she’d been born here! She’d always lived in the impressive stone home her father had himself been born and raised in, with its colorful wall hangings and comfortable sleeping rugs and daily gatherings and feasts. What did Rachel really know of exile?
Rachel went back to the window and I followed. “Look, the roadway is full of workmen, returning to their homes.”
The roses, now, were drooping; a handful of petals had fallen to join the few Rachel had absentmindedly peeled from the buds. I stooped to retrieve the velvety scraps, bringing them to my nose before placing them on the windowsill. Through the open square in the wall I could see men of all ages parading silently down the street, their heads half-turned toward the sky.
“Think about your home,” Rachel said, her voice soft and sweet. “The home you’ve known and loved all your life. Close your eyes. Go there in your mind.”
I felt a renewed surge of grief. That was the last thing I wanted to do; it was just too painful. And yet, I found my eyes suddenly heavy. I tried to keep them open, but they closed of their own accord, as if under the power of a hypnotist. Images flashed across my closed eyelids, fleeting, intense, and red-tinged: Billy on the swing in the playground, energetically pumping his legs, his face alive with pleasure; Mama standing over the stove, watching for the moment to turn the pancake, an attentive look on her face as she listened to my chatter; Papa embarking on one of his careful explanations, as we strolled arm in arm along a Brooklyn city street. The creamy yellow walls of our house—and motion, climbing the stairs, family photographs passing me on the walls, the creak of my bedroom door. Safe in my precious room: the smell of my pillow, lavender, from the drop of sleep oil Mama put on it at night, the porcelain angels hanging up near the ceiling, beneath the moon we bought at the Museum of Natural History. My art museum postcard wall, and stack of playbills from musicals and plays, and snapshots of friends—here, at the beach, there at a party, in the lunchroom at school.
What was Rachel thinking? Why was she doing this?
“I know what you see,” she said.
How could she possibly know what I was seeing? Rachel, who had never seen an electric light bulb! Or a car, or photograph, or computer! She didn’t even know that any of the things I saw in my mind’s eye—any of the things in my world—existed! I felt a surge of anger. What did she know about anything? Why should I listen to her?
“And whatever it is you are seeing—that is only the beginning. A kind of map that will point the way to the most beautiful home in the world. Your real home. The home where we truly—and for all eternity—belong.”
I wanted to rip away her ignorance. I wanted to close my eyes again and have her—and everything around me, this confusing, alarming Babylon, the vast Euphrates River, the markets and hanging gardens and the ghastly Temple of Moloch—just disappear. Slide away forever. And in its place—in its place … I could hardly bear the longing that overtook me, the longing for my mother and father and brother, for the familiar places, my home and neighborhood and school, all the people I knew and loved. I only wanted home. Not some abstract place of religious worship, drenched in historical longings and aches. Not that, no: I wanted my little place in the world. Real, solid as stone. What I wanted was my home.
I shook my head, pure misery coursing through my veins, and made no attempt to staunch my tears. In that moment, everything became strangely transparent. It was as if I could suddenly see the shape and texture of Rachel’s emotions shimmering through her skin. Her passionate understanding of a true home—a place she’d never actually seen, but had only heard of, through stories and lamentations and songs, in the words of sages and prophets and aged family members; her inspired vision about what was false in comfort; her commitment to history—to her history, her people, the past.
A vision took hold of me: I was looking directly at Rachel, but I was seeing an odd and yet beautiful home built of delicate colors, intangible as a rainbow. The home that she had built with her heart, her imagination, yearning, knowledge—and toward which she was finally, on behalf of her parents and their parents and their parents’ parents, preparing to journey.
Maybe I had been wrong about her. Maybe she did in fact know how I felt! Perhaps our journeys were not, in the end, so very different, despite the unimaginable chasm lying between her experience and mine. I clasped her hand and looked into her eyes.
“I am going home, too.” I was hardly aware of what I was saying.
“So then—you will come? You will meet us after the wedding tomorrow at the river Ahava?”
Her eyes were alive with so much: sadness and excitement and anguish and hope.
I found myself almost gasping with joy. My mother! She was there, right there, in Rachel’s expression! My mother of long ago, before she was ill. Rachel … Sarah … Darlene … Talia … Mama. And then I felt something equally wonderful and unexpected: a feeling that perhaps my own eyes were shining with that same expression: that all of them were not only in me, but just, simply … me.
Rachel cocked her head, seemed to be listening for something; she nodded and smiled, as if I’d said something she’d been expecting to hear, though I hadn’t said anything at all. Then, she leapt up, and ran to the door.
“All right, then. I must go! Deborah is calling for me to come and have my hair braided. They have honeysuckle to put in my hair, all the way from Egypt! I will see you later, before the feast? By the waters?”
With that, she was gone.
With the closing of the door, my own moment of joy also slammed shut. How completely Rachel had misunderstood me! What I had felt in my moment of euphoria was that I, too, would be going home—really home, back to Grandma, and then soon after that, back on a plane to New York, where Billy and I would be reunited with our parents. Had I been deluded in thinking that Rachel had miraculously understood this? That she had magically intuited the truth about who I was and where I came from?
Rachel had clearly understood nothing of the kind. She had taken my declaration to mean that I was coming with her and her revered leader, Zerubbabel, back to Jerusalem.
I couldn’t take any more of this! Yet another journey, this one by foot, across countless miles of desert sands to a place I had no desire to be. Even the thought of Nahum did not comfort me. It was true, I’d been hit by a small thunderbolt; what was surely meant by falling in love, though it was less of a fall than a plummet. But there was another truth. Nahum was a stranger to me, a stranger in a place in which I was hopelessly stranded.
I collapsed, devastated, on the rug.
The tears returned with a vengeance.
I don’t know how long I lay there, curled in a ball, pouring my tears into the woolen rug. Each second crawled. I felt condemned to remain there, on that spot on the rug, coiled and alone, forever.
I must have fallen asleep. When I awoke, the room was in darkness. The torch lamps on the wall had burned out, the oblong opening cut into the wall now showed a navy patch of sky, allowing in the sounds of a crowd. People calling to one another, children laughing and playing, their feet scuttling in the dirt, while clangs and other noises suggested the preparation and setting up of food. I pictured servants laying tables in the square below Rachel’s room, bringing platters of roasted lamb meat and bowls brimming with dried nuts and fruits—pomegranates, ripe figs, glossy purple grapes—and dense, crusty rounds of bread, steaming fresh from the wood-burning oven.
The basket of cakes was still sitting in the near-darkness of the room where Rachel had placed it on the shelf above me. I took a piece and bit into it. This one was rich and chewy, dense with something that tasted like carob, and absolutely delicious. I was so hungry, I polished off three of them, as well as several figs that were sticky and sweet as honey. I sat back with relief, the hollow in my belly for the moment sated.
I slipped on my sandals, grabbed the headscarf I’d worn earlier, and headed quietly down the stairs. I had every intention of joining the festivities, but once I got outside, I couldn’t bring myself to take the alleyway leading around the back of the house. Instead, I found myself gliding swiftly down the stepped roadway. My feet seemed to have a plan of their own and for some reason my mind shut down, simply refused to think, allowing my feet to determine my movements. It was an immense relief; I was sick of thinking, sick of feeling so lost and filled with grief. Go ahead, I said aloud—I was talking to my sandals! Take me wherever you think I should go.
I turned onto an unfamiliar road; my feet took me this way and that, through streets that grew more crowded as I went along. As before, the crowd was made up of such unusual people: a group of tall, thin men with regal bearing and handsome dark-skinned faces, dressed in white robes. And across the path, what looked like a large family of men, women, and children, arguing in a sing-song language that included bird-like trills. Farther along, foraging in a pile of garbage, were a dozen or more urchins, their bare feet covered in sores.
The air filled with a pungent odor that brought to mind wood rot and slime, and unwashed bodies; moments later, the street opened out to a very wide section of river, clearly a port. Ships of all shapes and sizes crowded the waters, which sloshed muddily around sterns and bows, giving up oily froth. One massive vessel stood out; its elaborately carved bow was in the form of a dragon, the stern taking the shape of the dragon’s tail. Dozens of enormous oars hung at angles from the sides like splayed limbs, empty of the slaves who would engineer the ship’s motion across the seas. The upper deck swarmed with men dressed in ceremonial military garb; swords and scabbards hung from their sides.
I hurried along the teeming banks, holding my scarf close to cover my face, hoping to attract no attention. Soon, I was running. I could hear the sound of my own labored breathing; my chest felt tight, like someone was pressing down on it, but I only pushed myself harder. All I wanted was motion, the faster the better. The air whooshing past me felt like the breath of freedom. The world raced by, no longer distinct: vague and shifting shapes and colors, fading before my eyes.
Something caught my attention and brought me to a halt. I looked slowly around as my eyes refocused. To my surprise, the city buildings and streets had disappeared. I was surrounded by scruffy desert vegetation, clumps of reedy grasses and bushes low to the ground. In the distance, the dunes shimmered, lying up against the horizon like the humps of sleeping camels. Beside me, tall grasses and spindly trees spiked the grayish soil of the riverbank. An enormous moon bore down on the scene with unnerving glare. A glance behind me confirmed my suspicion: the walls of the city were not all that far away, perhaps a mile or so. It all seemed flat and unreal, as if it existed only in my imagination.
The river was wider than I’d yet seen it, giving it the character of a lake; the opposite bank seemed a distant shore.
The grass by the river looked silver-gray in the moonlight and gave off a cool, earthy scent. I sank down, pressed my face into the grass and inhaled. A haunting feeling overcame me; it was as if the earth itself were speaking—through time, through space, across generations. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. Behind my closed lids I saw little flashes of light, which organized themselves into a single dim glow, faint, at first, and then growing stronger. My heart slowed, my breathing slowed, everything within and without seemed to grow very, very still. Slowly, I sat up, opened my eyes, found I was looking at the glassy surface of the river, also still, so very still. The air, too, had been cleared of wind. It hung around me, unstirring.
A tune came to my ears, and words: a song I’d sung with Mama as a round when I was a little girl. I realized that the quiet singing was coming from my own lips:
By the waters, the waters of Babylon
We lay down and wept, and wept, for thee Zion
We remember thee, remember thee, remember thee Zion
Here I was, sitting by those very waters, the famed river of Babylon! Was this a sign that I was never to return home, to my home, but was to go on wandering, my next and final journey back to the Zion of the song? The place Rachel and her parents and grandparents had sung about and remembered and hankered for the whole of their lives?
Gingerly, I inched closer to the river’s edge, where the grass gave way to a slim band of dirt. A breeze had arisen, setting the waters into gentle, eddying motion. I gazed down at them, troubled, realizing I’d hoped to find my own reflection. Rather than reflecting my image back to me, it seemed to offer something altogether different, and dangerous; I had the terrible feeling that these waters could suck me down and make me disappear.
A crushing tiredness took hold of me.
I had no way of knowing how long I’d been away from Grandma’s welcoming house in Melbourne. All I knew was that it was an eternity away. And even longer still since I’d seen my mama—since I’d held her, all the wrong way around, tiny and frail in my arms, a galaxy from here.
In all this time, across all these dimensions, I had done my best to keep strong. Now, I tried to reach for that strength, to find the steely strand within and clutch onto it tightly so that it might take me from here to where I longed to be, so that it might wing me back to my own little spot in the world, the one that was completely and totally mine. I closed my eyes, tried to reach for it, but found it was gone. Nothing to grab hold of: only the swirling, choppy waters traveling nowhere but down, down, tugging me into a terrible place from which I feared I would never escape.
Mama.
I heard my lips whisper her name. My sad, very sick mama appeared, in my mind’s eye, as if I were looking right at her, here, now. Even frailer than when I had left her, even more pallid, more defeated. Weak, so very weak on her bed, she could barely open her eyelids, and when she did, her eyes were milky, as if she could no longer see into this world.
Mama?
Now, the sound coming from my own throat was a plea. I opened my eyes to see that the waters before me, these waters of Babylon, were settling, working their way back toward calm.
Where are you, Mama? Are you leaving this world?
The waters were steadying. I watched in a trance as they frothed and then ceased their movement altogether. The river was calm again. I leaned over its newly flat surface to catch just the briefest glimpse of the sky, a deep, dark bowl, its bright moon flashing back at me from where it lay on the smooth mirror of the water’s skin.
My hand stole into the folds of my desert-linen garment, found the hidden pocket, curled around those precious objects I’d forgotten were there: Talia’s Star of David on its delicate chain; Darlene’s little tea-set porcelain plate; the two unusually smooth, round walnuts that Sarah had handed to me before we were separated by the surging crowd. And the tiny woolen booties that had kicked off the whole crazy adventure, given to me by Grandma in the deep dead of that Melbourne night long ago—and also millennia ahead of here.
I felt a sudden panic; Rachel had not given me any such object! The others had all done so—handed me something that held a special meaning for each of them, and that was maybe also a symbol of our togetherness. Wasn’t that the key to setting off the storm? The storm that had been ripping me through time? I grasped the objects tightly and more tightly still, as if I might squeeze from them some kind of answer.
And then, something squeezed my head, an agonizing blow. That awful, vicious migraine stabbing and throbbing that erased all thought. I found myself staring again into the suddenly still waters at—me. My own image.
Me, my own self—not lost, abandoned, alone, but there before me, vivid and unmoving on the surface of the Euphrates, distant relative of all those other rivers with which I had had contact: my reflection, an image made up also of Talia, Darlene, Sarah, Rachel, all of us swirling together, together, in the river of time.
It came to me then—that this time, perhaps it was not my hand that would hold the parting gift, Rachel’s contribution to my seemingly endless journey. My eyes, this time, not my hands—as Jimmy our friend in the Australian Outback had advised—were to take hold of the precious bequest. The meaning and the gift were there in the now-glassy surface of the water, together with the sky and the supernatural white globe of the moon—not in layers, but all one surface, one depth, one wholeness.
Mama, I said again. And this time it was not a word, but my own silent heart, filled with sadness.
Please, Mama, don’t die. Not yet. You can’t leave Billy. You can’t leave Papa. And Mama, you can’t leave me …
I watched the shimmery me that was one with the reflection of the deep dark sky and bright white moon. Watched as a tear slid down my cheek and dropped into the river, shattering, for an instant, and in only one tiny place, the calm mirror of water.
That one tiny tear set the world to roaring; a tremendous lightning bolt split the sky, followed by the loudest thunderclap I’d ever heard. My hands flew protectively to my ears just as the stinging rain pelted me from above, turning to hail that pummeled me all over, as if a small crowd were assaulting me with stones. Within the maelstrom, my head this time remained clear: no return of the awful throbbing, the vise grip of pain throughout my skull.
Why was it different, this time? Clearly, I was in the midst of the time storm. For once, I didn’t try to resist—and astonishingly, I did not feel afraid, but exhilarated. For as mighty as the thunderclap had been, as blinding as the jagged spear of lightning that had wrenched the heavens in two, something even more intense was tearing through me: the conviction that this tumbling through time would be the last, that this storm was the tempest that would take me back—back to my time, my place, which I finally knew with a conviction as unshakable as Rachel’s was my own true and precious home.