The Radical Element: 12 Stories of Daredevils, Debutantes, and Other Dauntless Girls

“Beautiful, Miriam.” Mrs. Samuels flitted around the one-room schoolhouse like a butterfly. Or, in her muted tones, perhaps a moth was a more appropriate comparison. Like Rebekah, she wore a simple cotton gown she’d stitched herself that covered every inch of skin from collarbone to wrist to ankle, but as a married woman, she also wore a shawl that covered her hair. Rebekah wondered if the shawl somehow kept Mrs. Samuels cooler, because she didn’t seem to be perspiring through every stitch the way Rebekah was beneath her long chestnut curls. It made her feel like a poor imitation of a Georgian that she could barely tolerate the Savannah sun in these brutal summer months. But then, she was Jewish first, American second, as her mama and papa never tired of telling her. “Look at Miriam’s stitchwork in those clouds. It’s so nice against that beautiful blue. Like tekhelet.”

Rebekah smiled to herself at the mention of the holy turquoise shade, sported in the fringes of her father’s tzitzit. It was a beautiful color, but just a few weeks ago, Caleb had taught her that true tekhelet dye came from an honest-to-goodness snail. “It’s called a chilazon,” he’d told her in that tone he always took when he was educating — the one that let everyone know he would be a wonderful rabbi someday. Her father would never have shared such knowledge with her, but Caleb Laniado continued right on, imparting what he’d learned from studying the Talmud with some of the other men from Mickve Israel.

Rebekah knew this scholarship wasn’t meant for her ears, that the Talmud was for men alone, and she wished more than anything that she found it dull. That she could echo Caleb’s sister, Naomi, or her own best friend, Deborah, when they teased him for babbling on about the legendary arguments between the rabbis Hillel and Shammai or why they couldn’t blend wool and linen to make their garments as the gentiles did.

But she wanted that knowledge, thirsted for it, drank it down like the last dregs of kiddush wine. She didn’t know if Caleb noticed, and she’d be mortified if Deborah or Naomi did, but she loved when he shared his lessons — and not just because of the way passion lit up his brown eyes and sent his strong hands flying into gestures. There would be a time for truly noticing that someday, and someday soon, she knew. Someday the challah cover she was stitching would be on her own Shabbat table, and it would be her husband commenting on the needlework.

The sun was high in the sky when Rebekah finally found a few moments to escape the kitchen that afternoon. She didn’t even have to think about a destination; ever since she’d figured out that Mama was too distracted by baby Abigail to pay her much mind once the lunch dishes were rinsed, she’d let her feet drag her to the same place. She’d been barely six years old when a fire had burned down the old wooden synagogue, but people still loved to talk of the miracle of the Torahs and the Aron Kodesh that had somehow been spared. Her little brother, Jacob, had had his bris at the old synagogue, and they had thought they’d see him read from the Sefer Torah for his bar mitzvah there. But this new brick building they were erecting in its place would be the site of his coming-of-age ceremony instead.

Better than Caleb had. Jacob would have a proper ceremony, including a celebratory feast for the entire community, but Caleb’s bar mitzvah had been in his home, which did not fit even the forty or so men of Mickve Israel, let alone the rest of the congregants.

It was as if thinking about him had made his long, lean figure appear out of thin air. “Caleb Laniado. What have I told you about calling me ‘Miss’?”

His slight grin and the crinkle of his long-lashed eyes made him look boyish despite the shadow of a dark beard that could never stay away for long. “My mama would have my hide if I didn’t, and you know it.”

She knew it was immodest, but it was impossible not to smile back. Besides, Caleb was as holy a boy as she knew. He wasn’t being improper with her; he was absolutely serious that Mrs. Laniado would be mad as a cottonmouth if he were more familiar. “Amazing how the new building is coming along, isn’t it?”

“It is. The committee’s been working nonstop. Dr. Sheftall wants it complete by next year and says they have all the funds to do it without needing to ask for more from anybody.”

That was good to hear. She knew that if money was scarce in her household, it would be her own meager education that would be the first to go. Mrs. Samuels’s instructions came at a fee, and though she taught little more than basic sums and sewing, losing them would be cutting one more tie to the community. It was hard enough to see how many congregants were already breaking away — marrying outside the faith, abandoning their traditions, adopting gentile business practices, and even buying slaves in an effort to blend in with their neighbors. But Rebekah’s family did not blend in more than absolutely necessary, and she knew the Laniados did not — would not — either. Besides, other than Mama’s lessons on keeping a kosher kitchen and properly observing the Sabbath, Mrs. Samuels’s classes were the only education she received. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing at all.

“It’ll be nice to have, when it’s finished.” She fanned her cheeks with her hand and cursed herself for leaving her parasol at home. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to have a new place to study.” Her words were simple enough, but they burned hot with jealousy. Caleb’s cheder classes had ended at fourteen, but he and some of the other boys still received private personal instruction, and it did not involve needlepoint. “What did you learn today?”

“The Shulchan Aruch,” he said, and it made her heart ache a little. The answers used to be things she knew from prayers and holiday services and Mrs. Samuels’s rudimentary parsha classes — stories of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs and the twelve tribes of Israel. The Shulchan Aruch was a book she knew by name only, as something her father studied.

“Can you tell me the story of Ruth again?” It was her favorite, after the story of Esther, which was too long for right now; Mama would no doubt be calling her any minute, if she wasn’t already.

“We should get home.” Caleb took one last look at the synagogue before turning back to the tree-lined cobblestone street. “Anyway, you’ve heard me tell it a hundred times.”

He sighed, and she knew he’d do it. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to teach a willing student, and he was the only one she still trusted to ask. Unlike her father, he never rebuked her for doing so; his reserves of patience seemed truly endless.

“It was in the time of the Judges, when there was a man named Elimelech and a woman named Naomi, and —”

Yes, he’d told her the story one hundred times, and she heard it read aloud in synagogue every spring during the Shavuot holiday, but new questions always seemed to spring up like dandelions. “You said the story’s in the time of the Judges, right? So who was the judge during this time?”

A smile slipped over his face, quick as a shadow. “That’s a good question, Miss Rebekah. I don’t know the answer.”

He gave a cautious nod, just a dip of his chin, the kind he gave when the answer lay beyond the Torah. She used to try her hardest to wheedle it out of him, but now she just waited patiently, fixing her attention on the way the light breeze swayed the Spanish moss dangling from the oak tree branches and swished her blue cotton skirt around her ankles.

“In the Talmud, it is stated that Ibzan was Boaz, and Rashi explains that this refers to the judge Ibzan. As such, many believe he was the judge at the time.”

Ibzan. She tucked the name away in her treasury of those that appeared only once or twice and which no girl would likely ever hear. “Ah. All right, then. Go on.”

Another shadow smile. “Right. And Makhlon and Kilion were married to . . .” This time he left a space for her to fill in Ruth’s and Orpah’s names, as if he were in fact a teacher and she a student. They continued like that until they arrived at her porch, where her little sister Sarah was standing with her fists on her hips and a suspicious glare.

“You’re in trouble, Rebekah Judith!” she called. “Mama’s fixin’ to send you to bed without supper!”

Rebekah sighed. “Thank you for the lesson, Caleb. I had better get inside. But . . . perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Where on earth have you been?” Mama asked the moment Rebekah walked through the door into a warm kitchen smelling of peppery fish and buttery corn bread. “Have you forgotten your chores? Sarah had to shuck the corn for you. Say thank you to your sister.”

“You promised you were only calling upon Deborah for an hour,” Mama continued as she pointed toward the shelf of cornflower-blue dairy dinner dishes. Rebekah took five of the earthenware plates from the stack — baby Abigail was still just feeding off Mama — and spread them around the wooden table, knowing exactly what was coming next. “Your papa will be home soon and what a fine thing for him to work a hard day and come back to an unprepared supper!”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said, louder than a mumble because she knew she’d simply have to repeat it otherwise. But she wasn’t really sorry; she wouldn’t take back her lesson with Caleb for anything.

“You’ll do all the washing tonight,” Mama said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Rebekah had hoped to leave it at that and continue setting the table in peace, but of course Sarah had to pipe up. “She was with that strange Laniado boy,” she crowed.

“Sarah! What a thing to say. Caleb is a nice young man.” Mama turned to Rebekah. “Or perhaps not, if he’s spending time alone with you, with no talk of marriage. You are not children any longer, Rebekah.”

“It was a chance meeting, outside in full daylight.” Rebekah laid out the dairy forks, sparing a glare for Sarah. “Don’t spread lashon hara, Sarah. It’s a sin, and it’s unbecoming, besides.”

“Don’t do that, either,” Mama said. “What have I told you about respecting your elders? Both of you?” she added pointedly.

“I don’t want to hear it, Rebekah, and I do not want to hear tales of you being improper with a boy, either, do you hear me? Especially not with the Laniado boy.”

Rebekah wondered what exactly Mama’s objection was to “the Laniado boy” — that he’d be particularly repulsed by impropriety, given his piousness? Or did Mama fear him as a prospect, knowing he dreamed of being a rabbi and teacher someday and would never bring in the money that the men dealing in dry goods or trading cotton did? Or perhaps it was that he was Sephardic — the Laniados had come from Portugal a generation ago — and Mama secretly hoped her eldest daughter would marry a boy with German blood like theirs and raise a family with their Ashkenazi customs.

In any case, Rebekah knew better than to ask. “Honor thy father and thy mother” may have been the fifth commandment in the Torah, but it was the first in the Wolf household. Anyway, Papa’s large, lumbering frame walked through the door then, turning all talk to his day at work and his upcoming annual trip to New York. When he brought up the subject of the synagogue’s progress, though, Rebekah couldn’t help but ask another question.

“What of the school once the synagogue is built, Papa?” she asked, ladling out fish stew.

He regarded his eldest daughter over the rims of his spectacles. “Cheder will return to the synagogue building, of course. I’m sure your brother will be delighted to have his studies in a proper Beit Midrash.”

Jacob nodded, but Rebekah knew he didn’t give a fig where he had his studies — not his religious studies, anyway. All Jacob ever talked about was how he was going to be a merchant like Papa, dealing with visitors who traveled from all over Georgia and South Carolina to purchase his textiles and making the long trip up to New York once a year to replenish at good credit rates. Jacob cared for sums far more than he would ever care for David and Goliath or the Exodus. More than once, she’d lingered outside while he studied with Papa, watching him yawn or clean dirt from his fingernails while envy burned in her like the candlelight that flickered over their texts.

“But . . . do you think . . . might there be room for girls to study in a proper Beit Midrash, too? Separate from the boys, of course,” she added hastily, as if such a thing even needed to be stated.

“For what purpose?” Creases formed between Papa’s light-blue eyes. “Does Mrs. Samuels not teach you that which you need to know? Does your mama not show you how to keep a kosher home?”

Rebekah swallowed hard, suddenly not at all hungry, although she continued to dish out the stew. Mama taught her the most important things — the blessing over the candles to welcome Shabbat just before sunset every Friday, how to boil eggs for the Pesach Seder and braid golden challah bread for Shabbat and holidays, that dishes like roast ham and oysters were for their gentile neighbors, but no pig or shellfish would ever grace a kosher table.

But she didn’t teach the story of Esther, or of Ruth, or of Deborah. Her mother didn’t teach her how Rebekah — her biblical namesake — saw that Jacob was the son chosen by God, and not his twin, Esau, who was preferred by Isaac. Those bits and pieces had all been gleaned from nagging Caleb or eavesdropping on Jacob’s lessons.

“Of course she does. I just meant . . . it would be nice to learn more Torah. I know Mama is very, very busy with Abigail, and —”

“Do you not learn Torah in your studies with Mrs. Samuels?” Papa’s voice had risen just enough for Rebekah to know he did not like this conversation.

“Mrs. Samuels does teach us the parsha every week,” she said carefully as she took a seat with her own dish. “I simply hoped to learn a little bit more — maybe the Prophets and the Megillot. Perhaps even Hebrew, so I might study them for myself.”

“You do not need any such instruction, child,” Papa said firmly. “Our Sages are very clear that it is most important for the women of Israel to focus on nurturing a family and maintaining a kosher home. How can you have time to learn everything you need to know in order to be a proper Jewish bride and mother if you’re filling your head with other things? If you marry a scholar, how will you support his Torah study if you do not learn the skills needed to maintain a boardinghouse or store?”

A hundred answers rose in Rebekah’s throat, and she swallowed them all down. None were proper for a young southern lady or a daughter of Israel. “Yes, Papa,” she said around the lump they formed.

“This is the nonsense the Yankees are spreading,” he muttered. “That Gratz woman is shaking up Philadelphia with that new school of hers. Can’t leave well enough alone.”

“New school?” Rebekah had not heard any word of this, not even from her most gossipy classmate, Miriam. “What kind of new school?”

“It’s foolishness,” her father assured them all, buttering his corn bread with a firm hand. “A free Hebrew Sunday school for boys and girls. It seems Miss Gratz does not think our current educational system is sufficient.”

What educational system? Rebekah wanted to ask, and she had to clamp her teeth down on her lips to keep from doing so. She knew she herself was lucky to have a mother who would teach her the ways of a kosher home, and Mrs. Samuels to teach her other matters; some did not have even this. It was no wonder so many of their Jewish neighbors were turning from Halakha and discarding the ways of their faith.

“Among others.” Her father stabbed his corn bread with such fierceness that Rebekah knew he was anxious to end the discussion, but she could not have been more enthralled. A school full of teachers? A school that would give equal education to boys and girls? To Rebekah, it sounded like paradise. “And the school trains new teachers as well. As if more women need to be distracted from their homes and children with this pointless pursuit.”

Rebekah’s heart beat a frantic tattoo. A school that trained new teachers. What if she could not only receive a better Jewish education but impart one as well? Her father’s annual trip to New York was coming soon, and her entire being burned with the desire to join him on the journey north and stop in Philadelphia along the way.

But of course she could not. She would never see the inside of Miss Gratz’s school, never teach in one of her own. She would remain in Savannah forever, bearing children and running a boardinghouse so her husband could continue the studies she could not. There would be no time for the “pointless pursuit” of her own studies.

They made the blessings over their food, then ate the rest of their meal in silence.

For the next week, she did not talk to Caleb even once; instead, she watched with envy from her porch as he went to learn with the men. Nor did she ask to attend services with Papa on Friday night, as he occasionally permitted, instead staying home to set the table for Shabbat dinner and help Mama put Abigail to sleep. He had been unusually irritable ever since the conversation about Miss Gratz’s school, and she feared if she did not behave as a model daughter of Israel now, the few-and-far-between favors he granted would vanish completely.

But when Papa left for three months in New York with several of the other merchants from the congregation, Rebekah felt impatient to expand her education again. She was not brazen enough to try to intercept Caleb on his way to class, but she did walk past the synagogue again in the hopes he would be there. He wasn’t, that first day. Nor the second. It wasn’t until the third day that he appeared, his ill-fitting vest highlighting how rapidly he’d been growing this past year — too quickly for his mother’s arthritic fingers to keep up. Rebekah wondered idly just how improper it would be to stitch him a new vest in between her work on tablecloths and aprons, and had to acknowledge that she already knew the answer.

He seemed surprised to see her, but no less polite for it. “Miss Rebekah.” He tipped his hat. “Rabbi Yehuda HaLevi’s The Kuzari, before you ask. We talked about The Kuzari and other works of medieval Jewish philosophy in class today. It was fascinating.”

A light flush filled her cheeks, and she prayed it was shadowed by her parasol. “I wasn’t going to ask,” she lied, or, well, it wasn’t really a lie. She wasn’t going to ask that.

Modesty — the most notable of the great prophet Moses’s virtues. Her father was fond of making sure she internalized that lesson. “Do you think God would enable you to share more? With me?” Her face promptly flamed at her inelegant phrasing. “Would you teach me?”

“I know to teach me Talmud or Kabbalah would be forbidden,” she said quickly, fiddling with the cuff at the elbow of her green cotton dress. “But Hebrew. Torah. Prophets. I just want to know more about our people, our history, our language. And nobody wants to teach me that. Nobody thinks women deserve to know anything but how to make challah and bless the Shabbat candles.”

“A woman’s role in the home is very important, Rebekah,” he said, his voice patient but firm. “Men would not be able to both learn and provide for our families if women didn’t —”

“I know.” She exhaled sharply. “I know. I hear so much about the woman’s role in Klal Yisrael, and I know it is important. But Papa learns and works, and so do the other men of Mickve Israel. If you all have time to do both, why don’t we?”

“I don’t have any children, Caleb.” She was supposed to be demure, to know her place, but she’d had it with everyone deciding her place but her. If her biblical namesake had stuck to her place, the warlike Esau might be their forefather instead of the peaceful, learned Jacob. If Esther had stuck to her place, the Jewish people might not exist at all. Jewish history was not made of women who remained willfully ignorant in order to sew tablecloths. “But when I do, God willing, I want them to be learned. I want my boys and my girls to know our traditions, our words. I want them to see why observing our laws and sharing our history matters. There is so much more women could be doing in our community, if only we were allowed.”

There was a long silence as Caleb stroked his angular jaw while contemplating her words, and then, mercifully, gave one stiff nod. “All right, Rebekah. I will teach you. But —”

“I am not sure that is for the best. The laws of yichud forbid an unwed man and woman from being alone.”

She knew this, but she also knew that if anyone had an inkling they were engaging in this private study, she’d never be permitted to leave home again — not for lessons or any services at which women’s presence was merely optional, not even to call upon Deborah for social visits. And if word spread to the matchmaker that she was stubborn and immodest, not only would it be more difficult to find her a match, but possibly more difficult to find one for Sarah as well.

It was so much to risk, but it didn’t feel like a choice; she needed this knowledge the way she needed air. Maybe she couldn’t be trained in Miss Gratz’s school, but this could be another path for her to learn everything she would need to teach others. “Surely there must be a way. Caleb, think what a difference it would make if the women in the community had someone to teach them to love our religion and laws instead of simply abiding by them. Think of all those we’ve lost from the congregation — what if this is the way to bring them back? To keep future members close?”

There was another long silence, but, finally, the spark of an idea flashed in his dark eyes. “We must find a place that is both public and private. As long as people are freely able to enter and see us, I think that would be halakhically permissible.”

A place both public enough to keep with Jewish law and private enough that they would not be spotted . . . “Why, I reckon we could use the Gottliebs’ carriage house, same as Mrs. Samuels teaches us in. They don’t lock the doors after hours. We could leave them open; there’d be no reason for anyone to come looking.”

Judging by Caleb’s pinched expression, he still wasn’t entirely convinced of the propriety and wisdom of Rebekah’s plan, but he nodded. “We’ll try it. Sunday evening.”

“I’ll bring a candle,” she promised, praying to Hashem her mother did not keep careful count. “I’ll see you Sunday evening, after supper.”

“So Deborah was not the only female hero in Judges,” Rebekah said with no small amount of satisfaction as they ended their session for the evening. They’d been studying together for weeks now, and as night began to fall earlier and earlier, they’d cut their lessons from two evenings a week down to just one, fearing her mother would notice if she snuck too many extra candles. “I cannot believe no one speaks of Yael.”

“A woman who lulled a general to sleep and then stabbed him through the temple with a tent peg is not generally considered a topic for polite conversation.”

Rebekah laughed at Caleb’s dry wit, careful to keep her mirth quiet. She hadn’t known Caleb had a strong sense of humor, but he routinely made her laugh, and she loved the way his dark eyes twinkled in the candlelight. He would make a wonderful teacher someday, and what’s more, he inspired her to want to be the same.

It made her wonder how Miss Gratz taught in that school of hers up in Philadelphia.

“Simply because she was whispering her prayers, Eli thought she was drunk?” Rebekah was flabbergasted. They were making steady progress in the Prophets portion of the Bible and were now studying the book of Samuel. “But we pray silently every day. I was punished with an entire week of extra chores for speaking aloud during the Amidah.”

Caleb smiled, even as he gestured for her to keep her voice low. “Yes, we pray silently now, but our Sages point to this very source as evidence that we did not always. If silent prayer had been commonplace at that time, surely the High Priest would not have questioned Hannah. And so we must infer that it was not.”

His smile widened, just a little bit. “Arguably, yes, she is.” He looked back down at the book in his lap. “I suspected you might like that.”

They continued through Kings and learned of Ahab and the queen Jezebel, who ordered the death of hundreds of prophets. Of Athaliah, a woman so violently stricken with ambition that after her son was killed, she murdered her entire family so she could reign. Of Jehosheba, the righteous princess who managed to rescue a single child of that family and protect him until he was old enough to reclaim the crown, therefore salvaging the Davidic line of monarchy.

They learned until Rebekah could slowly, slowly read the letters of the Aleph-Bet, until she could recognize the different forms of the name of God, until she could spot her own name in the book of Genesis, and Caleb’s in the book of Numbers.

They learned until the night a shadow filled the door of the carriage house and covered the pages of Caleb’s open Bible.

“What were you thinking?” her father raged. Her mother had been too preoccupied with baby Abigail and preparing the house for her husband’s return to notice Rebekah’s regular absence, but he noted it almost immediately. He’d only been back from New York for a week before he came looking in the carriage house. It felt like everything happened in seconds then: her and Caleb jumping apart as if struck by lightning. Her father’s voice thundering in her ears. The candle flame being extinguished, although she had no idea who actually plunged the carriage house into darkness. Her father’s demand that she and Caleb march in front of him around the corner to the Laniados’ house. And now they were in the Laniados’ simply furnished parlor, her fingernails digging into the wood of her armchair as if it might anchor her when everything else was spinning and it took every ounce of her strength to meet Caleb’s father’s gaze.

Haim Laniado’s quiet nature made him all the more imposing, and Rebekah knew her father was ashamed in front of him now — ashamed of her, his rebellious daughter.

“I just wanted to learn,” Rebekah said quietly. “There was nothing improper between us.”

“The entire arrangement was improper.” Her father’s normally pale complexion was ruddy with anger, his knobby hands slicing the air as he spoke. Only his determination not to be heard throughout Savannah kept his voice at a fierce whisper. “The two of you? Alone? You know this is forbidden. You both know this.”

“We were not in violation of yichud,” she said, stealing a glance at Caleb. He would not meet her eyes, would not look at anything but his hands folded over his dark breeches. “The door was always open. Always.”

“How can we believe a word you say?” Mr. Laniado’s voice was as soft as his demeanor. “My own son — my only son — hiding with a girl in secret.” He took a deep breath. “You were taught better than this, Caleb.”

“She’s telling the truth, Abba. All we did was study, and the door was always open. She asked me to teach her Torah, and I did. But I am sorry I did it in secret.”

“No one would have let us if we did not do it in secret,” Rebekah pointed out, earning glares from all the men. She pressed on anyway. “If you don’t believe that we were studying, then test me. Ask me about the Judges or Kings. Ask me to read from a Torah scroll. Ask me about something I would never learn from Mrs. Samuels. Ask me and I will know.”

“That is not the point, Rebekah. What did I say the last time we discussed this?”

“Did I not help Mama with chores these past few months? Did I not find time for both? I know my place in the Jewish home, Papa. But I think I have a place outside of it, too.” She took a deep breath. “You and Mama have taught me so well to preserve our traditions, to put being Jewish first. You have warned me of all the dangers of turning from our path. But what of those who have not received such teachings? The nation around us holds such temptation to blend in. How can those resist it who feel they have nothing in our own beautiful Jewish nation to grasp? How can we continue as a community if we do not educate enough teachers within it?”

Papa snorted. “You view yourself as a teacher? Anavah, Rebekah. Midat Moshe Rabbeinu. Our greatest leader possessed modesty above all.”

She winced; he could not have injured her more had he slapped her. But memories of the women who’d come before her, who’d believed they had more to give than men expected of them, drove her forward. “So I’m permitted to learn the virtues of Moses, but I’m not permitted to learn the story of him receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai? Doesn’t that sound silly?”

Every man in the room sucked in a breath at her insolence, and she wondered if she had gone too far. But what did it matter now? Her father’s respect for her was already gone, and surely Caleb would no longer speak to her after this. She would never be allowed to attend Mrs. Samuels’s class or Friday-night services again.

“Tell me, Papa,” she pleaded. “What do I have to do in order to learn? All I want is to be a learned daughter of Israel. I don’t want to disobey you and Mama. I don’t want to hide. I certainly don’t want trouble for Caleb. But I want to learn. There must be a way. If he cannot teach me, will you?”

“I do not have time for this nonsense, Rebekah. I have a son who needs to learn Talmud, as does Mr. Laniado. The community has decided what you need to know, and you need to trust your community. Kol Yisrael arevim zeh lazeh — all of Israel is responsible for one another. You need to accept that your elders know what is best.”

Caleb shook his head. “I do not think they do,” he said, and Rebekah snapped to attention. “You are of course correct that Kol Yisrael arevim zeh lazeh, but does that not include being responsible for the women of the community, too? For their knowledge and education? Rebekah is very clever, sir. And she is interested — far more than most of the young men with whom I have studied. I do not believe it is in the interest of the Jewish community to deprive her of an equal education. I think she would have very much to offer Mickve Israel, especially since the new synagogue will be finished soon.”

Rebekah was stunned to hear Caleb defend her, but he wasn’t finished. He remained calm even though her father’s jaw was clenched tight enough to crack a pecan. “I would like to keep teaching her. She is the most insightful study partner I have found in Savannah, and I think our learning has been beneficial not only for her education but for mine. I believe she could be a wonderful teacher someday.”

The rest of the room fell silent as Haim Laniado stroked his long graying beard. Rebekah had never heard Caleb challenge an elder. It warmed her from head to toe to have him stand up for her and for their partnership — to hear anyone stand up for her at all. For the first time since her father had marched them into the parlor, Rebekah relaxed her grip on the wooden armrests.

“With your permission, we can study on the porch,” Rebekah said quickly. “In full view of everyone who walks by.”

Mr. Laniado shook his head. “That would certainly not look proper. As Yossi Ben Yochanan teaches us in Pirkei Avot, ‘Al tarbe sicha im ha’isha’ — one is not to engage in excessive conversation with a woman, for he will neglect his own study. This is said even for a married couple, but for an unwed pair . . . I cannot allow it.”

“Nor can I.” Her father tugged at the cuffs of his linen shirt, the way he always did before making a proclamation. There was no space for either her or Caleb to argue that this wasn’t the sort of idle chatter in question, that it was study. There was barely any space to breathe at all. “I see how arrogant these studies have made you already, not to mention how little regard you have given to your sisters’ futures and the reputation you will give our family. I cannot tell another man what to allow in his home, with his wife, but I will not have a daughter living under my roof behaving in this manner.”

With his wife . . . She had known, deep down in her heart, that this suggestion would arise, but hearing the words spoken aloud made her wish she could shed her skin like the serpent of Eden. “Papa, I . . . I do not feel . . . I am not . . .”

“You want to someday wed, do you not? To fulfill the mitzvah of Pru U’Rvu and bring more children into the Jewish community?”

It was not that she did not care for Caleb; she did. He was kind to her, and he was intelligent, and she did not mind that he would not earn a merchant’s salary. He was nice-looking, too, with his strong, dark features and lean build. In truth, she had long suspected he would be her future; while many of the Jews in the South were marrying gentiles and working their hardest to blend into Savannah, the Laniados were like the Wolfs in their commitment to marrying within and observing the faith.

But she was not ready for a home of her own yet, and what time would there be for her Torah study once she had one? Once she had children of her own who needed to be fed and clothed and watched every spare moment?

“What about school?” she pleaded, taking one last chance. “You mentioned Miss Gratz’s school in Philadelphia. . . .”

Her father laughed, and his mirth had never sounded so cruel. “You reckon your mama and I would send you away from your home and family to study under the tutelage of that woman? I think not. I am kind enough to give you a choice here, Rebekah. You will speak to the matchmaker tomorrow, or Mama will ask Mrs. Baron to take you as an apprentice at her boardinghouse; I am certain she could use plenty of assistance with her sweeping and washing, and you would learn some much-needed skills in return. It seems I made a poor choice in your education once, and I will not make that mistake again.”

Perspiration snaked down Rebekah’s spine as she waited for Caleb to speak up again.

It was his father who broke the silence. “It has been a long night, Benjamin. Let us discuss this further tomorrow. It is best we all get some sleep.”

Rebekah’s body moved as if pulled by the strings of a marionette. If she did not make a choice soon, she would cease to be given one. But what choice could she live with?

“Are you certain this is what you want to do?” Caleb’s voice was so scratchy, it hurt Rebekah’s throat.

“I am as certain as I have ever been about anything.” She smoothed down the full skirt of her coffee-brown cotton dress with trembling hands.

Again, that shadow smile. It made her heart ache to think how long it might be before she saw it again. “I believe in you and what you have to offer the Jewish people, Rebekah. I think you will help change our community’s future.”

“You don’t know what that means to me.” She wished she could embrace him, feel the sturdy support of the only person who believed in her. But propriety and modesty reigned, now as ever. Running away might be her biggest act of rebellion, but she was determined it would be her last. Well, aside from asking Caleb to assist her in hiring a stagecoach that would take her to Charleston for the first leg of her journey north to Philadelphia. “I’ll be back, Caleb. God willing, I will. It’s not just me I’m going for; I’m hoping that it’s for the future of Mickve Israel, too.”

“What do I say to your family?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder as if they were lying in wait. Or maybe he was avoiding her gaze, the same way she’d found herself doing many times that day. She’d known leaving her family would be difficult, and she’d cried when she’d left the good-bye letter to her best friend, Deborah, but she had not expected that leaving him would be as hard.

I will return, she reminded herself as his gaze returned to hers. I will return, and I will return to you, if you’ll have me. He hadn’t said a word about marrying her, but he had come today, and that felt like as much of a sign from Hashem as anything. “I told you, I left a note. They’ll know where I am.”

“But still, they will ask if I knew. What do I say when they want to know how you could leave them behind?”

She had thought about this many times since she’d made the decision to leave, as she’d sold all the jewelry she’d inherited from her grandmother in order to afford the trip. And every time, it came back to the one thing she knew her family might understand. “Tell them I’m Jewish first.”

I was privileged to have excellent Jewish education my entire childhood at schools that valued girls learning all the same things our male peers were, including Talmud. However, this isn’t the case across the board at Orthodox schools even now, and it certainly wasn’t in Rebekah’s time, when education for girls was barely a consideration at all.

Accessibility of Jewish education to boys and girls, rich and poor alike, can be accredited to the work of Rebecca Gratz (1781 – 1869), who founded the first Hebrew Sunday school in Philadelphia in February 1838. She was a fierce advocate for Jewish women and economic equality, and her life and work are skillfully documented in Rebecca Gratz: Women and Judaism in Antebellum America by Dianne Ashton, which was of great use to me in my research.

I chose to set the story in Savannah partly to highlight one of America’s great early Jewish communities with tremendous devotion to preservation of their early history (as I warmly recall from a visit to Mickve Israel nearly a decade ago), and partly to send Rebekah on a physical journey to obtain the education she sought. Of course, she had no way of knowing how soon Savannah (and a number of other cities, including New York and Charleston) would follow suit in picking up Gratz’s school model, and that by the time her baby sister was old enough for religious studies, she would have no need to travel at all.