Danya. Anne McGivern
me this fruit, called a lemon. Its juice is supposed to improve the flavor of salted fish.”
Obediently, we squeezed the lemon over our fish.
In the silence that followed, Joanna, Naomi, and I looked from father to son, our hands clenched in our laps. My throat hurt, as if I had swallowed an underchewed lump of goat meat. I had forgotten how often I used to feel this way when Chuza lived with us. The tension between them, lurking in the background from the moment Chuza had greeted Father in the courtyard, now sprang from its weak confines.
“I have no voice in this matter,” Chuza said, breathing quickly, in and out.
We finished our meal in silence, and then Father said, “We leave for the Temple Mount at dawn.”
Chuza slammed both of his hands down on the table and pushed himself up from his couch. Scowling, at last bearing a resemblance to both Father and Lev, he stormed out of the room. Joanna shrugged her shoulders. Even in Jerusalem, I thought, salted fish is salted fish. Lemon juice cannot remove its bitterness.
We rose early the next morning, having barely slept anyway, and met Father for breakfast. Joanna, obeying her husband’s orders, would not accompany us; nevertheless, she wanted to make sure we were well fed before setting out. Warm wheat loaves and freshly ground hummus dispatched the lingering foulness of last night’s salted fish. A platter of perfectly ripened melon slices sweetened our anticipation of the glorious day awaiting us.
Suddenly, Chuza appeared in the doorway to the dining room. He pulled up a stool, sat next to Father, and waited until his breathing evened out before speaking. “I am only Herod Archelaus’s steward. I manage his estates. I have no influence over any of his other affairs.”
“But surely he confides in you,” said Father.
“Yes. And that’s why I’m begging you not to go to the Temple for the next few days. Wait until the Passover pilgrims leave the city. Then you can go and offer sacrifice and pray in the Temple all you wish. The protests will have died down. The Temple Mount will be peaceful once again.”
Father stiffened. “What protests?”
Chuza whisked a fly from the fruit with the back of his hand. “Protests over some executions that took place a year ago.”
“Who was executed?” asked Father.
Chuza poured water for Father and spoke reassuringly. “Two foolish teachers, believing King Herod, Archelaus’s father, had died, incited their students to tear down a meaningless symbol over the Temple gate. Herod, though very sick at the time, was nevertheless well enough to order that the teachers and their students be burnt alive.”
The melon in my mouth soured. Even in remote Galilee we had heard tales of the late king’s brutality, but I hadn’t imagined Herod capable of such an atrocity.
“The golden eagle is not ‘meaningless,’” Father said quietly. “It’s the official emblem of Roman imperial authority.”
“We Jews are not forced to worship that image, just to tolerate it,” argued Chuza. “In Jerusalem we have to accommodate to Rome. We don’t have the luxury of living in a remote village that Rome cares nothing about.”
Father’s voice rose again. “The Roman eagle, mounted over the great gate of the Temple, mocks the power of The Holy One.”
“The Holy One is all-powerful, of course,” said Chuza. “He can’t be mocked by a golden eagle. It’s a reasonable accommodation to Rome to let their symbol stand. By permitting them their silly bird, we’re able to run our Temple without their interference. Usually. Not today.”
“The anniversary of this martyrdom is all the more reason to visit the Temple Mount today, then. We must honor the brave men who died trying to purify it,” said Father.
Chuza threw up his hands in disgust. “I see there’s no convincing you, as usual. Go to the Temple, then, but go yourself. I will not permit you to take the women!”
Father turned to Naomi and me. “You may come with me or stay here, as you wish.” He proceeded through the doorway and out to the courtyard.
The Temple Mount
Despite Chuza’s warnings, Naomi and I chose to go to the Temple. Passover was our greatest feast. To celebrate it in this most sacred place with Jews from all over the world was an event we had dreamt of all our lives. We trusted Father’s judgment and believed he would keep us safe.
We could’ve taken a shortcut to the Temple Mount, using a bridge that connected its western gate to the Upper City, but Father insisted we enter from the south, the traditional access for pilgrims. From this direction in particular, the Mount, a hill between two valleys, dominated the landscape of Jerusalem. We shaded our eyes and gaped at its glistening walls. They were constructed of enormous blocks of white stone. About halfway up, carved columns protruded from the flat surface of the stones, extending all the way to the top of the wall. Each ashlar was so perfectly cut and placed that no mortar was needed between them. Not even a knife blade could slide between any two stones.
Though it was still early in the morning, people flooded the streets and market stalls. Merchants sold expensive grain, oil, wine, and animals to be used as sacrificial offerings on the Temple’s altar. All goods were guaranteed ritually pure. Father bought a pair of doves and a covered basket to transport them.
Before ascending to the Temple Mount itself, we were required to follow the rite of ritual purification. Naomi and I approached one of the women’s bathhouses scattered around the huge square below the Mount. Many women coming out of it wore rented white tunics, symbols of their pilgrim status.
“Did you get money from your father to rent clothing for us?” said Naomi.
“No, he only gave us coins for our purification bath.” I wished we had the money. In pilgrim clothing, we wouldn’t have looked as poor as we did in our yellowed flax tunics and gray wool cloaks.
In the bathhouse, we took off our clothes, asked an attendant to hold them for us, and completely immersed ourselves in the pool’s chilly water. It was no place to linger, so we quickly climbed out. As we dried ourselves off with the worn flax towels the attendant provided, Naomi said, “You never told me your brother was so mean.”
“I told you I don’t know my brother. Besides, was he being mean? Or just careful? After all, we came to Jerusalem to be safe.”
“I thought he’d be sweet, like Lev. Maybe he doesn’t like me.”
“There seems to be much he doesn’t like.”
Because everyone was required to remain barefoot on the Temple Mount, we carried our sandals as we emerged from the women’s bathhouse. We waited for Father at the bottom of the wide staircase at the Mount’s southern entrance.
Naomi squealed. “Here I am, finally, about to enter the Temple in Jerusalem. And during Passover. I never, ever, thought this would happen!”
Father joined us in time to hear Naomi’s delight and smiled. He stepped between us, hooked his arms through ours, and led us onto the staircase. He recited one of King David’s psalms as we walked up it.
Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord? And who shall stand in his holy place? Those who have clean hands and pure hearts . . .
Those who do not lift up their souls to what is false, and do not swear deceitfully. They will receive blessing from the Lord, and vindication from the God of their salvation.
The staircase ended at the Huldah Gates, enormous gilded doors that opened into a tunnel. “Lift up your heads, O gates! And be lifted up, O ancient doors!” Father chanted as we entered this spacious underpass to the courtyards above. Torches glowed along the passageway, but they weren’t bright enough to fully illuminate the elaborate carvings on its columns and domed ceilings. I could distinguish the shapes of vines, leaves, and flowers, all intertwined and flowing into one another, on the columns, but I couldn’t follow the complicated patterns of shapes and forms on