Danya. Anne McGivern
would be safe in Jerusalem. And Miryam was right: I would be fortunate to have time to read, write, and search for answers to my questions. The Holy One had brought me this far unharmed. Perhaps He might still have work for me, a way I could help to liberate our people. I would pray and watch for such a sign.
When at last Jerusalem emerged on the horizon, I latched my arm through Father’s. “Tell us about Jerusalem,” I coaxed.
“It’s large.”
“And the people?”
“They’re like people everywhere. People come here from everywhere.”
He withdrew his arm from mine to shade his eyes and look towards the southwest. “Soon you’ll see it for yourselves.”
Naomi took his arm. “Did you like Jerusalem?” she asked.
“Yes, especially the Temple.” Father smiled and his eyes drifted off.
Naomi tugged at him. “Then why did you leave?”
“I could no longer live in Jerusalem as a good Jew.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“It’s complicated, child. You’ll understand better when you know Jerusalem. And when you’re older. Be patient.”
Father’s life, so simple on its surface, seemed to have a trapdoor leading to a secret place. From time to time, he would crack that door open but then slam it shut before I could accustom my eyes to its darkness and peer in. It made me miss Lev all the more. He could help me prop open the door.
We entered Jerusalem from the north, pouring through the Benjamin Gate with a lively, jostling crowd. The late afternoon sun was nestling itself onto the houses and shops, bathing them in soft tans and yellows. Father plucked us from the throng, and we stopped for a moment at a shaded vantage point under a shopkeeper’s awning. Naomi clapped her hands and squealed. “We’re here. We’re finally here! I’ve waited my whole life, twelve years, for this, and now, finally, little Naomi from Nazareth is in Jerusalem!”
I was both relieved that our journey had ended and anxious about what lay ahead. We elbowed our way down a street cutting lengthwise through the middle of the city. Father’s limp lessened, and he no longer leaned on his staff. His eyes, usually tired and faded with studying, brightened. Their color seemed a richer brown. It had been years since he had been to this city and seen Chuza, his firstborn.
The main street of the Tyropoeon Valley was crammed with shops and market carts. Exotic-looking people swarmed around us. Many women wore veils; a few had face coverings trailing all the way down to the ground. Naomi, giggling, pointed to a woman whose thin tunic clung so tightly to her breasts we could see the outline of her nipples. I saw my first wig. We howled in laughter at the hair on a shopkeeper’s head, piled so high it looked as if she might topple over.
Besides hoods, turbans, and mantles, men wore hats of every description: hats with wide, stiff brims or flaps; hats pointed at the top like cypress trees; hats embroidered with the shapes of animals and heavenly bodies; hats tall and rounded like the necks of wine decanters.
Eight slaves in matching red pantaloons suddenly commandeered the whole walkway, shouting, “Make way, make way.” On their shoulders they balanced a man reclining on a chair and wearing a white toga bordered in purple. He was holding a rolled document, sealed with a gaudy blotch of red wax. Father scowled. “Probably a Roman procurator.”
Another litter, behind that one, bore a woman. An enormous turquoise brooch fastened her mantle, and I gaped in wonder. Surely she must be the richest woman in Jerusalem! But her skin was whiter than any I had ever seen. She looked as if she had never been warmed by the sun, and I felt a little sorry for her.
Clamorous Jerusalem: tools pounding, digging, sawing, splitting; animals barking, bleating, bellowing; people chattering, chanting, shouting and singing in Greek, Latin, Aramaic, Hebrew, and a hundred alien tongues. Our donkeys added their brays to the din.
Open stalls reeked with the odor of spoiling fish and meat. The sewers swirled with the blood of slaughtered animals. Naomi, feeling sick, asked to rest. As we turned away from the crowded market area, I almost collided with a camel. It hissed at me, and I backed away from its enormous teeth. We climbed a staircase and sat there while Naomi’s stomach settled. By this time, I, too, welcomed the chance to get away from the rowdy crowds. The donkeys pawed at the ground, hoping to uncover a sprig of green to eat, but nothing grew up through the stones.
“Are you sure you know the way to Chuza’s?” a very pale Naomi asked my father.
“Of course. It was once my house, and my father’s and grandfather’s before that.” From a pack on the younger donkey’s back, Father extracted the Sabbath lamp, carefully wrapped in sheepskin, and cradled it against his breast.
We climbed a second staircase then followed along a street to a third staircase and another street. Father never hesitated. He made no wrong turns. Up here we could barely detect the commotion below. In this section of the city, the houses were all large and walled. Father led us down a few more streets, through a gate, and into the courtyard of a private home. He eased himself onto a stone bench just as the sun’s reflected glow expired. I sat next to him. Tears spilled onto his cheeks as he placed the Sabbath lamp in my lap. “You are home, my little light,” he said.
An open window overlooked the courtyard. From within the house, we heard something crash onto a stone floor, then sharp whispers. A stout man with a closely trimmed, oiled beard strode from the house. He wore a linen tunic and smelled of soap. “Father,” Chuza said, “Shalom.”
My Brother’s Mansion in the Upper City
Chuza bowed to Father but did not embrace him. “I received your letter, though we hadn’t expected you so soon. I’m saddened that Nazareth is threatened, but my wife and I are pleased that you’ve chosen to take refuge with us.”
A dainty woman about twenty years old stepped into the courtyard and smiled warmly at my father. “We are honored that you have come, Father. Since your son and I were wed, I’ve prayed for this day.”
Chuza turned to me and said stiffly, “Shalom, sister. You are welcome here.”
Joanna embraced me tightly. “Chuza told me you were a strong, beautiful little girl, and I see you’re now a strong, beautiful woman. I’m so happy to finally meet you, my dear Danya.”
Joanna was the beautiful one. She had flawless light skin, perfectly arranged, honey-colored hair, and graceful eyebrows. “Delicate” seemed the best word for her features. I towered over her and felt awkward. When she reached out to Naomi, it was almost a relief to see that Joanna had an imperfection: ragged fingernails. “We’re delighted you’ve brought your pretty young friend with you. Shalom, Naomi,” said Joanna.
Chuza nodded at Naomi, then asked Father, “Where’s Lev?”
“With the Essenes,” said Father.
“Has he joined the monastery at Qumran?”
“We expect to hear from him soon.”
Apparently, Father didn’t want Chuza to know about Lev’s involvement with Judah and the raid. Naomi and I would have to guard our tongues.
Servants appeared to tend to the donkeys and our possessions. Father gave them strict instructions about handling the stone jars containing his scrolls. Then, because he had been exposed to corpses on our journey, he asked Chuza to accompany him to the house’s miqveh to purify himself. Watching the men leave, I was surprised at Chuza’s size. He was wider and shorter than Father. Lev and I had always thought of our older brother as tall and lean, like us, though probably taller because he was older.
Joanna led us into the house, and we met her little dog, Dodi. Naomi fussed over the animal, burying her fingers in her white, silky coat and accepting her watery kisses. I found Dodi unappealing. When I tried to pat her, she cringed pathetically and flapped her tail in an overanxious desire to please. She neither herded sheep, nor chased rodents