The Apostle's Sister, page 7
“You have changed a great deal.” I offered my opinion casually, but she swooped on my words like a raptor.
“You truly think so? Changed for the good or bad?”
“I cannot decide. You look more like Ima. Older.”
“I look older?” Dismay and delight struggled on her face. “Much older, or only a little older?”
“I said older, not old. I would say marriage agrees with you.”
“If—perhaps—oh, never mind!” She was turning to leave when I caught her arm.
“Do not rush off. This Avidan—is he good to you? He is not cruel, is he?”
A sudden rise of water filled her eyes. “He is not cruel. He is gentle and good.”
“Then you must be happy—so why are you crying?”
She dashed away a tear that had slipped from her lower lashes. “I do not know, brother. I want to be happy, but when I think about leaving Ima and Abba and Moselle, happiness evades me.”
“Who said you are leaving?”
“Avidan—and you, apparently. I know he asked you about the yeshivot in Jerusalem.”
“He asked, but he did not say he wanted to move to the Holy City.”
“He is thinking about it. I do not know when he wants to go, but your advice has awakened his ambition. Now he yearns to learn from Torah teachers in Jerusalem, and nothing else will satisfy.”
I tugged on my beard. “You should be happy he wants to study with the best teachers. Many women would love to move to Jerusalem. The Holy City is the center of the world, the apple of HaShem’s eye.”
“I know Jerusalem, and I know Tarsus. And I know I am happier in Tarsus.”
“Then perhaps you should redirect your thoughts. Instead of thinking about how much you will miss Tarsus, think about how wonderful it will be to live in Jerusalem.”
“What you suggest is not easy.” She lifted her head. “How can I have peace about the future when I do not know what it will bring? Only HaShem knows what will happen tomorrow.”
“Aya.” I caught her hand. “When we last spoke, you were convinced you would not be happy as a married woman. Yet here you are, looking beautiful and content. Marriage was not the end of your happiness, was it?”
“I have been married only eight days.”
“You worry when you should be trusting HaShem. ‘In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.’ Your task is simply to walk in His way.”
She lifted a brow. “And what about you? Do you have peace about marrying today? You did not have shalom a week ago.”
I drew a deep breath. “I was not upset then and I am not upset today. I know what HaShem expects, and I am ready to follow His will.”
“Then let us speak next week and measure our happiness again.”
With a wry smile, she pulled her fingers out of my grasp and walked away.
A few hours later, Avidan and I went to the house of Ezra, father to Bettina, to fetch my sixteen-year-old bride. Avidan stood behind me, occasionally shouting and banging a drum, doing his best to produce the celebratory sounds usually supplied by the friends of the bridegroom.
After ringing the bell at Ezra’s gate, I locked my hands behind my back and endured Avidan’s pitiful pounding for as long as I could. Then I told him we had no further need for noise. “We will be merry in our hearts. Let the friends of the bride make the sounds of celebration.”
From inside the house I heard muffled voices, then a veiled woman stepped into the courtyard. Behind her appeared a crowd of females, all dressed in colorful tunics and head coverings. At the bride’s side, looking pleased and proud, stood her parents, Ezra and Noya.
“Sha’ul?” An uncertain note filled the bride’s voice, but I extended my hand with a confident gesture. “Come, my bride. Everything has been prepared for our wedding.”
Though I did my best to sound enthusiastic, my voice seemed insubstantial without a few manly shouts to accompany it. Avidan whooped when Bettina took my hand, then moved out of the way as I led my bride through the streets we had just traveled. Behind us, Bettina’s friends followed, trailed by her parents and a train of relatives.
At my parents’ home, the courtyard gate had been flung open and garlanded with flowers. I led my bride into the open area, where servants came running with wine for our guests. Though the custom was for the bride and groom to mingle, eat, and drink, I led Bettina around the house to the garden, where the chuppah waited. The silk-draped shelter—my father’s special contribution—symbolized the tents in which Abraham married Sarah, Isaac married Rebekah, and Jacob married Rachel and Leah.
I gripped Bettina’s hand. As we waited for Abba to join us, a thought blew through my mind: when Abraham married Sarah, did he know what HaShem would do through him? Did Isaac suspect he would wrestle with the Angel of Adonai? Did Jacob know his sons would establish the twelve tribes of Israel?
My marriage, if HaShem was willing, might be as significant as those of the patriarchs.
With Bettina by my side, my father took his place and pronounced the traditional blessing. As the words poured from his lips, I turned to look at the face behind the diaphanous veil.
When Bettina and her family came to Ima’s feast last week, I had almost been afraid to look at the woman I had not seen in months. What if she was not as pleasant as I remembered? What if she had burned her face or developed a noticeable scar? Yet Bettina looked exactly as I remembered her—clear-skinned, dark-eyed, and neither plain nor extraordinarily beautiful. She was as pleasing as a serviceable linen tunic, and her appearance suited me well.
Gabor, the Torah teacher, joined us beneath the chuppah. As he recited the seven blessings, I looked past my bride and remembered an afternoon I spent arguing with one of my fellow yeshiva students. “Did the Creator not create all things beautiful?” he had asked. “If so, He prizes beauty, and a man with a beautiful wife has been blessed by HaShem.”
“But was Satan not the most beautiful of all angels?” I countered. “Great beauty leads to pride, and pride leads to sin. Therefore, beauty in either man or woman is not something to be desired, but something to be held lightly and easily surrendered. A man will be far happier with a simple wife than a great beauty.”
“Rebekah was beautiful,” my companion argued.
“And caused Isaac great concern when she was coveted by the king of the Philistines.” I shook my head. “Give me a plain wife, and I will be a happy man.”
Apparently HaShem had answered my prayer. I looked at my wife’s plain face and smiled, sending a ripple of humor throughout the assembled guests.
“Look how eager he is,” one of the old men said, his crusty voice cutting through the recitation of blessings. “What I would give to feel eager blood in my veins again.”
Gabor finished the benediction, and Bettina and I turned to face the crowd of witnesses as man and wife. In that moment, I recognized my father’s wisdom: we were celebrating the wedding outdoors, so the house would not be ritually contaminated by Gentiles. After the eating and dancing, the Gentiles would leave, and the Jews would continue the celebration inside the house.
Knowing we had an entire week to enjoy food, music, and dancing, I took my bride’s hand and led her toward the bridal chamber. Bettina’s fingers trembled, so I gripped her hand more tightly and led the way.
I might have been a reluctant husband, but to honor HaShem, I would do my best to be a good one.
After leading Bettina into the bridal chamber, I closed the door and waited until the excited whispers from the other side faded away. Our guests would eat, drink, and dance while my bride and I consummated our marriage.
I turned to Bettina, who stood waiting beside the bed, her veil trailing over her back. Smiling shyly, she pulled on the sheer fabric and let it slide until it fell to the floor.
I stared, fascinated by the dark stream flowing over her shoulders. Bettina may have possessed an ordinary face, but her true beauty lay in that glorious river. Like any modest woman, she had covered her hair since our betrothal, and I had not realized how amazing it was . . .
I shook my head. I could not allow myself to be distracted from my duty. I was a husband, and she a wife. We had married in obedience to HaShem, and I needed to remind her of the laws and traditions that would henceforth govern our lives.
“Sit, please.” I gestured to the bed and nodded when she sat on the edge. “I have spent time studying marriage, and I want to make certain we are beginning our life on a solid foundation. When remarking on HaShem’s use of Adam’s rib to create woman, one of the sages said, ‘It is as if Adam exchanged a pot of earth for a precious jewel.’ So I will always honor you, for you are my jewel, fresh from HaShem’s hand.”
I smiled, hoping she understood, and in her eyes I saw eagerness and confusion. She had never studied the oral traditions, so perhaps she would require more explanation.
“You will be as a precious and rare jewel to me,” I repeated. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, husband.”
“Excellent. Another sage said men marry for one of four reasons: passion, wealth, ambition, or the glory of HaShem. Time has proven that men who marry for passion raise rebellious sons. Men who marry for wealth have children who will eventually be poor enough to beg for food. Men who marry for ambition—well, consider Athaliah, who murdered all the royal sons once her husband died, proving that unbridled ambition leads to death. But men who marry for the glory of HaShem—their children will preserve Israel.” I studied her face, which now held a touch of sadness. “Do you understand?”
She blinked. “So why did you marry me?”
I looked away, resisting the urge to slap my forehead. Had this girl no powers of deduction?
I forced a smile. “I married you for the glory of HaShem, because a man who wishes to obey God must do his part to replenish the earth. Together we will raise righteous children. One of them might even become our Messiah.”
Her lashes fluttered. “Thank you for explaining.”
I wiped my damp palms on my tunic and sat beside her. “I am glad we are married,” I said, “and I will do my best to be a righteous husband. My life’s purpose is to obey the Law in all things, including marriage. I pray HaShem will bless us with children and make their names great in Israel.”
I lay back, folding my hands on my chest as I smiled at the gauzy linen over our bridal bed. “I would love to have a son. A boy who will go with me to the Temple, a child I can teach to honor HaShem and the Law. He will be a righteous man, a scholar, and his name will become as renowned as Gamaliel’s and Hillel’s. I will be a link in a chain of esteemed Torah teachers and members of the Great Sanhedrin.”
Bettina looked down at me. “So you married me . . . out of duty.”
I winced but could not deny the truth. “Yes.”
“And you will lie with me out of duty.”
“Yes.”
She glanced away, then lay beside me, her eyes wide and expressionless. “Do you hate me, Sha’ul?”
The question caught me off guard. “Of course not.”
“But you do not love me.”
“I . . .” I halted. “If you mean passion, I have already—”
“I am not speaking of passion, but of love. I understand if you do not love me; I do not love you, either. But I am willing to serve you, obey you, and be faithful to you. In doing so, I hope to learn what love is.”
When she looked up at the bed canopy and smiled, I felt as foolish as a toddling child. In some ways, my bride was wiser than I was.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “For being honest and wise.”
“I hope,” she said, “we have a son. Then perhaps your duty will become love.”
I propped my head on my hand and studied the curved form of my bride. She was wise and comely, my wife; well-formed and compact, with rounded breasts and sturdy legs that would serve her well on the hilly streets of Jerusalem. My children would enter the world between shapely thighs, and when we lay together, that long thick hair would lie against my chest, warming me on chilly nights . . .
No longer thinking of Jerusalem, I reached for her and smiled when she sank into my embrace.
Later that afternoon, as Bettina napped beside me, I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. Music filtered through the walls of the chamber, mingling with the rumble of conversation and the laughter of celebration. Someone was singing from the Song of Songs, but it was a man’s voice, not Aya’s.
Had Aya asked Abba if she could sing at my wedding? I didn’t think so—her wedding feast had just ended, so she had probably been thinking about other things.
The same things that filled my head now.
The Law had taught me many things, but being a scholar—celibate, disciplined, and devoted—had done little to prepare me for being a husband. I had studied the Song of Songs, which our Torah teachers insisted was a declaration of God’s love for Israel, demonstrated at the Passover in Egypt. After one discussion of Solomon’s book, Gamaliel led us in a debate about which should be greater—a husband’s love for his wife or his love for HaShem. When I argued that a man’s love for HaShem should be greater than his devotion to anything else, Gamaliel smiled. “You are correct, Sha’ul,” he said. “But you did not hesitate to answer, which tells me you have not yet experienced this sort of love”—he tapped the Song of Songs scroll—“for a wife.”
Now I understood the emotion behind my master’s smile. When I held Bettina and found myself lost in her eyes, the rest of the world ceased to exist. Afterward, when we lay together in silence, tears ran from my eyes and my spirit soared like a bird wheeling through shafts of sunlight.
My respect for Solomon’s writing diminished in that moment. He had written many beautiful things, but his words did not adequately describe what I had experienced.
I did not expect to be smitten by a womanly look of surrender. I did not expect to feel my heart slam against my ribs when her arms wrapped around my neck. I did not expect reason to leave my head as my lips devoured a woman’s.
Except for Ima and Aya, no woman had touched me in years. Yet here I was, lying beside a woman I barely knew, a virgin who had given herself to me without hesitation or fear.
Unlike my sister, Bettina had embraced the idea of marriage as eagerly as she embraced me. She would be a willing partner in anything HaShem led me to do.
I heard the soft sound of her breathing and realized she was shivering. I wrapped my arms around her and thought of how often I had trembled in contemplation of HaShem’s love. Were they so different, the love of a woman for a man, and the love of a man for HaShem? Woman was created to serve man; man was created to serve his Maker. Perhaps marriage was more about service than procreation.
When Bettina stopped shivering, I slid my arm from beneath her neck and pulled the linen covering over us. I felt her hand touch my shoulder. “Is all well?” she asked, her voice a faint whisper. “Do I please you, Sha’ul?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice gruffer than I intended. “You please me well, Bettina. You should sleep, for we must endure a week of celebration before we prepare for our journey home.”
Her hand slipped from my shoulder, and before long I heard her deep, even breathing again.
TEN
Aya
To my great dismay, Sha’ul and Bettina left for Jerusalem a few days after the conclusion of their wedding feast. Avidan and I went to my father’s house to bless their journey, and afterward I fervently embraced my new sister-in-law. “I am delighted to finally have a sister,” I told Bettina. “I pray that HaShem will bring us together again, because I want to get to know you better.”
When Bettina blushed in response, I realized my outgoing brother had married a woman who was as quiet as he was loud. Perhaps that is why Abba chose her for Sha’ul—she would never outshine him in public.
For the first month of our marriage, Avidan and I lived in a small chamber built onto the back of his parents’ house. I had been hoping he would find us a permanent home with room for children, but his mother said our future would lie in Jerusalem, not Tarsus.
“My son has been preparing for you through Torah study,” Zara said, pressing her hands to her chest as though her great love for him might cause her heart to burst. “He wanted to honor us by being the best yeshiva student in Tarsus. Now he wants to honor you by being the best student in Jerusalem.”
I did my best to hide my distress, though I could not imagine how Avidan’s Torah study would benefit me in any way. Leave Tarsus and move to Jerusalem? That is not what I expected.
The bliss I enjoyed at our wedding feast vanished as the last guest departed. I reluctantly accepted that we might live in Jerusalem someday, but until then I would have preferred to live in a home that did not permit Avidan’s mother to constantly thrust her head through the doorway to see if my husband wanted food or drink.
After a few weeks, I told Moselle I had changed my mind. I would happily go to Jerusalem—or even Sheol—rather than remain in Matan and Zara’s guest chamber.
When I pressed Avidan about how long we would remain in Tarsus, he told me he had to complete a course and pass an examination before his Torah teacher would recommend him to the authorities in Jerusalem. This was troubling news, because by that time I had realized Avidan was not like Sha’ul. He was not stupid, but neither was he bright, and he seemed to labor over the scrolls he read by lamplight. Each morning when Avidan left for the synagogue, I watched him go with mixed feelings. Part of me wanted him to make slow progress, delaying our move to Jerusalem. Another part of me wanted him to take his exam as soon as possible. Until he did, I would have to live in his home and obey Zara and Matan.
