György Spiró - Captivity

“There’s no need to convince people,” Jehuda announced at last. “Not everyone needs to belong to the Lord’s chosen people; there are enough of us as it is. Nor is there any need to engage them in conversation.”

“Indeed, there are enough of us,” Uri nodded, “though there are not enough of us in the Diaspora; we are surrounded by non-Jews…”

“That’s why you’re unclean, you dirty people,” said Jehuda. “Though even if all the people in the Diaspora were Jewish, you would still be unclean because you don’t live where we do.”

“We envy you for that, Master,” said Uri respectfully. “I now envy myself for being able to be here among you.”

Jehuda smiled at that.

“That’s all right.”

Jehuda got up, twisted the strings of his tefillin around his forehead, tying them at the back of his head so that they hung down onto his shoulders. He glanced at Uri.

“Where’s your tefillin?”

“My companions have taken it back to Rome.”

“You mean you haven’t even got a tefillin?” the master snorted. “Woman! A tefillin for the child!”

The master’s spouse went out of the room. Jehuda looked around the room, where in one corner there were blankets lying around among other odds and ends.

“Woman!” thundered Jehuda.

The woman came back with a phylactery in one hand, which he put down on the table.

“Sew some tzitzits onto one of the blankets right away! The child doesn’t even have a gown!”

“Now?” the woman wailed out. “I’m right in the middle of cooking lunch!”

“No cooking, get sewing, and no lip!”

The woman did not answer but went across to the corner and started rummaging among the blankets.

“So anyway, tell me,” Jehuda sat back on the bench, “were you important delegates there at the altar at Passover?”

Uri also took a seat. Better to tell the truth, though it may not be necessary to talk about every last detail.

“I wasn’t there,” he said, “but it’s possible that the rest were.”

“And why weren’t you there? Did they think you were too young? Or there wasn’t enough room?”

“Well, that might have been the reason…”

“I’ve never stood by the altar myself,” said Jehuda. “Our turn never came… though I’m past forty-five now! Casting lots, rotation, fairness? Come on! They’re all fiddling there, in the Sanhedrin! Fiddling! Every year we trudge there and back three times over, and our turn still doesn’t come!”

“That’s hardly fair,” Uri asserted.

“It’s awful!” Jehuda declared. “But it’s a good thing you didn’t stand next to the altar, because our crowd would have hated you for it! As it is they are just going to feel sorry for you, you wretch, for having to live in Edom, that odious, abominable hellhole.”

Uri nodded. Edom was their way of saying Rome. That’s what they called it here, and they cursed it — that was all right. If anyone reported them for abusing Rome, they would say it wasn’t true, because they’d only mentioned Edom, not Rome. Cunning.

Master Jehuda did not know I was in prison. Better to deny it anyway; it was not possible to lock up a member of the Roman delegation in prison, but if that was what had happened, one must pretend that it hadn’t.

The woman came with the blanket onto the corners of which she had sewn fringes, one of the threads of which was blue as convention demanded. Jehuda took it from her, inspected it thoroughly, then nodded.

“Right.”

The woman put an earthenware dish in front of them on the table.

Jehuda stood up. The woman went back to the fireplace.

Uri also got to his feet and grasped the tefillin with his left hand; there was a leather box on it as there should have been. He put it down.

“I can’t wind it into place,” he said. “My shoulder hurts.”

“Woman!” Jehuda yelled so loudly that the mud-brick cottage shook.

The woman left the fireplace and came over to them.

“Wash your hands, then put the tefillin on his forehead!”

The woman hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” Jehuda yelled.

“I haven’t been in the mikveh yet,” the woman said quietly.

Jehuda kept quiet.

If his wife was unclean, then she could not put the tefillin on him.

Uri understood that if she touched it when she was unclean, then the tefillin would not be clean either. That was bound to be a source of complications.

It was. Jehuda shooed the women off to the mikveh. Naturally there was a mikveh in the village — a real double mikveh, in the garden of one of the farmers. It was communal, not his own, but he was still responsible for looking after it. A frequent check was made on the state of the mikveh, above all by Master Jehuda, who was also tasked with doing so.

“What’s a double mikveh?” Uri asked.

Master Jehuda’s eyes twinkled as he explained.

A double mikveh consisted of two basins, and it was possible to immerse oneself completely in one of them — that’s what the water was for. One did not immerse themselves in the other mikveh, and it was filled with water brought by the womenfolk from far away. Whenever the purity of the mikveh for immersion was in doubt, it was possible to transfer the contents of the clean water basin to it through a tube. A tenth of the water from the clean one bestowed cleanliness on the whole of the other; that was the tradition.

In Jerusalem, of course, there were no double mikvehs, only single ones. Which is to say that they could not be clean, to be sure. Of course, people believed they were clean, the miserable wretches. There wasn’t a really clean mikveh to be had in Jerusalem, but then again it was not necessary, because all Jerusalem was considered clean. Pilgrims to Jerusalem would do their ritual ablutions in those filthy mikvehs, and they had to purify themselves for a week in those before being allowed to step onto Temple Square. In Jerusalem there would be a great pushing and shoving around the mikvehs every Wednesday and Friday, when ritual immersion was obligatory.

Something clicked for Uri upon learning this.

“When I was taken to Temple Square, they asked me beforehand when I had arrived, and their minds were set at rest when they heard that I had been in the land for over a week…”

Master Jehuda nodded.

“All pilgrims have to purify themselves for a week, and for that period they are not permitted to step into Temple Square. Until then, they have to stay somewhere and eat something. That’s what Jerusalem makes its living from — foreign tourists… For one week, pilgrims spend their money — a handsome amount…”

Master Jehuda roared with laughter.

Uri broke into a smile.

“But you people from this village don’t need to get there a week before a holiday,” he said, “because you’re not pilgrims.”

Master Jehuda was pleased to hear that his guest had finally grasped the essential point.

“No, we don’t need to,” he confirmed. “Syrian Jews also do not have to. It is said that Antioch is like a suburb of Jerusalem, which makes us near enough to also be considered clean, provided we stay within the law in other respects. Which mikveh did you use for ritual bathing in Jerusalem?”

Uri weighed his reply.

“We weren’t given a name.”

“Still, where was it? I’m familiar with the City.”

“Somewhere in the lower town, it was…”

“It could have been in the Acra… What did it look like from outside?”

“My eyes are not good, master,” Uri said. “I can only see well up to an arm’s length.”

Jehuda sighed.

“So, that too!”

Uri nodded in commiseration; he sympathized with the master for having such an impossible individual charged to his care.