Hadassah Covenant, The (42 page)

Then I realized: Jerusalem awaited me at the end of this exhausting though thrilling journey, patiently waiting for centuries as a pathetic and derided ruin, just as the embers of my love had waited, dim indeed compared to the glow of my grand royal marriage . . . but waiting. Oh, so patiently . . .

How agonizing it must have been for Jesse to see me muster my deepest youthful love and offer it so freely to a man whom, I know now, so humanly betrayed me. It must have eaten Jesse alive, for he had tasted the first flowering of that capacity for love before anyone else. And yet he not only endured it, but loyally and faithfully stood by me the whole time.

I had never thought of it in those terms. But in those silent moments in the desert—the long and plodding afternoons and peaceful, lonely evenings—I realized it all in a whole new way.

Yes, I believe G-d honors the dormant loves of nearly forgotten passions, for we have nearly forgotten Him more often than we can possibly confess. And yet no one welcomes us back into His arms with more unsullied, unreserved joy than He.

No, Jesse and I cannot enjoy the kind of physical union I had with Xerxes, not since Persia stole his manhood from him and changed his name from a proud Jewish one to that of a palace servant, Hathach. But that’s one of the most remarkable things about the time I spend with him—I feel wrapped and warmed by Jesse’s pure, unselfish affection every time I see him, even without physical touch. A flame still lights in his eyes every time he sees me. And his love and regard for me seem to glow from every word he says to me, with that smile on his face.

Therefore, this realization did not make me long to turn around right away and run back to leap into his arms—an act that might have caused us both great injury at this point in our lives! But it did make me realize that I am incomplete without him. And that even though a great purpose lay at hand in this return to Jerusalem, I would come back. I know it in my bones, now as I write. I will return.

So now, you ask, did my life-changing rediscovery of Jerusalem
cause me to forget these thoughts? Did it confirm them? Alter them? Destroy them?

Let me tell you, my dear, for you will be amazed.

It was late in the morning of our forty-fourth day when we reached the outer approaches to Jerusalem. An early fog had cleared away under a warming wind and the sun brought out a dry smell of sap and pine. The bare hills grew steeper and began to sport outcroppings of crumbled limestone, crowned with tufts of olive, myrtle, and cypress trees. I could tell we had climbed and our environment had changed.

At first, our only signs of approaching the city were increased indications of population. The road grew wider and more deeply worn. We passed a small flock of sheep tended by a boy whose Jewish features sent a thrill down my spine. An old spice vendor leading a donkey passed us on the trail and gave our escorts such a frightened glance that it seemed he might turn and run for his life. I smiled at two young women gracefully balancing amphoras of water atop their heads.

We had been traveling long enough for me to recognize the signs of an approaching city, and my heart began to race. I wish I could tell you all the emotions that charged through my being. The truth is, I can hardly remember them all myself. I recall only a few: eagerness, trepidation, awe, and not a small measure of fear.

Then, almost before we could prepare our hearts for the sight, we crested a hilltop of sorts and looked across a broad, grassy valley. At first, I did not even know what I was looking at, so inauspicious was the sight. My eyes settled on a grove of trees, and a faint trail cutting diagonally across a path of bare earth several hundred cubits away.

And then I heard a murmur from one of the men.

“There it is. Jerusalem.”

I squinted and peered forward.

All I could see, ringing the top of the hillside, was a pile of stones I had taken for mere outcroppings. Now, staring closely, I could see that some of them bore the sharp angles and smooth façades of masonry. Yet it was a ruin. A desolate hulk like a hundred we had passed along the journey here.

I looked ahead to Ezra’s figure for support and direction. But he
was staring also, looking as though someone had struck his head broadside.

I think I heard a moan wrench from my lungs before I voiced any other reaction. Had I been on my feet, I know I would have fallen to my knees—not out of awe or adoration but the impact of shock upon my body.

I remember reaching up and covering my eyes and feeling tears trickle through my fingers.

Chapter Forty-six

I am so relieved that Mordecai was not there to see this with me.
Oh, Leah—the shame, the disgrace, of our beloved home
! At that moment my mind raced back to all the hours he had once spent telling me of Jerusalem, his eyes shining with pride, voice bursting with joy and mirth, as he assured me that we were more than dispossessed exiles in an indifferent kingdom. We were the Chosen People, and one of the grandest outward proofs was the Temple of the very Creator himself, nestled amidst the most beautiful and ancient city on earth.

Even as a girl, I remember knowing from his very countenance that this was no fairy tale. It was so unlike all the other stories he had ever told me. I could be proud to be a Hebrew, I walked away reminding myself. I had a homeland, a capital city just waiting for me and my fellow Jews to return someday.

It was G-d’s will.

Oh, Mordecai
! I lamented.
Where was G-d
? I cried the moment I laid eyes on the hulk of His supposed city. Surely He had no abode amidst the carelessly tossed rocks and ruined battlements of this insulting mass. And yet I knew that a rebuilt temple had arisen somewhere inside that clutter.

I felt as though every shred of pride had been ripped from me and tossed into the dust and dirt at my feet. For an awful moment I was a vagabond, a mere pawn, a human rolling die to be tossed onto the ground for sport.

My camel lurched as our band continued forward, but I hardly felt the motion, for now I was weeping openly, unable to stifle my sobs. We descended into the valley, then traversed the trail I had observed earlier, and emerged on the southern flank of a thin, rock-strewn strip once known as the Outer Wall.

But here is the part I am most eager to share with you. Again, I know I have told you some of this since my return, but never in this context. Never in the light of what I’ve been describing.

Only a few days after the delegation had rested from our journey and begun to return the treasures to their previous places in the Temple, word had leaked out among the city dwellers and pilgrims alike that Ezra had brought with him a book of the Law of Moses. Somehow, for a people who had lived for centuries with only the haziest notion of their spiritual heritage, the news sparked more interest than in all of the other treasures combined. An enormous groundswell of curiosity and anticipation began to gather. I encountered it myself, for as I strolled through the easternmost walls one afternoon shortly after arriving, an elderly woman shuffled out of a makeshift stone abode, eyed me up and down and asked me feverishly, “You’re one of the newcomers, aren’t you? Is it true they brought along the books of Moses?” I’ll never forget the voracious fire in the woman’s eyes. You might have thought I was offering roast mutton to one who was starving when I answered that yes, I believed so.

By that night, it was all anyone was talking about. I had been graciously offered lodging in one of the city’s more inviting restored homes, and as I ventured out to where the Persian émigrés were gathered for a communal dinner, I overheard four snatches of conversation in which the words
Ezra
and
lawbook
drifted my way.

The following morning all work stopped, and everyone in the citadel gathered in the center of the ruined capital. I was one of the first spectators there, for I had spent most of the night walking through the city, spreading the word that something historic would take place
in the morning, upon this very square. Without even sleep, I had approached in the cool before dawn and walked over to take my morning prayer at the spot. The only sign of what would soon take place was a small wooden scaffold apparently erected during the night. As soon as the sun had peeked its radiant sliver over the hills of Judea, people began to stream in from everywhere.
I had no idea so many even lived in such a ruined place
, I thought as I gazed around just before the readings began. And what a quiet, composed group it was, for its size! Even the small children seemed to sense something special, for instead of causing commotion, most of them stared about them with wide, fascinated expressions.

Then even the residual quiet faded into a dead silence, and I saw Ezra’s ceremonial head wrap approaching above the heads of the crowd. Carrying a thick leather-bound scroll, Ezra stepped up, set down his heavy load with a wince at its weight, and looked expectantly around him. It was a perfect place in which to change history, and Ezra appeared to sense it. Two Levite priests climbed up behind him, their hands clasped before them in postures of respectful pause.

Now, having reigned as queen of the most bureaucratic empire in human history, and therefore having borne witness to the stupefying boredom that can ensue from a leader reading endlessly from thick bureaucratic volumes, I can tell you, Leah—I was shocked at what happened next.

You see, Ezra did not begin to speak in the Aramaic of the day. He read straight from the original text, in ancient Hebrew. As words began to pour from his lips, I saw a strapping, weathered man turn to his thickset wife with a perplexed expression. She rolled her eyes and shrugged. I turned; all over the square, people were exhibiting the same reactions.

Then Ezra stopped speaking.

There was a seemingly eternal pause, one like the hush before a storm. And then the Levites began to speak. To translate.

Now, you must remember that Mordecai taught me Hebrew, so I understood Ezra’s first reading. But there was something powerful about hearing the words rephrased by the priests, followed by the crowd’s palpable reactions as the words went forth and stirred a
nearly visible swath across the square, like a strong downdraft sweeping into their faces.

In a strong, fervent voice, Ezra began to read the story of our people. How G-d had made an unbelievable promise to a man living in Ur of all places—a region we had passed through on our journey. And how Abraham’s descendants multiplied until their numbers had fulfilled G-d’s promise of uncountable progeny, and brought down a pharaoh. How G-d had promised them a land of their own and how they had spent decades in search of it, circling the whole time through endless cycles of rebellion and repentance, subjugation and liberation.

From the very first moment he opened his mouth, I knew something remarkable was indeed going to happen. This crowd, in this place, at this time, seemed incredibly attuned to the sadness of this saga of love and rejection between G-d and His people. I began to sense, and even hear, listeners respond audibly and recoil physically with each account of Israel’s turning back to idols, turning her back on the G-d who had led her out of bondage and into the Promised Land.