On This Foundation Read online

  Alone, in his room, Nehemiah didn’t try to stop his tears.

  Chapter

  2

  JERUSALEM

  EARLY FEBRUARY

  Today Chana found it hard to believe the words that the Levite temple musicians were singing: “Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” That promise wasn’t always true. The desire of Chana’s heart had been to marry Yitzhak ben Rephaiah and live in the home he had built for her. But Yitzhak was dead, and God could never grant her heart’s desire. She shivered as a gust of wintry wind swept across the temple courtyard. It dragged gray storm clouds with it, and she felt the first sprinkles of rain. They needed rain. In fact, her nation was praying for the winter rains to pour from the heavens in steady sheets, soaking the cracked earth and bringing it back to life. But as quickly as the spitting raindrops started, they stopped again, proving as worthless as the song’s promise.

  The evening sacrifice at the temple was nearly over. Chana looked forward to returning home again and warming her wind-burned cheeks, rubbing life back into her icy toes and fingers. She watched the priest remove a coal from the altar fire and carry it into the sanctuary. He would use it to light the incense on the golden altar that stood before God’s throne room. As the fragrant aroma ascended to heaven, the priest would offer prayers for her people. It was the moment for Chana to offer her prayers, too—but for what? Hadn’t she prayed for nearly a year for her heart to heal so she could feel something besides endless grief? She glanced at her younger sisters, Yudit and Sarah, standing beside her with their heads bowed. Yudit’s lips moved as she silently prayed. Chana wondered what she prayed for. Was it for her?

  Another blast of wind rocked Chana, plastering her long robe to her legs. She had covered her wavy black hair with a shawl in case it rained, and she reached up to grab it before the wind whisked it away. At last the sacrifice ended. She huddled close to her sisters as they waited for their father to rejoin them. “I love that song that the choir just sang, don’t you, Chana?” Yudit asked through chattering teeth.

  Chana nodded, guilt-stricken for having pouted the entire time instead of participating in worship. She knew the folly of being angry with the Almighty One. Bitterness was a poison that had the power to destroy her. But on cold, gray days like this one, when the clouds hung over Jerusalem’s mountaintops like a smothering blanket, her grief threatened to smother her, as well. After Yitzhak died, she continued coming to the temple to worship God, clinging to a slender thread of faith. Some days, especially during the annual festivals, the bond that connected her to the Almighty One seemed as thick and strong as an anchor rope. But most days the thread seemed gossamer thin, a spider’s tendril. No matter how she felt, Chana remained determined to hold on to the Holy One and not let go, even when it seemed He had let go of her.

  Minutes passed as she watched the departing worshipers leave the temple courtyards. At last, Abba bustled up to them, his plump cheeks as round and red as pomegranates. “There you are, my beauties! What a lovely sight you are on such a dreary day.”

  Sarah stood on her toes to kiss him, then linked her arm through his. “We knew you’d be cold, so we made soup to help you warm up. And we baked bread, too. I hope it’s still warm.” Sarah was Chana’s youngest sister, with hair as dark and glossy as a raven’s wing. Thick lashes rimmed her wide, brown eyes, giving her the innocent look of a child much younger than her seventeen years. She and Chana resembled each other the most.

  “Wonderful!” Abba said. “I do believe I can smell it from here.”

  “No, you can’t, Abba,” Sarah said, laughing.

  They crossed the open courtyard toward the western side of the temple mount, and as another gust slammed into her, Chana feared they would all be blown off the mountaintop in the wind. She wrapped her arm around Yudit’s waist, huddling close as they walked. Yudit was nineteen and the independent sister, the one who didn’t care if her curly brown hair frizzed around her face like a lion’s mane or her fingernails were ragged and broken from moving stones and digging in the dusty earth to plant rosemary and sagebushes in front of their house. Not that herbs or anything else could grow without rain.

  They reached the steep steps leading down to the city, and Chana released her sister to grip the handholds as she descended. Halfway down, Abba paused to catch his breath. “You girls feed me too well,” he said, patting his bulging middle. “Let me catch my breath.” It puffed like smoke in the cold air as he spoke.

  They rested for a moment, then continued downhill toward their house, built near the ruins of the city’s western wall. Chana hoped the coals on the hearth had kept their house warm while they’d been gone. She longed to run ahead to escape the biting wind, but her gregarious father couldn’t help stopping to greet people along the way. As ruler of the half-district of Jerusalem, he always took time to listen to people’s concerns and to share their joys. He knew who was ill, which families didn’t have quite enough to eat, and who the latest robbery victims were. The bad news always grieved him. But Abba also loved sharing people’s joy. He savored every morsel of happy news in Jerusalem from betrothals to births to bar mitzvahs. Yitzhak’s father, Rephaiah, who was ruler over the other half-district of Jerusalem, worked closely with Abba.

  “Once we’re married, we’ll reign over Jerusalem as king and queen,” Yitzhak used to tease. “Our sons will be little princes.”

  And now he was gone.

  “I’m going to run ahead,” Chana told Yudit, “and make sure the soup is still warm.” Abba had stopped to talk to Uzziel, one of the goldsmiths, and Chana didn’t want to get into a conversation with Uzziel’s wife, who always gripped Chana’s arm with viselike fingers, holding her captive as she recited a list of eligible men, including her youngest son. On any other day, Chana was happy to perform her social duties for her father, but not today. She hurried down the Street of the Bakers to her home near the Tower of the Ovens, named before the destruction of Jerusalem and the exile. No bakers lived on the street anymore, and the ovens and tower lay in ruins.

  Thankfully, the main room of their house was still warm and so was the soup. Chana lit two lamps, spread a cloth on the table, and placed cushions and pillows on the stools and chairs so they could sit down to eat as soon as Abba and her sisters arrived. All three of them were laughing about something as they blew in through the door, as if pushed inside by the wind. “Close the door!” Chana chided. “You’re letting all the warm air out.”

  “You don’t have to shout,” Sarah said.

  She hadn’t meant to. Chana helped her father remove his cloak and hung it on a peg for him. But instead of sitting down, Abba remained standing. He turned to Chana, cupping her face in his icy hands, and kissed her forehead.

  “Listen, my angel. It will soon be a year since Yitzhak was taken from us. Even if you had been married to him, a year is enough time to mourn. He wouldn’t want you to grieve any longer. How he would hate to see you so sad!” He caressed her cheek with his thumb.

  “And when Mama died, didn’t you grieve?” she asked, her throat tight. “Don’t you still miss her?”

  “Such foolish questions you ask,” he said, lowering his hands. “Of course I do. Of course I understand your grief. A thousand times a day I am reminded of your mother. You have her soft, brown eyes, Chana. And her generous heart. But you’re only twenty-three years old, my angel. Your whole life waits for you. Didn’t the Almighty One say it wasn’t good for man to live alone?”

  “Then why haven’t you remarried, Abba?”

  “That’s different. I enjoyed the gift of marriage for more than twenty years. And besides, who says I won’t marry again?”

  “Have you met someone, Abba?” Sarah asked. She had been making such a racket, clattering the dishes and tableware, that Chana was surprised she had overheard their conversation.

  “No, my little cherub, I haven’t met anyone.”

  “Promise us you won’t marry a Samaritan or an E
domite,” Yudit said. She was taking the bread from the warming shelf above the hearth, wrapping it in a cloth so it would stay warm and moist.

  “Never!” he said with a frown. “No need to worry about that! Not only does the Almighty One forbid mixed marriages, but Gentile women lack spirit. It’s probably beaten out of them by their fathers. I like a woman who isn’t afraid to speak her mind, like your mother—and like her three beautiful daughters,” he added with a smile. Chana tried to brush past him and end this uncomfortable conversation, but he stopped her.

  “Listen, my angel. I’m not bringing up this subject to cause you more pain but because it just so happens that I know someone who would like to be introduced to you.”

  “Oh, Abba, no! Please—”

  “Just hear me out. He serves as a member of the council with me and is the ruler of the district of Beth Hakkerem, about an hour’s walk west of Jerusalem.”

  “‘House of the Vineyard?’” Sarah asked, translating the district’s name. “Are there any vineyards left in Judah after two years of drought?”

  “Your friend must be pretty old if he’s a district ruler,” Chana said. “I don’t want to marry an old man.”

  “He’s only thirty-seven. I already asked.”

  “Abba, that’s fourteen years older than me.”

  “Yitzhak was ten years older than you,” Yudit said. Chana rolled her eyes at her.

  Abba was relentless. “He’s a nobleman. And the fact that he has risen to such an important position on the council at such a young age should tell you how brilliant he is.”

  “Well, I can see that you’re already an admirer of his, Abba.”

  “I am. He has offered some very wise advice during some of our council meetings, and I’ve never heard him raise his voice or lose his temper—like several other members I could name.”

  “Who, Abba? Who?” Yudit asked, always alert for juicy gossip.

  “Never mind, my cherub. I shouldn’t have said that.” He turned back to Chana. “He’s a landowner with extensive vineyards. And quite wealthy. Some of his wealth is inherited, but most of it he earned by his own hard work and shrewd business skills. You would have a lovely home and servants to wait on you and—”

  “And if he’s such a good catch, why isn’t he married?” Chana asked. “Let me guess—he’s ugly as a toad.”

  “No, I bet he’s as short and bristly as a sack of straw,” Sarah said.

  “I think he must be tall and spindly like a palm tree,” Yudit added, not to be outdone. It was a game the three of them played since childhood, watching people passing by and comparing them to objects or animals.

  Abba ignored them, still praising his friend. “Well, he was married, but now he is a widower, so he’s well acquainted with grief. He has two sons—around age sixteen or seventeen, I think.”

  “Abba, they’re nearly grown. They’d never accept me as their mother.”

  Abba exhaled and took Chana’s hands in his. “Well, my dear . . . now that I’ve heard all your objections and excuses, you should know that I’ve invited my friend to visit this evening. You girls can decide for yourselves if he’s a toad, a sack of straw, or a palm tree.”

  “Not for dinner!” Chana said.

  “No, just for a glass of wine before he heads home.”

  “Abba—”

  “And he’s bringing the wine. It’s from his vineyards. He has been bragging to me for ages about how wonderful his wine is—and I have been bragging to him about my three beautiful daughters. We decided it was time to put the truth of our claims to the test.”

  Chana broke free from Abba, shaking her head. She strode to the hearth to fetch the soup. His clumsy attempts at matchmaking annoyed her but didn’t surprise her. In fact, it was Abba who had convinced her to consider Yitzhak for a husband. He had sung Yitzhak’s praises for months before she finally agreed to meet him. And they had fallen in love. But it would take a miracle for it to happen a second time. Chana wished she could invent an excuse to avoid meeting their guest tonight, but her fierce love for her father would never allow her to disappoint him. Abba was a good man, a righteous man, down to the very marrow of his bones. Yet regardless of what this noble wine-maker looked like, how wealthy or wise he was, Chana already knew he could never measure up to Yitzhak. It wasn’t only her grief, she decided, that kept her from enjoying life again. It was the anger that refused to ease or go away.

  Anger at Yitzhak’s murderers and at her own helplessness. If only his killers had been caught and brought to justice and punished, maybe then the rage that burned in her soul would finally die out.

  “Chana, darling,” Abba said, interrupting her thoughts. “I don’t ask much of you, but please erase that unattractive frown and put on a welcoming smile before my friend arrives.”

  “I’m sorry, Abba.” She tried to smile for him, but she knew it looked forced, like a grimace.

  “You’re under no obligation to marry the man or even to like him. But he is a colleague of mine, and I’ve invited him to our home.”

  Her father had followed her to the hearth, and she pulled him into an embrace. “Of course, Abba. I’ll be charming and welcoming. The perfect hostess. I’ll even make some date cakes to enjoy with his wine.”

  “That’s my girl!”

  “You haven’t told us his name,” Yudit said. She and Sarah had taken their places around the table and she patted the cushion on her father’s chair, inviting him to sit down.

  “His name is Malkijah ben Recab.”

  “That’s a mouthful,” Chana blurted. “What do his friends call him?”

  Abba smiled. “They call him Malkijah ben Recab.”

  Chana’s first glimpse of Malkijah ben Recab that evening revealed that they had all been wrong about his looks. He was neither a toad, nor a sack of straw, nor a palm tree. He was as tall as the doorframe, neither fat nor thin, but sturdily built. He arrived with the promised wine, wearing a pleasant smile and a robe that had been woven from the very finest wool. He proved to be quite charming, too. He listened attentively as Abba introduced his three daughters, then said, “I know when I’m defeated, Shallum. Your three daughters are much lovelier than my finest wines. I admit defeat. Here is your prize.” He handed Abba the wineskins.

  “Well, now!” Abba crowed. “Didn’t I tell you? But come in, Malkijah, come in. I have been waiting with great anticipation to taste your wine.”

  His appearance was pleasant—no one would call him handsome—but Chana would never be swayed by such shallow considerations as good looks. He wore his dark hair and beard trimmed short, and his broad face and nose looked slightly flattened, as if he had run into a wall as a child. But his ebony eyes looked kind, and his manner as they enjoyed the wine and the conversation was calm and peaceful, as if nothing ever rattled him. She thought of several outrageous things she could say to test his unflappability but kept them to herself for her father’s sake.

  As the evening progressed, Malkijah praised the date cakes Chana had made, complimented Abba on his beautiful home, and managed to find something charming and graceful to say to Chana and each of her sisters. By the time he thanked everyone for a lovely evening and prepared to leave, she couldn’t find a single fault with him. Was he an excellent actor, or was he always this nice?

  Chana stood near the door as Malkijah said good-bye, and he paused to look into her eyes for a long, unnerving moment. “I hope we’ll have the opportunity to meet again, Chana,” he said. Then he smiled, showing his perfect teeth, and left.

  “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Abba asked.

  “Of course not. He was very pleasant and charming. . . . But I’m just not ready to court anyone yet. Please understand, Abba.”

  He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t let grief become a way of life, my little Chana. Don’t let it define your days and quench your spirit. From the time you were a little girl, you were always so happy, wearing flowers in your hair or a bright scarf or pretty sash. And
you used to carry joy around with you like a basket of diamonds sparkling in the sunlight. Now you carry ashes. You were my happy little bird, singing so sweetly, but now you’ve allowed your grief to lock you up in a cage. I only wish I knew how to open the door and set my little bird free again.”

  Tears filled Chana’s eyes as her father pulled her into his arms. “I wish I did, too, Abba,” she mumbled into his wide chest. “I wish I did, too.”

  Chapter

  3

  THE DISTRICT OF BETH HAKKEREM

  MARCH

  Nava set her sloshing water jug in the dusty path and sank down to rest alongside it, the weeds scratchy against her bare legs. Was this her tenth trip from the well to her father’s vineyard or the eleventh? She had lost count. Either way, her arms and back muscles ached, her blistered feet felt tired and sore. She needed to rest and tie her raggedy sandals back on. She needed a new pair—these were her brother’s outgrown ones—but her family couldn’t afford new shoes.

  Everywhere Nava looked, toward the distant hillsides, the pastures, or the grain fields, the vegetation was dry and brittle. Lifeless. The color of dust. The leaves on the pomegranate and fig trees outside her house looked faded and brown. Neither the early rains nor the later rains had come, and the dry season would begin next month.

  With her sandal refastened, Nava stood and lifted her water jug, balancing it on her head. She saw Mama walking toward her with an empty jug, on her way back to the well. “Are we nearly done?” Nava asked as they passed each other. Mama shook her head and kept walking. Abba had asked them to haul water, pouring it on each vine in hopes of coaxing a crop of grapes from his vineyard. With luck, they would harvest enough for her family to use and have extra to sell. Nava was already tired of hauling water. But when she finished watering the vineyard, she and Mama still needed to water the kitchen garden and the meager crop of vegetables they’d planted—onions, garlic, beans, lentils—enough to sustain her family in the coming year. After that, Nava would draw water for the little flock of goats that provided her family with milk and cheese.