Nezirut and Naso: Twenty-Two Years Later

This past Shabbat I chanted my entire bat mitzvah parsha for the first time. When I became a bat mitzvah twenty-two years ago, I read what amounted to only one aliya, albeit the most interesting one. My parents’ Conservative synagogue reads on a triennial cycle, completing the Torah every three years, so that only a selection of the parsha is read each Shabbat. On my bat mitzvah, I read the aliya that includes the description of the Nazir, the individual who takes on additional stringencies so as to become a holier person. The Nazir vows not to drink wine, cut his hair, or come into contact with the dead for a certain period of a time. The term Nazir literally means “one who abstains,” and the Nazir may perhaps be best understood as an ascetic – one who denies himself pleasure for the sake of a higher purpose. It is no wonder, given my personality, that I identified so deeply with the Nazir – both then and now.

            For the dvar Torah at my bat mitzvah, I spoke about the Nazir’s obligation to bring a sin offering at the end of his period of abstention. At first it seems strange that someone who seeks to become more holy has to bring a sin offering. How can holiness be sinful? In the eponymous tractate of the Talmud dedicated to the Nazir, Rabbi Elazar HaKapar considers this question: “Rabbi Elazar HaKapar said in the name of Rebbe: What does it mean, 'And he shall make expiation for the sin that he incurred on the soul' (Numbers 6:11). Against what soul did he sin? Rather, he sinned in that he distressed himself [by abstaining] from wine. And if one who distresses himself by abstaining only from wine is called a sinner, how much more so is one who abstains from all things a sinner!” (Nazir 19a). As I said at my bat mitzvah, Judaism is not a religion of asceticism. We are supposed to enjoy the delicious and pleasurable aspects of life – not in a greedy or hedonistic manner, but in a way that acknowledges and pays tribute their divine source. We are not supposed to engage in self-denial, but to enrich ourselves with all that life has to offer.

            At the time, I was on the brink of adolescence, speaking from the bimah in a navy blue polka dot suit chosen by my mother, with my hair tied back in a bow I was sure was too big for my head. I had no idea how prescient my dvar Torah would prove when, just a few years later, I became ill with anorexia. It is a chapter of my life I rarely return to, as it seems both predictably mundane—of course an overachiever like myself would have anorexia—and painfully private. Always a lover of language, I recall musing on the phonetic similarity between “ascetic” and “aesthetic,” believing that through self-denial, I could achieve a sort of delicate beauty. And while I could easily be flooded by memories from that period, the one that seems most pertinent now is of a Shabbat spent in the eating disorders ward of the hospital, holed up with five other skeletons. I requested a cup of grape juice so I could make kiddish; but then I realized that before performing the ritual handwashing, I’d have to unplug my IV, thereby violating Shabbat. I remember standing there wondering what to do. Just weeks ago I was a normal college student, but I had been catapulted from the Ivy League to the IV League with little hope of release.

            I thought about these matters again as I prepared to leyn Naso in full for the first time. Like the anorexic, the Nazir aspires to a certain level of self-perfection, believing that he or she can transcend the needs and desires to which most people submit. This perfectionist strain has always run deep within me, particularly when it comes to reading Torah. As far as I know, I leyned the parsha flawlessly last Shabbat – not because I wanted to make a show of reading perfectly, but simply because, well, I wanted to read perfectly. I also leyned the haftara, returning to the story of the prophet Shimshon, who was a Nazir from birth. The haftara portrays the annunciation scene in which an angel informs the unnamed wife of Manoach that she will become a mother to a savior of Israel. In the past I have always read this chapter of Judges as a feminist tale about a woman who could see what her husband could not; she knew immediately that she had spoken with an angel, whereas her husband – to whom the angel initially did not even deign to appear—needs to be hit on the head again and again until he gets it. This time, however, I read the haftara in a new light. Manoach’s wife, formerly barren, is told that at last she is going to have a child. But even though this dream will be realized, she is going to have to accept a less-than-perfect reality, because her son is going to be subject to difficult strictures – he may not cut his hair, or eat any grape products whatsoever, for he will be a Nazir from womb to tomb.

            As I realized this year, this haftara is also a story about becoming a mother. And if being a Nazir is about being perfect, being a mother is just the opposite. It is about accepting that one cannot even presume to be perfect, and that any attempt to do so will inevitably fail. I used to think that being perfect meant waking up, davening, jogging, showering and learning daf yomi all before 9am. These days at 9am I am almost always still in pajamas, sitting on the couch with one baby on the breast and one baby wailing after her morning nap. Sometimes I am balancing a Gemara on the shoulder of the couch, but more often I am dozing off. Yesterday morning a grape rolled by as I was nursing. Our son was throwing his breakfast, which he insisted on eating while holding one of his favorite toys: his father’s shaver. (We take off the blade before giving it to him.) He will never be perfect, and neither will I. For that I suppose I can bring a Korban Todah, an offering of thanks.

Lechi, Korah, and Tagelet: Constructing Ei-Ruv of One's Own

I began learning Masekhet Eiruvin in the first few weeks of our twins’ lives. Given their positions in the womb, Daniel and I even joked that we might name the girls Lechi and Korah, the terms used in the Talmud for the vertical and horizontal posts that must be affixed to an alleyway to symbolically close it off from the public domain in order to permit a person to carry there on Shabbat. The tractate as a whole deals with the rabbinic decrees enacted to legally permit carrying from one domain to another. The laws of Shabbat speak in terms of four domains: public, private, a Carmelit (neither public nor private) and a Makom Petur (“free space”), which is not really a domain at all. The rabbis teach that it is forbidden to carry from one domain to another, and it is also forbidden to carry more than a minimal distance within the public domain.

I thought about the distinctions between these domains during the three days I spent in the maternity ward at Shaare Tzedek hospital following the birth. I was in a small room which I shared with two other women. Like me, they were immediately post-partum; unlike me, they were Haredi and each had at least six other kids at home. We were separated from one another by colorful curtains that hung from tracks on the ceiling; the tracks surrounded the perimeters of each of our beds, with room for just the beds, a small bassinet (or two), and a nightstand. When all the curtains were drawn open, as they were when the cleaner came on Friday morning, the illusion of three separate “private domains” was shattered, and it became clear just how close we all were to one another. Even with the curtains drawn, I could hear everything they said to their visitors, and they could overhear each of my transatlantic phone conversations in which I gushed to my family and closest friends about the miraculous birth of our daughters.

            I spent many hours on the phone during those few days in the hospital, except Shabbat of course, when the entire ward was on a pre-set Shabbat clock. Every two hours, both night and day, all the overhead fluorescent lights would suddenly flash on, and a pre-recorded voice over the loudspeaker would tell all the women to come to the nursery to fetch and feed their babies. Given that I was nursing not one baby but two, I could rarely finish feeding them both before the lights went off again, and so I was hopelessly out of sync with the Shabbat lights. Whenever I managed to time it right and the lights were on while I was nursing, I would read aloud from the daf, conscious of the Haredi women who could overhear every word and who surely regarded me as a curiosity, if not a freak.

In those early pages of Eiruvin, I was struck by the Talmud’s discussion of the term Dyumdin, which refers to the double pillars that were placed around public wells in order to make them into private domains in which it would be permissible to draw and carry water on Shabbat. At the beginning of the second chapter (18a), the Talmud records a discussion in which the rabbis try to determine the etymology of this word, which they assert comes from the conjoining of the Greek prefix Dyu, meaning two, with the Hebrew word Amud, meaning pillar.  They then consider concepts that relate to the prefix “Dyu,” including Dyufra -- trees that yield fruit two times a year. They also discuss the two faces (Dyu Partsufin) of Adam, who was created with one face in front and one face in back, and was then split down the middle to become male and female. I thought about our twin daughters, created not from one egg but from two. They look as different from one another as night from day: Liav has blonde hair and an egg-shaped head and looks just like her older brother; her sister Tagel has dark skin and dark hair and big blue eyes. When I first held a naked and squirming Tagel, I said to the obstetrician, “Are you sure she’s mine?” “Geveret,” he responded, “She’s still attached at the umbilical cord.” As indeed she was. The miracle of two—or Dyu—continues to astonish me each time I look at them lying side by side.

            Thus far I have learned four and a half chapters of Eiruvin aloud with the two girls, generally while nursing. (In fact, this is the reason I refuse to “double nurse” both girls at once even though I spend about eight hours a day feeding them; I always need a hand free for my Gemara or my iphone.) Perhaps it is appropriate, then, that it is in Eiruvin (54b) that we find a midrash on the verse, “A loving doe, a gracrful mountain goat. Let her breasts satisfy you at all times; be infatuated with love of her always” (Proverbs 5:19). As they often do when confronted with the Bible’s erotic imagery, the rabbis interpret this verse as referring to Torah. Just as a doe (Ayelet in Hebrew) has a narrow womb and is beloved unto its mate each time like the very first time, so too are words of Torah equally special the first time they are studied and on every subsequent encounter. (This midrash is the reason I could not name one of our girls Ayelet, even though it’s one of my favorite names.) Moreover, the rabbis go on to explain, just as a breast is available with delicious milk every time the baby wants to suckle, so too is Torah always available for those who want to savor its rich insights. I take comfort in the fact that my daughters not just learned Torah “with their mother’s milk,” but that the milk they imbibed was in fact Torah.

            This midrash on the verse from Proverbs is part of a longer discussion about the value of learning Torah and how one should do so. These are among my two favorite pages in the entire Talmud, but they were particularly resonant when I re-encountered them again this week in my daf yomi study. The Talmud speaks of the importance of studying Torah aloud: “Rabbi Eliezer had a student who used to learn Torah in a whsiper. After three years, he forgot everything he had learned” (54a). The same passage teaches that “one who walks along the way and has no company should preoccupy himself with Torah” (53a). These passages guided me when I sought a way to incorporate daf yomi study into the busy life of a nursing mother of twins. I decided that I would read the entire daf aloud to the girls while nursing them in the morning. Instead of proceeding to read Steinsaltz’ commentary, as I used to do when I had more time, I now put the girls in their double stroller and go out for a walk while listening to a recorded shiur on my iphone. Each shiur lasts 45 minutes, which is exactly the time it takes me to walk back and forth for the entire length of the Tayelet, the beautiful promenade overlooking the Old City (and the source of Tagel’s new nickname, Tagelet). This combination of reading the daf aloud while nursing, and learning Torah while pushing the stroller along the way, seems like a fitting way to follow the guidelines for learning set forth in tractate Eiruvin.

            In addition to learning the daf aloud with the girls, I also spend many  hours leyning aloud to them. Just a few weeks after they were born I leyned much of the longer double parsha of Vayakhel Pekudei, a review of parshat Teruma which they had heard in the hospital. Generally considered one of the most boring sections of the Torah, the vast tracts of Mishkan material in the book of Shmot pose an exciting challenge to anyone who tries to leyn them because the same words recur again and again with different cantillations, and it is difficult to keep it all straight. At the same time, it seems to me that more than any other section of the Torah, the description of the Mishkan must be leyned with the utmost precision. After all, , the Mishkan is described in the most specific of dimensional detail, dictated from God on high: "And on the front side, to the east, fifty cubits: fifteen cubits of hangings on the one flank, with their three posts and their three sockets, and fifteen cubits of hangings on the other flank--on each side of the gate of the enclosure--with their three posts and their three sockets" (Exodus 38: 13-15). In reading these verses, we symbolically re-enact the building of this structure in accordance with God’s precise commands. We are constructing in words the Mishkan that the Isrealites built in the desert. As I practiced parshat Vayakhel-Pekudei with the twins at the breast, I was reminded that words construct verbal edifices. Torah is the blueprint God used in creating the world, as we learn in Breishit Rabbah, and so the way we read Torah determines the way we construct the world. If we mispronounce even one syllable of Vayakhel-Pekudei, or if we read, say, forty cubits instead of fifty, then the entire edifice could come tumbling down.

            The critical importance of precision in language is a topic discussed in tractate Eiruvin. The Talmud contrasts the people of Judea, who used language precisely, with their counterparts in the Galilee, who did not (53a-b). If a man in Judea wished to sell a cloak, for instance, he would describe the color as being “like beets on the ground.” A wool-seller in the Galilee, however, would pronounce the word for wool (amar) so imprecisely that it was impossible to know whether he was referring to wool, a donkey (hamar),wine (hamra), or a sheep (eymar). It stands to reason that the leyning in Judea surpassed that of the Galilee, though the Talmud does not say so explicitly.

            As I was trying to master the Torah’s complicated and repetitious description of the Mishkan’s construction, our son Matan received the gift of a toolkit from his visiting grandmother. His favorite tools are the screwdriver and drill, which he insists on carrying with him at all times. He refuses to eat meals without the screwdriver in hand. Often he attempts to screw in his food, thereby driving us crazy. And to our further consternation, the battery-operated drill makes a noise whenever the trigger is pulled. A delighted Matan walks around the house saying, “Push the button! Push the button! Drill on. Drill off. Drill makes noise. Too loud!” Often it seems that the one who is too loud is not the drill but Matan, who now has a habit of repeating everything he hears, presumably in a typical toddler’s attempt to hone his own language skills so that he might speak as precisely as his parents, or as the Talmud’s Judeans. His language drills amuse us to no end. Last week he said to his Ganenet, “Don’t drill the babies,” which is what we told him one Shabbat afternoon when we turned around to find him aiming his favorite toy at Tagel’s forehead.

The parshiot of the Mishkan and Matan’s obsession with his drill coincided with our move to a new home last month. Daniel, to his credit, was responsible for everything relating to the renovation of our new apartment. I do not handle transitions well under the best of circumstances, but we’ve had a particularly rough time with our new neighbors, who are upset about the disturbances caused by the renovation (even louder drilling noises) and who seem to seek out every opportunity to pick a fight with us. It is hard to imagine ever having the kind of neighborly relations that we had in our previous apartment, where our upstairs neighbor babysat for us when I had to run out to the store, and our downstairs neighbor lent us eggs and milk when the store was closed. It was even more difficult to imagine the kind of relationship between neighbors described in the opening chapters of tractate Eiruvin, where all the houses that open up into a given courtyard collectively set aside a loaf of bread in one common container stored in one of the houses, thereby showing that they all have a common share in each of the houses and can carry freely in and out of the courtyard. Such neighborly cooperation seems a far cry from our current situation -- though we remain hopeful that matters will improve before the daf yomi cycle returns to these issues in Bava Batra.

In the meantime, Liav, Tagel, and I are eager to see what lies in store for us in the second half of tractate Eiruvin, which we will surely learn to the accompaniment of Matan’s drill. I also just signed up to leyn all of parshat Naso, so soon the Mishkan will be not just built but dedicated, as I hope our home will be as well. May the words we speak within its walls be words of Torah, and may we encounter serenity and understanding in the days and years and pages that lie ahead. 

Simchat Banot -- Liav and Tagel

Friday morning, 22 February 2013
י"ב אדר תשע"ג

INK:

Our daughters were born last Thursday afternoon, and so I was still in the maternity ward on Shabbat parshat Teruma. As I do whenever I cannot make it to shul, I leyned the parsha aloud, this time while sitting in my hospital bed with the bassinets of our two daughters on either side of me. The hospital bassinets are essentially rectangular transparent plastic cases containing mattresses resting on a cart with wheels, and so I could observe my daughters at all times. As newborns are wont, they lay with their hands above their heads, each one looking towards the other and hence facing me as well as I taught them about the building of the Mishkan. I smiled when I came to the description of the two planks supporting the corners of the tabernacle, which are supposed to be To’amim, matching – a word I accidentally misread as Te’omim, twins. But the pasuk that most resonated for me was the description of the Keruvim on either side of the Kaporet: (24:20).

והיו הכרובים פורשי כנפיים למעלה, סוככים בכנפיהם על-הכפורת, ופניהם, איש אל-אחיו; אל-הכפורת--יהיו, פני הכרובים.  

As I watched my two angelic daughters face towards one another with their arms swaying above their heads, I felt myself in that most holy of holy places between the Keruvim, where the divine presence communicated with the people of Israel (25:22):

ונועדתי לך, שם, ודיברתי איתך מעל הכפורת מבין שני הכרובים, אשר על-ארון העדות--את כל-אשר אצווה אותך, אל-בני ישראל.

The space between the Keruvim was the point of contact between the divine and the human. For me, the experience of giving birth to our twin daughters also afforded rare and intimate access to the divine, the Boreh Olam, creator of all living things. As I lay in the hospital between my two daughters leyning parshat Teruma, I was reminded that the Mishkan offered a new way of meeting God in the world and a new avenue for religious expression, which are gifts that our daughters offer us as well.

The Torah teaches that the faces of the Keruvim were turned toward one another. To my astonishment, this is also how Liav and Tagel sleep. Ever since we returned from the hospital, we have been placing them side-by-side in our pack-and-play crib. Regardless of how we position them, within a few moments they always turn their heads towards one another. Sometimes one baby opens her eyes and peers intently at her sister; other times they look into each other’s eyes before sinking into sleep. But they are almost always facing one another, each somehow reassured and calmed by the presence of her sister. We can only hope that this is how they will go through the rest of their lives, turning to one another in friendship, support, reassurance, and love.

The image of angelic presences speaks to me on another level as well. This past week, Daniel and I spent many intense hours trying to name our daughters. In so doing, we were reminded  of a midrash about Jacob’s struggle with the angel in Parshat Vayishlach. Jacob asks the angel his name:

הגידה נא שמך
And the angel responds:
למה זה תשאל לשמי
The midrash in Breishit Rabba connects this verse to another encounter between a human and angel that appears in Sefer Shoftim: Shimshon’s father Manoach asks the angel his wife has encountered for the angel’s name, and the angel responds:
למה זה תשאל לשמי והוא פלאי 
The midrash explains that angels change their names based on the particular mission they are sent to accomplish at any given moment. And so I imagine that in choosing a name for our daughters, we are also in some sense charging them with a unique mission in the world. I have felt this past week that so long as our daughters were still unnamed, every mission remained open to them. I imagined thousands of winged angels hovering over us, each representing a different name we might choose, and each angel beating its wings in hopeful anticipation that perhaps that angel might be the one whose mission matches the name we choose for our child. This amassing of angelic presences may explain why the first week of a newborn child’s life is such a time of intense connection to an otherworldly realm. The moment our daughters are named—like the moment when the box with Schroedinger’s cat is opened—all the angels fly off, leaving just two, one for each of our girls.

Perhaps the two angels who remained were the same angels that accompanied the namesakes of each of our daughters, Daniel’s father and my maternal grandmother. My Savta Gilla Rubin, for whom Tagel is named, was a vibrant, headstrong woman who grew up in Brooklyn but spent her entire adult life as the rebbetzin at the Wantagh Jewish Center on Long Island. Still, the place in the world where she was happiest was Yerushalayim, where she and my Zaidy spent many sabbaticals attending parshat hashavua shiurim just as Daniel and I love to do. Together they took their children on their first family trip here in June 1967, where Savta enjoyed showing off her Biblical Hebrew in all the most modern contexts.  Having grown up with Zionist Hebraist parents and grandparents, Hebrew was, in fact, her first language. I was fortunate to share with her a love not just of Hebrew, but also of crossword puzzles and literary novels – I always knew which books were hers because she wrote in pen in the margins (I only dare use pencil) and because the pages were pervaded by her distinctive perfume which I can still smell to this day, exactly 18 years and one week after her death. We hope Tagel will draw from her spirit and embody her strength, her vibrancy, her love of language and literature and her attachment to the Jewish people.

DBF:

My father, Chuck Feldman, alav hashalom, would have rejoiced at this simcha, and his absence, which we feel so keenly today, is all that impinges on this wonderful occasion. A consummate family man, he knew that every simcha must be celebrated to the fullest. Our girls are the first grandchildren born to the family since our Saba left us, and so it is appropriate that the first of our daughters, Liav, bears a name that pays tribute to his memory. Li-av. To me my father was a model of commitment to family, community, and Am Yisrael. A devoted physician, he was also a leader of the Jewish community in northern New Jersey, especially in the realm of Torah education. He was a trusted advisor whose empathy and concern for others made him beloved to so many. He was a wonderful, charming man, and he relished every moment with his family. As my mother, may she live ad meah v'esrim, holds our beautiful Liav before us, we feel dad's bracha upon us. Along with Ilana's Savta Gilla and our other departed grandparents, Zaidy Mel Rubin, Grandma Betty and Grandpa Joe Feldman, Baba Sally and Zaidie Isak Levenstein, Dad is surely looking down upon us from the yeshiva shel ma'ala, smiling his radiant smile with his characteristic twinkle in his eye, as we welcome these two angelic girls into the family he was so proud to build. To quote the words of the Megilla which we will read next week, it is our tefilla that זִכְרו לֹא יָסוּף מִזַּרְעו.
 
It is also my happy lot in these days of Purim to offer words of shevach and hoda'a for all those responsible for this mishte v'simcha.
 
First to our parents, whose love and support accompanies us at every step as our family grows. My mom, Baba, arrived with her impeccable timing and inimitable grace just as our twins were born. Mom, you are always selfless in offering to do anything and everything on our behalf, including buying now a second crib for our home. You instill in us a sense of gratitude for all that we are blessed to experience. Ilana's parents, Savta and Saba Kurshan, have been our neighbors for the past few weeks, helping us prepare for the twins' arrival, caring for Matan, and offering all kinds of help, love, and support with characteristic good cheer and attention to detail. Thank you for all you have done for us during this special period, including reading the name dictionary that one last time. We are so pleased to celebrate with all of you, and we extend our love to the proud great grandparents in Princeton New Jersey, Grandma Phyllis and Grandpa Jerry Kurshan.

We also recognize the endless generosity of my sister, Estie Agus, who, along with Elizur, and their adorable children, are extraordinary role models of chessed. Estie sends us food, clothes, babysitters, and everything we could possibly need. Liav and Tagel, prepare to be spoiled. As Matan has already discovered, you will quickly learn that visiting your cousins in Raanana is our family’s equivalent of Disneyland – if not Gan Eden.

We are also deeply grateful to our other siblings, including Mindy, who was here with us last Shabbat, and Naamit, who spent hours and hours in late-night phone consultations about matters medical and nomenclatural. Michael and Nira, Joe and Dana, Mindy and Eric, Naamit and Michael, Ariella and Leo, Eytan – we feel your love from afar, and we can’t wait to introduce you to your nieces.  

Finally, to Ilana, I can only express my endless love and admiration. Everyone here knows how remarkable a woman you are, but only the children and I witness the full force of your creative genius day to day. You brought these beautiful girls into the world with determination, intensity, and even your characteristic wit -- who else would have been offering divrei torah in the delivery room between contractions to the nurses, the midwife and the anesthesiologist? With the blessed arrival of these two babies wrapped up in their little scrolls, may it be said that we commit our love to each other anew: קיימו מה שקיבלו כבר. It is the supreme privilege of my life to be your husband, partner, and father to our children.

Thank you all for joining us today. Chag Purim Sameach, enjoy the seudat Hodaya, and Mazal tov.

SABBA NEIL:

It was an Et Ratzon, a propitious moment, when we had the privilege of being in the hospital with Ilana and Daniel as Ilana gave birth to these two beautiful babies whom we are naming today. These girls were welcomed into a room  that was Tzahalah v’samecha—a room ringing with joyous cries.
These children are named today during the week we read Parashat Tetzaveh. The Parasha this week continues to address the details of the Mishkan—this week not so much the construction of the Mishkan but rather the roles of the Kohanim and specifically the details of the clothing they were to wear when serving in the Mishkan.

Ktzat muzar--it is a little strange that the Parasha spends so much time on the external garments of the Kohanim. Normally in Judaism we focus not so much on the exterior features of a person—we don’t concentrate on their appearance or the clothes they wear but rather on the integrity and purity that defines their souls and character. We are more concerned for the purity of the soul than the cleanliness of the clothes. But there is an expression “that clothes make the man”-- or perhaps it is more appropriate to say today that clothes make the woman.  These tiny girls were born into the world without any outer garments or possessions—just two naked bodies squirming and crying b’simcha u-v’sa-son--as they made the passage from the world of the womb into the room of the world.

But from the moment of their birth these two babies began the process of individuation that will continue throughout their lives. One was born first; the other was born second.  One with blond hair;  the other with brown. One seemed pensive; the other active. Today the names that Ilana and Daniel give to these girls will further define them.

Each name is an external garment that dresses each of these girls in the clothing of their individuality.  As twins part of their challenge in life will be not only to uncover their distinctiveness, but also to distinguish  themselves from each another.

But it is not only their names which will define them during their lives. It is also their parents who will shape who they will become. These girls have been born to parents who share a love of Torah, a passion for literature and a respect for history. They have been born to parents who have chosen to build their lives in Israel and to raise their children in the homeland of the Jewish people. They have born as sisters to their brother, Matan, who so far has been very gentle and loving toward them. They have been born into two families, the Kurshans and the Feldmans who come from a lineage of study, learning and Ahavat Yisrael. I know I speak for Alisa and Rella when I say how privileged we are to be here as grandparents during these weeks and to share  the beginning of these girls’ lives. And I know, Daniel, you will tell your children the stories about your father so they will know the full richness of their inheritance.

And lastly these children will be defined by their community. Aside from the time Alisa and I have been able to spend with you, Ilana and Daniel, and with your children, it has also been wonderful for us to meet so many of your friends and to come to know the personal and professional communities of which you are a part. You will never have to raise your children alone because there is indeed a village of your friends here who will support you. We have been touched, as I know both of you have been, by the overflowing good wishes of all your friends and colleagues as well as by their concrete offers of help. We know that your children will always be surrounded by an abundance of their peers. Theirs will never be the only stroller pushed through the streets of Jerusalem; rather they will be surrounded by the strollers of so many other children that fill the streets of this city.

So these two girls born naked into the world have already been adorned in the garments of our tradition. We know these girls will grow up enveloped by the teachings of our texts and the music of our Masoret. Today you begin to dress and address them by their names. You wrap them in your love  as their parents. You clothe them in the care of their grandparents, your friends, and your community. You crown these girls with the adornment of their Jewish inheritance. May the garments that they wear be like the garments of the ancient Kohanim--clothing l’khavod  ul-tif-ah-ret-- garments that adorn these girls in dignity and radiance.

המלאך הגואל אותי מכל רע יברך את הנערות

May your daughters always following in the footsteps of the angels who will guide their lives. May they always be a blessing to their families and to their community.  May God watch over them and protect them. May God bless these girls so that they will both become an adornment and a crown l’kol am Yisrael--to the entire community of Israel. 

Who Knows? An Adar of Anticipation

Among the laws governing the reading of the scroll of Esther discussed in tractate Megillah is the stipulation that the megillah may not be read backwards: “One who reads the megillah backwards has not fulfilled one's obligation” (17a). The story of the Jews in Shushan unfolds in linear progression, moving from “sorrow to joy and from mourning to festivity,” as we learn only in the penultimate chapter (9:22). Of course, since we read the megillah every year on Purim, we already know how it will end, and the triumphant hanging of the evil villain Haman whose plot to exterminate the Jews was foiled by the beautiful Queen Esther comes as no surprise. Even so, we are commanded each year to read the Megillah with a sense of “who knows,” inhabiting a world of lottery and chance in which we cannot divine the ending but can only pray for a better outcome. As Esther’s uncle Mordechai says to her, “Who knows, perhaps you have attained a royal position for just such a moment” (4:14).

            I write these words on Rosh Hodesh Adar of 5773 (2013), exactly six years after I first learned Maskhet Megillah in daf yomi. I sit here nine months pregnant with twins, thinking back to a time when I did not know if I would ever get married again, let alone be privileged to bring children into the world. I try to put myself in the shoes of the person I was back then, pretending that I don’t already know about all the twists and turns that life would take to sustain me and enable me to reach this day. As I try to identify with that uncertainty, I am struck by the realization that in a world of hester panim—a world where God’s face is hidden—the sense of “who knows” never completely dissipates. We may have a wider vista now that we have ascended to the top of one difficult mountain, but other, higher mountains lie ahead, and there is no guarantee that we will surmount them as well.

            I think about this metaphor as I lie in bed, looking over the mountain that is my pregnant belly and wondering if I will ever be able to see directly down to my feet again. Last summer, when I first learned I was pregnant, I remember looking at the calendar and thinking that I’d probably give birth between Tu B’shvat and Purim. Tu B’shvat is over and gone, and with it all the flower and tree names we played around with these past few months. Today we ushered in Adar, the month of joy, and my husband reminded me that Rosh Hodesh Adar would make a great birthday. At this point, though, I don’t need any reminders. Everyone who sends me emails, surely in an attempt to be thoughtful and considerate, prefaces their messages with, “I’m not sure if you’re in the throes of labor as I’m sending this,” or “I wonder if you have already given birth.” No, no, not yet. The new month, whose invisible new moon is not even the barest sliver of a crescent, has not yet revealed what it holds in store. Still, it is a good thing to have made it to 39 weeks in a twin pregnancy. As a friend just reminded me, the zodiac symbol for Adar is two fish, perhaps because Adar is the one month that can fall out twice in a shana meuberet, a leap or "pregnant" year. But the symbol is also pregnant with personal meaning, since I have swam nearly every day these past nine months. “Are you teaching your babies how to swim?” the ladies at the pool always ask me. “Oh no, they are swimming already,” I assure them, imagining my two little fetus-fish awash in their individual sacs of amniotic fluid. At some point the seas will split and they will be cast on to dry land – hopefully long before Pesach, as I exhausted those metaphors in my previous pregnancy.

            Meanwhile, as Purim approaches, I think of Esther enjoining the people to come together in fervent prayer that all should proceed smoothly when she risks her life to approach King Ahaseuerus (the last five letters of whose name, as commonly transliterated, are a near-anagram of uterus). The Talmud in the first chapter of Megillah interprets the verse that describes Esther’s reaction to hearing of the king’s decree to destroy and massacre all the Jews: “Va-tithalhal hamalka meod.” The word “Va-tithalhal,” often translated as “became agitated,” provides fodder for the midrashic imagination: “What is Va-tithalhal? Rav says: She became a menstruant. Rabbi Yirmiya says, “She suffered a miscarriage” (15a). Rashi explains that the cavities of her body dissolved. All these interpreters are playing with the etymological similarity between Va-tithalhal and “halal,” the Hebrew word for cavity or hole and the nomenclatural hallmark of the N’keva, the female. I wonder if maybe Esther heard the news and felt like she was in labor, bearing inside her womb the destiny of the Jewish people.

            Sitting here on Rosh Hodesh Adar, attuned to the first signs of any contractions, I do not know when I will begin to feel changes in the holes and cavities of my body. The megillah is ten chapters, and I am already at the end of my ninth month – but I cannot scroll ahead to find out what happens in chapter ten. We read the megillah in order and live our lives day by day, and as Mordechai tells Esther “who knows” what tomorrow will bring. But as Adar begins, joy increases, and I can only pray that for us, too, it will be so.

Nine Months Pregnant: Counting Down the Shabbatot

I have twenty-one dapim left in Masekhet Shabbat and twenty-one days until my due date, which means that if I and my unborn children both stay on schedule, I should be able to finish the Masekhet before they are born. These past few weeks have been a race to cover as much ground as possible out of fear that once our twins are born, my time will no longer be my own. I have spent many early mornings and late nights lying atop my bed propped up with pillows, which is the only way I can lie comfortably these days, since my stomach is so enormous. When I learn, I try to focus on the text and ignore the kicking inside my belly and the deadline that looms before me. These past few days, however, so many of the dapim have dealt with matters relating to pregnancy and childbirth that I am constantly reminded of what lies ahead – and inside.

            Last week I learned the eighteenth chapter of the Masekhet, which concludes with a discussion about giving birth on Shabbat (128b). Shmuel, a sage who was known for his medicinal skills, asserts that so long as the womb is open, one may desecrate Shabbat in order to fulfill all the wishes of a pregnant woman – including lighting a candle for her and carrying oil through the public domain to bring to her. However, once the womb has closed, one may no longer desecrate Shabbat to satisfy her needs. The Talmud then goes on to ask the obvious next question: When is the womb considered open? Abayey says that it is from the moment the woman sits on the birthing stone. (My equivalent of the Mashber would be the big inflatable exercise ball from Target which I lay on during the worst of my contractions in my last pregnancy, and which my husband Daniel just blew up again.) Rav Yehoshua says it is from the moment that blood begins to flow. And others say that it is from the time that the woman can no longer walk, and her friends must carry her – just as Daniel and mother had to lift me up and carry me to the car so I could get to the hospital in time to deliver Matan a year and a half ago.

The word used in the Talmud for womb is Kever, which also means grave. This analogy goes back at least as far as the book of Proverbs (30:16), where we are told that “Three things are insatiable…Hell, a barren womb, earth that cannot get enough water.” These are also the three matters which are controlled exclusively by God, as we are taught in the first page of tractate Taanit: “Three keys are in the hands of God and are not entrusted to any messenger: The key to rain, the key to childbirth, and the key to revive the dead.” That is, only God can control when rain falls, and when a woman goes into labor, and when the Messiah will come and revive the dead. I may think that I have it all planned out, and I may be confident that I’ll finish the Masekhet before the babies come, but it’s all in God’s hands. As the old ladies at the pool keep reminding me, it is most important that it should happen in a propitious hour, b’sha’a tovah -- even if that means that I have to lug this heavy Masekhet to the hospital with me.

At least I can rest assured that I am out of one of the danger zones, since I’m now into my ninth month. The rabbis teach that any baby born in the eighth month of pregnancy will not be viable, but is regarded as inanimate as a stone (135a). On the other hand, any baby born in the seventh or ninth month is assumed to be healthy. Apparently this was a well-known medical principle in the ancient world, though it is not clear on what it is based. In any case, I am grateful that I did  not give birth in the eighth month (or the seventh month for that matter, which I daresay would have been far worse).

In the same sugya about helping a woman give birth on Shabbat, the rabbis discuss whether it is permissible to tie the umbilical cord on Shabbat (129b). They disagree about whether it is preferable to tie or to cut the cord; which is less of a desecration of Shabbat? But all the sages concur that in the case of twins, one must cut the umbilical cords lest the babies continue to be connected to one another, which would be dangerous. Given that we are expecting twins, it sounds like even if they are born on Shabbat, I won’t have any trouble convincing the midwife to cut the cords. This will be a disappointment to Matan, however, who likes to play only with things that can be plugged in. He spends most afternoons (including Shabbat, for that matter) plugging in and out our immersion blender (which he calls “the noises”), our portable radiator (“the cham”), and Daniel’s desk lamp (“a lamps”). The most exciting thing about our new babies (which he’s already named “hairdryer” and “screwdriver,” after two of his other favorite household items) would surely be the prospect of plugging their umbilical cords into an electrical socket – perish the thought.

While Matan was inserting plugs into sockets this morning, I finished the nineteenth chapter of the Masekhet, which deals with the issue of performing a bris on Shabbat. All the sages agree that a baby born on Shabbat is circumcised on Shabbat, and Rabbi Eliezer says that it is even permissible for the Mohel to carry the knife along with any other equipment necessary to perform the circumcision on Shabbat (130a). However, if there is any doubt about whether the baby is in fact due to be circumcised on Shabbat, or if there is any doubt about the baby’s gender, then one must wait until the next day to perform the circumcision. There are also those who say that if a baby is born by C-section, then the bris is not performed on Shabbat – though this is a minority opinion. The rabbis also discuss whether a baby who has already been circumcised may be treated on Shabbat: Is it possible to wash the baby? To sprinkle cumin (which was thought to have medicinal properties) on the site of the bris? To replace the bandage? During this discussion about caring for infants, Abayey interjects with a series of folk remedies that he learned from his mother (134a): First, his mother taught him that if a baby refuses to nurse, it is because its mouth is too cold, and one must bring hot coals to put on its lips. If a baby doesn’t breathe properly, one should bring the mother’s placenta and place it on the baby’s chest. If the baby is ruddy-complexioned, it has not fully absorbed its blood, and one should wait before circumcising it. I am not sure if any of these practices are part of the protocol in the maternity wards at Hadassah, but I hope I never find out.

By the time I am lying in that maternity ward, perhaps I will have reached my favorite sugya in Masekhet Shabbat, which deals with the astrological significance of the day on which a baby is born (156a): “One who is born on Sunday will be strong; one who is born on Monday will be quarrelsome; one who is born on Tuesday will be rich and fornicating….” Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi associates each of these destinies with the creation story. For instance, just as the waters were divided on the second day of creation, a baby born on this day will be drawn to divisive situations and will therefore be quarrelsome. So far these predictions have proven accurate: Matan was born on a Wednesday, the day the sun and moon were created, and he is indeed intelligent and wise. However, Rabbi Hanina argues that it is not the day on which a person is born that matters, but the planet ruling over the hour of the birth. That is, one who is born under the sun will be a proud man; one who is born under the moon will suffer illness; one is born under Saturn will have his plans frustrated; on who is born under Jupiter will be charitable. I never read horoscope columns, so I won’t know under what sign my babies are born. But the Hebrew word for sign is Mazal, and so suffice it to say that I hope it will be a mazal tov.

Do I really have twenty-one days left until I give birth? Will I end up having boys, and if so, will their bris be on Shabbat? What day of the week will they be born, and will they know how to breathe and how to nurse? The answers to all these questions are of course in God’s hands; for my part, I can only pray to the keeper of the keys. May the twins be born healthily, and in an auspicious hour. May we merit to finish this Masekhet that we have been learning together since Sukkot; and may we merit to return to it someday again.

Rededicating Chanukah

Last year I lit Chanukah candles in a shiva house. My father-in-law had just passed away, and my husband, his mother, and his four siblings were sitting shiva in their New Jersey home. Each afternoon at about 5pm, the family would get up from their low chairs, take leave of any visitors, and make their way to the foyer to try to introduce a few moments of light into one of the darkest weeks of their lives. Several of my husband’s siblings commented that lighting Chanukah candles and saying Hallel and Shehechiyanu seemed so incongruous during a period of mourning; and it was especially hard to say the final line of the psalm for Chanukah, “You have converted my mourning into dance.” I remember standing alone by the burning candles after everyone had returned to their shiva chairs, watching the flames flicker like trembling tears and wondering whether my husband would ever be able to celebrate Chanukah with a full heart again.

Now, a year later, my associations with Chanukah could not be more different. Our son Matan, now 18 months, has been learning about Chanukah in Gan since Rosh Chodesh. He has come home with painted Styrofoam candles, homemade dreidls, and several new additions to his vocabulary: “Yvonne” (which we eventually realized is “Sevivon”), “Kad katan,” and “Poe” (not the author, but the emphatic completion of the sentence that begins Nes Gadol Haya). He refuses to eat dinner without an Yvonne in each hand, and he responds with glee each time it spins and lands on the floor. If you sing Matan the Sevivon song, he will put his hands on his head and spin around like a whirling dervish until he collapses from dizziness or exhaustion. I have been looking for an electrical Chanukiya for him, since he is obsessed with electricity and enamored of anything he can turn “on” and “off,” but I was told by several storeowners that they are not sold in Israel because the Israeli rabbinate won’t grant a Hekhsher for them lest someone “light” on Shabbat. I was told I could order one from the “Reformim” in America, though I’m still too bemused by this response to pursue the matter any further.

Thanks to Matan, this is the first year I have given Chanukah any thought before the 25^th of Kislev, when I usually remember at the last minute to buy a turquoise box of standard-issue candles and dust off my ratty metal Chanukiyah. I have never been able to connect to this holiday; my relationship to most festivals is through texts, but Chanukah lacks a megillah, at least not one that is part of our canon. Although I learned not long ago the chapter of the Talmud that deals with Chanukah, perek Bameh Madlikin of Shabbat, I cannot say that I found the halakhot of candlelighting particularly meaningful or illuminating. Chanukah candles are supposed to be lit only until the last person returns home from the marketplace, but in Jerusalem it is customary to light at nightfall, usually before 5pm. When in the past was I ever home before 5pm to light candles? I identified with the Talmud’s description of Rabbi Zeyra, who would spend the days of Chanukah in an inn and simply add a few coins to a communal pot so that he could be included when the innkeeper lit. This year, though, everything has changed. I pick up Matan at Gan at 4pm every day, and so we are almost always home before 5pm. This seems like the perfect time to light candles, and I can already anticipate how much Matan the pyromaniac (who begs us to do Havdalah every night of the week) will enjoy this mitzvah.

In a sense, my new associations with Chanukah have perhaps re-dedicated this holiday for me, and I hope for my husband as well. Last year Chanukah was a time of darkness and grief, in which we spent more time thinking about a flame—a Nishmat Adam—that had been snuffed out before its time than about the miracle of a small jug of oil that lasted longer than anyone expected. Chanukah, I am reminded, is about how things can last longer than one ever dreamed possible – not just burning oil, but also the memories of those we love who are no longer with us. As we stand watching the candles by the window in the winter chill, I hope that God will indeed convert mourning into rejoicing, and that the flames that once seemed to be flickering will be dancing instead. 

           

The Divine Ultrasound: Getting a Kick out of Parshat Toldot

We don’t know how pregnant Rivka was at the beginning of this week’s parsha, but judging from how I’ve been feeling, I would guess she was at least five months along. Just a few weeks ago I started feeling the babies kicking for the first time, and this week, I was able to detect two distinctive patterns of fetal movement. The doctor has told me that one baby is on top and one on the bottom, and I am beginning to get to know them both. The one on top gives sudden, jolting kicks just to the right of my navel, as if leveling a blow at an imaginary opponent; when this baby moves, my whole stomach protrudes and the motion is visible even through my clothing. The baby on the bottom doesn’t so much kick as undulate, fluttering around just above my pelvic bone in a gentle, rhythmic dance. I wouldn’t say that the two wombmates are struggling with one another, but much like Rivka, I find myself preoccupied with my own interiority and wondering, “What is this self I have become?”

As Avivah Zornberg points out, Rivka’s name is an anagram of Kirbah, that interior space where the babies struggled: “And the babies struggled inside her (b’kirbah).” When pregnant with twins, Rivka’s very identity was jumbled inside her, to the extent that she could no longer recognize herself: “If so, why I?” she asks in a moment of existential doubt. Unlike me, Rivka did not have the advantage of modern ultrasound technology, nor did she have an entire shelf of books to tell her what to expect when she was expecting. She didn’t receive weekly emails from BabyCenter comparing her baby’s size to various fruits and vegetables and informing her of the various stages of development: Week One: Your baby is the size of a lentil! Week Two: Your baby now has heels! Week Three: Your baby is covered in a soft coating of hair! Instead, God had to serve as her ultrasound and her sounding board, illuminating the reason for her distress and discomfort: “Two nations are in your womb. Two separate people shall issue from your body.” And indeed, as we are told in the very next verse, so it came to pass.

Rivka is not the only woman in our tradition to suffer during a twin pregnancy. The Talmud (Yevamot 65b) relates that Yehudit, the wife of Rabbi Hiya, gave birth to twin sons born two months apart; the first one came out at 32 weeks! Poor Yehudit went into labor twice, and had to spend her eighth and ninth month of pregnancy caring for a newborn, presumably while on bedrest. Traumatized by the experience, she tried to prevent herself from ever becoming pregnant again. She disguised herself and came before her husband, a story reminiscent of Jacob disguising himself as Esau as per Rivka’s instructions. “Is a woman obligated in the mitzvah of procreation,” she asked him. Her husband responded no. She then drank a drug to make her barren, an act we might interpret as stealing the birthright, or at least as stealing the right to give birth. Rabbi Hiya then got wind of the matter and cried forth in great distress upon realizing that he had been tricked. If his wife was to birth him no more sons, what blessing could possibly be left for him? “I wish you would give birth to another bellyful,” he blessed his wife, and so she did – although this time, they were girls. Thus Hiya and Yehudit were the parents of two sets of twins: First Yehuda and Hizkiya, and then Pazi and Tavi.

I, for one, shall be more than happy if this one set of twins comes out safely and healthily, and hopefully not months apart from one another. I’m not sure if the one on top or the one on the bottom will make its way out first, especially since I am due on Purim, the holiday of v’nahafoch hu, in which everything is turned upside down. My goal is just to make it as close to 40 weeks (and as close to the end of Masekhet Shabbat) as possible, hopefully while remaining ambulatory. This in itself would be a miracle, as the Talmud teaches:”Come and see that the attributes of the Holy One are not like the attributes of man. A man puts an object in a container with the opening facing downward, and it may or may not be preserved inside the container. But God shapes the fetus in the womb of an open woman, with the opening facing down, and the fetus is preserved” (Niddah 31a). I hope the babies are comfortable in their upper and lower berths, folded up like writing tablets with candles burning atop their heads as they peer from one end of the world to the other (Niddah 30b) and as they study Masekhet Shabbat with me each morning. We still have 110 pages left, so while the twins are free to keep kicking, I hope that neither one has any intention of emerging any time soon.

Parshat Hayey Sarah: Revisiting Machpelah

This week’s parsha, Hayey Sarah, begins with the death and burial of Sarah, and concludes with the death and burial of Abraham. Both are buried in the cave of Machpelah, a site which has a rich and colorful history in the Talmud and midrash. According to the Talmud in Eruvin (53a), four couples are buried in this cave: Adam and Eve, Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, and Jacob and Leah. For the most part, these dead are left undisturbed, until Rabbi Banaa comes along in the third century and knocks on the door of the dead.

Rabbi Banaa, as we are told in the Talmud (Bava Batra 58a), used to mark the burial caves of the dead. (Until medieval times, Jews generally placed their dead in caves rather than burying them underground.) Presumably he did so in order to prevent people from accidentally contracting impurity as a result of contact with a corpse. As Rashi explains, Rabbi Banaa would enter burial caves, measure their dimensions, and then outline with lime the corresponding surface above the ground so as to ward off anyone who might otherwise walk right over them unaware. At some point in his grave markings, he came to the cave of Machpelah, as the Talmud relates:

"When Rabbi Banaa reached the cave of Abraham, he found Eliezer, the servant of Abraham, standing in front of the entrance. He said to him: What is Abraham doing? He said to him: He is lying in the arms of Sarah, and she is peering at his head. He said to him: Go and tell him that Banaa is standing at the entrance. Abraham said to him: Let him enter. It is well known that there is no physical desire in this world."

Rabbi Banaa finds himself at the threshold of Abraham’s grave. Abraham, as we know from last week’s parsha, was famous for his hospitality, and so of course he instructed his servant Eliezer, who was guarding the door, to let Banaa inside. Even though Abraham and Sarah were engaged in a moment of intimacy—he was lying in her arms, and she was peering at his head or perhaps picking out the lice from his hair—Banaa was invited to enter. “There is no physical desire [yetzer] in this world,” Abraham explains cryptically from the crypt. Does he mean that he and Sarah’s behavior is entirely innocent, since after all they are already dead? Or does he mean that Rabbi Banaa, having entered the world of the dead, is in another realm where such voyeurism would not be titillating? Why is Banaa permitted to observe this intimacy?

In fact, intimacy and voyeurism are themes central to this sugya and to the opening chapters of tractate Bava Batra, where this story appears. The first chapter deals with Hezek Reiya, visual trespass, the notion that observing another’s activities is tantamount to trespassing on his domain. Banaa, who ostensibly wishes to prevent others from inadvertently trespassing over dead bodies and contracting impurity, instead “visually trespasses” over the private domestic space of Abraham and Sarah. He observes them in a moment of intimacy, much like the laundering women who are described in the halakhic sugya that immediately precedes this story, which deals with the question of Hazaka, that is, the duration of time that property must be owned and uncontested in order to establish the legal presumption of ownership. The Mishnah on 57a considers which uses of property indicate that the user has acquired rights to use the property in this manner from the property’s owner. The Talmud quotes Rabbi Banaa, who states that residents who share a jointly-owned courtyard can prevent each other from engaging in most activities that are disruptive, except for the washing of clothes, “for it is not the practice of Jewish daughters to debase themselves by washing clothes in public.” While washing clothes, a woman had to roll up her sleeves and expose herself in ways that would not be appropriate in a more public setting; therefore, a woman may not be barred from doing laundry in the private space of her own courtyard.

In the continuation of this halakhic sugya, Rabbi Banaa goes on to make other remarks about privacy and intimacy, including the stipulation that a Torah scholar’s tunic must be long enough “so that his flesh should not be visible below the hem.” He also states that the bed of a Torah scholar must have nothing stored beneath it. The Meiri explains that conceivably this could result in a member of the household entering the bedroom at an inopportune time. Immediately after this statement, the Talmud launches into our story of Rabbi Banaa, who “walks in on” Abraham and Sarah lying in each other’s arms.

As the story proceeds, we follow Banaa deeper and deeper into the cave, until a heavenly voice stops him dead in his tracks and forbids him from trespassing any further:      

"Rabbi Banaa entered, surveyed [the dimensions of the crypt], and departed. When he reached the crypt of Adam, a heavenly voice came forth and proclaimed: You have gazed at the likeness of My image. Do not gaze at My image itself.

[Rabbi Banaa replied]: But I wish to mark the crypt!
[The heavenly voice said:] As the dimensions of the outer crypt, so are the dimensions of the inner crypt….
Rabbi Banaa said: I glimpsed his two heels and they were like two orbs of the sun."

Rabbi Banaa, after measuring the chamber of the cave where Abraham and Sarah are buried, wishes to go even further and measure the chamber where Adam and Eve lie. But instead of Eliezer, it is God Himself who stands guard at the entrance and warns Banaa that he has seen enough: “You have gazed at the likeness of my image. Do not gaze at My image itself.” This is a strange protest, since presumably Adam—who was created in the image of God—is the likeness of the divine image, and yet Banaa has not yet gazed at Adam. This confusion is resolved in the heavenly voice’s next declaration: “As the dimensions of the outer crypt, so are the dimensions of the inner crypt.” The outer crypt where Abraham is buried resembles the inner crypt where Adam is buried. By gazing upon Abraham, Banaa has effectively gazed upon Adam, who is God’s likeness. Were he to proceed to gaze upon Adam, he would effectively be gazing upon God Himself, which no human being is permitted to do. But Banaa, ever the voyeur, proves unstoppable. He insists on exposing publicly the intimacy he witnesses when he peeks in at Adam’s grave, where it seems Adam is lying on the ground with his feet facing Rabbi Banaa. “I glimpsed his two heels,” he cannot resist gushing exultantly, “and they were like the two orbs of the sun!” Ostensibly on a mission to notify others about the location of burial caves, Banaa’s true purpose seems to be to document what he sees inside them.

At this point, the story comes to a close, and the Talmud goes on to enumerate two genealogies of beauty, one consisting of Biblical figures and one linking rabbinic figures to their Biblical forbears:

1. "The radiance of any person’s countenance in comparison to that of Sarah is like that of a monkey in comparison to a human being. Sarah in comparison to Eve is like a monkey in comparison to a human being. Eve in comparison to Adam is like a monkey in comparison to a human being. Adam in comparison to the divine presence is like a monkey in comparison to a human being.

2. The beauty of Rav Kahana was a semblance of the beauty of Rav. The beauty of Rav was a semblance of the beauty of Rabbi Abahu. The beauty of Rabbi Abahu was a semblance of the beauty of Jacob. The beauty of Jacob was a semblance of the beauty of Adam."

The first genealogy reads like a sort of reverse evolution, in which we are not descended from monkeys, but rather our beautiful human ancestors degenerate into ugly monkeys. The starting point is Sarah, whom Banaa has just glimpsed in our story. We know from the Torah that Abraham regarded his wife as beautiful, to such an extent that he insisted on two occasions that she present herself as his sister. But even Sarah paled in comparison to Eve, the first woman. And Eve could not hold a candle to Adam, a reading that presumably accords with Genesis 2 rather than Genesis1, in which Eve is not created simultaneously with Adam but is rather fashioned from his rib. Finally, Adam, who was created in the image of God, was still just a monkey when compared to God. Each generation thus degenerates into monkeys when compared with its more aesthetically pleasing forbears.

Likewise, in the second genealogy, each subsequent rabbinic generation represents only a fraction of the beauty of preceding generations, and the leap from rabbinic to Biblical figures is accomplished without remark: Rabbi Abahu resembles Jacob. This sugya thus establishes continuity between the sages like Banaa who mark burial caves, and the Biblical characters buried therein. And the story of Banaa, the only aggada (until the very last page) buried in a Talmudic chapter that deals with matters of property ownership, is set in the cave of Machpelah, which was the first piece of land ever purchased by a Jew -- thus establishing the Jewish people’s connection to the land of Israel. Though Ephron the Hittite offered to give Abraham the cave for free, Abraham insisted on paying full price for it, a fact that the Torah emphasizes both at the beginning and end of the parsha lest the matter be contested. There he buried his beautiful wife Sarah, in whose arms he lies to this day, waiting for us to read the story of Banaa and to knock on the door once again.

Book Review: Rav Hisda's Daughter

Published in Lilith Magazine, Fall 2012 (vol. 37, no. 3)

Towards the end of Rav Hisda’s Daughter (Plume, $16), Maggie Anton’s eponymous heroine returns to her home in Babylon after four long years in the land of Israel and is greeted by her father with the words, “Blessed are You, Adonai…. Who revives the dead.” Anton has made quite a career out of reviving the dead, first with her trilogy of novels bringing to life Rashi’s three daughters, and now with her imaginative tale of the daughter of the third-century Talmudic sage Rav Hisda.

            The novel’s opening scene is closely based on the Talmudic story in which Rav Hisda’s young daughter sits on her father’s lap while his two leading students stand before him. Rav Hisda asks his daughter which one of them she would like to marry, and she greedily responds, “both of them.” One of the students—arguably the more quick-witted—immediately pipes up, “I’ll go second!” This story sets the stage for Anton’s tale, in which Hisdadukh—Anton invents her name, which is Persian for “Daughter of Hisda”—is betrothed first to Rami bar Chama, the love of her youth and the father of her two children. Following Rami’s tragic and sudden death after just five years of marriage, Hisda is betrothed to the other student, the harsh and hardened Rava. The novel follows Hisdadukh not just from one husband to another, but also from her home in the Babylonia, where she is one of two daughters and seven sons in an illustrious rabbinic family, to the Galilee, where she mingles with amulet scribes, early Christians, and the great scholars of Tiberias, Caesaria, and Sepphoris. It is in Sepphoris that Anton imagines that Hisdadukh serves as the model for the iconic “Mona Lisa of Galilee,” a floor mosaic that remains a popular archeological attraction in Israel today.

Many of the conversations and characters in this novel are lifted straight of the pages of the Talmud. But as the Talmud is not a work of history—Anton may be the first to call it “historical fiction”—even these elements of the novel may raise eyebrows:  “Everyone knew that the Evil Eye was responsible for a great deal of misery in the world. Rav, Father’s teacher, once went to a cemetery and cast a spell that let him talk to the dead. Ninety-nine told him they’d died from the Evil Eye and only one from bad air.” We must be as skeptical of the historicity of Anton’s account as we are of the Talmud’s narration of this incident in tractate Bava Metzia. And so in terms of authenticity, perhaps Rav Hisda’s Daughter has an advantage over Rashi’s Daughters, since there is no pretense that the former is based on historical sources. When Anton succeeds best, she brings Talmudic debates to life by showing the very human personalities and passions behind the various legal positions. And so when Rami and Rava debate the laws of inheritance, Anton suggests that they are in fact really fighting over Hisdadukh; thus their battle of wits is also a sort of romantic duel.

Anton’s novel is rooted not just in the soil of the Talmudic text but also in the field of academic Talmud study today, which is apparent even without glancing at her impressive bibliography or the list of illustrious international scholars she acknowledges. Hisdadukh is a student of Torah arguably modeled on her Palestinian counterpart Beruria, but she is also an enchantress who makes magical incantation bowls of the sort discovered by archeologists in the area that is now Iraq and Iran. The discussions that come alive in this book are Talmudic as well as academic, which may explain why this novel will have so much appeal for readers like myself who are steeped in the Talmudic text and the scholarship about its context. For readers who do not experience the pleasure of the familiar in its fictionalized form, Anton’s novel celebrates our rich and colorful textual heritage and reminds us that feminist history is often a return to the material and the real – to the beer the scholars drank, the springs in which they bathed, the cycle of blood that dictated their most intimate relationships, and the rooms in which they studied texts that occasionally refer to wives and daughters whose lives we can at best imagine.