The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [200]
Although the murders were hidden from our sight, they were not hidden from our ears, and we were made to listen to the sound of death, so terrible to hear, all the worse when what you see is inside yourself, the thousand cruelties set upon those you love.
Aziza and I stood together and wept, not knowing if the screams we heard were the voices of those we loved or the pitiless shrieks of hawks above us. We could hold our hands over our ears, we could turn away, but that wouldn’t end the horror. The wailing of the dead can be heard in every corner of this world and in the World-to-Come. It does not stop when the sound is finished, it is within you, an eternal part of your being.
BECAUSE she could not be buried, and her bones were left ungathered, my daughter’s soul would remain beside her body, lost, desperately trying to reenter herself and become alive once more. The jackals would find her, but her soul would remain in the cave even when they took her in their jaws; she would watch as the beasts shook her into pieces, devouring her. Each of the agonies of the flesh would be hers in spirit. There would be no taharah, the purification that readies a body for the next world, no blessed water or oils or aloe to wash away the sins of life on earth. Still the pure of heart were said to be able to see the Shechinah as they were dying, they looked upon the most radiant and compassionate face of God. This was what I could hope for. That at the moment of her death she saw God’s light and nothing more.
I wished that the lie the Romans told about Nahara’s father’s people was indeed true and that her blood did run blue, so that when they cut her down a thousand more would arise in her place. I had nearly died giving birth to her, and would have, had Aziza not been such a fearless child. All of that agony spent only so that I might live to sing lamentations for her throughout the day and night. I tore my garments until my hands bled, keening as I did so. Though I had lost her when she defied me and married Malachi, I mourned her bitterly now. Her blood was on my hands. I did not blame Malachi or the Essenes, for I was the one who had led her to her doom, exactly as my mother had said I would, bringing ruin to all I loved and to anyone who might love me.
When my daughter of Moab was born, her father had waited ten days to see her, as was the custom of his people. He had wanted a son, but when he entered the tent, his face broke into a smile. It was good that a man could not see a child immediately, when an infant was still battered by birth, swollen and blue from the burden of coming to life. To her father’s eyes, this girl child was a radiant being. He was a man who did not hide what he felt. He chose her name, and I agreed to his choice, for Nahara meant the light that shone upon great beauty. We agreed on many things, but on this most of all. I wondered if, on the other side of the Salt Sea, my daughter’s father knew that she was lost, if he had been waiting all this time for us to return. I wondered if when he found me in the wilderness and took me with him I had been wrong not to love him. At the very least I should have been grateful enough to offer him my loyalty in return.
OUR PEOPLE went out to see the new moon at the time of Rosh Chodesh. We offered God our prayers, but we did not rejoice. There was no dancing. The Roman wall had been completed, encircling us like a viper. The camps had risen, several of them larger than most villages. Those who had not come from Jerusalem were stunned by what the legion had accomplished; below them there were more people than many had