On her tongue are four answers, three of them sharp. Bilhah squeezes her eyes closed and swallows them. Humility. Bow. Bow your head, shoulders, hearts, and accept humiliation upon you with grace. This is the first lesson of how you will survive in the palace, and —Bilhah swallows a smile — the woman has taught it well.

She stands up, moves along in the darkness, feeling her way with her toes so as not to trip over a sleeping body.

“Tell me something that will help me here,” she asks the next person whose eye is open, gleaming in the night.

“Learn, but do not be too curious.”

The next woman stifles a laugh. “There is a menagerie here. That is the place where they keep animals. There are the strangest creatures you could ever have thought of seeing, and animals that will trample you or pull apart your flesh even as you writhe. But you will find even stranger things within the palace itself. Do not ogle and do not pick a fight, else you will be out on the streets.”

Bilhah nods her thanks and wraps her arms around herself. She shivers. There is more to know, more to ask.

The women sleeping by the window — if they know how to purloin the best sleeping places — for surely, the window may be draughty but the fresh breeze will guarantee a deep night’s sleep away from the stuffy air in the middle of the room — then they will know other things about palace life.

Another few moments of lying quietly and then Bilhah rises, wraps her blanket around her, for the floor is chilly and her bare feet seem to channel the cold all the way up into her bones. She carefully picks through the sleeping or resting women toward the windows. She feels the eyes of the room on her, and strengthens her resolve.

As she tiptoes across the room, her foot catches on a blanket, and a woman glares at her. Do not make enemies, Bilhah. She bows, apologizing in the only language she is sure will be understood. Servility.

She kneels down next to the women and asks permission to speak to them.

“Tell me. I need to know everything about how to survive in this place.”

It is a whisper and a shout.

“Who are you?”

“Just another new arrival,” she says.

One of the women props herself up on her elbow. “From where?”

To lie? Weaving a web of deceit will only add to the danger of this place. “Salonika,” Bilhah answers.

The woman nods. “Christian? New Christian? Jew?”

Everyone knows that Salonika is filled with Jews.

“A Jew,” she says eventually.

“Spanish?”

She hesitates. The Romaniot Jews were taken to Istanbul years before, to boost the city’s trade. Everyone knows that Jews are good for business.

“Yes.”

“Here, we are all the same. Hurrem Sultan came from Ruthenia. All countries and all religions are erased in the face of the power of the Sultan. Erase yourself, too, and allow yourself to be remade as they will, and then you will flourish.”

Another woman speaks: “They are not cruel here. For those who are talented, who have a natural intelligence and who work hard, there are opportunities.”

“How long have you been here?” one asks.

“Our caravan arrived with the dawn. We have been on the road two weeks, maybe three.”

A hand brushes her shoulder. “And why are you not sleeping? Sleep when you can and eat when food is given to you. That way, you will be able to work and find favor in the eyes of your seniors.”

Another woman: “Do you come from a family of merchants?”

“No.”

She thinks of home. The smell of ink and paper, the family legend of how her father’s family had gathered up bags of the metal type that they had forged, dismantled the printing press and secured it onto three donkeys. Instead of taking out pots and silver candlesticks and clothing and boots like other people, they had taken an alef-bet of metal and fire and sweat and sorrow. When they arrived in Salonika, the servants had set a bag of letters on the table and motioned to Papa — here is your dinner.

She pulls herself back and speaks again to the women.

“What else? What else do I have to know to survive in the palace of the Sultana?”

“Choose yourself a role model and a friend. You will need someone to direct you and push your forward in this place, and you will need someone who will stand by your side. But choose wisely.”

A mentor and a friend. Bilhah dips her head in appreciation and returns to her sleeping mat, to wait for slumber to roll in and bring her peace.

Ines looks around the house and then steps into the courtyard. “It is a pleasant enough place. Or it will be, when we have finished with it. We shall plant some fruit trees, and maybe even a vine, and the grandchildren will have some room to run and leap.

“Yes.” Leonora’s thoughts have not settled on the rugs and the work of the carpenters and the chests heaved here by the donkeys and still unopened.

She sees a shadow walking along the courtyard. “Amram,” she calls out.

The shadow shrinks, turns, and enters. He still answers to Alfonso, though she told them that when they arrive on holy ground, it would be fitting for them to answer to their Hebrew names. She sees his hooded eyes, the beard still dark despite their travels.

“Amram.”

He bows his head.

It is a habit that perhaps he picked up from the servants, but it does not become any son of hers. She would prefer less respect and more dignity.

“I want to see the boy.”

“The boy?”

“The boy who made the prophecy.”

“Ah.” He is silent for a long time.

“What?”

“Do you think he will prophesy to you, Mama?”

“No. But I want to hear the words from his own lips.”

“Do you think he remembers them? He said something, repeated it and it got changed in the repetition. And then, the repetition of the repetition said something else as well. All you will hear is worn-out words, suggested to him by someone.”

She smiles at him. “I am sure that you are right. But still.”

He inclines his head and departs. Ines grunts.

“It would be too much to ask you to make a decision about the rugs, is that true?” Ines shakes her head, but her face wears a smile. “The new ones from Turkey are too good for the floor, and the walls are so odd here, all jutting beams and half walls before the stone slips into another alcove or passageway. But you are busy with prophecies and redemption, so the rugs shall wait, as our nation has waited.”

The woman knows who she is. Surely, all the town knows who she is, for they arrived two days before in a blaze of burning torches. Yishai had found a man to play a pipe, and as they came to the entrance of the town, they had halted.  A single, lonely melody climbed up toward the stars, trilled and looped and fallen, and then the horses rode forward, their hoofbeats a tattoo of revenge and reparation.

The woman knows exactly who she is.

Leonora puts on a warm smile and holds out her hand in greeting. The woman does not take it.

“You have come to see the boy.”

It is not a question.

“Indeed.”

The woman stands in the doorway, feet straddling the entrance, a human door.

Nothing more than Leonora had expected.

She reaches into her pocket and brings out a small silver goblet. The woman takes it before Leonora holds it out. She stands it on her palm, lifts it up to the sunlight, and looks. Her eyes squint as she examines it.

Leonora waits. That morning, she had watched her grandchildren play in the courtyard. First, they rolled stones. Then, they sidled up to the carpenter and bothered him. Then they dug up worms. An earthenware jar, packed with dirt and worms — that would have been a suitable gift for this boy. But the silver goblet will pay for food and rent for two months, or three if the woman knows how to stand her ground. And judging from her stance at the doorway, she does.

The woman gives a nod. She has judged the gift to be worthy.

“What is the boy’s name?” Leonora asks.

“Peretz.”

“And before…”

“Before his prophecy it was Hillel.”

Leonora nods. The woman stands aside and Leonora enters the tiny home. The place smells of damp and the air is clammy and cold. At first, she does not see him, but the woman points her to a low cot in the corner of the room. The child is there.

Leonora looks around for a stool and sits down beside him.

“Shalom.”

The boy looks up at her. Is it the dim light of the room, or does the child have some malady? For his skin is pale and his eyes are almost colorless. There are no windows here, but someone should take this poor child out to the light.

“How many have come to question the boy?” she turns to the mother and asks.

The woman just grunts and turns to her pots.

“Hillel,” she says softly.

The boy stares, unblinking.

“I have come here because I heard that you had a prophecy.”

The boy closes his eyes and begins to talk, his voice flat and expressionless. “There was a palace and inside it was every different color. And there was a great feast, and the tables were crowded with people.”

“Which people?” she asks.

“The Avos. And the great prophets. Shmuel and Elisha. And then Eliyahu Hanavi came in.”

“And what did he say?”

“That the redeemer of our nation is waiting to avenge the nations of the world and rebuild Yerushalayim.”

“And you saw that and then you woke up?” Leonora asks.

The boy’s mother stands over them and Leonora is assaulted by a stale smell. “Oh, there is more than that. There was a fire that turned into a lion, then changed into an eagle and then into a deer. And the deer went to drink at a stream.”

“I understand.”

She looks at the child’s face and then back at the mother. “Why is the boy not learning in a Talmud Torah?”

The woman shrugs. “No money.”

She narrows her eyes. “It is not only the money, is it? The boy has been ill.”

The woman takes a step back. “And if he has been?”

“There is an illness when a child may suddenly fall to the ground and his eyes roll and spittle falls from the ground.”

The woman stares.

“And when he wakes up, he does not remember what he said or did, or where he was.”

“Perhaps.”

Leonora sighs. She stands and faces the woman. “It was a nice prophecy. I like the part about the deer. K’ayal ta’arog al afikei mayim. A lovely touch. I hope you have made enough money to send for a physician for your child.”

She leans over the boy and hopes that he feels not her anger, but her compassion. “Thank you, Hillel. Listen to me. Every day, you must try to rise from your bed and walk out into the sunshine.”

She stands and walks to the doorway. “Later today, I shall send a servant who will help you compose a letter to a physician in Damascus.” She hesitates. “In the meantime, we all pray for the Redemption. But we do not do so at the expense of little children.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 790)