There is so much that she does not know. Who and how and where Papa is buried. How she came to Tzfat. Who brought her here to Yannai’s home

Bilhah pulls the rough woolen blanket more tightly around herself and turns over.

The mattress is made of straw and some of the stalks prick through the cover, but she slumbered like she has never slept before. Not in Salonika, not in Istanbul, and certainly not in Jerusalem did she welcome the heaviness that creeps into your limbs before sleep. Sleep was always a necessity, but a dangerous one, for she could not guard herself when her eyes were closed. Often, she would startle awake, heart thumping.

And now she is content to listen to the birds singing. Strange how she is aware of the rhythm of each day, when the days themselves and the weeks have passed unnoticed.

There has been food and footsteps and voices; the sound of prayer and of Torah learning. Occasionally, she has heard Eliyahu, she is sure of it. He must come to visit Yannai. She cannot make out his words, but she strains her ears to hear him.

Rosh Hashanah has come and gone, Yom Kippur, too, and even Succot she barely noticed, for she was half-blind. She had been sunken in a fatigue so deep and great that even the call of the shofar did not penetrate the thick mist that surrounded her.

Yannai’s wife, Miriam, is a small, lively woman who tells her exactly what she thinks. Rest now, she says, because we shall not be able to care for you forever, so get your full strength back while we can.

They are treating her like she has lost the use of her limbs, or as if she is fighting some dreaded disease. Miriam brings food that is bland but plentiful, and every evening, tucks Bilhah into bed so tightly that Bilhah must fight to release the sheets. She strokes Bilhah’s hair and as Bilhah fights back the tears, she bustles off to issue commands to a servant or a grandchild.

Now, Bilhah sits up. The effort makes her dizzy, but she takes a deep breath and waits for it to pass. She swings her legs around and plants them on the floor. The stone is cold under her feet.

Holding on to the wooden chest of drawers, she dresses, hands shaking, and leaves the room, steadying herself on the wall as she takes each step.

“And the day has come.” Miriam puts down the pail of apples she carries, leans over, and kisses her on the forehead. Her warm, strong arm threads through her elbow, and Bilhah is guided into the main room and seated on a wide chair. Bilhah sits down gratefully. She opens her mouth to thank them but it is hard to catch her breath.

Yannai’s wife places a blanket over her lap and smiles. “Just in time for your daily visitor.”

Bilhah shakes her head, not understanding. Then she sees him, leaning on the doorframe, face half in shadow.

Eliyahu.