began. “A man gave his wife a conditional get that said, ‘If I do not return within thirty days, let this get be valid.’ But when he arrived on the thirtieth day, the ferry had already departed, and he was stranded on the wrong side of the river.”
I wanted to be sure I understood. “So by the time the ferry came back and brought him to the other side, it was more than thirty days since he’d left.”
“Exactly,” Rava said. “The wife maintained that they were now divorced and demanded her ketuba payment. The man insisted that he had in fact returned, and even if not, his get should be void since he was unavoidably detained.”
I was already annoyed with this man and I didn’t even know him. “I think ‘return’ should mean actually at his home. Otherwise there would be continual debate over how far away he could be and still claim to have returned.” When Rava nodded, I asked, “How did you rule?”
“The court agreed with you that he had not yet returned. We also ruled that his delay was not unavoidable. He should have anticipated that the ferry might be on the wrong bank and made allowances.”
“So the divorce took effect, and his wife received her ketuba payment?” Evidently the woman disliked this husband who had missed the ferry—she could have done nothing and remained married, but when she saw a chance to escape him without forfeiting her ketuba , she took it.
“Indeed.” Rava then continued as if he were still proving his point. “But I argued further that unavoidable circumstances can never invalidate a conditional get . Otherwise a woman whose husband doesn’t return might worry that there were circumstances beyond his control, and she’d be afraid to remarry, thus making herself an agunah .”
Agunah meant “chained” and referred to a woman whose husband had disappeared or died without witnesses. Since only a man could initiate divorce, she could not free herself from the marriage and thus remained chained to him. The purpose of a conditional get was to prevent such a tragedy.
I could see another problem. “A different woman could ignore that he might be constrained, and thus remarry. But when he returns to void the get, her children from her second husband would become mamzerim , unable to marry other Jews.”
“So you see how this might create difficulties,” Rava said.
“You were very bold to rule that way.” I was torn between unease and admiration. Constraint normally voided a contract, but Rava had overturned this to protect women.
He made no attempt at humility. “A Jew who marries does so subject to the Rabbis’ decrees. If we wish, we may abrogate his betrothal.”
We continued walking on the wet ground, and I admit deliberately stumbling a few times to keep Rava supporting me. “Rava, Em told me you lived with her as a child.”
“I did.” There was a hint of apprehension in his voice.
“Did she and her husband have a good marriage?” He looked at me suspiciously, so I added, “I would think a young widow without children would want to remarry. Yet Em didn’t.”
“Their marriage was difficult. The family was poor, at least at the beginning. And it’s not that Em was barren but that all their children died young.”
“How terrible for her.”
Rava abruptly let go of my elbow. “Her husband was descended from Eli the Priest, who was cursed so none of his male progeny would live a normal life span,” he explained. “That’s why Abaye’s father died so young.”
I was horrified. I knew about Eli’s curse from the book of Samuel, but I’d assumed that Eli’s descendants had died out long ago. “Then Abaye is cursed as well.”
He nodded. “His uncle, however, managed to survive to age forty by studying Torah. So we are hopeful that Abaye may live as long, maybe longer.”
Marriage to a man under such a curse would have to be difficult. What could have induced Em to accept the match? Or Babata, for that matter? Maybe the Rabbis were
I wanted to be sure I understood. “So by the time the ferry came back and brought him to the other side, it was more than thirty days since he’d left.”
“Exactly,” Rava said. “The wife maintained that they were now divorced and demanded her ketuba payment. The man insisted that he had in fact returned, and even if not, his get should be void since he was unavoidably detained.”
I was already annoyed with this man and I didn’t even know him. “I think ‘return’ should mean actually at his home. Otherwise there would be continual debate over how far away he could be and still claim to have returned.” When Rava nodded, I asked, “How did you rule?”
“The court agreed with you that he had not yet returned. We also ruled that his delay was not unavoidable. He should have anticipated that the ferry might be on the wrong bank and made allowances.”
“So the divorce took effect, and his wife received her ketuba payment?” Evidently the woman disliked this husband who had missed the ferry—she could have done nothing and remained married, but when she saw a chance to escape him without forfeiting her ketuba , she took it.
“Indeed.” Rava then continued as if he were still proving his point. “But I argued further that unavoidable circumstances can never invalidate a conditional get . Otherwise a woman whose husband doesn’t return might worry that there were circumstances beyond his control, and she’d be afraid to remarry, thus making herself an agunah .”
Agunah meant “chained” and referred to a woman whose husband had disappeared or died without witnesses. Since only a man could initiate divorce, she could not free herself from the marriage and thus remained chained to him. The purpose of a conditional get was to prevent such a tragedy.
I could see another problem. “A different woman could ignore that he might be constrained, and thus remarry. But when he returns to void the get, her children from her second husband would become mamzerim , unable to marry other Jews.”
“So you see how this might create difficulties,” Rava said.
“You were very bold to rule that way.” I was torn between unease and admiration. Constraint normally voided a contract, but Rava had overturned this to protect women.
He made no attempt at humility. “A Jew who marries does so subject to the Rabbis’ decrees. If we wish, we may abrogate his betrothal.”
We continued walking on the wet ground, and I admit deliberately stumbling a few times to keep Rava supporting me. “Rava, Em told me you lived with her as a child.”
“I did.” There was a hint of apprehension in his voice.
“Did she and her husband have a good marriage?” He looked at me suspiciously, so I added, “I would think a young widow without children would want to remarry. Yet Em didn’t.”
“Their marriage was difficult. The family was poor, at least at the beginning. And it’s not that Em was barren but that all their children died young.”
“How terrible for her.”
Rava abruptly let go of my elbow. “Her husband was descended from Eli the Priest, who was cursed so none of his male progeny would live a normal life span,” he explained. “That’s why Abaye’s father died so young.”
I was horrified. I knew about Eli’s curse from the book of Samuel, but I’d assumed that Eli’s descendants had died out long ago. “Then Abaye is cursed as well.”
He nodded. “His uncle, however, managed to survive to age forty by studying Torah. So we are hopeful that Abaye may live as long, maybe longer.”
Marriage to a man under such a curse would have to be difficult. What could have induced Em to accept the match? Or Babata, for that matter? Maybe the Rabbis were
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