took another wife and moved her to another village.
He gave me the keritut, the contract of divorce, and told me I was permitted to other men.”
She is not sorry he’s gone. Apart from the strength in his shoulders, she barely misses him. She wants her children close
to her and she wants her son back, and Yosef and his new young wife seem the least of her concerns.
Gidon says nothing. He knows she has told him a sad and lonely thing. Most women in her position would lie and say that the
husband was dead.
She heard that Yehoshuah preached a teaching which had never been heard before. Many of his teachings were not new. He told
them well, and with a force and skill that impressed the listeners, but the teachings themselves were as familiar to her as
her own skin.
She herself had taught him the famous story of Rabbi Hillel. A man came to the two great rabbis, Rabbi Hillel and Rabbi Shammai,
and made of each of them the same request: “Teach me the whole of the Torah while I stand on one leg.” Rabbi Shammai chased
him off with a broom. But Rabbi Hillel said: “Stand on one leg and I will teach you.” And the man stood on one leg. And Rabbi
Hillel said: “That which is hateful to you, do not do to other people. That is the whole of the law: all the rest is commentary.
Go and learn.”
When Yehoshuah said, “Treat others as you hope they’d treat you,” it was not a new teaching. Rabbi Hillel was an old man when
Yehoshuah was born.
But he taught a new thing, one of the women from Kfar Nachum told her. He said that if a man divorces his wife and takes another,
it is the same as adultery. This saying was popular among women. They passed it one to another. Every village had some woman
whose husband had put her away, scraping a living in her old age on the goats and land their marriage contract made him give
her, with no rest for her aching bones even though she had borne him sons and daughters.
She wondered if this was a secret message for her, a sign that he thought of her still. But he did not send word to her. He
did not speak about Yosef. He talked of having another father, spoke of God as his father. And she thought: he wants me to
go to him again. Surely this means he wants to see me.
It is a curious thing, the growth of trust between two people. When two strangers meet, there is no trust. They may fear one
another. They do not know if one is a spy, or a traitor, or a thief. There is no dramatic moment which marks the transition
from mistrust to trust. Like the approach of summer, it walks a little farther on every day, so that when we come to notice
it, it has already occurred. Suddenly one notices that, yes, this is a person whom I would have watch over my flocks, my children,
my secrets.
She is moved by the softness of Gidon’s features. His beard has hardly begun to come in, just a few patches of fuzz like a
mountain dog in molt. His eyelashes are long, and his smell is the sweet thick scent of a young man in whom the sap is just
rising. His elbows and knees are sharp, his shoulders are stiff. There is a wanting in him, and not yet an understanding of
what he wants. Her son was just so when he was twenty. His tender eyes were just so. The way he holds the cup of warm liquid,
cradling it close to him, rubbing his knuckles in the cold, he was just like this boy.
Her heart comes close to him. She says nothing more of her husband. For a long time, he says nothing more of her son. He works.
They bank the fire down after the evening meal and talk of what could be done with the western field next year.
She went to Yehoshuah the winter before Gidon arrived in Natzaret. It was not such a harsh winter, there was no snow. She
had heard that he had a mighty crowd of followers with him, perhaps five hundred people traveling in a great convoy. They
were circling near to Natzaret, not half a day’s journey, and she left the littlest children with
He gave me the keritut, the contract of divorce, and told me I was permitted to other men.”
She is not sorry he’s gone. Apart from the strength in his shoulders, she barely misses him. She wants her children close
to her and she wants her son back, and Yosef and his new young wife seem the least of her concerns.
Gidon says nothing. He knows she has told him a sad and lonely thing. Most women in her position would lie and say that the
husband was dead.
She heard that Yehoshuah preached a teaching which had never been heard before. Many of his teachings were not new. He told
them well, and with a force and skill that impressed the listeners, but the teachings themselves were as familiar to her as
her own skin.
She herself had taught him the famous story of Rabbi Hillel. A man came to the two great rabbis, Rabbi Hillel and Rabbi Shammai,
and made of each of them the same request: “Teach me the whole of the Torah while I stand on one leg.” Rabbi Shammai chased
him off with a broom. But Rabbi Hillel said: “Stand on one leg and I will teach you.” And the man stood on one leg. And Rabbi
Hillel said: “That which is hateful to you, do not do to other people. That is the whole of the law: all the rest is commentary.
Go and learn.”
When Yehoshuah said, “Treat others as you hope they’d treat you,” it was not a new teaching. Rabbi Hillel was an old man when
Yehoshuah was born.
But he taught a new thing, one of the women from Kfar Nachum told her. He said that if a man divorces his wife and takes another,
it is the same as adultery. This saying was popular among women. They passed it one to another. Every village had some woman
whose husband had put her away, scraping a living in her old age on the goats and land their marriage contract made him give
her, with no rest for her aching bones even though she had borne him sons and daughters.
She wondered if this was a secret message for her, a sign that he thought of her still. But he did not send word to her. He
did not speak about Yosef. He talked of having another father, spoke of God as his father. And she thought: he wants me to
go to him again. Surely this means he wants to see me.
It is a curious thing, the growth of trust between two people. When two strangers meet, there is no trust. They may fear one
another. They do not know if one is a spy, or a traitor, or a thief. There is no dramatic moment which marks the transition
from mistrust to trust. Like the approach of summer, it walks a little farther on every day, so that when we come to notice
it, it has already occurred. Suddenly one notices that, yes, this is a person whom I would have watch over my flocks, my children,
my secrets.
She is moved by the softness of Gidon’s features. His beard has hardly begun to come in, just a few patches of fuzz like a
mountain dog in molt. His eyelashes are long, and his smell is the sweet thick scent of a young man in whom the sap is just
rising. His elbows and knees are sharp, his shoulders are stiff. There is a wanting in him, and not yet an understanding of
what he wants. Her son was just so when he was twenty. His tender eyes were just so. The way he holds the cup of warm liquid,
cradling it close to him, rubbing his knuckles in the cold, he was just like this boy.
Her heart comes close to him. She says nothing more of her husband. For a long time, he says nothing more of her son. He works.
They bank the fire down after the evening meal and talk of what could be done with the western field next year.
She went to Yehoshuah the winter before Gidon arrived in Natzaret. It was not such a harsh winter, there was no snow. She
had heard that he had a mighty crowd of followers with him, perhaps five hundred people traveling in a great convoy. They
were circling near to Natzaret, not half a day’s journey, and she left the littlest children with
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