Читать книгу Danya - Anne McGivern - Страница 10

The Temple Mount

Despite Chuza’s warnings, Naomi and I chose to go to the Temple. Passover was our greatest feast. To celebrate it in this most sacred place with Jews from all over the world was an event we had dreamt of all our lives. We trusted Father’s judgment and believed he would keep us safe.

We could’ve taken a shortcut to the Temple Mount, using a bridge that connected its western gate to the Upper City, but Father insisted we enter from the south, the traditional access for pilgrims. From this direction in particular, the Mount, a hill between two valleys, dominated the landscape of Jerusalem. We shaded our eyes and gaped at its glistening walls. They were constructed of enormous blocks of white stone. About halfway up, carved columns protruded from the flat surface of the stones, extending all the way to the top of the wall. Each ashlar was so perfectly cut and placed that no mortar was needed between them. Not even a knife blade could slide between any two stones.

Though it was still early in the morning, people flooded the streets and market stalls. Merchants sold expensive grain, oil, wine, and animals to be used as sacrificial offerings on the Temple’s altar. All goods were guaranteed ritually pure. Father bought a pair of doves and a covered basket to transport them.

Before ascending to the Temple Mount itself, we were required to follow the rite of ritual purification. Naomi and I approached one of the women’s bathhouses scattered around the huge square below the Mount. Many women coming out of it wore rented white tunics, symbols of their pilgrim status.

“Did you get money from your father to rent clothing for us?” said Naomi.

“No, he only gave us coins for our purification bath.” I wished we had the money. In pilgrim clothing, we wouldn’t have looked as poor as we did in our yellowed flax tunics and gray wool cloaks.

In the bathhouse, we took off our clothes, asked an attendant to hold them for us, and completely immersed ourselves in the pool’s chilly water. It was no place to linger, so we quickly climbed out. As we dried ourselves off with the worn flax towels the attendant provided, Naomi said, “You never told me your brother was so mean.”

“I told you I don’t know my brother. Besides, was he being mean? Or just careful? After all, we came to Jerusalem to be safe.”

“I thought he’d be sweet, like Lev. Maybe he doesn’t like me.”

“There seems to be much he doesn’t like.”

Because everyone was required to remain barefoot on the Temple Mount, we carried our sandals as we emerged from the women’s bathhouse. We waited for Father at the bottom of the wide staircase at the Mount’s southern entrance.

Naomi squealed. “Here I am, finally, about to enter the Temple in Jerusalem. And during Passover. I never, ever, thought this would happen!”

Father joined us in time to hear Naomi’s delight and smiled. He stepped between us, hooked his arms through ours, and led us onto the staircase. He recited one of King David’s psalms as we walked up it.

Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord? And who shall stand in his holy place? Those who have clean hands and pure hearts . . .

Those who do not lift up their souls to what is false, and do not swear deceitfully. They will receive blessing from the Lord, and vindication from the God of their salvation.

The staircase ended at the Huldah Gates, enormous gilded doors that opened into a tunnel. “Lift up your heads, O gates! And be lifted up, O ancient doors!” Father chanted as we entered this spacious underpass to the courtyards above. Torches glowed along the passageway, but they weren’t bright enough to fully illuminate the elaborate carvings on its columns and domed ceilings. I could distinguish the shapes of vines, leaves, and flowers, all intertwined and flowing into one another, on the columns, but I couldn’t follow the complicated patterns of shapes and forms on the domed ceilings.

A ramp from the tunnel swept us up to the Temple Mount itself. As we emerged onto it, my eyes ached with the sudden brightness of the vast courtyard and its stunning structures. Covered colonnades rimmed three sides of this outer court. On the fourth, the western side, lay a series of three successively smaller courtyards. Many times when I was a child, Father had drawn the design of the Mount in the dirt for me. Today I followed his finger as he pointed out its features for us. I hadn’t understood until now that each successive courtyard was higher than the one preceding it, symbolizing the increasing sanctity of each enclosure.

Overcome with awe and gratitude, Father dropped to his knees and kissed the holy ground. At that moment, a clot of sun-blinded pilgrims surged from the tunnel ramp; several of them accidentally trampled on Father’s prostrate body. I screamed. Naomi and I struggled to steer the crowd away from Father. The Levite Temple guards quickly came to our aid. They lifted Father to his feet as we asked him, over and over, “Are you hurt?”

Dazed and shaken, he said, “It was foolish of me to attempt that in this crush of people. I’ll be all right after I rest a little.”

The Levites guided Father to a bench and eased him down onto it. Naomi and I retrieved his sandals and the basket of doves he had been carrying. We sat with Father while he gathered his strength again.

The huge plaza on which we sat was called the Court of the Gentiles because non-Jews were permitted here. On its west side, a stone balustrade sectioned off a smaller courtyard called the Court of Women. A silver-and-gold-plated gate allowed access to its raised confines, but only to Jewish men and women. Beyond that area, up a staircase, sat the Court of Israelites, which was restricted to Jewish men. A gate on its west side led to the Court of the Priests. Within that final courtyard gleamed the Temple itself, a structure almost blinding in its white and gold splendor. Rising more than thirty cubits above the court where we stood, the Temple sanctuary reigned as the highest point in Jerusalem. The white marble of its walls and the gold of its facade and rooftop powerfully and gloriously reflected the sun’s light. The sight of it took my breath away. Of course The Holy One would choose this place as His own in all the world, I thought. And here I was, on the Temple Mount, close enough to the sacred sanctuary to bask in its brilliant glow, to smell the roasting meat of the sacrifices offered to Him, and to hear His praises sung in all the languages of the world.

This Court of the Gentiles throbbed with the movements and sounds of the multitude it contained. There were many, many more people here than I could count. Naomi said, “Once I was in the Sepphoris market during a festival and I thought most of the people in the world were there. But now I see they must’ve been here!”

Father laughed. He was feeling better. “Come,” he said, “let’s cross the courtyards to the place of sacrifice.”

Our destination was the Court of Women, where Naomi and I would wait while Father proceeded through the bronze Nicanor Gate to the Court of Israelites. There he would pray with the assembly while priests offered our doves on the enormous altar in the Court of the Priests.

A long line sagged outside the Beautiful Gate, the opening to the Court of Women. Next to this gate hung a sign in Latin and Greek. “NO GENTILE ALLOWED BEYOND THIS SIGN UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH.” We joined the line, and I studied the other visitors around us. Most people respected the admonition not to spit, which was posted on signs in several languages. I noticed a large number of Gentiles. Many men and even some women strolled about the huge courtyard with uncovered heads, eating and exchanging money as if they were in a marketplace. Their children misbehaved, the girls playing tag and the boys tussling with one another. Some of the women were even bare-shouldered!

I’d expected a respectful quiet on the Mount, an undertone, perhaps, of voices engaged in prayer and chanting. I had hoped to feel Adonai’s presence here, but the clamor and irreverence shocked me. This holy place was as noisy as the streets of Jerusalem.

The smell of incense and the smoke from the roasting sacrificial meat intensified as the sun rose higher. After standing in line until the sun reached its highest point in the sky, both Naomi and I developed headaches. We asked Father for permission to sit down in the shade of the Eastern portico, but he didn’t think it would be safe, even though Chuza had been wrong. There were no Roman soldiers here.

A headache didn’t prevent Naomi from observing and commenting on the young men. “Look at that fat-legged one. He should wear a longer tunic.” And, “Oh, see the sweet puppy eyes on that long-haired boy? Do you suppose he needs a wife?”

A man in a tunic shabbier than ours strode across the courtyard speaking loudly to some groups of people. He seemed to address young men who, judging from their clothing, looked like Jews from our own country of Galilee. Several of them broke away from their groups to listen to the ragged-looking man. As he worked his way closer to us, Naomi said, “Look at that fierce-looking one with the red curls falling onto his forehead. Wait. Is that Judah ben Hezekiah?”

I spotted the man with the undisciplined red hair. My fingers touched the place on my throat that Judah had clutched and bruised.

“He wouldn’t look so bad if he’d smile once in a while,” Naomi babbled. “Ugh. Never mind. He looks like a wolf when he smiles.”

“Turn around,” Father ordered. “Don’t attract his attention. Don’t speak to him.”

I obeyed but wondered what I would do if Judah found me. I imagined the moment when his eyes, roaming over the crowd, found and locked on mine, and when his breath once again stirred through my hair. An unfamiliar but pleasant flush raced through me.

“One year ago today,” Judah proclaimed, now close enough for us to hear his shout, “two brave scholars and their students were burnt alive here on the Temple Mount. Their only crime was to tear down the Roman emblem that profaned this holy place. Join me. Avenge this outrage against The Holy One and our people!”

Some young men left our line to answer Judah’s call. He and his cluster surged across the courtyard. Like a tangle of brush rushing downstream, they ensnared the loose and the rootless in their powerful flow.

At the same time, approaching from the opposite direction, a man in a bright white turban wended his way through the throng. “Over there,” Naomi said, pointing at the man who had just captured my attention. “That tall one is handsome. No. Too old.”

The turbaned man wore a pure white linen tunic. A blue sash wound across his chest and hung almost to the ground. I supposed he was a priest. He was even taller than Lev, standing at least a head higher than everyone around him. He gestured constantly, sweeping his arms out and drawing people into a circle around him. When he had a group assembled, he pointed one long-fingered hand to the south. These groups began hurrying towards the Huldah Gates. He must have known many languages because he spoke with people of every description.

The white-robed priest approached our line and shouted in Greek to the people standing in it. “Leave the Mount now. Peacefully. Roman soldiers are on their way. Do not cause a disturbance. When they see we are peaceful, they will not harm us.”

But even as he spoke, Roman foot soldiers poured from the portico on the east where Naomi and I had wanted to rest. Perspiration trickled down my back as I recalled the crucified men in the oak grove and my father splayed out in the dirt in Jericho. But these soldiers, armed only with undrawn swords, didn’t wear helmets or carry shields. They formed a thin line along the eastern side of the courtyard and appeared to number no more than a hundred.

The clamor in the massive courtyard died down as the throng on the Mount, which numbered in the thousands, scrutinized the soldiers’ movements. After a few very anxious moments, it became clear that the Romans did not intend to attack but merely to stand guard. Many people returned to their prayers and sacrifices. But some began grumbling, and the grumbling soon turned to shouting. “Go away, pagans!” “You don’t belong here.” “Get out of our Holy Temple!”

The white-robed priest gestured urgently and announced again in Greek, “Leave now, pilgrims. Leave peacefully.”

But in Aramaic, Judah roared louder than the priest. “These Romans defile The Holy One’s throne on earth. We must cleanse the Temple of them.” He picked up a stone and raised his fist into the noonday sky. “No master but God!” he cried.

I felt a pull to join the young men who followed Judah. It was as if a rope had been tied around my waist, and Judah, hand over hand, steadily drew me nearer to him.

Now less than ten paces away from me, he would be close enough to hear my call. I felt his name in my throat, a pang throbbing for release. My mouth opened, and my lips shaped the beginning of his name. But I couldn’t sound it, couldn’t say, “Judah. Judah, here I am!”

How different my life might have been if, at that moment, I had spoken and he had heard. But Judah’s name stayed bound within me and twisted itself into a question that haunted me for a long time. Was my silence a rejection of The Holy One’s call, a “No” to His plan for me?

The priest tried unsuccessfully to stop several men from joining Judah and then he noticed us. His eyes widened as he looked at Father. “Rabbi, do you remember me? Have you returned to your position in the Temple?”

Father smiled. “Of course I remember you, Tobiah. I’ve returned, but only as a humble pilgrim.” The hinges of the trapdoor creaked again.

Tobiah embraced Father. Then, taking notice of me and Naomi, he said, “Come, you have young women to protect. Let me lead you off the Mount.” He took Father by the arm. Naomi, anxious to flee this tumult, grabbed Father’s other hand.

Father, Tobiah, and Naomi began wending through the mass of people. I lagged behind, waiting there for Judah to find me, wondering what he would do when he did. What I would do. Tobiah let go of the others and hurried back to me. “You must be Micah’s daughter.” He smiled politely with closed lips. “Please, come quickly. Your father is anxious about you. He needs you.”

Though a part of me begged to turn back towards Judah, I accepted Tobiah’s argument: my father needed me. I fell in behind him. He strode through the chaos with a calm dignity. People gave way to him. With Tobiah leading, my retreat seemed sensible, even honorable.

Tobiah brought the three of us, unharmed, to the western gate. “Leave the Mount from here,” he said. “It’s closer and not so crowded. May Adonai protect you.” He plunged back into the screaming throng though by now any effort to tamp its rage seemed impossible.

Before passing through the gate to the bridge, I turned around. No smoke ascended from the sacrificial altar. No songs of praise to Adonai emanated from the mouths of His people. All devotions had ceased, and the Temple Mount, whose stones my father had kissed just a few hours before, had been transformed from a holy ground to a battleground. A shrieking, cursing mob hurled a barrage of rocks at the Romans. As the deadly weights rained down upon them, the vastly outnumbered soldiers dropped like birds shot from the sky. I was surprised that I felt a pang of pity for those Roman soldiers.

We passed through the Temple’s western gate and onto the bridge. There I opened the basket to free the pair of doves we had planned to offer in sacrifice. One of them bit my hand before taking off, reminding me that my compassion for those Roman pagans was misplaced.