Five months before the Churban
It was a long and treacherous walk to Jerusalem, a walk that involved twisting through the Binyamin hills, skirting Samaritan villages, and making the final steep ascent to Yerushalayim. There were Romans everywhere, in addition to bandits, bears, wolves, and wild dogs. Yoseph and Rachel’s parting was not simple. Heavy rains fell in Tevet and early Shevat, making travel impossible. After Tu BeShvat, Yoseph took Rachel back up to Dotan and settled her in her parents’ house. Ben Kaspi was not pleased, but grudgingly agreed when he heard she would be there for just a few weeks. Then the rain fell in torrents, and Yoseph was forced to stay until Purim. Rachel hid her face behind a veil and spoke to no one except him.
At last, Yoseph set out southward, traveling through the hills that skirted the main roads. At dusk, he descended to the ancient derech ha’avot. The last time he had walked here, the road was full of pilgrims, and he had walked shoulder to shoulder with his beloved Sabba. Now even the Romans had disappeared.
He walked briskly, his bag slung over his shoulder. He was anxious to find Rabbi Tzaddok, do what he had to, and return home. The road seemed familiar, and his whole body prickled like that of a child playing hide-and-seek who knows he is close to his prey. He walked to the side of the road and inspected the terrain. New underbrush had grown, but he pushed back a branch and found what he knew was there — the moon-shaped rock where Sabba had turned off for Yerushalayim.
He heard animals barking in the distance, and the dark stillness of the woods frightened him. But he felt Sabba’s soul calling him: “Come my way, my dear grandson!” Impelled by his deep loneliness for his grandfather, even it meant just touching his grave, Yoseph squeezed by the stone and entered the narrow, twisting trail. Soon his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the hills, and he felt his grandfather’s soul hovering near him.
The trail widened into a path, and he came upon a small clearing, bordered by a cluster of date trees. He stopped and studied the trees. This was the place! He and Sabba and the rest of the group had slept here that night, and he had slept in, abandoning Sabba to his fate. He went over to the tree and kicked it angrily.
He turned to walk off, then returned quickly to the tree. “It was me, not you — forgive me.”
It was all there, the same road, the same widening path, the same meandering fields and vineyards. Yoseph dreaded what lay ahead. He descended a steep dip in the road. Rough stone walls lay on either side, crowned by thick vines that had been pruned for the winter. This was the place! Here the Romans had encountered Sabba and taken him prisoner.
He searched the ground carefully — could there still be a relic left? Too many travelers had passed since then, and they scavenged the area, removing every tiny jug, every scrap of cloth. There was nothing except his grandfather’s holy soul, hovering close by.
Yoseph stood in the dark and silent path and swayed back and forth, his eyes closed. He was absolutely alone, alone with Hashem, alone with the soul of his grandfather.
Here I will recite the Shema, he thought. Here I will pray the amidah, and Sabba will be with me.
He faced Jerusalem, standing rigid like a stone. In the deep silence of the night, in the heart of the deserted road, he began the silent amidah. He clasped his hands over his breast, like a slave pleading before his master. He sensed that he was at the edge of great things — but what, where, when? Word by word, blessing by blessing, he poured out his fears, his hopes, his praise.
Suddenly he stopped and listened. He heard a low rumble. He assured himself that it was the wind rustling the branches, no more. He continued praying — but the rumble grew louder, approaching from behind. Hoofbeats!
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