As he moves, his tzitzis flap gently; they are dyed green, and she wonders why, for she has only seen tzitzis made of yellowing wool
IT is a sticky night, heavy with a summer storm that has threatened for days, but that has not yet appeared. The odalisques lie sleepless, but a heavy silence drapes over them, as if the damp air has stolen their words as well as their slumber. That night, Bilhah dares herself to go back.
She brings up the memories, but it is not easy, for they have been covered over by a thornbush of bitterness. Think of the man — that harbinger of hope — not with anger. Think of him — the man whom the world greeted with awe and love — not with a sense of betrayal. Think of him — and do not smell fire and burning flesh, but the fragrance of incense.
Just remember. Remember.
She is eight years old. She sits in the corner of the workshop, the printing press clattering and banging in the middle. She has a pile of pebbles on her right, and one by one, she dips them into ink. She is not allowed to move.
Her knees are pulled up against her chest, and she is allowed to change position: legs straight out in front, legs crossed, legs pulled up so she can pretend that her legs are not her legs at all, but someone — a mother? — whom she wraps her arms around.
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