There is so much that she does not know. Who and how and where Papa is buried. How she came to Tzfat. Who brought her here to Yannai’s home
Bilhah pulls the rough woolen blanket more tightly around herself and turns over.
The mattress is made of straw and some of the stalks prick through the cover, but she slumbered like she has never slept before. Not in Salonika, not in Istanbul, and certainly not in Jerusalem did she welcome the heaviness that creeps into your limbs before sleep. Sleep was always a necessity, but a dangerous one, for she could not guard herself when her eyes were closed. Often, she would startle awake, heart thumping.
And now she is content to listen to the birds singing. Strange how she is aware of the rhythm of each day, when the days themselves and the weeks have passed unnoticed.
There has been food and footsteps and voices; the sound of prayer and of Torah learning. Occasionally, she has heard Eliyahu, she is sure of it. He must come to visit Yannai. She cannot make out his words, but she strains her ears to hear him.
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