The Missing Madonna Chapter 9 "Another point of view"

I don’t know what to do. We can’t carry on like this. Ruth is just not the girl I married any more. She just sits around, in silence. Some days I have to make my own evening meal after a back-breaking day in the field. She even left me to fetch the water on a couple of occasions, although I only went the once, on that first day, when I was one of several men performing that act as our wives were prostrate with grief. Does she not think that I have to cope with my grief too? The other women who lost their children seem to have recovered, I see them in the street going about their routine duties. I have tried various methods to try to restore the girl I knew.

At first I was gentle with her, I suppressed my own anger for her sake, and was all softness and comfort. This just seemed to make her more tearful. Then I tried a firmer approach, chiding her for not carrying out her duties, comparing her with the other women who were getting back to normal. I told her to snap out of it, she would forget Ben if she would concentrate on other things. This just brought an outburst of temper, something I’d never seen from her before, followed by a day of wailing and sobbing that could be heard outside in the street to my embarrassment and shame.

Other men have begun to comment on Ruth’s continuing grief and have murmured their sympathy to me, one or two have even uttered criticism, urged me to take control of her and get her to buck her ideas up. I try to hide from them how much I’m having to do, or they would think I’m too soft, they would laugh at my weakness and I would be humiliated. I thought we were getting somewhere the other day. I told her what the men who’d gone to Jerusalem had found out and got her into conversation. She even suggested a link between the strangers who visited Joseph the evening before they disappeared, and for a moment she became animated, then she sank once more into deep contemplation, and has been withdrawn and sullen ever since. She lets me put my arm around her when we lie together, but she is unresponsive, like a log.

I left her this morning still lying on her bedroll. I made my own breakfast and found a stale piece of bread to take with me to stave off hunger until this evening’s meal. I guess I’ll have to make that too when I return.

I cheer up when I meet Andrew and Jude who tend the neighbouring plot to mine. Andrew’s family was not directly affected by the murder of the children, although of course, everyone in the village was incensed and grief stricken by the atrocity. Jude lost his second child who was barely a year old, but his older boy who was just four had evaded the slaughter.

After our usual greetings, Andrew looks at me with knowing eyes and says:

“How goes it? Any better yet?”

I shrug my shoulders. He knows the situation. His wife, Rebecca, is Ruth’s best friend since Mari disappeared, and she has tried in vain to get Ruth to stir out of the house and take an interest in the daily activities and gossip. When Ruth has gone down to the well, I know it was because Rebecca had called for her and virtually dragged her there.

“It’s a pity you have no other kids for Ruth to busy herself with,” says Jude, “Salome was devastated at first as we all were, but looking after Simon occupies her time and gives her someone to focus all her feelings on.”

“My mother isn’t helping the situation. She criticises Ruth for moping around and not putting her grief in its proper place and just tells her to hurry up and conceive another son to replace Ben. That just makes matters worse.”

We leave things at that for a while, strip off our cloaks and begin to tend our crops as the sun’s heat begins to blanket yet another day, about a month now since the day the soldiers came. We toil all morning to tend and protect the grain we grow to sustain our families. At noon, we pause to have a bite to eat and rest a while.

“Have you heard,” says Jude, “some of the other village men are meeting tonight. They want to plan some action to revenge themselves on what Herod’s soldiers did.”

“What can they do? “ says Andrew, “ We’re powerless here and they should know it.”

“I’ve no idea. At least talking about it gets some of their feelings and anger out into the open. That’s healthier than brooding on things.” Jude shakes his head.

That I know from my own experience at home. Perhaps I’ll go to listen. Better that than another long evening in embarrassed silence.

“I think I’ll join them to find out what ideas they’ve got. Probably nothing practicable, but anything is better than letting them get away with it and doing absolutely nothing.”

I surprise myself by uttering this intention. I had not sought before to join any of the other men who frequently gathered to discuss the aftermath of the massacre. I had always hurried home to Ruth, to see if she had changed, had prepared the meal and then all too often, had to undertake the evening chores myself.

There is no meal prepared. The ingredients are all there, but the fire is dead. Ruth is sitting on the bedroll staring into space. I feel my anger surfacing, but realise it is useless. Tonight I have other things to do, I have no time for recriminations and dealing with the aftermath. I’ll have to manage with a hunk of bread to assuage my hunger for the moment. Ruth will just have to rouse herself if she intends to eat. Perhaps being forced to fend for herself will jerk her out of her stupor.

“I’m going out. If you want anything to eat, you’ll have to kindle the stove and prepare the meal yourself. I don’t know what time I’ll be back, but I’ll expect more than a piece of bread.”

This has stirred her a little. She looks at me with startled eyes, then they brim over with tears which run slowly down her cheeks. She says nothing, but that look hurts me. Can I withstand it, will I give in and stay at home? I must go. Something must change, otherwise we shall never progress. I must be brutal to be kind.

I say a little more sympathetically, “I have to go out. The men are meeting to discuss what actions we can take to avenge the massacre. Herod must not and cannot be allowed to get away with such a crime without some retribution, at least he must be made aware of the evil he has brought about.”

Still she says nothing, the tears glisten on her cheeks.

“When I’m gone, try to prepare a decent meal for yourself. You need to build up your strength, you’re wasting away with so much grief. It is not healthy for you to deliver yourself to mourning all your waking days.”

I bend down and clasp her round her shoulders. I give her a squeeze and then, before she can say anything, or I can hesitate, I’m gone.

We meet in the whitewashed synagogue in the centre of the village, now a place of uncomfortable memories for us since we men were herded there while Herod’s soldiers did their worst. In God’s house we should feel strength and power - instead we are reminded now of our powerlessness. Zacchaeus and Joel, priest and rabbi, are already there, but I’m the only other man from the village as yet, I’m early in my anxiety to leave home before I’m inveigled by guilt into staying with Ruth. Both religious men know my situation and sympathise. Zacchaeus just tells me to trust Jehovah, but Joel is more practical and tells me that his wife has offered to spend some time with Ruth, helping her with her daily chores and giving her company so that she does not fritter away the day dwelling on her misery.

The other men are drifting into the building in twos and threes, some already arguing. About a couple of dozen of us have come, most still dirty from the labour of the fields or herding our animals. We squat on the mosaic floor of the inner courtyard and the chatter continues until Rabbi Joel lifts up a hand to signal the commencement of our proceedings.

“Friends, you all know why we are here. What is your advice? Have you any ideas on actions we can take without causing even worse to befall us?” Joel is businesslike and straight to the point as usual, a good person to take charge of what could easily become a very disjointed and confusing discussion getting nowhere.

At first there is silence while we all look at each other. Joel’s blunt challenge to us has stopped the several conversations dead. Then my friend and neighbour, Jude, calls out “Herod cannot get away with it. He must see our anger, feel it.”

A cacophony of voices join in, expressing similar views, but Joel holds up his hand once again to stem the flow of words, for he perceives that they are getting carried away with emotion without any practical options being offered.

“Men of Bethlehem, what you say is from your hearts, that I understand, but such words will not achieve your goal. Have any of you any specific suggestions of action that you can take?”

Andrew, Rebecca’s husband, who is a mature and thoughtful person who over the years has earned the respect of many in the village, suggests quietly, “We could send a deputation to the High Priest in Jerusalem and seek his support to make a complaint to Herod.”

“What good will that do?” Matthaeus is a scribe, but one who knows full well that his education gives him an edge over other men that he is not slow to exploit. “You’ll be lucky to get the High Priest to listen to you, let alone challenge the king and put his own authority and position at risk. He knows where his interests lie, and it’ll not be through angering Herod.”

“What about a complaint to the Roman Governor? Herod would have to take notice of him.”

“Do you think the Romans care? Do you think they’re unaware of the actions of Herod’s guards. They make it their business to know everything that’s going on. They must be aware of the stories of the massacre which are awash in Jerusalem. The Romans just want Herod to keep the lid on things, to control events and maintain the peace. They’ll not welcome anything that weakens his effectiveness.”

Argument continues between the men on these lines for sometime. I listen but add little. I’m in sympathy with Andrew’s suggestion of making a formal complaint, but I can see the counter-arguments. Apart from anything else, it’s now nearly six weeks since the infant murders, a bit tardy for making such a complaint. I can just see now the reaction of the High Priest. ‘You’ve waited this long before making a formal accusation? You’re too late. Go home, you’ll never get any of Herod’s guards to admit to the substance of your complaint so long after the alleged offence.’ This response, nay excuse, would satisfy his own conscience of saying nothing and thus condoning Herod’s actions to defend his throne from being usurped by two year old children.

A couple of men, however, James the village potter and Joshua, a herdsman, are fired up for revenge of a more active kind. Matthaeus, the scribe, and father of the wayward twelve year old bully who terrorises the smaller children on occasions, is all for joining a group of nationalist fanatics in the north he calls the ‘siccarii’, who are patriotic rebels who from time to time ambush a Herodian or Roman patrol, or kidnap and ransom one of the Jewish collaborators with the occupying power.

“What good will that do? They don’t dare to come near Jerusalem. They stay in the Galilean hills where they can depend on village support, far enough away from the capital where they would soon be outnumbered, captured and executed. And how would joining their operations voice our anger at Herod for what he’s done? We need to do something that focuses his mind on our grievances.”

Despite that point, Mordecai, a tradesman who originally came from a village beyond the east bank of the Jordan to get work in the capital, and still has connections there, indicates that he wishes to speak.

“If you wish, I can make contact with a group of men who call themselves ‘Zealots’ operating on the far side of the Jordan river. They have been known to come as far south as Jericho. But it’ll take a few weeks to get a message to them and receive their reply. What do you want? Do some of you wish to join them, or do you just want to acquaint them with Herod’s atrocity and leave them to take action on your behalf?”

Zacchaeus and Joel look a little concerned at the direction that the debate has taken, they clearly do not wish for the synagogue and the religious authorities to become tainted with such rebellious considerations for fear of the consequences and the risk of diminishing the little power and independence that they have been allowed to weald on behalf of the Roman and Herodian authorities. When a suggestion is made to Mordecai that perhaps a clandestine meeting could be arranged between a couple of local men and the Zealot band to explore options, Zacchaeus is quick to argue that such a meeting should not take place in the synagogue, nor indeed, anywhere else in the village, as in any case this would be too dangerous for the Zealots themselves. What he means of course is that it would be too risky for himself and the other synagogue rabbis and scribes.

The meeting is closed without any decision to raise a complaint formally with either the Herodian or Roman authorities, but two or three of the men, including Matthaeus, slip away with Mordecai. I’m not sure what will become of it. I feel frustrated and return home. To my surprise Ruth has got the fire going and a hot meal is simmering. She doesn’t ask me where I’ve been or anything, but she hands me a meal and we eat together something she has prepared for the first time since Benjamin was killed.

Afterwards when we’ve cleared away the remains, I look at Ruth and wonder if tonight perhaps she’ll be ready to receive me. We lay down together and I reach out my arm and hold her. Emboldened, I slip my hands under her shift and feel her breasts. At once she recoils from my touch. I lay still as Ruth turns away from me. Tears are flowing softly onto the bedroll.

I am still in two minds. I thought that tonight might have been different. I find it hard to think of sex with Ruth without recalling that she has been raped. I know that some of my neighbours refuse to have intercourse with their wives once they have suffered the shame and indignity of rape. This seems unfair in the extreme, yet I find it unsettling to consider the resumption of normal sexual relations. How could it now be normal? However, at present there seems now to be no possibility of such relations, normal or not. Ruth is clearly not ready yet.

Then, the next morning, Ruth is sick. My concern is now for her wellbeing. Each subsequent morning she is unwell and I tend to her before leaving for the fields. She surprises me by being more her old self when I return at the end of the day. Tonight was special. She actually smiled and after the meal we lie down together and gradually, slowly, gently, we make love. When we awake, I’m still clasping her body to me, wrapping myself around her naked limbs. I am lying there feeling that at last my Ruth is restored to me. We can move on.

Then, suddenly, Ruth is awake, and jerks herself away from my arms. She struggles to stand and before she can find her shift and reach the door, she retches and stumbles to the corner of the room where she is violently sick. It hits me then, the realisation that Ruth is pregnant again. Then, even as my heart lifts, the horror rises in my gullet. She cannot be bearing my child. She is pregnant by the rapist soldier.