"Across So Many Seas" by Ruth Baher, Chapter 8-13

Days merge together, and then it is dawn again, the time when I most want to sleep.

I’m still groggy, but a rage is starting to build in me.

I feel the most pity for Naomi, holding her heavy belly as she hobbles along on swollen feet.

“It is rough but useful. See the rope tying our things to the donkey’s back? That is esparto. See Naomi’s espadrille sandals? Esparto. The basket we use to carry our bread, that’s esparto too. Even the roughest material can be turned into beautiful and useful things by one who knows how to work it.”

We eat and drink with gratitude, mothers at last tending to the babies, the elders sinking fast into sleep, hugging the earth.

He keeps singing until I fall asleep, his voice as soothing as it has been since the day I took my first breath.

He shrewdly takes note of the declining health of the elders and says, “Do not suffer anymore. Those of you who are infirm, stay and we will care for you. All you need do is accept the Cross, and our doctor will tend to your health until your final days. Whatever silver coins you carry in your purse will be sufficient. We ask nothing more than that you profess a sincere faith and cast aside your Jewish ways once and for all.”

And when we reach a dense forest of trees, so tall they seem to reach the sky, a few of our fellow travelers balk.

Mother and others who are riding on donkeys must step down and cajole the donkeys to keep moving, and it’s almost impossible to maneuver the carts.

I am here, I am alive, listen to me, she croons, as much to herself as to them.

Everything tastes like manna from the sky.

I am sure that the springs gush with water, and creeks and rivers are flowing everywhere, as the landscape has turned the brightest green.

He needs to rest, and the only accommodation we can find for the night is a stretch of green meadow, where the grass fortunately is soft.

Once we come closer to the port, seagulls flying above us, flapping their wings, we notice the huge numbers of homeless outcasts like ourselves.

I squint at the ships anchored in the harbor, their flags furled, their hulls bobbing in the sea’s waves.

Then Jacob, never wanting to be seen as the helpless little brother, chimes in, “No, Isaac, let it be me who stays behind. I am swifter than you, and I will manage on my own.”

She stares ahead in a haze of exhaustion.

“I am a converso. Not long ago I too was a Jew; my wife as well. I used to be a merchant. I have traveled far and wide on many vessels. You must be careful about which ship you board. Some sailors will steal from you, and unless you can afford a closed cabin, you will be crammed onto a filthy deck with far too many seasick people.”

“You see? I have not forgotten how to say ‘blessed is God’ in Hebrew. Now tell me: What is your destination?”

The water is a breathtaking shade of turquoise, like nothing I’ve ever seen.

I’m hoping my future will be filled with new adventures and all our suffering will be left behind.

We carefully ration the biscuits, cheese, and dried figs we have brought for the voyage, hoping they will last us.

Isaac, always the responsible older brother, gives Jacob and me a little extra of his portion, and we accept those morsels gratefully.

I inhale a breath of air, but it doesn’t make me feel that much better—and it’s not worth risking Mother’s nerves by staying outside too long, so we return to our cabin.

May there be abundant peace from heaven and life, for us, and for all Israel and say amen.