“My mother prays every day to Amun-Re for the deliverance of Lachish. But she is afraid. I’ve seen her weep at night.”
“We should not bow down to any other gods. The LORD alone can save,” Simcha countered. How often had Rivkah heard her say that? Simchah came from a very strict family. Unlike most other people in Lachish, they prayed only to the LORD, the national god of Judah.
“My father said that only Egypt can help us now. If Lachish can hold out long enough until help arrives, there’s hope.”
“But has the Pharaoh of Egypt been able to stop the Assyrians so far? We should hope only in the LORD.”
“Yes, but . . . ” Rivkah knew any argument would be useless. Simchah was her best friend, but when they spoke about the gods she could be so stubborn. She always had to be right, she just wouldn’t listen to anything else.
A group of soldiers hurried past on their way to the southern wall. Simchah followed them with her eyes, “Warriors of the LORD!” If anything could distract Simchah, it was strapping young men, especially soldiers. But which boy wasn’t a soldier these days? Due to the siege every last body was used to defend the city. Even women and girls worked to strengthen the defenses.
When they had realized that the Assyrians were constructing a siege ramp on the southwestern corner of the hill, the people of Lachish had built a counterramp. They hoped to give the wall extra strength and get more defensive weapons to where they were needed. If the Assyrians did break through, they would be surprised at the opposition they would find. Father had explained it all one night when they were sitting down for their meal. Rivkah had helped to build it, too. Well, a bit anyway. It had been hard work and she certainly didn’t complain when her mother had asked her to stay home the next day and put her to work on the loom.
“Do you think they’ll take chariots to the southern wall too?” Simchah found chariot drivers even more fascinating than foot soldiers.
“Why would they?”
“To fight the enemy of course.”
“I don’t know whether chariots would help a lot.” Rivkah lived on the main road and saw plenty of chariots going by. They didn’t really excite her.
“Of course only if the Assyrians break the wall. And I don’t believe that will happen.”
“There you have it. They’ve come close, though.” And today, it seemed, the Assyrians had mounted an all-out attack.
“Do you think the Assyrians will leave once we’ve repulsed this attack?” Simchah mused. “Oh, I so want this siege to end.”
Rivkah wished that too. In better days they had sat here in front of the house and had eaten dried figs or nibbled some honey cake. Now everything was rationed.
“It will pass,” Rivkah said, sounding rather more assured than she really was.
“I know. We sometimes have to go through hard times to get to a blessed future. Just imagine, I will marry a warrior who has defended our city!” Simchah had a dreamy look in her eyes.
“Oh, Simchah! Really, do you call some of those boys warriors?”
“But what if I marry a soldier from the garrison?”
“Dream on!”
“You’ll see.”
Rivkah had no doubt that Simchah would get the attention of a soldier if she worked at it. She certainly had the looks and the right manner. She was no longer a girl. Men started to notice her. “But what would your parents say?”
“Oh . . . ” Simchah gave a little wave with her hand as if that would never be any cause for concern.
Rivkah laughed, “Simchah, the commander’s wife. I can just imagine it.” Simchah joined in. She got up and struck a ladylike pose.
“And who will you marry, Rivkah?”
“I don’t know. Mother hopes we’ll get rich husbands.”
“Maybe a tax official or a rich farmer?”
“Most farmers are poor. You see them coming through the gate leading a skinny donkey. Or at least they used to come . . . before the siege.”
“The farmers from the villages. I don’t mean those. That would just be horrible! No, the landholders of Lachish, they’re well off. And they don’t have to work so hard that they get dirty and grimy.” Simchah sat down again. “I could come and visit you. And we’d drink wine and have cake and fresh melons.”
Rivkah rolled her eyes, “Don’t talk of food. I’m starving.” She ran the hand over her empty stomach.
“You’re impossible,” Simchah scolded her. “Always so negative. Why not dream of days to come?”
Just then the noise at the southern wall grew louder. “What’s happening?” Rivkah asked.
“Probably fighting back the Assyrians.”
“I’d better go home, I think.” Rivkah suddenly felt guilty. Why had she stayed away from home for so long? What if the Assyrians entered the city now and she was not would not be with her family?
“Be careful,” Simchah warned.
“I don’t think their arrows will reach that far into the city. I’ll be careful”. She gave Simchah a quick kiss, jumped up from the bench and waved as she strode off down the street.
It was quiet in the side streets. Not many people were outside. Most were probably cowering in their houses during the attack. The men fought on the walls—or slept. Few mothers allowed their children to play outside. The shops on the main street stood forlorn. People did not go shopping in such a desperate situation. And yet, she knew, some people had dug out their heirlooms to exchange for food.
There were no customers milling around the workshop of Rivkah’s father. Usually, a few passers-by would stand and watch the blacksmith at his work. Especially the farmers, who would wait while their plowshares or ox goads were repaired. The fire and his skill fascinated them.
Rivkah ducked into the house past her father, who was busy stoking the fire. But her mother noticed her when she came into the back room, “Where have you been?” It was clear that her mother was not pleased. “It’s dangerous outside. What if you get hit by an arrow? Or if, God forbid, the Assyrians break through the wall? There’s a war going on, Rivkah.”
She stepped away from the loom she had been working on. “There’s still plenty of work to be done around here. Your sister and I have been working most of the afternoon and you were nowhere to be seen.” Rivkah’s older sister, Shomer, stood at the other loom and turned the back to her. Shomer always did what her parents wanted and her weaving was really exquisite. She looked after her little brothers and sisters and would never be late home.
“I was just at Simchah’s,” Rivkah tried to defend herself.
“Running around in the streets at this time,” her mother shook her head. “Can’t you see how dangerous it is?”
Right now Rivkah could see that the best thing to do was to be quiet and somehow appease her mother. She moved over to the loom her mother had been working on. A simple linen cloth hung there half-finished. She could do that.
“Shall I continue weaving this?” Rivkah asked her mother.
“Please. But make sure the rows are tight. And take care to make it nice and even.”
“Yes, mother.” Why did her mother always say that? After all, Rivkah wasn’t a beginner and had woven many garments over the years.
Shomer turned to look at her. Her eyes seemed accusing and yet hurt and afraid. She always took it personally when Rivkah went outside the boundaries set by their parents. But what was wrong with going and talking to her friend? Mother was just overanxious.
Weaving