Katya - Part 1

Take me in to the holy of holies
Take me in by the blood of the Lamb
Take me in to the holy of holies
Take the coal, touch my lips, here I am 






 
       My name is Katya. I have no second name, at least not one of my own.  I can take my Uncle’s name of course, but I choose not to   I live in the rich part of the capital of the world, Rome.  I’m surrounded by riches; my servants, gold, treasures and fine clothing.  And yet, I’m poorer than the beggar children that hang around outside my bedroom window. I don’t own any of this, and never will.  

            My mother and father have long since passed from this world.  I can hardly remember my mother, much less my father.  When I try to picture them, all I see is my aunt and uncle, with whom I live with now.  Frankly speaking, that doesn’t bother me much, because I know if I survive with Aunt and Uncle, I’m doing okay.  And it doesn’t matter if I belong or not.  And yet, as I write, the pain fills my heart, and I have to admit to myself that maybe I care more than I let myself know.  The desire to belong is stronger than I dare believe.

            The only remembrance of my mother is her voice, saying in a singsong way, “Find your God, my Katya, and you’ll find your life.”  But where is God? And why would a god be interested in my life?  Not even Aunt and Uncle care about me, I am simply another member of their large household, worth less than a servant, because I perform no task to them.

            You see, my mother was a Jew, and she believed in the God of the fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  But by a twist of fate, my uncle is now the richest Roman in this part of the city.  He is father’s brother, not mother’s, and a thorough Roman.  He sees that I am comfortable, and that is the extent of his ‘kindness’.  I have my own room, richly furnished, but I’m not allowed to enter any other room without direct permission.  Jews are not welcome in Rome, and although my father was Roman, my uncle is Roman, and I have my life in Rome, my uncle fears the public might hear about my Jewish mother, and that could ruin his reputation. 

            Actually, I could be more use to them than they realize.  If they knew I could write, they would treat me with the highest honor, I’m sure.  For every time uncle has to fill out a form or other such document, he has to call a scribe in the read and write it for him.  My uncle can sign his name, and although that is more than most other rich men, that is the extent of his abilities.  My guardian taught me to read and write while we were on the long journey between Jerusalem and Rome.  He taught me well, telling me one could change the world if they knew how to write.  I never did think I could change to world, but my ability I keep as a closely guarded secret.  I do not desire to be used by anyone, even if it does mean honor and recognition from my relatives.  That kind of love I do not want. 

            Some days I feel like escaping my little hole, ridding myself of everything and everyone and starting out on my own.  Other days I know that is ridiculous, and I could never pull it off.  Besides, I am nearly grown up and will soon be recognized by my uncle, I’m certain. 

            Sometimes I think that Uncle and Aunt have forgotten me altogether.  I am now fourteen years old, well and truly old enough to be married.  But I am quite happy to be forgotten in that sense.  The thought of marrying only mean more riches, more gold and more boring days where all I have to do is sit and gaze upon things that are not mine.  I know I’d marry a rich many, uncle’s greed and his reputation would demand it, so I know I’d be well cared for.  But I don’t want security in riches, I want some kind of eternal riches, but I don’t know where to find it or how to gain them. 

            Katya.  It means beloved.  But I can’t find anyone in this entire world that seems to even acknowledge my existence. 

            ________________________________________________________

Later today...

“Katya! Katya!” My aunt’s sharp voice penetrated the air above my bedroom.  I jumped quickly shoving my scroll under the cupboard.  That’s the last thing Aunt need know.

            Very soon, I heard my Aunt puffing up the stairs.  Rich Roman life had not been good for her figure.  Between every puff, she called, “Katya! Katya!”  I finally decided to put her out of her misery and moved to the doorway.

            “Yes, Aunt?”

            “Oh there you are.  Why! You aren’t even dressed! Go back child and get yourself ready.  Marx is coming, and you must be ready!”

            I looked down at my clothes.  They were simple and comfortable, which I preferred to the stiff but elegant roves a noble woman wears.  I sighed and trundled back into my room.

            I deliberated for quite some time as to whether I should obey my Aunt or not.  Finally, reason decided that I should just go ahead and prepare myself.  I shuddered at the thought of having to spend the evening with my aunt and uncle with Marx.  Marx was rather old, twice as ugly as he was old and twice as fat as he was ugly.  He was a rich senator. But only by birth.  He didn’t have brains or looks, and I was continually disgusted by his piggish manners at the table.

            I dressed myself, preferring not to have a slave to it for me.  After I had attire in a thick rich robe which was stiff with embroidery, I rang for my slave to do my hair.  She took a long time in coming, which didn’t do much for my temper.  When she finally came, sailing in as usual, she tripped over a cushion in the doorway.  I spoke sharply to her and she was very sorry, and tried to make it up by doing my hair as quickly as possible.

            I sat under her skilled hands, seething with pent up emotions, and took it out on my poor slave by being extremely cross and hard to please.  I didn’t stop to consider my actions because I knew that for my tardiness, my uncle could have my slave flogged, whether it was her fault or not.  She knew it too, and bore the annoyance and jibing of my bad temper with considerable gratitude.

            When at last my hair was finished, I stepped back to examine myself in the mirror.  I did look nice, I thought.  My hair was done up tightly, with small flowers woven in, my black curls clustered all around the knot where most of it was secured.  My gown was deep blue, with many designs and patterns stitched across the hem.  Yes, I looked nice, but I was not comfortable and would have preferred a linen robe and a simple comb in my hair, rather than all the finery my uncle had given me over the years.

            __________________________________________________________

            Dinner was just as boring as I had anticipated it to be.  Marx and Uncle talked on and on about nothing of important, that I could see.  Not that I have a wide range of topics which I consider worthy of being discussed.  Politics to fashion all bore me, and not worth talking about.  My brain awakens slightly to the discussion of higher knowledge.  But what really sets my mind going is the thought of a God.  A God my mother had, and tried to pass onto me.  But such a topic could never be mentioned in the heart of a Roman home.  It just isn’t done at all.

            Now I’m back in my room, dismissed until my Aunt or Uncle wants me next.  Life seems rather blank at the moment.  I cannot think of how I am going to while away the hours.

            I think I shall retire now.  But tomorrow looms ahead with nothing filling the empty pages of the day.  If only I could fill them up like I fill up the pages of my scroll.  But they are all the same: meaningless and empty.

            ________________________________________________

            I haven’t entered anything for a while quite simply because there is nothing to write about.  I don’t do much besides eating, sleeping and maybe a little shopping.

            Bu there has been a blessed change in my life.  You won’t believe what it is.  I was taking a walk along the street when I saw what had to be a Jew selling some books.  I wandered over and to my surprise and delight, found the Torah.  That name rings a bell in my memory.  My mother had a Torah.  I eagerly bought it and a few others written by some prophets.  I carefully stashed them under my cloak, and hurried away.  I didn’t want to let anyone know I had forbidden scrolls in my cloaks, and that I could actually read them.

            ______________________________________________________

            I smuggled my books into my room without much of a problem.  My aunt did intercept me on the way, asking where I had been.  She wasn’t impressed to know I had gone walking in the market.

            “Did you buy anything?” she asked sharply.  Thankfully, I had also bought some hair pins.  I showed her these and she was satisfied, although scorned my plain and simple taste.

            Ass on as she let me go, I hurried up to my room, scuttling in an attempt to keep my scrolls concealed.  Once I was in, I ordered my maid servant out, and bolted the door after her.

            Even so, I didn’t feel safe.   Soldiers might peek in through the window at any moment.  My room was on the second floor, but I was being very wary.  I pulled the curtains, but then realized that would seem suspicious.  So I opened them and made a little corner under the window by dragging my bed into a 90 degree angle with the drawers and throwing a blanket over the top for a roof.  Up against the wall, it made quite a snug comer, and I was satisfied that it would be totally secret.

            With trembling fingers, I opened the Torah.  And then my heart sunk.  It was written in Hebrew, which I couldn’t read.  I quickly sifted through the other books I had bought.  All were in the foreign tongue. 

            I could have cried from the frustration and disappointment.  I climbed out of my hiding corner, feeling sheepish I had felt it necessary to take such precautions as I had for a book no one in Rome could read.  Unless…unless that person was a Jew! 

   

                                                                                                         ...to be continued....