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and gentle as Hodaya?
    She watched her father drain his cup of wine, then scan the crowd as if searching for a refill. “Hey! What are you doing out here?” he shouted when he saw Amina. She backed away, careful not to trip and make him angrier. “Get back inside! Now!”
    Mama hurried over and slapped Amina’s face before yanking her into the house. “You heard your father. Stay inside where you belong.”
    “But . . . why is Abba going to kill—”
    “This doesn’t concern you. This is grown-up business.” Mama pushed Amina down onto her pallet saying, “Go to sleep and forget what you heard.”
    “But the nice lady who helped me today was Jewish and—”
    “What are you doing talking to Jews? You know better.” Amina ducked as Mama lifted her hand to slap her again, her face still burning from the first slap. “Never trust a Jew. They do sneaky things to deceive people and disguise what they’re really like. They all deserve to die.” Mama left the room, closing the door behind her.
    Amina was no stranger to killing and bloodshed. She’d seen Abba and the other men slaughter sheep and pigs for festivals and special occasions. She’d watched as the blood gushed onto the ground after Abba cut their throats, his hands and arms turning red and slick. The animals had squealed and squirmed one moment, then lay limp and lifeless the next. Would Abba kill the Jews the same way, slashing their throats and letting their blood soak his hands and pour into the dirt? Amina knew that people sometimes died—two children from her village had died of the same fever that had crippled her leg. But everyone was supposed to be sad when people died, wailing and mourning for them. They weren’t supposed to cheer and rejoice in the streets. Amina shivered in bed as she listened to the noise outside. It took her a long time to fall asleep.

Chapter
5
    B ABYLON
    T ime passed with a swiftness that left Ezra breathless, the days and weeks trampling each other in a wild stampede. Ever since they’d heard the king’s decree a month ago, Ezra had spent each day here in his study, searching for answers, finding none. Now, as spring began to blossom and their death sentence loomed closer, he felt a desperation that bordered on panic. Studying and teaching the Scriptures had fulfilled him in the past, but it had been an intellectual pursuit, not a matter of life and death. And he hadn’t worried about time eroding, hour by hour, like a riverbank in a rainstorm.
    His people had less than nine more months to live, less time than it took for a child to form in its mother’s womb. He had cancelled all his classes and suspended work with his fellow scholars to study in solitude, praying and confessing, fasting and weeping and then studying some more. But Ezra was no closer to discovering the mind of God or a way to save his people. Instead, he’d discovered the vast difference between talking about God all day and talking to Him; between knowing about God and His laws, and knowing God. The more he learned, the lesshe understood—and the more unqualified he felt to lead his people as Jude still urged him to do.
    He looked down at the scroll of Isaiah lying open in front of him. The prophet’s words had blurred on the page a moment ago as he’d read them through his tears: “O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay , you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand. Do not be angry beyond measure, O Lord .” He had thought of his own father, a master potter, pictured his muscled hands, skilled at shaping a formless lump of clay into a useful vessel. Abba had been proud of Ezra, his firstborn son, blessed by the Almighty One to be a Torah scholar instead of a potter, and the youngest member of the Great Assembly. Abba had continually reminded his three sons of their heritage as priests, tracing their lineage back to Moses’ brother Aaron, and to Zadok, the high priest in King Solomon’s temple. If they hadn’t been