Winter had begun; the earth shivered. Many trees, standing completely bare, were cold. Others-the olive, date, cypress-were blessed by God and retained their finery intact summer and winter. Similarly with men: all the poor were cold, like the bald trees… John had thrown his woolen robe over Jesus and now, shivering, was in a hurry to reach Capernaum in order to open his mother’s trunks. Old Salome had woven many things in her lifetime, and her heart was noble and generous. He would portion out warm clothes to the companions, and devil care if old lickpenny Zebedee grumbled. It was Salome, with her obstinacy and sweetness, who governed the house.

Philip was hurrying too, his thoughts on his bosom friend Nathanael, hunched over as he was all day long in Capernaum, sewing up and patching sandals and slippers. His life was being lost in this way. Where could he find time to lift his mind to God, to lean Jacob’s ladder against the heavens and mount! Oh, when will I get there, Philip thought, to unveil the great secret to the poor wretch, so that he too can be saved!

They took a turning, leaving Tiberias behind them on their left-Tiberias, despised by God, with its Baptist-murdering tetrarch condemned to the fires of hell. Matthew approached Peter to ask him everything he remembered about the river Jordan and the Baptist, so that he could write it all down event by event; but Peter recoiled and turned his face aside to avoid inhaling the publican’s breath. Saddened, Matthew wedged the partly filled notebook under his arm. He lagged behind and, finding two Garters who went to and from Tiberias, questioned them in order to learn-and to set down in his book-how the wicked murder took place. Was it true that the tetrarch became drunk and that his stepdaughter Salome danced before him naked? Matthew had to learn all the details in order to immortalize them in writing.

They had by this time arrived at the large well outside Magdala. Clouds had covered the sun: a pale darkness fell over the face of the earth. Black threads of rain hung down, joining sky and soil… Magdalene lifted her eyes to her skylight and saw the heavens blacken. “Winter is upon us,” she murmured; “I must move quickly.” She twirled the bobbin and began with great speed to spin the choice wool she had found. She intended to weave a warm cloak for her beloved so that he would not be cold. From time to time she glanced toward the yard and admired her grand pomegranate with its burden of fruit. She was guarding the pomegranates and not cutting them, for she had vowed them all to Jesus. God is exceedingly merciful, she reflected. One day my beloved will again pass through this narrow street, and then I shall fill my arms with pomegranates and place them at his feet. He will bend over, take one and refresh himself… While spinning, and admiring the pomegranate tree, she turned her life over in her mind. It began and ended with Jesus, the son of Mary. What sorrow, what joy she had had! Why had he left her, opening her door on that final night to flee like a burglar? Where had he gone? Was he still wrestling with shadows instead of digging the soil, fashioning wood or fishing the sea; instead of having a wife (women were God’s creatures too) and sleeping next to her? Ah, if he would only pass once more through Magdala so that she could run and place her pomegranates at his feet, to refresh him!

While she meditated on all this and rotated the bobbin with her quick, skilled hand, she heard cries and tramping in the street and the sound of a horn-halloo! wasn’t it cross-eyed Thomas the peddler-and then she heard a shrill voice.

“Open, open your doors. The kingdom of heaven is here!”

Magdalene jumped up, her heart leaping for joy. He had come! He had come! Cold and warm shudders passed through her entire body. Forgetting her kerchief, she rushed out, her hair flowing down to her shoulders. She went through the yard and appeared on the doorstep. Then she saw the Lord. Uttering a joyous cry, she fell at his feet. “Rabbi, Rabbi,” she purred, “welcome!”

She had forgotten the pomegranates and her vow. She hugged the sacred knees, and her blue-black hair, which still smelled from its old accursed perfumes, spilled out over the ground.

“Rabbi, Rabbi, welcome,” she purred, and she dragged him gently toward her poor house.

Jesus bent over, took her by the hand and lifted her up. Bashful and enchanted, he held her just as an inexperienced bridegroom holds his bride. His body rejoiced from its very roots. It was not Magdalene he had lifted from the ground, but the soul of man-and he was its bridegroom. Magdalene trembled, blushed, spread her hair over her bosom to hide it. Everyone looked at her with astonishment. How she had pined away, lost her color! Purple rings circled her eyes, and her firm full mouth had withered like an unwatered flower. As she and Jesus walked hand in hand they felt they were dreaming. Instead of treading the earth they were floating in the air and proceeding. Was this a wedding? Was the ragged multitude which followed behind, filling the whole street, the marriage procession? And the pomegranate tree which was visible in the yard with its burden of fruit: was it a kind spirit or a household goddess, or perhaps a simple thrice-fortunate woman who had given birth to sons and daughters and now stood in the middle of her yard and admired them?

“Magdalene,” Jesus said softly, “all your sins are forgiven, for you have loved much.”

She leaned over, wonderfully happy. She wanted to say, I am a virgin! but she was so overjoyed, she could not open her mouth.

She ran, pillaged the pomegranate tree, filled her apron and made a tower of the cool red fruit at the beloved’s feet. What happened next was precisely what she had so ardently desired. Jesus bent down, took a pomegranate, opened it, filled his hand with seeds, and refreshed his throat. Then the disciples stooped in their turn. Each took a pomegranate and refreshed himself.

“Magdalene,” Jesus said, “why do you look at me with such troubled eyes, as though you were saying goodbye to me?”

“My beloved, I have been saying hello and goodbye to you every single instant since the day I was born.” She spoke so softly that only Jesus and John, who were close to her, could hear.

After a moment’s silence, she continued. “I must look at you, because woman issued from the body of man and still cannot detach her body from his. But you must look at heaven, because you are a man, and man was created by God. Allow me to look at you, therefore, my child.”

She pronounced these momentous words, “My child,” in such a low voice that not even Jesus heard her. But her own breast filled out and stirred as though she were giving suck to her son.

A murmur arose in the crowd. New invalids suddenly arrived and occupied the entire yard.

“Rabbi,” said Peter, “the people are grumbling and impatient.”

“What do they want?”

“A kind word; a miracle. Look at them.”

Jesus turned. In the turbulent air of the squall which was coming he perceived a multitude of half-opened mouths full of longing, and of eyes which were gazing at him with anguish. An old man came forward through the crowd. His eyelashes had fallen out: his eyes were like two wounds. Around his skeleton-like neck hung ten amulets, each containing one of the Ten Commandments. He leaned on his forked staff and stood himself in the doorway.

“Rabbi,” he said, his voice all grievance and pain, “I am one hundred years old. Hanging around my neck, constantly before me, are God’s Ten Commandments. I have not disobeyed a single one of them. Every year I go to Jerusalem and offer a sacrificial ram to holy Sabaoth. I light candles and burn sweet-incense. At night, instead of sleeping, I sing psalms. I look sometimes at the stars, sometimes at the mountains-and wait, wait for the Lord to descend so that I may see him. That is the only recompense I desire. I’ve waited now for years and years, but in vain. I have one foot in the grave, yet I still have not seen him. Why, why? Mine is a great grievance, Rabbi. When shall I see the Lord; when shall I find peace?”