The first

Aviva awoke to the sounds of high-pitched moaning, and felt her heart leap in her chest. It had happened. The plaintive wails drifting through the crumbling walls of her hut made it clear that the Lord’s final warning had not been in vain. Egypt was in mourning.

A split-second later, she was on her feet. Crossing the tiny room in a single bound, she scooped up the tangle of blankets lying on the earthen floor. From within their tattered depths came a faint whimper, followed by a tiny pudgy hand. The pink little fingers waved randomly in the air, feebly seeking the comfort of human touch.

Tears flooded into Aviva’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall as she grabbed hungrily at her son’s fragile little hand, bringing it to her lips again and again with fervent gratitude.

“Praise be,” she mumbled, “Praise be for His word is true, and His wisdom infinite.” Her little Benyamin was saved. She had not been certain that the lamb’s blood would be enough.

Eight months previously, Aviva had listened to the rhythm of her body, and realised that her dream of motherhood was finally approaching. She knew it was a sin to bear a child out of wedlock, but she also knew that her loving God could not blame her for the fruit of her pure love.

As her belly began to swell, she left her village, walking for many days to reach her Godless aunt’s run-down shack. The old woman had been banished from the family years before for her heathen ways. And sadly, they now saw Aviva in the same way. But she didn’t care, for soon she would have her baby, and she knew that God would love them both.

Later, after the blood and the screaming, Aviva lay exhausted and spent, fragile yet newly strong. She struggled to sit up in the shabby bed, craning her neck to see as her aunt fussed over a screaming bundle in the corner.

The boy was strong, with a plump little body and powerful lungs. Although he would not be officially named for eight days, she privately whispered the name, “Benyamin”.

Aviva’s aunt insisted that the new mother stay in bed until her wounds had time to heal. On the third day, there was no water; only a thin beer that tasted well beyond its best. When questioned, her aunt would say nothing, and Aviva was still too weak to do anything but sip the proffered beer in silence, trying to ignore the strange odour that seemed to be penetrating the shack.

But Aviva’s aunt could not conceal the whispers from the street. Could it be true? Had Moses really returned to lead her people to a new land? Would the tiny baby now guzzling at her breast really grow up as a free man? It all seemed far too beautiful to be real.

Soon, a great wind blew up from the East, filling the room with hot, dry dust. Aviva carefully held a cloth against her baby’s face, to protect his tiny lungs. But the next day, the wind was even stronger, and brought with it a strange buzzing sound.

The Godless old woman was out on an errand, and Aviva had just poked her head out of the hut for the first time, when the air was suddenly full of screaming locusts. Gasping, Aviva jumped back into the room, frantically pulling the cloth across the door, to keep out the ravenous insects.

By late evening, the old woman still hadn’t reappeared. This made Aviva nervous, but she reasoned that her minder had probably just found her own place to hide from the swarm. Aviva was now definitely strong enough to go and look for her in the morning.

But morning didn’t come. At first, Aviva thought that her long confinement had changed her perception of time, making her think that a single night was drawing on forever. But eventually, there was no denying the fact that the sun should have been up hours ago.

Suddenly, a wizened head appeared at the door to the shack. Aviva had the idea that she had seen the old man preaching in secret hidden corners, but she couldn’t be sure. She was certain they had never spoken, so she was shocked to hear him call her by name.

“Aviva,” he hissed, “I know your heart. You are faithful to our Lord. His final retribution is close at hand. Tonight, the firstborn sons of Egypt will die-“

At this, Aviva gasped and held poor Benyamin to her chest.

“Wait,” the man continued, “only the children of the unfaithful will die. This is God’s vengeance for the way the Pharaoh has treated his chosen people. I have painted your door with the blood of a pure, young lamb, and now you shall be spared. Soon, we shall all be free.”

And with that, the mysterious man disappeared. Aviva sat, reeling. Her God was a caring, loving God. She understood better than anyone what her people had endured - her life had been one of servitude and misery since the start – but, looking into her new baby’s eyes, she didn’t believe that every mother could deserve to see their firstborn die.

When she awoke the next morning and saw the truth in the holy man’s words, at first she thanked God for sparing her precious son. But soon her relief turned to disgust. This was not the work of her God. She couldn’t understand how those who had once been her friends and neighbours could celebrate this festival of death, congregating with a jubilant air as they prepared to journey to their promised land.

“Benyamin, we are free,” Aviva whispered to her baby, “and that means we are free to choose to worship peace, and turn our backs on vengeance.”

And as her fellow believers prepared to march, Aviva smoothed her baby’s hair, smiled to herself, and turned slowly in the opposite direction.