By Joan Wolf
She used to be a widow, a businesswoman, an adulteress.
In her lifetime, she knew homicide, prejudice, and religion. She reworked from a Jewish woman eager for relatives to at least one of the nearest buddies of Jesus of Nazareth -- the Son of God.
HER identify was once MARY MAGDALENE.
In this fictionalized tale of 1 of the Bible's such a lot compelling girls, big apple instances best-selling writer Joan Wolf fantastically recreates the background, romance, and culture of Mary's global. Daughter of Jerusalem follows Mary's existence from her old flame via her loveless marriage, to the instant she heard of a miracle employee in her personal city -- and eventually to the instant she observed Him risen from the dead.
As this inspiring chronicle reminds us, Mary used to be the 1st to witness history's maximum second. She was once a girl who sought forgiveness for her sins, and a follower of God who yearned for a deeper religion. She used to be Jesus' liked disciple. learn Mary Magdalene's tale and end up during this striking woman's trip to find the dominion of God.
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Extra resources for Daughter of Jerusalem: A Novel
Vera and the twins always rushed down to the shelter with their families when the sirens went off. Zavodilov the gangster, on the other hand— I don’t remember ever seeing him in the shelter. He slept through the sirens as he slept through the mornings, with a cold washcloth draped over his forehead and a naked girl by his side. Or at least that’s the way I imagined it. No, he wouldn’t have made it to the shelter, but then again, Zavodilov spent many nights away from the Kirov, taking care of his mysterious business or drinking in some other criminal’s apartment.
One hundred. ” I asked him, but he didn’t even glance at me. The one-eyed man placed his cold pipe on the table, found a tea glass, and searched around his stall for a bit of cloth. “Here,” said Kolya, handing over a white handkerchief. “It’s clean. ” We watched the man fold the handkerchief three times and drape it over the mouth of the tea glass. He poured the liquor slowly. Even outdoors, with the wind gusting, the stuff smelled like poison, like a cleaning agent used on a factory floor. The one-eyed man set aside the handkerchief, which was now flecked with a soapy residue.
Each of these buildings would have a bomb shelter in its basement; citizens would be huddled down there, dozens of them clustered around a single flickering lamp, waiting for the all clear. The shells were landing close enough now that we could hear them whine in the air. The wind was louder, shrieking through the broken windows of abandoned apartments, as if God and the Germans were conspiring to blow down our city. “On the front lines, you get good at judging where the shells will land,” said Kolya, his hands jammed into the pockets of his greatcoat, as he walked into the wind that had been behind us a moment before.