by Roberta Rich
Hannah twisted the fringes of her red head scarf between her fingers. “Matteo was alive. I took him with me.” A long while ago, in another lifetime or so it seemed, Hannah had been summoned in the middle of the night to deliver the child of the Conte di Padovani. The baby refused to leave the comfort of the Contessa’s womb and was murdering her with his obstinacy. Hannah managed, with the help of her birthing spoons, a pair of joined soup ladles fitted around his head, to coax Matteo out. Several weeks later, when his parents perished in the plague, Matteo became hers—hers and Isaac’s.
“Now the gossip is the boy is back under the protection of a nobleman, a relative of the Conte’s, who is raising him in a manner befitting the heir to a great fortune. The gentiles say this nobleman rescued the boy from the Jewish midwife who delivered him.”
“I see.” Hannah was astonished so much was known about her actions that terrible day when she boarded the ship for Constantinople, Matteo in her arms.
Tzipporah said, “You cannot raise a gentile child. Not only is it against the law, but—”
“There are murmurings of the ancient libel,” said Asher.
“I don’t understand.” Hannah did understand but needed to be sure.
“You know as well as I do,” said Asher, “that for hundreds of years Christians have held the belief that Jews perform ritual murder of Christian children, from a compulsion to re-enact the Crucifixion. Only yesterday I saw a crude drawing on a church wall in Dorsoduro of a hooked-nosed Jew with a knife upraised, about to slit a baby’s throat. Underneath was a basin to collect the baby’s blood. To the right was a Jewess rolling out dough for matzah.”
Hannah walked to the window and flung it open, letting in the cold air. “Fanning the embers of blood libel, bringing it to full flame, is a task the fanatical preachers are only too willing to perform.”
“I agree. The rabble is always eager for an excuse to spill Jewish blood,” said Asher.
“Matteo is my son. I love him.”
“He is not your son,” said Tzipporah. To soften the harshness of her words, she put an arm around Hannah. “The child is Christian. It is not right for you to raise him.”
“You must give Matteo up,” Asher said. “If you do not, you will bring slaughter and destruction not only to our family but to the entire ghetto.”
CHAPTER 12
Jewish Ghetto,
Venice
“I CANNOT,” SAID HANNAH. “He is my son.”
Tzipporah was unmoved. “After you left Venice, soldiers from the Prosecuti arrived, making inquiries.” If only Asher had put aside his petty grievances and warned her. But would it have made any difference? Would she not still have come?
“They wanted to know about a baby belonging to the di Padovani family.”
Many years before, when Matteo was only a few months old, Hannah had followed his uncle, Niccolò di Padovani, into the ghetto. The nobleman had carried a basket containing Matteo. Niccolò planned to kill the child and nail his corpse to the doors of the church of Sant’Alvise just outside the ghetto. With one slice of the knife across Matteo’s throat Niccolò’s position as heir to the family fortune would have been secured and the Jews blamed for Matteo’s death.
“They gave old Vicente, the watchman, a drubbing, trying to get information. Vicente insisted he had been drunk and saw nothing.” Tzipporah stirred her cream and then faced Hannah. “The old Rabbi came forward. He convinced the soldiers you had sailed for Malta to ransom your husband and that yes, there had been a baby—a fact that could not be denied, because there were deckhands and porters at the dock who verified that—but that the child was a Jew, an orphan whose parents had perished in the plague.”
“Without Rabbi Ibrahim’s intervention, you know what would have happened next,” said Asher. “Our friends and neighbours would have been dragged from their beds and beaten until someone confessed to what the Prosecuti were so keen to hear.”
To be beholden to her old foe the Rabbi, who had once counselled Isaac to divorce her, was an unhappy thought.
“And Matteo? Did they discover I had taken him?”
“When the soldiers returned the next day, they reported that a servant at the Conte’s palazzo had told them the Conte’s baby was dead,” said Asher.
“It must have been Giovanna.” Another old enemy she must feel grateful to—Giovanna, the midwife who had tried to oust Hannah from the Contessa’s bedchamber the night Matteo was born. After Hannah had rescued Matteo, she had run back to the palazzo to return him to the Conte and Contessa. Hannah had—as a ruse to escape the soldiers who were after her—painted him in convincing plague buboes and lesions. Giovanna had slammed the door in her face before Hannah could explain the baby’s horrific appearance.
Tzipporah said, “If the soldiers of the Prosecuti come calling again, even our quick-witted Rabbi will not be able to defend you. The two who have taken Matteo will step forward to condemn you. You understand now why it is impossible for you to stay?”
“But I have nowhere else and it is nearly sundown.” Hannah hoped Asher would speak up for her, as she had so many times for him when he had gotten into trouble as a youth for staying out late, fighting, being rude to his elders, keeping company with courtesans and gambling in the casinos on the Rialto. To her dismay, he remained silent.
Tzipporah gestured with her wooden paddle, leaving a trail of cream on the floor. “Your presence endangers all of us,” she said. “The ghetto is so small I would not be surprised if half the people in the campo recognized you today and have already told the other half.”
“Do these gossipmongers also say that Foscari and Cesca are scoundrels?” Hannah asked. “Once Foscari has his hands on Matteo’s fortune, who knows what he will do to him?”
“Why would they harm your son?” Asher said. “It is in their interests to keep him alive. Matteo will be raised in a manner befitting the son of a nobleman. Foscari will hire nursemaids to care for him. When he is older, tutors and fine scholars will educate him. When he is of age, he will take his place on the Council of Ten, serving the government. You and Isaac cannot offer him anything so fine.”
“If only Isaac and I could be his legal guardians,” said Hannah.
Asher laughed. “As if a Jew could ever be appointed in such a capacity. Or a woman, for that matter. A widow cannot even be guardian of her own children.”
“Isaac told me of a boy from Siena whose uncle was appointed guardian. By the time the boy reached adulthood, his so-called protector had laid bare his estate—the timber felled, the house in disrepair, the fields laid to waste, the cattle slaughtered. The ward, penniless, petitioned the court for redress but got no satisfaction. His guardian had already squandered the entire estate.”
“No doubt there can be evil in the custom of wardship. Many children are taken advantage of, but Foscari is from an old and noble family,” said Asher.
“That does not make him less of a rogue.” Hannah could see her brother was not convinced, so she changed her approach. “It is easy for you who have been blessed with so many sons to advise me to give up Matteo, but I cannot.”
“Hannah.” Asher put his hand on her arm. “Whether Foscari is a rogue or not, murderer or not, villain or not, makes no difference. The heart of the matter is this: if you are discovered with a Christian child, you will be hanged and the ghetto will be burned to the ground.”
“But my son?” said Hannah.
Tzipporah said, “Your son? What about my sons? And my husband? And my neighbours? There are two thousand Jews living here. How long will we be safe if you are arrested?”
From the crib, Elijah gave a sharp little cry of distress then fell back to sleep.
“I have made trouble,” said Hannah. “I am sorry. That was not my intention. I will leave now.” To where she did not know.
Asher moved some clothing off a chair. He gestured to Hannah to sit. “Tzipporah, give her some bread and broth before she goes. It is the least we can do.”
Through the opened window could be heard the squeaking of hinges, the thud of gates shoved closed, the rasp of an iron bolt drawn across heavy wooden portals. They looked at one another. It was sundown. Vicente had locked the gates. Hannah was barely able to hide her relief.
Asher was the first to speak. “Tonight is Shabbat. You will celebrate with us.” He shouted out the window for the boys to come in. Soon there was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and then the four older boys trooped in. Solomon was carrying a covered dish, steaming hot, fragrant with the smell of meat and vegetables. He had been to the communal oven in the campo, where everyone’s cholent, stew of chicken and parsnips, was baked for Shabbat dinner.
Asher cleared a space in the middle of the room and set up a makeshift table, a long board balanced on a couple of carpenter’s sawhorses. Tzipporah picked up Elijah, tucked him under one arm as she slammed bowls on the table with such force Hannah was afraid they would shatter. Then she sat, holding him in her lap, barely concealing her anger.
Asher donned a kippah and took his position at the head of the table. He bowed his head and intoned, “ ‘She watches over the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.’ ” It was a verse from Eshet Chayil in the book of Proverbs. It was the blessing men made to their wives before each Shabbat meal.
How many times had Isaac recited all twenty-one verses when he returned from shul? “ ‘A woman of valour,’ ” he would say. “ ‘An accomplished woman, who can find her? Her value is far beyond pearls. Her husband’s heart relies upon her and he shall lack no fortune.’ ”
Hannah sat with her head bowed and remembered her joy, not so long ago, as Isaac recited those familiar words, gazing at her lovingly with his dark eyes, Matteo restless in his chair, Jessica wiggling in her lap, pulling at the tablecloth, the Shabbat chicken steaming before them. The vision of them all gathered around the dinner table sailed through her mind, leaving in its wake a yearning for Isaac, before giving way to an ache. She was overwhelmed by a sudden longing to return to Constantinople, to put things right between her and Isaac, to beg his forgiveness for leaving without even a goodbye, to say, ‘I am sorry. I was headstrong. I should have stayed with you and Jessica.’
Asher and the boys joined hands in prayer. Tzipporah covered her head with a scarf and blessed the candles and the challah. The boys were quiet except for the rumblings from their bellies, their eyes riveted on the earthenware dish containing cholent.
Asher began to serve. Everyone watched silently as Asher slid his spoon through the stew then put heaping portions in each bowl. Tzipporah cast him a look that said as eloquently as words that he should serve smaller portions, that this dish must do for several more meals before the last bones and gristle ended up in the soup pot. Asher handed around the bowls, first to Hannah, then Tzipporah, then proceeded from the oldest to youngest boy. “It grieves me to say this but…”
“Then don’t say it, Asher,” Tzipporah said. “The Torah tells us to say nothing on Shabbat that will draw tears.”
Elijah, who had been sitting on Tzipporah’s lap, began to cry. Tzipporah offered him a taste of cholent to quieten him, but Elijah would not be comforted. With a practised, unself-conscious motion, she drew a breast out of her bodice and nursed him, while Asher finished serving. Elijah was a rosy-faced child, with curly dark hair and a disconcerting way of glancing around the table, appraising his family face by face as though deciding whom he liked and whom he did not. When his black eyes settled on Hannah, he broke his suck on Tzipporah’s breast, jerked his body toward Hannah and smiled. She let his tiny fingers clasp hers. He held out his arms and Hannah brought him into her lap.
“Hannah, I know you love Matteo as much as we love our sons,” said Asher.
Hannah took a spoonful of stew. It was tasty, but glancing around the table at her brother’s hollow-cheeked sons, she had no appetite. Still, she must eat for the sake of her unborn baby. She took another small taste. She would consume half her portion so one of the children could have the other half. “Say what is on your mind, Asher,” said Hannah.
Asher began. “We are asking Hannah to give up her son, Tzipporah, but could we give up one of ours?”
To Hannah’s surprise, instead of dismissing the idea outright Tzipporah pondered the question. Then she replied, “I have been blessed with five fine sons. I have another baby on the way. God, in his wisdom, may send other children after this one.”
Asher gestured to Elijah, now sleeping in Hannah’s arms. “Elijah is healthy. He is a Jew. When you change his nappies, you will see he has made his first covenant with God. The mohel circumcised him on the eighth day as required by law.”
“But…” Hannah was uncomfortable with where the conversation was heading.
Asher said, “Sometimes one family is wonderfully blessed with children and another family is not. There are many examples of adoption in the ghetto. Elijah would be happy with you. You and Isaac could give him a better future than we can.”
Hannah looked at Tzipporah to gauge her reaction to Asher’s words.
“Elijah is young. He will have no trouble adjusting to a new life with you and Isaac, but no.” Tzipporah reached across the table and clasped Hannah’s forearm. “But no, we could not give Elijah to you, any more than you can surrender Matteo to those two who stole him from you.”
CHAPTER 13
Jewish Ghetto,
Venice
HANNAH LAY ON HER sleeping pallet, her thoughts racing. She had never felt so alone as she did in this cramped loghetto, pressed in on all sides by the slumbering bodies of her nephews, sister-in-law and brother, all squeezed in so closely she smelled stewed chicken and parsnips on their breath. She belonged to no one; no one belonged to her. No one loved her as much as Isaac did. Without him, she had joined the great mass of people in this world who are unloved by anyone. Her longing for Isaac was as strong a sensation as the baby kicking within her, but she had trampled his love underfoot. She tried to remember what Isaac smelled like—the soap she washed his linen in, the fragrance of his hair when he returned from the barber. What he sounded like in sleep as his chest gently rose and fell when his breathing slowed. What the scratch of his black beard felt like.
She could describe these things to herself in words and she could summon the physicality of him—the warmth of his body, the robustness of his laughter. But the longer she and he were apart, the less vivid these details became.
After easing herself from between Tubal and Samuel, she rolled onto all fours. Then she rose to an upright position. She went to Elijah’s crib. Lifting him in her arms, careful not to awaken him, she cupped one hand behind his head, the other on his bottom. He snored, turning his head and rooting in his sleep for her breast. How well he fitted in her arms. How easily she could grow to love him. How simple it would be to give up her search for Matteo and persuade Tzipporah to allow her to take this lovely boy back to Constantinople. She had a feeling that Asher would not object to one less mouth to feed if it meant his son was well raised. Even in his sleep Elijah seemed to smile at her, dark lashes fanning his cheeks. Her unborn baby moved as if in response. She placed Elijah back in his cradle.
Hannah fumbled her few possessions into her valise—her comb, nightdress and a pomegranate from Tzipporah’s larder, careful not to drop anything. With her pregnancy she had grown so clumsy and absent-minded, dropping small items, forgetting to do the simplest things like fasten her dress or lace her boots. She rolled up her sleeping mat and tucked it under the table. After edging open the door of the loghetto, she crept down the creaky stairs. It would be at least three hours until Vicente, pockmarked face flushed from drinking through the night, would swing open the heavy gates of the ghetto. Asher and Tzipporah would waken to find her gone and be relieved by her departure.
At the bottom of the tiny stairwell, Hannah dug out the nun’s habit from the bottom of her valise. Somehow it had become damp and had acquired the dank smell of sea water trapped too
long without air. She struggled into it, banging her elbows in the narrow space as she tugged the robe over her head and smoothed down the skirts. The habit flapped around her as she moved, making her feel as if she had dead mackerels tied around her waist. Hannah fastened the wimple and serre-tête, the bands of linen, that framed her face. They were so tight she could look in no other direction than straight ahead. This, Assunta had explained, would prevent her from being tempted by the devil, who always crept up obliquely, from the left side. Avoiding the devil was all very well but what about the soldiers of the Prosecuti? They were a more likely danger. The massive headdress would soon make her neck ache. A renegade black curl escaped and she poked it back in. She stuffed the blue cioppà into her valise, fingering the hem first to assure herself the gold ducats were still there but they were not. After a moment of panic, she remembered she had sewn them into her nun’s habit, hoping robbers would be less likely to steal from a nun.
Not a soul was in the campo, which the dark filled with shadows and unnameable sounds. She walked to the hut where Vicente slept and hunkered down out of sight behind it, waiting for dawn.
Her legs grew stiff from the night air. Bats whooshed close to her head, their squeaking making her recoil. At last the sun rose, sending fingers of light through the wide-spaced planks of the ghetto gates. As was his custom, Vicente opened the south gate first. When he left it propped open to unfasten the north gate, Hannah slipped out.
Hannah headed for the wharf, dragging her valise along the Fondamenta. The skirts of her habit billowed around her. The habit, now that she had worn it for a few hours, had trapped all the normal fragrances of her body and distilled them into an unfamiliar medley. It took her a moment to realize what was wrong. She did not smell like a Jew anymore. No garlic, no pickled herring, no honey cake. Just musty gabardine and the scent of Assunta’s much-fingered rosary beads.