A Trial in Venice

by Roberta Rich

  The convent door was bolted. The night porter dozed with his arms wrapped around a large, hairy dog. Behind him, from the chapel, came the disembodied voices of nuns intoning a Gregorian chant. Their voices were so feather-light they floated before drifting down around Hannah, covering her like a red-and-blue silk shawl she had once owned, which was so finely made she could draw the entire garment through her wedding ring.

  Slowly, Hannah slid the bolt open, crept through the door, and then fastened it behind her.

  It was Matins, the service that took place in the middle of the night. It lasted, Hannah recalled from her lessons with Sister Assunta, an hour. There was little time to search this immense edifice of shifting shadows for a boy no taller than a wine barrel.

  In her linen bag, banging against her leg, was the orange Hannah had brought for Matteo. She tiptoed past the watchman. She would announce neither her presence nor her intention. If she did, there was sure to be an interrogation, and what explanation could she provide? That she, a nun, was the child’s mother? And what if the other nuns refused to believe her? Why would she, a Carmelite nun, be spiriting away a sleeping boy in the middle of the night? She could think of no plausible explanation.

  The choir ceased their chant. There was a momentary silence and then they commenced to sing again, this time a madrigal, livelier and accompanied by a lute. Between verses, when silence prevailed, she could hear children thrashing in their sleep. Shoes in hand, down a corridor Hannah scurried, following the snores, night cries and stirrings of small bodies, until she found the boys’ dormitory.

  The room would have been as black as pitch if not for the tallow candle sputtering on a pottery shard on the floor—a candle too close to bedclothes and nightshirts, too close to children’s bare skin and restless limbs. The long room was as narrow as a ribbon and lined on both sides with cots. Curtains—tattered sails salvaged from some long-ago sailing vessel—kept out the miasma of the pitch-filled night air. The nuns no doubt did their best with meagre donations, but the orphanage was a poor place—drafty, musty, with moss and lichens veiling floor and walls.

  Hannah would not dwell on what the nuns probably fed the boys—gruel, and watery mutton broth with a few vegetables.

  Her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Here were the luckless products of unfortunate couplings—superfluous, discarded children. The room was a jumble of skinny haunches, arms, legs crooked from lack of nourishment and covered by ragged bedclothes far beyond anything that could be darned. It was as though someone had dropped a bag of graveyard bones from the ceiling and let the bones bounce until somehow they arranged themselves on the cots. Had the light been better, she suspected she could have seen fleas leaping about and lice nesting in the bedclothes.

  Thank God for Matteo’s red hair and high-spirited giggle. He would be as easy to spot among these poor waifs as a copper coin on a robe of black velvet. Even in the darkness his hair would be a beacon.

  Hannah picked up the candle, trying not to spill the tallow pooling on the shard, and began her search. The candle cast deep shadows and would not last more than a half hour. At least fifty cots stood lined up on either side of the room. All were occupied, some with as many as three or four boys. Some boys kicked phantom balls in their sleep, or lunged at ghosts or demons. Others were as still as death.

  As Hannah walked down the aisle, she realized it would be easy to miss one small boy amid so many. The smell of infirmity—vomit, phlegm, dried blood—filled the air. How could Cesca have sent Matteo to such a place?

  Hannah tripped on a loose floor stone. She caught herself before she fell on a cot with a boy about four years old. The child rolled over but did not wake. Sores covered his legs. Hannah bunched her fingers on one hand as if to make the sign of the cross. Feeling foolish, she stopped and let her hand drop to her side.

  She reached down. The boy seemed the right size, but she could not see his hair. She touched his head. All she felt was stubble. She touched it again, her touch firmer this time. The boy turned over. Hannah scanned his face. Some feature was missing. At first she could not determine what it was.

  She bent for a closer look; stared down, willing him to turn his head so she could see him better. His forehead was high and blankly white. She reviewed his features: neck, chin, mouth, nose and forehead. Something vital and obvious was missing. She lost precious seconds trying to figure out what the child lacked. And then she realized with horror: the boy had no eyes. His lids lay flat in their sockets.

  She pressed a fist to her mouth, ashamed at her shock and disgust, then moved on to the other cots. A few paces later, she stopped and returned to the sightless boy. She bent over him again and placed a hand on his brow. So many boys, so much misery, so impossible to help them all. But did that mean she should help none? Out of her pocket she took the orange meant for Matteo. She found the boy’s hand beneath the covers, placed the orange in his palm and closed his fingers around it.

  She carried on from bed to bed, holding the cumbersome skirts of her habit in one hand, trying not to trip a second time. From one bed to the next she hurried, touching the heads of boys, searching in vain for a glimmer of red hair. Big boys, small boys, sleeping boys, groaning boys, some on their backs, some on their stomachs, some curled on their sides, faster and faster she went. She soon realized the difficulty. The boys’ heads were all shaved, every last one, probably to control the spread of lice and ringworm. She continued, frantically now, stroking heads—most of them prickly with new growth, but some, the newest arrivals, she guessed, as smooth as a marble. How foolish she had been to think Matteo’s red hair would guide her.

  The singing in the chapel had ceased and she heard the swish of slippered feet on stone paving. Matins was over. She started to panic. She had examined only half the boys. There were at least another twenty beds she had not yet scrutinized. Hannah forced herself to breathe more slowly. The boys did not seem to be arranged oldest to youngest. Perhaps the most recent arrivals would be wedged in nearer to the door—

  From the bed next to her came a cough from deep within the chest. A small hand caught her skirts. She touched it. The hand was too frail to be Matteo’s pudgy fist. It felt hot. She tucked it under the child’s thin blanket. What if Matteo was not here? What if he was in another orphanage or, may God not be listening, had already died of pox or diphtheria? The dankness of this ancient building would incite illness in all but the most robust child. Merciful God, she prayed, if you help me to find him, I will never trouble you again.

  She scanned the remaining cots but still saw no boy the right size or shape. Lucca was mistaken. Matteo must be in one of the orphanages farther north of the harbour, each one no doubt as crowded as this.

  But she could smell the pine pitch drifting through the windows, just as Lucca had said, and hear the shouts of the sawyers and carpenters as they worked, for when the demand for galleys was great, they worked around the clock. She tiptoed from bed to bed, hurriedly straightening blankets and pillows, touching heads, necks, foreheads, hands—whatever she could reach.

  Footsteps approached. She stifled a groan of despair. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly part her lips, but she began to pray aloud: “ ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.’ ” It was the Shema, the prayer she and Matteo had recited together each morning and night since he was an infant. She moved along the aisles, reciting the Shema over and over as loudly as she dared: “ ‘Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad.’ ”

  One boy had fallen out of bed; his forehead showed a gash oozing blood—he had struck it on the iron frame of his cot. She wished she could settle him back into bed and tend to his wound, but she dared not take the time. The best she could do was to toss his blanket over him. From the hallway came the slap of slippers and the rustle of robes.

  Hannah leaned over the next group of cots. “ ‘Hear, O Israel…’ ” she began again. Something grazed her cheek—a cobweb perhaps? Then a hand reached up and clasped her skirts. Sh
e bent toward it. The hand patted her cheek like a baker patting dough.

  “ ‘Baruch shem kevod mal’khoo’to le’olam va’ed,’ ” a voice whispered.

  “Matteo?” The hand left her face and two small arms pulled her down; they encircled her neck so tightly she had difficulty breathing. Then a tiny mouth brushed her cheek, as softly as the wings of a dove.

  “Ama,” a clear, sweet voice said. “I knew you would come for me.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Oespedale della Pietà,

  Castello, Venice

  HANNAH SNATCHED up Matteo and wrapped him in his blanket as best she could. He had grown in the months they had been apart. His legs were longer, his arms rounder. She ran down the dormitory aisle toward the door opening onto the street. When she was almost there—so close she could feel cool street air from beneath the door jamb—she heard more footsteps. Turning, Hannah saw a bobbing candle approaching as though moving of its own accord. She set Matteo down and fumbled with the door. She cursed herself for re-fastening the bolt when she entered. The iron bar would not budge.

  The candle flickered, nearly extinguished by the draft from the street. Hannah managed to shove the bolt back halfway. One more heave and the door would swing open.

  The black figure holding the candle walked toward Hannah. There was no side corridor to duck down, no closet or alcove to hide in, no table or statue to conceal her and Matteo behind. Just this door to freedom held fast by a rusty bar. Matteo whimpered, his arms around her waist. “Shh,” she said, holding him tight.

  The figure drew closer. “I am the abbess of this convent. Who, pray tell, are you?” The accent was Venetian, the voice low and well modulated.

  Hannah turned to the abbess and said, “I am Sister Benedicta.”

  “And where do you think you are taking this child?”

  Hannah was shaking so much that she could not speak. Matteo hid behind her and buried his face in her robe.

  The abbess held her candle aloft and peered at Hannah, squinting near-sightedly. “From what convent are you?”

  “Saint Ursula in Malta.” Hannah’s face turned crimson with shame for pretending to be something she was not. She was glad it was too dark for this austere woman to notice. Hannah felt no better than a common pickpocket in a market caught red-handed stealing fruit.

  “Come with me to the parlatorio. I do not wish to wake the other children.” The abbess was thick bodied and tall, with a strong brow and square shoulders. A handsome ivory rosary dangled from her waist. She resembled Sister Assunta. Hannah picked up Matteo and followed the nun.

  The abbess’s left foot turned outward at a right angle, making her progress down the hallway slow. Even with Matteo in her arms, Hannah could have outrun her. But she considered the night watchman and his dog at the entranceway and thought better of it. As if reading her mind, the abbess linked her arm through Hannah’s, gripping Hannah’s forearm with such firmness it began to grow numb. Slowing her pace to match the nun’s, Hannah walked down the corridor, along the loggia and through a garden. The abbess reached a door on the other side of the garden, opened it and ushered Hannah and Matteo into a small room containing a long table, an iron chest and, in the corner, a prie-dieu.

  The nun inclined her head toward a chair with a woven rush seat. Hannah sat with her back to the wall. The abbess threw open the shutters of the large, grated windows, letting in the chill of early dawn. Hannah pulled Matteo into her lap, where he patted her face with glad little cries and wriggled gleefully, refusing to be still.

  He was wearing a too-small pair of breeches so tattered his pink knees poked through. A stained shirt missing most of its buttons hung limp from his shoulders. Older, stronger boys must have stolen his good clothes. Or were these the clothes—little better than street urchins’ rags—that Cesca had dressed him in? What did it matter? His cheek was cool, free of fever. His eyes were free of discharge. She ran a hand over his head, beribboned with the fresh marks of a barber’s razor. Never mind; his hair would grow back. She felt under his shirt for a rash or pustules. His skin was unblemished. At least for now, Matteo was free of the dreaded smallpox. Hannah had found him before he had contracted a disease in this wretched place. But of his spirit, there was no telling. Had Cesca and Foscari and this dreadful orphanage crushed Matteo’s kind, generous nature?

  “Give an account of yourself.”

  The abbess’s voice was deep and strong, a voice one could better imagine issuing orders to servants than reciting prayers. Except for her white wimple, she was clothed in black from head to ankle. The tips of her dark slippers thrust from under her robes as she stood in front of the open window.

  Hannah would not cower before this woman. “I am here,” she began, keeping her voice steady, “to collect my son, Matteo.” Somehow she would convince the abbess of her good intentions.

  “Your son?”

  “Yes, I know,” said Hannah, attempting a smile. “ ‘A woman may have either a husband or a convent cell, but she may not have both.’ ” Assunta had often repeated this phrase. “After my husband died, I entered Saint Ursula’s, a convent that permits nuns to bring their young children with them.” Would a convent tolerate the presence of children? She had no idea.

  The abbess limped over to the table, pulled out a chair and sat. “I cannot have strangers, even nuns, breaking into my convent and helping themselves to my children.”

  “ ‘Bless me, Holy Mother, for I have sinned.’ ” The words came surprisingly easy. “I beg your forgiveness. I have acted sinfully, but when I tell you my story, I think you will understand my desperation.” And what is my story? And how to make it credible enough to win the sympathy of this formidable woman?

  The abbess folded her arms, waiting.

  Hannah cleared her throat. “My late husband and I were both from wealthy Jewish families in Malta.” May God not be listening to what I am about to say. “I always longed to embrace Christ as my Saviour, but my husband was opposed. After he died, I converted to Christianity and joined the Carmelite order of Saint Ursula’s as a novice. After years of study and praying for God’s guidance, I took my vows. I have been living at the convent with my son.” Hannah paused, waiting for God to smite her.

  The abbess said, “Your husband’s family approved of you becoming a converso?”

  “On the contrary. They were distraught their grandson and sole heir was being raised in the Holy Roman Church. My father-in-law hired the Marquis Foscari and his consort, a woman named Francesca. They kidnapped Matteo from me at Saint Ursula’s, taking him one evening when I was at Vespers. When I discovered he was in Venice, I sailed on the first ship.”

  The abbess regarded her skeptically. “Francesca sent this boy with two men who informed me Matteo was her son and she required temporary care for him. It is a common enough situation. Parents entrust their children to me for a few weeks or months while they arrange their affairs.”

  “Francesca and Foscari will return the boy to his paternal grandparents,” Hannah replied, “and cut him off from any possibility of life everlasting as a Christian.” If God had not struck her down yet, He understood and forgave.

  The abbess narrowed her eyes. “Not if I have anything to say in the matter.”

  “My wish is to go back to Saint Ursula’s with my son. My family is well-to-do, but my convent is poor. I am sure you understand how costly it is to maintain such a place. When I return with Matteo, my family, even though they are Jews, have promised to give thanks to the Virgin Mary by building a chapel in Her honour.”

  “I must not interfere with such a generous plan,” said the nun.

  “I thank you, Abbess. And forgive me for my presumption in entering your convent without invitation.” Now she must retreat before her tongue got her in trouble. “I may take my son with God’s blessing?”

  “Not just yet. Francesca will be here this morning to pick up the boy. In fairness, I should hear what she has to say. You and Matteo shall stay in one
of the nunnery cells until she arrives.”

  Hannah had no choice but to comply. She took Matteo by the hand and rose, turning her back to the abbess to hide her rounded belly. The abbess showed them to a bare room with a crucifix over the bed. There, on the tiny cot, Hannah and Matteo managed to sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. Knowing what lay ahead, Hannah savoured the sound of Matteo’s gentle snoring, the feeling of his body still plump with vestiges of baby flesh.

  A few hours later, Hannah heard footsteps in the corridor then a rap on the door. A fresh-faced postulate ushered them to the parlatorio.

  Cesca sat next to the abbess, her back not touching the rear of the chair, a smile on her face. It was the first time Hannah had seen her since Constantinople. She looked just as beautiful. Neither time nor treachery had muddied her clear skin nor wrinkled her throat nor blackened her teeth. How satisfying it would be were it otherwise.

  The abbess said, “Francesca, this is Sister Benedicta, who tells me she is Matteo’s mother. She is here to take him back to Malta. She claims you kidnapped him.”

  “Hannah! Here you are in your ridiculous disguise,” said Cesca.

  From a basket on her arm, Cesca took several dried peaches and placed them on the table in front of the abbess. “I am so grateful to you, Abbess, for looking after Matteo.” She gave the abbess a beatific smile. “I hope you were not deceived by this Jewess.” Before Hannah could duck, Cesca tugged at Hannah’s wimple. “Look at that face, the dark skin and eyes, the clever mouth, the long nose—a Hebrew face.”

  For a moment Hannah was tempted to grab one of the peaches and fling it at Cesca, or better still, jam it down her throat so she could not breathe, much less speak. “I have already explained—”

  “I shall have him now, Abbess,” Cesca said.

  Hannah put an arm around Matteo. “Abbess, Cesca is a liar.”

  The abbess raised a hand. “Let us discuss this situation rationally. Francesca, I believe this woman to be a nun. Of course she has the face of an Israelite. She is a converso, who has bent her knee to Our Saviour. The Church welcomes such people.” She spoke calmly, but her eyes darkened—the ominous grey of storm clouds and roiling seas.