A Trial in Venice

by Roberta Rich

  “Nonsense. Her name is Hannah Levi. She is no more a nun than I am.”

  Cesca was leaner now. She seemed all hard edges—her jaw, her elbows, even the collarbone outlined under her green dress.

  “Cesca stole Matteo and now plots to steal his fortune,” said Hannah.

  The abbess cast her eyes to the ceiling, as though conferring with God. “Francesca entrusted him to my care, claiming to be his mother. Sister Benedicta also claims the boy. Which of you am I to believe?”

  “I have risked my life for him many times. I have been a mother to him in every sense of the word.” Hannah acknowledged the beseeching quality of her own voice, which she could not help and which embarrassed her.

  Cesca smiled and wiggled her fingers at Matteo. “Darling boy, come and sit on my lap.” She reached in her basket, took out a peach and held it out to him.

  Matteo jumped off Hannah’s lap and over to Cesca, who swooped him up and cradled him in her arms. “Such a lovely boy,” she cooed.

  Hannah studied the abbess’s face, trying to divine her expression. Matteo nestled into Cesca’s arms and parted his lips as she held the peach to his mouth.

  “This is my ama,” Matteo said, putting his hand on Hannah’s knee. “She has always been my ama.” He clutched Hannah’s skirts. Hannah let out a sigh of relief.

  The abbess clasped her hands together and was about to speak, when Matteo placed a hand on Cesca’s cheek. “Cesca is my ama, too.”

  The abbess frowned as she regarded both women. “In truth,” she said to Hannah, “although my eye sight is not much good to me anymore, I venture that the boy resembles Francesca more than he does you.” The nun drummed her fingers on the table. “We are a poor convent. To my regret, we cannot offer the children as much in the way of food and clothing as some of the more prosperous orders, but in spiritual sustenance, we are the best in the city. I shall keep Matteo until I have had time to pray and ask God’s divine guidance.”

  Cesca said, “No, the boy must come with me. I am sure his guardian, the Marquis Foscari, will make a generous donation to your oespedale.“

  The abbess’s stomach, pressing against the cord around her waist, gurgled loudly.

  “Please,” Hannah said, “I have arranged ship’s passage. I must be at the docks with Matteo before the next morning tide.” What was one more falsehood amid so many?

  The abbess beckoned to Matteo, “Come here, child.”

  Matteo crawled onto the abbess’s lap. She gave him her rosary beads to play with. Matteo let the ivory beads trickle through his chubby fingers, glancing from one to the other. It unsettled Hannah to see him playing with this Christian article Jews were forbidden to touch. Not to snatch the rosary from him took all her self-control.

  The abbess’s tapered fingers, which looked better suited to holding a violin or playing the harpsichord, stroked Matteo’s shaved head. “Unclench your fists, Sister,” the abbess said to Hannah. “He is a clever, handsome boy. I understand why you are both so fond of him.” She looked at each of them. “You shall have my answer in due course. In the meantime, Matteo will remain here.”

  Hannah said, “Abbess, you and the other Sisters have done your best to care for all of these boys. On very little money.”

  “And when pestilence stalks the city for victims, the oespedale is the first place it calls,” the abbess said.

  “Yes,” Hannah said. “But as you yourself have said, it is difficult to provide for the children.” This was the most tactful way she could think of to describe the appalling conditions. “I wish to make a donation to the convent to alleviate some of the hardships I have noticed.” Hannah picked up the hem of her habit. “If I may have the use of a knife?”

  The abbess reached into the drawer of the table then handed her an ivory letter opener. “All donations are most welcome.”

  The good woman settled back in her chair with Matteo, patting his back. Soon his eyelids drooped and he was dozing against her shoulder. In the distance, the choir commenced a doleful chant. It was Terce, the mid-morning prayers.

  With the tip of the opener, Hannah began unpicking the stitches in her hem.

  “You must not give the boy to this imposter,” Cesca said. “She will run back to Constantinople with him. The child must be in court to claim his estate.” She touched the abbess on the arm. “Surely you cannot be deceived by this Jewess.”

  Cesca leaned over and, before Hannah could stop her, tugged off her wimple. Hannah’s dark hair cascaded over her shoulders.

  There was a collective intake of breath.

  Cesca laughed triumphantly. “You see, Abbess? Is it not a rule that all nuns cut their hair when they take their vow of chastity, obedience and poverty?”

  “It is an offence to God to masquerade as a Bride of Christ. You desecrate the nun’s habit,” the abbess said, rising to her feet and causing Matteo to topple to the floor. “Why was your hair not shorn when you renounced all earthly pleasures?”

  “Because…” Hannah could think of nothing to say.

  An ominous silence descended on the room, the kind that prevailed at public hangings the moment just after the noose is placed around the accused’s neck and just before the hangman lays whip to the horse’s rump. Even Matteo stopped wriggling and sat with his eyes cast to the floor.

  The abbess grew white with anger. She flicked the rosary at her waist back and forth, the beads clicking against her robe. “I can guess what you are up to. There is more at stake than just the fate of this boy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How many other children have you stolen?” asked the abbess.

  “No, you misunderstand!”

  “Do not play the innocent. You know exactly what I am talking about.”

  Hannah could not believe what she was hearing. In her state of shock, at first she thought the abbess was making a jest—a stupid, untimely jest, but a jest just the same. “I do not understand.”

  But Hannah did understand. And the certainty of what would come next had her wanting to run as fast as she could from this forbidding woman.

  “Confess! Get on your knees. Make your peace with God. You are part of a plot to steal Christian children who have no parents to defend them. Children you will hand over to your Rabbi, who will—”

  “No, absolutely not! You are mad.”

  “You are a procuress for your people. How many other children are part of your diabolical scheme?” The abbess stared, eyes narrowed, at Hannah then quickly looked away, as though Hannah was a repulsive object she had tripped over on the street.

  “This is absurd.” Here it was. The rekindling of the ancient fires, the fanning of the embers of the age-old grudges. From the set of the abbess’s jaw and the twitch of her beads Hannah knew that no argument would convince the abbess otherwise.

  “I wager that at this very moment your Rabbi is sharpening his knife to slit this boy’s throat.”

  The abbess’s fury grew like a conflagration that begins with a mere spark escaping a fireplace grate. The spark ignites a nearby rag, which sets aflame curtains and bedding and clothing, until the entire house is burning so fiercely that surrounding houses take flame. Soon the entire district is engulfed.

  Hannah had no idea how to quench the flames.

  “And isn’t the holiday of Passover nearly upon us—when you Jews drain the blood of Christian children to make your bread?” asked the abbess.

  The parlatorio felt as hot as the inside of an oven. Hannah feared she was going to faint. Hannah’s mother, who was from Frankfurt-am-Main, had told her of an incident: a child found dead—stuffed down the well of a Jewish moneylender, the accusation of blood libel, a confession obtained by torture. And then the entire Jewish quarter banished, hastily fastened bundles on bent backs, children straggling behind, the stink of scorched timbers and burned crops, horsemen with staves urging them on. “Abbess, I did not expect a woman of your obvious breeding and education would believe in such nonsense.”


  The abbess gave a grim smile. “You are a clever woman. I will grant you that. Where better to find helpless young souls than here in my orphanage?”

  Cesca said, “How many ducats have you secreted away? With such a healthy pile, why don’t you buy your sacrificial lambs instead of stealing them?” She grabbed at Hannah’s skirt, but Hannah slapped her hand away.

  “I am going to summon the soldiers of the Prosecuti and have you arrested,” said the abbess. “A Jewess raising a Christian boy is a serious offence and I believe your crime to be much worse than simply that. The Prosecuti will investigate. They will find out exactly what your scheme is.”

  “You have misjudged me. I have no scheme other than to get my son back. I—”

  “I do not want to hear another word from you. This is a matter for the courts.”

  “Well said, Abbess,” Cesca said. “Now may I have my son?”

  “Both of you be quiet.” The abbess scowled at Cesca. “I shall keep Matteo here. The Lord in His wisdom will guide me to the right path. Until then, the boy will be safe and well cared for.”

  But he is not safe and well cared for. He is in rags, eating poor victuals. How long in this orphanage before Matteo was covered in pustules, writhing in pain from lesions in his mouth and nose? He could be dead within a month of any of the diseases rife in places such as this—the pox, scarlet fever, diphtheria. Wasn’t anything better than Matteo remaining here?

  There was affection in Cesca’s eyes when she held Matteo on her lap. He had stretched out his arms to her. He had called her “Ama Cesca.” It pained Hannah to hear the love in his voice, just as it would pain her if Isaac spoke lovingly to another woman.

  “Abbess,” said Hannah, “give my son to Francesca.”

  Cesca said, “She is right, Abbess. You have so many mouths to feed. Let me take one off your hands.”

  “That is the only reasonable thing I have heard since I had the misfortune to lay eyes on the two of you.” The abbess pondered the matter for a moment and then nodded. “Fine, take him.”

  Matteo screamed in protest and clung to Hannah, who said in a soothing voice, “Loosen your grip, my son.” He continued to cry and struggle. The faster it could be done, the better. Hannah tickled him and he dropped his arms. Matteo must not see her weeping. How upset Hannah had been as a child when her mother cried; how her weeping had made it seem nothing was right in the world, nothing certain or predictable or secure. “Be a brave boy,” she said. “Do not fret. I will be back for you soon.” She kissed Matteo’s cheek as Cesca hurried him out of the parlatorio. The door of the main entrance groaned open then closed.

  Much later, after Hannah had been locked in a cell, she wondered if her last sight of Matteo would be his red face bobbing over Cesca’s shoulder, crying and calling for her, waving as he struggled in Cesca’s arms.

  CHAPTER 22

  Pozzi Prison,

  Venice

  ONLY ONE THING MATTERED: escape. Hannah was up to her ankles in salt water from the lagoon. The prison was known as Pozzi, meaning “wells,” because it filled twice a day with the tides. The flooding was at its worst at high tide. Hannah’s feet were numb from the icy water. She stumbled to the waste bucket, leaning on the wall for support, banging her wounded arm. The lice made her frantic. She had bitten her nails to prevent herself from scratching, but it was no use. Her legs and arms had red marks so angry a swarm of cats might have attacked her. She fumbled in her linen bag, but Tzipporah’s tin of ointment was empty. What Hannah wouldn’t give for a bath in clean hot water to rid herself of the lice. Even sprinkling her mattress with orris root, a gift from another prisoner, did not help.

  From the cells farther down the corridors she heard the cries of the other women and the sloshing of sea water entering the cells. The lack of sleep—for who could sleep when rats jumped on one’s face and mice burrowed into the folds of one’s cloak and hair—had driven many of them mad. It took all of Hannah’s self-control not to fling herself on her waterlogged pallet and scream and claw and rage, tearing at her face and hair as she had heard some prisoners do.

  The bells of San Marco rang in the piazza, on the other side of the wall. When she had first arrived, she had recoiled at their loudness. Now she found comfort in the rich pealing. The noise masked the skittering of rodents.

  Hannah forced herself to rise. She took pains with her appearance, although her back ached and she felt a fever coming on. She wanted nothing so much as to remain on her pallet and never rise again, but for the baby’s sake she dipped a filthy rag into a bowl of water and scrubbed her hands and face as best she could with the brackish water, careful to keep her mouth closed. The small discipline of caring for herself made life more bearable. Those prisoners who made an effort—who washed, who darned their clothing, who busied themselves with tatting lace or nursing sick prisoners—fared better at the hands of the guards than did prisoners who appeared unkempt and listless.

  She dried her hands and face on the hem of her habit then ran her fingers though her hair. Her ivory comb had long ago disappeared. Without its aid her dark hair was more unruly than ever. Thank God, she had managed to hold on to her fourteen ducats. When the soldiers had searched her for valuables, they had not thought to check the hem of her nun’s habit scrunched up in the bottom of her valise. Those ducats must buy her freedom.

  Yesterday she had propositioned the guard Guido. The ring of keys tied around his waist resembled a rosary. Guido was in charge of the women’s section of the jail. A large man with one eye crossed, he had probably not been a bad sort once. Now he ruled the jail with a heavy hand. He was not a jailer by choice. Years ago he had been a carpenter, he told her, but had fallen through the joists of a barn. His arm had knitted badly and his employer had cast him out to find what work he could.

  They had been speaking in the courtyard. Would Guido leave her cell door unlocked and the outer door to the street ajar in exchange for her precious ducats? Hannah had lied, saying her brother was safeguarding ten ducats and would deliver them to Guido upon her escape. His small, malevolent eyes had lit up at the sum—for it was a goodly one, enough to buy a farm on the Terra Firma or prosperous tavern near the docks—but he shook his head. “I cannot do it, bella. If you had stolen a glassblower’s borsella or broken into a church poor box, I would take fistfuls of your ducats and carry you over the threshold like a bridegroom, but the head jailer warned me to keep a weather eye on you. I don’t know what you’ve done, but he warned me that if you escaped, I would be put to the strappado. Me, with Bianca and a flock of hungry mouths at home to feed. No, you will remain here until your belly ceases to shield you. Then you will be hanged.”

  With Guido’s refusal came a feeling of misery so profound she had no way to express it. Hannah wanted to howl like a dog, fling herself on the ground, tear her clothes from her body and rip them to shreds. But she did none of those things. She followed Guido back to her cell, where, unless she could think of a way to escape, her baby would be born.

  “But first there will be a trial? I will have a chance to defend myself?”

  Guido grinned, showing teeth little more than brown stubs. “The Prosecuti do not trouble themselves with such niceties. The abbess denounced you and that’s all they require.” He turned away, muttering the word trial and shaking his head at the absurdity of the notion. “A judge would not listen to the likes of you.”

  “Suppose I was in court, testifying in another trial, what then?”

  But Guido was already well out of earshot.

  Have heart, she counselled herself. These ducats will buy liberty. There would be another guard with another set of keys. She would watch and wait. Yet, despair gripped her like a strangler vine, squeezing her so that the simple act of breathing required conscious effort. She lay on her pallet, hands clasped over her belly, trying to feel the baby within her quicken. The straw jabbed her through the thin cloth of her shift. The baby gave a quick kick. A welcome distraction. She stroked her belly in resp
onse. I will protect you, little one, as you protect me.

  An hour later Guido unlocked the cell door and motioned her to the courtyard for her morning meal. His wife, Bianca, pregnant, with hair so blond it was nearly white, earned a few coins each day cooking for the prisoners. The guards, to Hannah’s surprise, had allowed her to keep a handful of scudi in her linen bag to buy necessaries. She had saved them for Bianca, and parcelled them out one or two at a time. Soon there would be none left, and she would have only her gold ducats.

  The other prisoners lined up as Bianca ladled out her watery stew. Each day Hannah fretted about whether she would find a shred of chicken gizzard in the soup, or a turnip floating in the broth, or a piece of bread soft enough to chew without breaking her teeth. Last week she had uncovered a morsel of shellfish; it had had a whiff of the sewer about it.

  If Hannah did not get more food, her baby would starve. Bianca stood with a wooden spoon in one hand, her other hand balled into a fist pressing into her lower back. Maybe Bianca had been lucky enough to find a piece of beef or mutton fat in the market to flavour the broth. How much better than meat that would be. Fat melted and gave flavour to the entire stew, whereas a morsel of meat satisfied only one or two prisoners. Would the bread be without weevils this morning?

  A common expression came to mind: “A tooth for every pregnancy.” Bianca had only a few fist-broken teeth left in her head. Her thin hair, patches of pink scalp visible, was plaited into a braid and secured with a stick of polished bone. She was a ray of sunshine on this cold, damp morning, although she had no reason to be of good cheer, poor as she was, no doubt with a flock of children at home, and an ill-tempered husband like Guido.

  “It will not be long now, will it?” said Hannah, glancing at Bianca’s belly.