by Roberta Rich
The auctioneer turned back to Isaac, scrutinizing him to determine his other marketable virtues. Next to him, Simón stood swaying in the heat of the afternoon sun. As the silence lengthened, the crowd started to drift away. Isaac could imagine what confounded the auctioneer—his broad chest was now so devoid of fat that his muscles showed as though in a painting of Christ in the final stages of exsanguination. His legs, once straight and hard, were no thicker than a table’s.
Isaac whispered a few words in the auctioneer’s ear. The man nodded and called out, “Not only is this slave a Jew, but he is a learned one. One who can read and write and compute.”
The stocky man heckled. “How do I know he is learned if he has no beard? Does not the Jew obtain wisdom from his hairy chin?”
Isaac raised his head and managed to say to his tormentor in a voice hoarse from disuse, “If men be judged wise by their beards, then that billy goat over there”—he motioned with his chin in the direction of the livestock pen across the square—“would be the wisest among us.”
He felt the sting of the baton on the back of his legs. He staggered and nearly toppled off the platform. Laughter rose from the crowd.
“What use is a clever tongue to me?” said the man. “I need slaves for galley ships making their way to and from the Levant.”
And of what use has my clever tongue ever been to me, Isaac thought, except to get me into trouble? Flies collected around his eyes. He could not summon the will to brush them away.
Simón said under his breath, “Do not antagonize that one. His name is Joseph. He is a Judenfresser, a Jew-eater. By the time the galleys arrive here, the slaves are more dead than alive from starvation and beatings. This bastard replaces the poor creatures with fresh slaves and leaves the old ones to die. The petty officers are so desperate for crew, they buy anyone.”
God would understand if I killed myself, thought Isaac. In such circumstances, it would not be a violation of the law. Had not the Jews at Masada killed themselves to rob the Roman soldiers of the pleasure? But then the memory of Hannah came to him. Hannah with her narrow waist and black eyes, waiting for him in Venice. He forced himself to stand straighter. God might understand and forgive if he hanged himself in his cell by the ragged sleeves of his shirt, but Hannah would not. Isaac put the thought of suicide out of his mind, just as he had put aside the memory of their quarrel and their last miserable day together. When their love was strong, they could have slept together on a bed the width of a sheaf of wheat. That last night, a bed measuring sixty cubits would not have been sufficient.
The sound of a rough voice brought him back to the present. Joseph yelled to the auctioneer, “I would not bid ten scudi for this hairless Jew, but satisfy my curiosity, Auctioneer. Did you shave his private parts too? Is that hair missing along with his foreskin?” A collective guffaw rose from the crowd. Encouraged, the man continued, “Maybe he is not a real Jew at all, but a Marrano from Spain: Christian on the outside, Jew on the inside, eh? Ask him to drop those shit-caked breeches.”
He who tolerates insults invites injury, Isaac reminded himself, the blood rushing to his face. If he did not reply, the crowd would join in and soon he would find himself at the receiving end of a hail of rotten oranges, or worse. What an abomination to be mocked by an illiterate lout who no doubt signed his name with a greasy thumbprint and slept in a hay rick with his pigs. He grinned at Joseph and called out, “I cannot oblige you, sir. The sight of my member would excite envy in the heart of every man present and desire in the heart of every woman.”
The crowd pressed closer, jostling one another to approach the platform. One of the guards took a step toward Isaac and raised his baton. Isaac mentally cursed his ill-advised retort and stiffened, preparing for the sting of the beating.
To his relief, the auctioneer said, with a shake of his head, “The Knights will want him alive until they receive the price on his head.” He motioned the guard to hold back his blows, but he shot Isaac a warning glance.
Joseph laughed and shouted up to the auctioneer, “He amuses me. Perhaps I can find a use for him: to bait my rat traps!” He jiggled the coins in his pockets. “Come to think of it, what better function for any Jew?” More and more men had ambled over to join the throng, drawn by the jeers and hoots of approval. Joseph faced the crowd and took a deep bow before turning to Isaac to ask, “Shall I buy you, Jew?”
“No,” Isaac replied.
“And why not?”
“Sir, how can you take me for a slave after you have taken me for an adviser?”
The crowd jeered.
“All of Christendom knows your people killed Christ and must be forever punished,” called Joseph.
“Enough!” The auctioneer held up a hand. “What about fifty scudi, sir? You will get your money’s worth out of him.” Meaning before he died of overwork. The auctioneer raised his gavel. “What do you say? Shall I knock him down to you?”
“Here is ten scudi, Auctioneer. I will buy him for the pleasure of seeing him starve.”
“Any other bids?” The auctioneer scanned the crowd. “No? Very well, then. Sold to Joseph.” He thumped his gavel on the plank in front of him and then motioned to the guard. “Take him down.”
As Isaac stumbled in front of Simón, his friend whispered, “May God protect you.”
The guard kicked Isaac down the stairs to where Joseph waited, stomping his boots in the dust. He tossed a ten-scudi coin to the auctioneer, who caught it and said, “Thank you, sir.”
The auctioneer now turned his attention to Simón. “And next is a Jew from Leghorn, a trader in gemstones.”
As Joseph grabbed Isaac by the shoulder and started to lead him toward a dusty cart in the middle of the square, a female voice from the back of the crowd called loudly, “Auctioneer, wait!”
The men parted to make way for a woman built like one of the battlements of St. Elmo. Over her robes was an apron covered with a dusting of flour. She pressed a small dog to her bosom, white against the brown of her scapular. Whether the animal was white by nature’s hand or white from flour was difficult to say. She grabbed Isaac by his arm. In Maltese, she said, “This man will never last a fortnight on the galleys. Release him. This is nothing less than murder.” She shook a finger at Joseph. “You are an abomination.”
“The bidding is closed,” the auctioneer called down to her.
“Joseph will have him strapped to an oar, sitting in freezing water up to his waist. Surely you can see that, Auctioneer.”
“I only sell slaves, Sister Assunta, I do not predict their futures.”
The auctioneer turned his attention back to Simón, but before he could continue, the nun said, “Once he is scrubbed and deloused, he will do well enough for me, cleaning and working in the garden of the convent.”
Joseph made a grab for Isaac’s other arm and, turning to the nun, said, “With respect, Sister, this man has been bought and paid for. Now let us pass.”
The auctioneer looked down at the nun, his expression apologetic. “Sorry, Sister Assunta. You are too late.”
Isaac studied the woman’s face, her rough serge habit, her red hands, and her wide hips. An unsoggolo, a wimple, concealed her jaw and part of her cheek. She reached into her pocket and withdrew ten scudi and waved it in Joseph’s face.
“Here, Joseph, be gone. Go murder someone else.”
“Let me pass.” Joseph began to haul Isaac in the direction of the horse cart at the edge of the throng.
Isaac could not help imagining the peace of a convent, perhaps a garden of olive trees and hives for bees. He halted.
“If you refuse to walk,” Joseph said, “I will pick you up and sling you across my shoulders like the carcass of a goat.”
The sister tried to thrust the coins in Joseph’s pocket, but he ducked out of her reach.
Isaac felt as a snapper must feel being fought over by two housewives in the Rialto fish market.
“This Jew is mine. Report me to the Grand Master if you d
o not like the way I treat my slaves,” Joseph said. He gave Isaac a shove into the cart and climbed in after him as the nun finally released her hold.
“It is God’s will that I have him, Joseph. Sell him to me and buy that brute over there.” She gestured to a large Nubian standing at the back of the platform. “He will last longer than this one. Leave the Jew to me.”
Joseph picked up the reins of his cart horse. “Let me pass, Sister.”
A man in the crowd called out, “Save your soul, Joseph. Let the convent have him. The nuns need the services of a man with a large member more than you do.” The man doubled over with laughter.
Joseph flushed red and made a clucking noise to his horse but did not slap the reins. “Since it is you, Sister Assunta, give me fifteen scudi and he is yours.” He gestured to the dog in her arms. “Then you can pamper him like your lapdog.”
Sweat trickled down Isaac’s legs and he felt the cloth sack of worms slip down his breeches. Working his hand down his leg, he managed to tug it up surreptitiously and press it under his waistband. Joseph and Sister Assunta continued their haggling.
“Take my ten scudi. This is all the money I have. My convent is poor.” She tried again to put the ten scudi coins into Joseph’s hand, but jaw set, he shook his head.
Sister Assunta grunted in frustration. She grasped the skirt of her habit in her hand, strode up the steps to the auction platform, and elbowed aside the guard. She addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am in need of a donation of five scudi for the convent. Whoever has pity for this Jew and wishes God’s light to shine upon him, open your purse,” her voice rang out.
Isaac sat stiffly in the cart and waited for someone to volunteer, but not a soul stepped forward.
God was not through shitting on him.
CHAPTER 3
DURING THE FULL moon, unseen currents ran in the canals, washing over the crumbling walls and wetting the slimy steps of the ghetto. At high tide, acqua alta, the entire campo disappeared under a layer of mud. Tonight was such a night. Hannah held up her skirts as she, the Conte, and the Rabbi made their way across the campo toward the gates, the Conte grasping her elbow to prevent her from slipping in the silt. Overhead in her building, shutters opened. A tiny flicker of a candle showed through the window and then the shutters banged closed. Hannah shivered as a rat leapt into the canal, leaving greasy ripples in the water.
The Rabbi bid them good night, and headed in the direction of his loghetto. Then, except for their footsteps on the cobblestones, the silence was complete.
When they reached the heavy wooden gates, the guard Vicente, his hat upturned in case the Conte wanted to drop a few scudi in it, unlocked the gate leading to the Ponte degli Agudi. The Conte and Hannah hurried toward the boat on the Rio di San Girolamo. The gondolier was snoring so loudly he had scared away the pigs rooting in the garbage along the Fondamenta. He woke up when he heard them approach and sprang to attention, offering his forearm to Hannah to help her over the gunwales. Then he held to one side the heavy brocade curtains of the felze, the cabin of the gondola, until she settled in a chair. The boat dipped and swayed when the Conte climbed on board. Inside the felze, it was dark as a cave, concealing her from anyone who might be watching on land. The seclusion should have made her feel safe, but it did not.
When the gondolier cast off, she wanted to hurl herself out of the boat and onto solid ground again. On the prow the six iron teeth of the ferro, each tooth symbolizing a sestiere, a district of the city, sliced through the water. They did not speak. The only sound was the drip of the oar as they glided over the black waters. No light reflected from the houses of the Cannaregio.
When they reached the Grand Canal, hardly a pine-pitch torch hissed or flickered from the docks of the splendid palazzi. The Conte’s cloak was heavy around her shoulders, pressing her down. It did not warm her any more than a hunter’s snare gives heat to a trapped quail. She struggled to sit upright. It would avail her nothing if the Conte realized how frightened she was. Confidence must radiate from her. Isaac had taught her that.
Was not the flesh of a Christian noblewoman fashioned the same as a Jewess’s? she thought. Did they not bleed and moan and labour in the same manner? Did they not also have tight wombs that refused to expel their contents, and babies who presented buttocks first? She had enticed unwilling infants from half-dead Jewish mothers; she would do the same for a Christian. It was for Isaac that she risked a watery cell below the Doge’s palace and a midnight visit from the strangler. His handsome face appeared before her, his aquiline nose and sensual mouth.
In the cabin of the gondola, listing to one side with the weight of its load, the Conte spoke to her in a voice so low she had to ask him to repeat it. “My wife, Lucia, is frail. For years, she has coughed blood. In spite of this, she has had many confinements. None have resulted in a living child.” He studied her in the shaft of moonlight penetrating the half-closed curtains. “You are young, but I am sure you have seen such cases.”
With each intake of breath, the Conte seemed to suck all the air from the small enclosure, leaving none for her.
“I will do my best.”
“I believe you will, my dear. Like most men, I know nothing of the ways in which children enter the world. But heed my words: if you must make a choice between my wife’s life or my child’s, save my child.”
Before she could stop herself, Hannah said, “But Jewish midwives are schooled to favour the mother’s life.” Seeing his troubled face, she added, “With God’s help, I will not have to make such a choice.”
“I love Lucia, but under the terms of my father’s will, I must produce an heir before I turn fifty. Otherwise, the family estate will pass from my hands into the hands of my brother Jacopo. I will celebrate my fiftieth birthday next month.”
It was not the first time Hannah had heard such confidences. Fathers-to-be were often consumed with maninconia, a combination of anxiety and distress that made them disclose things they had no business telling strangers.
“Jacopo and my younger brother, Niccolò, are feckless and will ruin the family businesses. If the estate falls into their hands, it will mean the devastation of the family. Niccolò has already gambled away a small fortune. Jacopo is a worry to me for reasons I cannot discuss with a woman.”
What did this talk of his father’s will and family business have to do with her? Rolling out dough for matzo she understood. Delivering babies she understood. But the inheritance laws of rich Christians?
It would not be a kindness to tell him what every midwife knew: that for every five babies born, one died; that for every ten labouring mothers, one would not live to give suck to her child. Nor would she tell him she had bettered those dismal odds with the device hidden in the linen bag resting at her feet.
One Shabbat she was ladling beet soup, so hot and steaming it made her hair spring into tiny curls. The silver soup ladle in her hand, with a concave belly and a curved handle, plunged deep into the tureen. She dropped the handle when it grew too hot and it slid along the side of the bowl, coming to rest against the curve of the bottom. An idea took shape in her mind. She took an identical spoon down from the cupboard, and with her hands still stained red from the beets, she crossed one spoon over the other to form the letter X. Such an instrument, she thought, could bring a child’s head farther down the birth passage and hasten deliveries.
She made a rough sketch, which the silversmith then used to fashion the instrument, sculpting the bowl of the birthing spoon more deeply than that of an ordinary spoon and making the handles longer. A hinge held the two spoons together in the middle, so that they could be opened and closed like a pair of scissors. At first, she had practised in private, extracting onions from the cavities of raw chickens. When her dexterity improved, she used them at confinements, draping a bedsheet over the mother’s bent knees so she could not see, and shooing all the other women from the room. Midwives were burned as witches for less cause than this, so Hannah knew she must
be circumspect.
“I want you to know I am not a man without sentiment,” said the Conte, “one who thinks only of his estates and horses and how many ducats he can make on every business transaction.”
“I know you care for your wife or you would not have taken the risk of summoning me,” Hannah replied.
The Conte patted her hand. “My brother spoke harshly to you because he is indebted to the moneylenders. Jacopo is as profligate with his money as a dyer.”
Several moments later, with a creak and a muted thump, the gondola slid alongside the dock of a palazzo with a stone facade and arched windows. On the last curve of the Grand Canal, this palazzo overlooked the campo of St. Samuele. A liveried servant on the dock caught the bowline from the gondolier and lashed it around a mooring pole painted in the colours of the family, gold and green. The Conte helped Hannah out and escorted her inside. A manservant held open the door for them and bid them good evening. She followed the Conte through the piano terra, where the commercial business of the family took place. This ground floor—used as a warehouse, judging by the wooden crates—was heavy with the fragrance of cardamom, cinnamon, and raw wool. It seemed as large as the entire Campo Ghetto Nuovo.
She tried to keep pace with the Conte, noting how large his head was. If his wife was small, this did not bode well. A delicate wife and a substantial husband often caused the mother to carry a baby with a head too big to make good the passage through the sharing bones.