by Roberta Rich
She heard a faint moan from Lucia, and said, “Your child lives. I will attend to you in a moment.”
Turning her attention back to the baby, she scrubbed off the layer of waxy cream with a rough cloth. The infant was large, the private parts so swollen it took Hannah a moment to realize he was male. The slate blue eyes in the wrinkled face opened. He would be a beauty—if he continued to breathe. Seeing the tiny abdomen rise and fall like the soft belly of a kitten, Hannah smiled with joy. He was plump, with strong, even features, a high brow, and full cheeks. His hair would be reddish when it dried. How unlike the dark, complaining babies of the ghetto, who entered the world red and protesting, born instinctively sensing that a life of struggle awaited them. She held the child to her breast and rocked him as he appraised her, clenching his tiny fists.
“Bring the candle closer, Giovanna. Let me examine this little man.”
Giovanna obliged and held the light high, illuminating the baby’s skin, which now bloomed a healthy pink. She did not want to put him down, he was so beautiful. A Jewish child would now be oiled and covered in a layer of salt for his own protection. On the eighth day, he would be circumcised. None of these things would be done for this child of nobility.
In the corner stood the cradle with four marble posts supporting the canopy of red silk, embroidered with fauns. She placed the child inside and pulled the coverlet up to his chin. Swaddling would have to wait until she had attended to the Contessa.
The afterbirth, like a veined piece of calf’s liver, should have glided out of its own accord and fallen into the basin. In biblical times, a Jewish midwife would have straddled the mother’s thighs, ramming her head into the mother’s belly until the liver cake dislodged. Hannah’s method was kinder. She tugged on the navel string that hung out of the birthing passage, but as she pulled, the cord, engorged with blood, broke. Was it too much to ask of God that one small detail go smoothly? If Lucia had been able, Hannah would have asked her to stand so that the liver cake would drop from between her legs, but Lucia could no more stand upright than could the baby she had just birthed. If the afterbirth did not emerge, putrefaction would result. There was only one thing to be done.
“Giovanna, clasp her by her shoulders. I must feel what is wrong.”
Hannah pushed back the bloody sleeves of her cioppà. She plunged her forearm into the warm darkness of the womb, clutched the resistant afterbirth, braced herself, and tugged. Lucia’s back arched. There was a tearing sound, and Hannah staggered back, gripping a raw piece of the organ. She dropped it to the floor and reinserted her arm, groping in the womb, seizing more spongy flesh, tugging, holding it fast, and reeling back with another purple fistful. Her arm was shaking and glazed with bright blood. This time, Giovanna held a basin for her to cast the tissue into.
Once the afterbirth was extracted and the matrix cleaned of tissue, the flow of blood slowed to a trickle. Now, according to Jewish custom, the placenta should be wrapped in a clean cloth and buried in the ground. For reasons Hannah could not fathom, Christians preserved it in a jar of fine oil.
A clicking sound brought Hannah to attention. Lucia’s teeth were chattering and her whole body trembled. Hannah grabbed a feather quilt from the armoire and buried Lucia under it. She put a hand on Lucia’s forehead. The Contessa was burning with fever. Hannah prayed there would not be prodigious bleeding that could not be staunched.
Hannah’s vision was blurry with fatigue; her arms ached from the effort of extracting the afterbirth. She had been at Lucia’s bedside the entire night and needed to sit down, drink a bowl of strong broth, then sleep—but her work was not yet completed. She pulled up a chair and sat next to Lucia.
“It is over, cara. You did well.” She took Lucia’s hand. “You have suffered, but you have a beautiful boy to show for your pains. A boy with a large head, as I do not need to tell you, and your husband’s blue eyes. Just wait until you see him.”
Lucia squeezed Hannah’s finger. Motioning Hannah to lower her head, she murmured, “You have been so kind. The Holy Virgin will watch over you all the days of your life.” And then her eyes fluttered closed.
Rest and nourishing food were all the medicaments Lucia needed now. In a few months, God willing, she would be well again.
“We should change the bedding, Giovanna.”
They tackled the task together, rolling Lucia from one side of the bed to the other as they worked, the bed linen so drenched they could have wrung it out and filled a laundry tub with the blood. But there was colour in the Contessa’s cheeks and her pulse was growing more regular.
From her bag, Hannah took out packets of fennel and some wild sage and handed the herbs to Giovanna. “If you combine this with some wine, honey, and hot water, we will feed the infusion to her. It will draw the matrix closed and ensure that all the bleeding ceases.”
Giovanna returned a few minutes later with a cup of the mixture, and Hannah spooned it between Lucia’s unresisting lips while Giovanna held her head upright. From the cradle came the sounds of the baby beginning to cry. When Lucia had swallowed as much of the liquid as she seemed able to, Hannah asked Giovanna for a basin of warm water, and when it arrived, she bathed Lucia with a square of cotton. The water turned watery pink. Hannah kneaded her belly with almond oil until the candles by the bed burned out and Giovanna had to replace them. The massaging would close the matrix tight and slow the bleeding.
While they worked, Giovanna often looked at Hannah strangely, opening her mouth as though to speak. Finally, she said, “The Contessa will live, God be praised, but her child was brought into the world with an implement of the devil.”
“Why should a midwife not have her tools? Does not the farrier have his nails and hammer? The glassblower his borsella, his pinchers? My spoons are no more an instrument of the devil than those.”
“Birthing is God’s work. We are here only to cut the cord and encourage the mother, not to shove God aside and take over the job ourselves.” Giovanna balled up the bloody linen sheets and tossed them into a rush basket.
“God has given me the spoons and He, in His Wisdom, directs my hand as I use them,” said Hannah.
Giovanna was about to make a retort when from the cradle came the tremulous cry of the baby, growing lustier as he gained strength. In response to the cries, two wet spots appeared on the front of Giovanna’s apron.
“You are with milk?” Hannah asked.
Giovanna nodded. “My baby girl was born six months ago.”
Hannah scooped up the infant and motioned for Giovanna to sit. When Giovanna had arranged herself on the chair and had undone her bodice, Hannah handed the child to her. He tossed his head from side to side, searching out the nipple, and when he found it, he latched on as though he would never let go. Giovanna gave a start from the strength of his suck. Hannah’s breasts ached in response. How she wished someday to hold Isaac’s child to her breast and feel the quick tug of a baby’s lips drawing the milk from her.
The bedchamber had grown quiet, aside from the sucking, rooting noises of the baby. Even Giovanna’s face relaxed as she gazed down on the nursing infant, the deep grooves of her forehead softening. Hannah walked to the casement window, where the full moon radiated silvery arrows of light. She threw open the window, looking out at the canal below, seeing nothing but black waters. When she felt the rasp of dark wings on her face and sensed her hair shift in the slight breeze, she knew that, for the moment anyway, death had been defeated. She slammed the window shut.
Isaac would be proud of her. She had saved both the mother and the child. She had succeeded where most would have failed. Soon they would celebrate her triumph together. Because of her skill, and her birthing spoons, she had saved Isaac’s life as well. If only he were waiting for her at home, ready to apply the bahnkes to her back, which ached from hours of bending over Lucia. The cupping would draw out the pain, leaving her relaxed, ready for sleep.
Giovanna said, “The master is in the hall. Let him see his healthy br
ute of a child who is draining me dry. Then you can collect your fee and get out.”
CHAPTER 6
THE WOMAN WAS already a foe, but why make it worse?
“I thank you for your help, Giovanna,” Hannah said, and walked out of the room.
In the light from the clerestory window, the Conte was slumped in a chair in the hallway, dozing, his head resting on his chest. Dawn was gilding the city. Long fingers of sunlight illuminated the palazzo. This glowing light was so unlike the darkness of her cramped room in the ghetto, which required candles even at noon.
In her weariness she slumped against the wall, but winced and drew herself upright as marble moulding jabbed her in the back. She shook the Conte’s shoulder, waking him up. “I have wonderful news for you. You have a fine, healthy baby, one with all his limbs and a cap of fine reddish hair.”
He stared at her, seemingly unable to absorb what she was saying.
“A healthy child,” she repeated. “Shall I show you?” When he made no reply, she asked, “Have you been here all night?”
“How is Lucia?” He rubbed his eyes. His voice was subdued, as though expecting bad news.
“She is alive but has had an unhappy time.”
“But she will recover?”
“Perhaps, if it is God’s will.”
“I swear if Almighty God spares my wife, I will never bed her again.” He got to his feet and shook himself awake.
Jews had experience in the art of restraint. No marital relations were permitted for twelve days of the month during the woman’s unclean period, or for forty days after the birth of a child. But Christians, it was well known, demonstrated little self-control in the marriage bed.
“You are tired,” Hannah said. Risking the impropriety, she rested a hand on his forearm and gave a slight pat. “In truth, if she lives, I do not think your wife will conceive again. This will be your only child. Come and bid him welcome. He is enjoying his first meal.”
“You did say a boy?”
“Yes, may God be praised, a fine and healthy one.”
The Conte grabbed her in an embrace so strong she felt her ribs compress. He lifted her off the ground and twirled her around the corridor. The folds of her blue cioppà flew out around her.
“Please,” she said.
The Conte grinned and set her down. “God’s blessing on you, Hannah. After all these years, I now have an heir. You have made me a very happy man.”
They entered the bedchamber, still scented with the coppery odour of blood. The Contessa lay under her quilt, shivering. He glanced at the baby suckling at Giovanna’s breast and then went to his wife’s side and sat on the edge of her bed. He picked up her hand and massaged it in his own.
“My darling, thank you for this child. May God restore your strength and make you well enough to dance at his christening party.” He bent and kissed her forehead. “Now sleep.”
Although Lucia continued to shake with fever, her eyelids fluttered open and she smiled at him.
When the baby appeared to be sated, Hannah took him from Giovanna and walked over to the bed. She held the infant out to the Conte, who bent to peer into the baby’s sleeping face.
“Can you see him, my darling?” he said to his wife. “A boy. A beautiful, red-faced boy.”
Lucia gave no sign that she heard her husband.
The child curled his hand around Hannah’s finger and waved with the other at the dawn’s light. She continued to offer the child to the Conte, saying the words she had said many times before at confinements. “God, thank you for sparing this baby’s life and may the child just born grow to be …” She halted, at a loss. She had been about to say “a Torah scholar,” but recovered herself in time and concluded, with only a slight stammer, “a blessing to his parents.”
The Conte was not the first father she had encountered to show apprehension. She pitied him. He had more reason than most to fear the baby’s death.
Still the Conte did not hold out his arms for his son. Instead, he lowered his head and turned away. Hannah heard the catch in his voice when he spoke.
“He is as fragile as porcelain. Swaddle him well.”
Hannah gave the baby back to Giovanna, who began wrapping the infant in long, narrow strips of fabric.
The Conte took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “You will think me unfeeling not to hold my child, but I am too old for another disappointment. Some of our other babies lived, too. A girl for a fortnight, then a baby boy for a few days. I loved them. I could not help myself. Maybe my love for them lured death to their cradles. I will not demonstrate my affection yet, lest I make God jealous. When he is older and I am certain he will survive, it will be different.” He gave Hannah a look. “Will he live? He is as small as a puppy. Do I have reason to hope?”
“I think love, as much as milk and amulets and prayers, keeps babies alive,” Hannah said. “It is not natural to withhold love from a child. When death sees him protected by a strong, loving father, she will keep her distance. And if, God forbid, the baby dies, at least he will have known your love.” Hannah wanted to take the Conte in her arms and comfort him. But even if he were a Jew from the ghetto, it would not have been proper for her to do so. Instead, she said, “He is pink now, but he is too hot, perhaps with fever, perhaps with the exertion of being born. If he lives, he will grow into a man with a great deal of endurance. A child’s character is forged by his journey into the world.”
Giovanna finished wrapping the baby and, settling back onto the chair, began to nurse him once more. Jacopo entered the room with a suddenness that caused Hannah to start. When he bent down to peer at the baby, the infant lost his latch on Giovanna’s nipple and began to fuss.
Jacopo straightened and said, “A wrinkled, wizened little wonder he is.” He sat on a chair beside the Conte on the side of Lucia’s bed. “Congratulations, brother. You have a fine son.”
Hannah wished he would leave; his presence made her uncomfortable. Moreover, it was not fitting for this man, who was not the father of the child, to be insinuating his way into the birth room. Giovanna must have been in agreement, for she glowered at him and turned her body, shielding the baby from his view.
“Jacopo,” said the Conte, “Lucia is exhausted. Perhaps you can come tomorrow when she has composed herself.”
But Jacopo did not move from his chair.
Ignoring his brother, the Conte leaned forward to speak to Hannah. The face of the dignified nobleman was gone. Hannah saw only a man in pain.
“Tell me, Hannah, how should I protect this infant? If I can do anything to ensure the baby’s safety, I must know.” He turned to Jacopo again and motioned to him to leave, but Jacopo remained where he was.
“I want to hear how this Jewess will answer you,” Jacopo said.
Hannah said, “I have a silver amulet in my bag, one that is said to keep away Lilith, the slayer of newborns.” She reached into her bag and held out her shadai in the shape of a baby’s hand. “It has been of great assistance at times like these.”
The Conte asked, “Can I persuade you to give it to me?”
“When I tell you the story of how it came to me, you will understand why I must refuse you.” It was a story that was well known to everyone in the ghetto.
“Many years ago, in the ghetto on a bitterly cold winter evening,” she began, “a baker’s wife found a baby in a rush basket abandoned under the portego near the Banco Rosso. The infant was blue from exposure and screaming with hunger. Since she discovered the baby on a week-night, when the ghetto was filled with gentile visitors either borrowing money or shopping for second-hand clothing or gemstones, she was not certain whether it was Jewish or Christian.”
The Conte bent toward her, eyebrows drawn together. It was not her custom to speak so frankly in front of a Christian, but under his attentive gaze, her shoulders relaxed and the words tumbled from her mouth.
“Nor could she understand how the baby had survived. She unwrapped the infant
and examined the child’s linen for clues to its identity. Then this shadai fell out of the swaddling cloths.” Hannah passed the shadai to the Conte, who took it and held it between the palms of his hands. “And she understood it was this that had protected the infant from freezing February rains and ravenous canal rats.”
The Conte dangled the shadai, suspended on a slender red cord, between his fingers. The amulet caught the light of the candles and shimmered as it moved, no bigger than a newborn’s hand.
The Conte glanced up at Hannah, his head inclined, a hand clasped around his bent knee, as though he had nothing more important in the world to do than listen to her. “And how did you come to have it?”
“That half-frozen bundle left to die was my mother.” To Hannah’s surprise the Conte’s eyes moistened and, in response, her eyes did as well. “This shadai has safeguarded every baby in my family, including my sister, Jessica, who was born with the birth string wound around her neck. The amulet saved my sister, but not our mother, who died a week later of childbed fever.”
“We have that in common, my dear,” the Conte responded. “My mother died giving birth to my youngest brother, Niccolò, whom you saw playing cards with Jacopo when you arrived.” He reached over and patted her hand. “I understand you must keep it. Someday, you will require it for your own baby.”
He must have surmised from her home that she had no children. She replied, “May your words lodge like wax in God’s ear.”
“But may I borrow your amulet?” asked the Conte. “Giovanna will return it to you when the period of confinement is over.”
“Let me see it, brother.” Jacopo took the shadai from the Conte. “What manner of writing is this?”
She wanted to snatch it out of his smooth, manicured hands, but replied, “Hebrew. It is inscribed with the names of the three angels who protect newborns. That”—she turned the amulet over and showed him the other side—“is the Star of David.”
“So you would have us believe a Jewish amulet will protect a Christian baby?” Jacopo said. He turned to the Conte and said, “Brother, I think this is a way to place a spell on your child.”