by Roberta Rich
“For the love of God, keep your voice down!” Hannah said. “It was to earn Isaac’s ransom and for no other purpose.”
“My God, necessity has made the two of us brave.” Jessica twisted her curls into a knot and shoved them back up under her boy’s cap.
Hannah protested, “It is hardly the same.”
“Of course it is. We both do things we would rather not do for money. You, in the end, will have Isaac back, and I will have velvet gowns and my revenue houses, which no man can take from me.”
Hannah’s eyes kept lighting on the crucifix around Jessica’s neck. “Are you truly a Christian? Surely you still observe Shabbat?”
Jessica said, “I have left all of that behind.”
“No blessing of the candles on Friday night, no challah?”
“I do not even celebrate Passover. I hang an enormous greasy ham in my window so everyone who passes my house knows me for a Christian.”
A gentile life, free of rules, free of constraint. Not only was Jessica estranged from her past, cut off from the people who had loved her, but she had lost her religion as well. Hannah felt anger rise in her. “So it seems you lead a life of selfishness, thinking only of the luxuries that money can buy.”
“You think me selfish? You are the one who is selfish. You have endangered the entire ghetto by attending a Christian travail.”
“I did it for Isaac.”
“You did it for yourself so that you could have your husband back in your arms. You are ruled by men—the Rabbi, Isaac, our father when he was alive. You are a little ghetto mouse and will never be anything else.”
Hannah was shocked by the hardness in Jessica’s voice.
“I am sorry I asked for your help that night years ago,” Jessica said. “I hoped you cared enough for me that you would defy that ill-tempered old goat of a Rabbi and help your only sister give birth to her first child, but I was mistaken.”
Hannah wanted to ask her about the baby but could not bring herself to do so.
“I screamed your name throughout the night and sent a girl to fetch you. I wanted you, and only you, to steady me on the birthing stool. Instead a clumsy Christian midwife from San Marcuola parish attended me.” Jessica’s voice broke. “My baby was born dead. Suffocated in the birth passage.”
Dear God. Hannah had not known.
“You say you love me, but you abandoned me when I needed you most.”
“That is not fair. I had to obey the Rabbi.”
“Well, you certainly did not obey him when you went to this noblewoman’s travail. A pity you were not as brave when I needed you.”
Hannah felt a pain under her breast and a tearing sensation, as though her heart had come loose from its moorings. In her mind’s eye, she covered the mirror and rent her clothing. These were not the empty gestures prescribed by the Rabbi years ago, but heartfelt this time. Shiva was complete. Now, Jessica was truly dead to her.
Without a further glance at her sister, she picked up her bag and headed for the gates of the ghetto. Her earlier joy in saving the Contessa and her baby had vanished like ripples from a passing gondola.
As she strode away, Hannah heard Jessica call, “Run back to your suffocating ghetto! I may be immoral in your eyes, but you have broken the law. You have welcomed disaster not only on yourself but on the entire ghetto you profess to love so much.”
CHAPTER 9
HANNAH HAD NO choice. She must return to the ca’ di Padovani, with its hard, bright surfaces of marble, gilt, and silver, its cavernous rooms and enigmatic Christians. For over forty days she had waited in vain for Giovanna to return the birthing spoons.
In preparation for her journey to Malta, she now sat on the roof, the only place to dry the apples the Rabbi had given her. The fruit, fresh from the lagoon island of Turcello, was a luxury she could not have afforded. When he handed her the basket in the morning, looking as pleased as if he had grown them himself, he had said, “Take these and be well. If there are any remaining by the time you get to Malta, give them to Isaac.” Hannah accepted them with thanks. From anyone else, the gift would have been an offering of peace. But from the Rabbi, who could tell?
This year the apples were so red and succulent that Hannah could have boiled the skins to dye flax. Sitting cross-legged on the boards of the roof, she sliced one into crescents, scooped out the core with the tip of her knife, and placed the sections, cut side up, on an old linen sheet to dry.
The sun beat down, filling her nostrils with the smell of pitch melting between the boards of the roof. In a few hours the apples would be shrivelled and ready to be wrapped in cloth strips and packed in bags along with her other food. The sheet bore the stains of previous preparations for her voyage—dried strips of lamb and beef, coins of carrots and rutabagas.
The day after tomorrow, when the tides in the lagoon provided the strongest current to open water, she would be on the Balbiana sailing to Malta, a passage the Conte’s friend, Captain Marco Lunari, said was likely to take two months, depending on the weather and the will of God. For days she had been able to sip only chicken broth, her stomach in knots from anticipation.
She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced from the roof down to the campo below. A familiar-looking figure bustled past the shops of the moneylenders, butchers, and bakers, and headed across the square. His high shoes elevated him above the mud, which made his gait unsteady. As he drew closer, Hannah recognized Jacopo.
Hannah dropped her paring knife. For a moment she wondered if Matteo had taken ill and if Jacopo was summoning her for help. But no, more likely the Conte had sent Jacopo to return her birthing spoons—though with a household of servants, why would he be charged with such a task? She watched as he asked directions of an old woman who pointed to the roof. There was no time for Hannah to do anything but fling a cloth over her head and await his arrival. Better to meet him here than in the campo, where no conversation could be conducted in private.
Just as she was about to walk over to the stairs, the trap door of the roof clattered open and Jacopo emerged from the stairwell wearing silk tights, his cheeks pink from the climb up four flights. The buttons on his sleeved jacket were covered in embroidered silk. What could it signify when a man was so hairless he looked as though he had been immersed in a vat of lye to remove even the slightest fuzz? Jews, from the Rabbi to the shochet, the ritual slaughterer, were hairy men with flowing beards, shaggy chests, and peyas dangling on either side of their jaws. The ears of the old men sprouted hair.
Panting, Jacopo looked curiously around the roof, a space barely big enough to contain the two of them, the sheet glistening crimson with slices of apple. Hannah wiped the perspiration off her face with a corner of the apron in her hands, and rose to greet him.
“Good morning, Signore. Catch your breath.”
“Yes, one of your neighbours told me I would find you here.”
If they both sat, they would not be seen by the people in the campo below, but she had no chair to offer him. She noted with disappointment that he did not appear to be carrying anything, but he had an embroidered cloak slung over his shoulder.
He stood well away from the low guard railing of the roof, and for a moment gazed at the sagging clothesline hung with bedding jammed in the corner and a barrel of washing water buzzing with flies. “So this is how it is in the ghetto. How high above the campo you are. It makes me quite dizzy.”
“Matteo is well?” Hannah asked a little anxiously.
“Healthy as a tick, and eating like a stone mason.”
“And the Contessa? How does she fare?”
“Coughing every night. Fever. Colour so high you would think she had just come back from a walk in the country. She cannot catch her breath. Plucks the covers, talks like a woman possessed by the devil. I hear the Conte in her room some nights, propping her upright so she can breathe, holding the basin for her.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
Surely he had not come to give her a report on
the family’s health. She waited. Finally she asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“My brother sent me,” Jacopo said. “You are to come tonight for dinner and collect your amulet.”
Hannah was speechless for a moment. It was unusual for Jews and Christians to dine together. Her work at the palazzo was finished. It was not a social relationship she had with the family but a working arrangement, much like a tutor or perhaps a trusted ladies’ maid.
But when she recovered her wits, she said, “It would be an honour.” She was about to add, There is another matter that concerns me—but she decided that the subject of the birthing spoons could wait until tonight.
Jacopo shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. “Such an interesting part of the city. Look, I can see the stalls of the moneylenders, and the butcher shop. I feel like a bird up this high.” He put his hands on his hips and studied the fruit spread on the cloth. “You will need to turn them in a couple of hours—otherwise the sun cannot reach them and they will spoil.”
She waited for him to state his business, which was not to discuss the picturesque nature of the ghetto or to give her advice on drying apples. Whatever he had come to say seemed to be causing him some discomfiture. Finally, she said, “It is a great honour for me to be invited for a meal.”
“I am delivering this invitation myself because I wished to have a word with you. Do not look so surprised. I found something which I believe belongs to you. Along with your amulet you left behind a curious contraption.”
He reached under the cloak draped over his shoulder. She caught a flash of the familiar silver.
“Oh, thank you.” Hannah held out her hand, relief flooding over her, but Jacopo did not proffer the birthing spoons.
“I found it under the Contessa’s bed when I stooped to retrieve a handkerchief. I assume you used this device in the delivery of my nephew?”
“Yes, but—”
“Very careless of you to leave it behind. You must realize how dangerous something like this could be in the hands of certain people. Not me, I hasten to add. I feel as grateful to you as the Conte does. You saved my nephew. I would like to ensure that no harm befalls you as a result of that generous deed.”
“That is very kind of you. I thought, perhaps …”
“Any of the servants could have found it. A Jewess delivering a Christian baby, using an unlawful device? It would not look well to an investigating magistrate, would it?”
“I am grateful to you,” Hannah said, wishing he would hand the spoons to her and be on his way.
“For my part, I would like nothing more than to give the device back to you this very instant, but there is something we must discuss first. My brother, the Conte, paid you handsomely for your attendance at the Contessa’s travail. Two hundred ducats, if I am not mistaken.”
“Money I earned fairly. The Contessa was more dead than alive when I arrived at your palazzo.”
“Do not misunderstand. I do not dispute the value of your service. It is your use of witchcraft that troubles me. I have an obligation to report you. You know that, do you not?”
“I could no more use witchcraft than I could sprout wings and fly off this roof to the campo below.”
“So you say.”
“I speak the truth.”
“I have no wish to see you prosecuted, Hannah. It would serve no purpose. So I am willing to ignore my responsibility—but the price of my dereliction is two hundred ducats. If you wish your device returned, I suggest that you bring the money with you tonight. Our gondola will call for you at sundown.” Jacopo made a show of moving toward the stairs, then placed a foot on the first step, about to descend. He turned. “Do we understand each other?”
“Those ducats are to buy my husband’s life.”
“The ducats will not be of much use to you or to him if you are arrested and tortured to death.” He tapped his polished nails on the buttons of his waistcoat.
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “Do not think that you can avoid me by sailing off to Malta. The captain of the Balbiana transports a great deal of cargo for our family. A word from me and he will withdraw his offer of passage.”
She wanted to spring at him. She was overcome with a sense of despair, but she had no choice but to nod. Jacopo continued down the stairs.
Hannah needed time to think. Returning to the blanket of apple slices, she sat hunched, rocking back and forth. As she fanned away flies, the afternoon shadows lengthened.
Back in her loghetto, when it was nearly sunset, she washed her face in the basin and slipped on her only good dress, a red velvet gown with a square-cut bodice and full skirt with silk insets on the sides. Without the aid of a looking-glass, she used her reflection in the basin of washing water to arrange her hair. Her hands were shaking so, she dropped her hairpins and comb and had to crawl under the bed to retrieve them. Then she pinned a snood over her chignon and left her room.
When she entered the campo it was dark, and the black-and-red sign that read BANCO ROSSO—the “paupers’ bank,” as it was called—was barely visible under the sotoportego. At first she thought Signore Rosso had left for the day, but her eyes made out a flicker of candlelight in the rear of the bank. She knocked on the door until Rosso, an elderly man pale as the Rabbi but with eyes crinkled at the corners, unlocked the grille covering the door and admitted her.
“Hannah, my dear, I was wondering when you would come to collect your ducats.” He handed her a small hessian sack and wished her a good journey. “You look pale. Are you unwell?”
“Just a little tired.”
“May these ducats be used to purchase Isaac’s freedom.”
An impulse seized her to throw herself into the arms of this kindly man whom she had known since her girlhood and ask for his counsel. She knew her choices. It was simple: she could pay the money to Jacopo or be arrested as a witch. Tonight she must use Isaac’s ransom money to buy her own life. She said goodbye to Signore Rosso as she tucked the sack of ducats into her bag and marched across the campo to the massive gates leading to the Rio della Misericordia, where the Conte’s gondola waited.
Her only hope was to confide in the Conte and tell him of his brother’s deceit. But why would he take her word against Jacopo’s? She was of no significance, just a Jewess from the ghetto.
Isaac was lost to her.
CHAPTER 10
BY THE TIME the Marangona in Piazza San Marco chimed seven times, Hannah was pulling the bell cord at the entranceway of the ca’ di Padovani. The Conte’s cloak was draped over her arm, her bag slung over her shoulder. At the sound of the bell, a cry of recognition issued from one of the upper windows and Lucia leaned out, clutching a kitten, waving and calling. The sight reminded Hannah of the story she had recounted to the Contessa during her travail to illustrate how poorly wedged the baby was within her. Now the Contessa was planted in the middle of the window, not to one side as Hannah had explained the baby was. A few moments later, Lucia was at the entranceway smiling and extending her arms. She wore a green silk dress; her red hair fell around her shoulders.
“I am so happy to see you, Hannah. I am grateful you were able to take time from your travel preparations to come and dine with us.”
Hannah felt a surge of affection for this woman she had saved from the Angel of Death, though at the thought of how near she had come to murdering her, Hannah shuddered.
Lucia said, “Come in. I think of you every day and wonder how you are. I wanted to thank you for all you did for me and Matteo. Without you and your gifted hands, we would both be dead. The Conte will not stop singing your praises. I know that he wishes to thank you as well.”
“I am pleased to see you, too.” But Hannah could not in good conscience tell the Contessa she looked well. Lucia had a pale, ethereal look. Dark circles smudged the skin under her eyes. Her hands trembled.
Lucia glanced over her shoulder as though hoping the Conte would materialize behind her. “Alas, my husband has been
at our villa in Maser checking on his figs. He fancies himself a farmer, except”—she laughed—“when the grasshoppers swarm. Then he turns the whole disaster over to the estate manager. He will return tonight because tomorrow at first light we leave for Ferrara. My father is sick and the doctors fear he is dying. I wish to see him one last time.”
“I am so sorry to hear of your father’s illness. May God come to his aid,” Hannah said.
The Contessa acknowledged her words and explained, “He is not young—past sixty. He has enjoyed a long life.”
Lucia told one of the servants to let them know when dinner was ready. And as they climbed the main staircase to the piano nobile, the principle floor, past the familiar fresco of nymphs in green and gold, she slipped her arm through Hannah’s as though they were intimates rather than two women separated by the chasm of class and religion.
They entered Lucia’s bedroom. It did not seem possible that this was the same room that only a few weeks ago had been redolent with the smell of blood and had echoed with the screams of childbirth. Now, she heard only the high-pitched wail of a healthy infant. Lucia’s bed was draped in brocade, and in the corner stood Matteo’s cradle, adorned with four pillars supporting a splendid padiglione of striped silk. The night of Matteo’s birth, Hannah had been intimidated by the splendour of the room. Now, with the chandeliers lit and light bouncing from looking-glass to terrazzo floor, it felt warm, luxurious, and inviting.
“Matteo is a darling, a perfect little being.” Lucia kissed the black-and-white kitten she held in her arms, and motioned Hannah toward the cradle. “There is not another baby half so sweet in all the world.”
Good, the path of salt still encircled the baby’s bed to keep away Lilith. Hannah approached, stepping over the salt, and then bent to pick up Matteo. He had lost the scrunched red look of the newborn. His face was smooth, his cheeks rounded, his blue eyes alert as they tried to focus on her. She brushed back the curls on his forehead. The red marks left by her birthing spoons had healed without a trace.