The Harem Midwife (26 page)

NOT FOR THE
first time in her life, Hannah prayed a baby would be born alive. This baby, conceived in the mountains of Circassia, the last of a long line of mountain Jews, must not be smothered in its mother’s womb nor strangled on its own birth cord, may God be listening. Leah, after all that had happened to her, should be allowed at least this: a lasting legacy of her village, her people, and the young man she had loved.

Hannah took the stairs two at a time to Leah’s room in the attic. When she opened the door, she saw Leah writhing on the floor, clutching her belly. In the pink light of dawn, Hannah saw the mound of her child pulsating
through the thin cotton of her shift. Hannah knelt next to her, placing her bag on the floor. The birthing spoons clanked as they jarred against glass vials of oils and tinctures, tin boxes of herbs.

A makeshift lamp—a slab of limestone with a chipped-out reservoir for holding a knob of fat—sat next to Leah. The rope wick was smouldering, charred to a stump, casting more shadows than light. Hannah snuffed it out. It was nearly daylight anyway. She pulled the door to the attic closed and worked quietly so as to not disturb the rest of the household.

Leah was not due for several weeks. Early babies slipped out more easily than full-grown ones, but they had little chance of surviving. If born in the fall and winter months, they rarely lived to see spring.

“Has my time come?” asked Leah. “Isn’t it too soon?”

“Much too soon.”

Hannah took the bottle of almond oil from her bag and lifted up Leah’s nightdress. She rubbed some oil between her palms and stroked Leah’s abdomen, palpating to determine the position of the baby. The head was already well descended into the birth canal.

Hannah must deliver this baby alone. Isaac had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with the birth. And Hannah did not trust Grazia to be present. What if, in pain, Leah said something to reveal her true identity? Hannah could not call for Zephra. The old woman looked on Leah with suspicion, believing she had been brought to the house to replace her.

Hannah massaged Leah’s belly to relax her. How like a daughter Leah had become. She urged the girl to breathe, hoping she would not shriek quite as loudly as she had and wake up the household. Grazia was a sound sleeper, but no one could sleep through the screams of a labouring mother.

The girl looked ashen and hollow-eyed. Her hair was hanging loosely around her neck. Hannah drew several packages of herbs from her bag. “This is valerian and black haw. I will prepare an infusion with boiling water from the brazier. It won’t take long, but it has to steep a few minutes.” The herbs might stop these contractions. It was the only hope of forestalling the birth.

Leah reached for Hannah, gripping her hand between her own.

“Whatever happens to me, I want you to know I am grateful for your kindness.”

“Try not to talk.”

Leah reached up and put her arms on Hannah’s shoulders. “I want you to promise me something.”

There was a spasm; Hannah felt the girl’s belly harden against her hand. Leah twisted in her arms and gripped her so tightly that Hannah almost felt it was her own travail. It would be a powerful herb, indeed, that could stop these birth pangs.

In a voice so low Hannah had to bend her ear to Leah’s mouth, the girl said, “If I die, take care of my baby.”

“You will be fine,” said Hannah. She had often heard such words from young mothers. The pain of giving birth frightens a girl, making her soft and beseeching. “Of course I shall
raise your child if it comes to that. You are a daughter to me, a much-loved daughter. Now, I must prepare the herbs.”

Hannah took the kettle off the brazier, poured boiling water in a bowl, and added the herbs. With a wooden spoon, she stirred the mixture, submerging the herbs. After the herbs had steeped sufficiently, Hannah carried the bowl of steaming liquid and set it down on the floor next to Leah. She thought of Isaac. Perhaps he had left before Hannah was awake to deliver a few skeins of silk to the Armenians next door? Hannah refused to contemplate other possibilities. She must concentrate on Leah and her baby.

Hannah reached out a hand and stroked Leah’s belly. The girl’s hips were barely the span of a man’s hand. With such a childlike form, she could struggle for days and not manage to push out the child.

“Where is the birthing stool?” asked Leah.

“It is right here behind that curtain.” She hauled it out into the centre of the room where Leah could see it.

The chair was shaped like a chicken’s wishbone with handles at either end for the labouring mother to grip. The handle of the carved wishbone turned up into a backrest. Isaac had fashioned it for Hannah, hoping that one day she might make use of it herself. On the back, Isaac had painted a pair of turtle doves mating in mid-air, although Hannah knew the thoughts of a labouring mother were far from love and marital congress as she struggled and sweated to expel her baby.

Hannah took the herbal potion and blew on it to cool it, then coaxed Leah to sip as much as she could manage.
Leah soon grew hot to the touch. Her eyes lost focus, darting around the ceiling of the attic like a sparrow searching for a place to light. A puddle of water appeared between her legs. The herbs were not taking effect. Hannah debated whether to give Leah a dose of cramp bark in a cup of warm sweet wine, but decided it was too late. The travail was proceeding. Hannah felt as powerless to stop it as she would be to halt a runaway horse.

Leah’s legs were filling with fluid. Her lovely, sharp-featured face was turning as puffy and white as pastry dough. Hannah pressed a thumb into the top of the girl’s foot, held it there for a moment, then took it away. The indentation remained. Hannah had seen this condition before. A feeling of helplessness and frustration came over her.

“Let us get you on the birthing stool,” said Hannah. “You will be more comfortable.”

Hannah raised Leah from the floor by grasping her under her arms. She helped her toward the chair. To Hannah’s surprise, Leah remained calm and, moreover, did as she was told. Hannah managed to get Leah to lower herself to the chair and grip the handles. Even with her huge belly, the girl felt light, hardly more substantial than Matteo.

Leah said, “My mother did not have the luxury of a birthing chair and a midwife as kind as you. She appeared home one late afternoon from high up in the summer pastures with my baby brother strapped to her back.”

Were there no women in Leah’s village helping their sisters and neighbours through their travails? Was life in the
mountains nothing more than a comfortless test of endurance from birth to death?

“After, the mother cooks and eats the placenta to give her strength.”

The custom of eating the placenta was common among the nomads, but Hannah had never heard of the practice among Jews.

“If the baby is not wanted,” Leah went on, “they leave it in a crevice for the wolves and return home with empty—” The girl’s tongue was swollen and protruded from her mouth, making it difficult to understand her speech. She let out a groan and clutched at her belly.

If Leah were still in the harem, this would be a festive occasion like Safiye’s confinement. Jugglers and acrobats would amuse and distract the crowd, if not the mother. An astrologer would draw up the baby’s chart. The lead ladler would predict the baby’s fortune.

“Leah, relax, breathe. If you are tense, you will only make it more difficult.”

“Make it stop, now!” Leah pleaded, the pain overwhelming her.

The girl’s body was stretched as tightly as the strings of a
klezmer
. Hannah knew there was little she could do, but she went around the room opening the window and all the dresser drawers. This would help ease the baby’s passage into the world. All cooking vessels should be turned upside-down to prevent the Angel of Death from finding a hiding spot.

During the next hour, Hannah sang songs to distract Leah. Between pangs, Hannah told her the tale of a maiden
who loved a silly young knight who cared only for his horse. The knight fed oysters to his mare night and day.

Leah seemed unable to remain upright in the birthing chair and so Hannah helped her to lie down on the floor. When the pains came closer together, Hannah examined the mouth of the womb. It had opened nicely, but the sharing bones still would not permit the passage of the baby’s head. Not even her birthing spoons could help in this situation. As each strong pang came and went, Hannah feared that the pressure of the contractions would cause the infant’s head to bend back, snapping its neck. It was no good telling Leah not to push. When the urge to push came, there was no resisting.

Hannah could hardly bear to think of what she would be required to do to save Leah’s life if something did not happen soon—take out her crochet, an evil pointed instrument, and pierce the baby’s skull, dismember it, and pull out the severed limbs until the womb was empty and the floor strewn with tiny body parts.

Hannah brought a paper twist of ground pepper out of her bag to make the girl sneeze, which sometimes helped to hurry the birth. She held it under Leah’s nose. Nothing.

More time passed.

There was one thing that could be done to save the baby, but she could not resort to it yet. Hannah had seen death in many forms—plague, murder, and childbirth. She would never grow accustomed to it.

Gradually Leah’s green eyes grew dull. When Hannah moved her hand in front of them, the girl did not blink.
The girl’s pulse was much too rapid. Her body grew rigid. She was icy to the touch.

It would be a kindness to give her an opiate, but Hannah doubted the girl could swallow a large gold-foiled pill. All she could do was stroke Leah’s hair and hold her as her breathing slowed and grew more shallow and eventually stopped. Was it God’s will that Leah die? No. Surely, God was not so unjust.

She fumbled through her linen bag for a hand mirror and held it to Leah’s lips. Nothing. No breath at all. Hannah closed Leah’s eyes.

The poor baby, ill-fated from conception, would soon be dead too. Was it right that this be so? Without a mother’s love, what chance was there for this child? A crippling grief overcame Hannah. Despair hung in the room as pungent as the smell of blood. She dropped to her knees and rocked back and forth, head in her hands.

I murdered my son’s uncle, Hannah thought. I caused my sister Jessica’s death. I have failed to keep the love of my husband. I have failed to give him a child. Now I have one more failure to add to the reckoning.

Hannah rose to her feet and started to draw a sheet over Leah’s body and face. Just then there was a ripple along the surface of the girl’s belly, like the twitch of a horse’s hide when a fly alights. Hannah considered. Was failing to act not just as wicked as placing a pillow over the face of a living infant? For the rest of her life, Hannah would struggle to forget what she did next.

She pushed aside the sheet. She oiled Leah’s belly from
breast to umbilicus. She took up her iron knife.
Guide my hand, God
. Hannah made a horizontal cut above the umbilicus from hip bone to hip bone. A tracery of red blossomed on the white belly, a gaping mouth opened. Such a small girl, so much blood. Hannah placed the sheet on Leah’s chest, then reached inside the belly with both hands and lifted out the womb. Hannah manoeuvred it onto the sheet. It was the colour of a ripe plum, round and bursting, mapped with a network of veins. With the tip of the knife, Hannah made a small incision. Watery blood flowed like wine from a ruptured goatskin.

Hannah wiggled her fingers into the small cut and ripped open the womb. The sound of tearing flesh made the bile rise in her throat. This was not Leah, a girl she had come to love and admire, she reminded herself, but a vessel of flesh and muscles cradling a child, a child waiting to be liberated, a child with a will to live.

Through the tissue and blood and sinew, tiny curled legs and a bottom emerged. Hannah groped, trying to gain a good purchase. When she found the shoulders and had hooked two fingers under the armpits, she pulled. The baby slipped from the womb. Hannah was panting as violently as Leah had done a few minutes ago. The child was blue.

Hannah turned away from Leah’s body, upending the baby. With the heels in one hand, she gave the child a vigorous whack on the bottom. The baby choked, screamed, and turned scarlet with fury. Hannah placed the child on a cloth on the floor and took up her iron knife. She severed
the birth cord, then sank to her knees. Gradually, she felt her pulse slow and her breathing grow more regular.

She shielded the baby, tucking it to her breast. The child’s first view of the world must not be its mother’s mutilated corpse. Still kneeling on the floor, struggling and slipping in the blood, Hannah used one arm to pull the sheet over Leah’s face.
God
, prayed Hannah,
guide me
.
Tell me what I am to do with this motherless child
.

The baby was whimpering softly. “It is all right, little one. You have made it safely into the world. No need to dunk you in a cold bath to coax you to breathe.”

A dense fatigue swept over her. With her hand, Hannah cleared the baby’s mouth and face, washing off the sticky white grease that coated all newborns and protected them from the waters of the womb. Like many babies born too soon, Leah’s was covered with a golden down like the hairs on a bee’s legs. The child was small but not impossibly small. As Hannah rocked it, she glanced between its legs. A girl.

A wet-nurse must be found. A grave dug. The placenta buried. She had not the energy for any of it. Who would see to everything? The only thing of which she was certain was that someone else would need to take care of these matters. The girl Hannah had hoped would become like a daughter to her was dead, and her baby, the last of its mountain tribe, an orphan.