The Midwife of Venice (8 page)

He said, “Sister, I am a Jew. I do not know how to be otherwise.” He lurched to his feet and brushed dried chicken excrement off his legs.

She rose from her knees. “In that case, I pity you your folly and wish you well. You will find life harsh. This climate is not pleasant. The sun is blistering during the day. At night you will freeze with no clothing or blankets. And in the winter months? From the wind off the sea, many die of exposure.” She went to the shelf along one side of the room, took out a simple wooden rosary, and handed it to him. “Take this. It will remind you of my offer. You reject the notion of conversion now, but mark my words, after a few months you will beseech me to teach you your catechism.”

Not to accept a present, especially from one who has saved your life, was unforgivable. He took it in his hand. “I am sorry, Sister, but I have no talent for being a Christian.”

“There is no way to flee this island. Abandon any thought of that.”

“I have no thoughts of escape,” Isaac lied. “The Society for the Release of Captives in Venice is funded by a levy that Venetian Jews pay according to the value of their cargos. They will ransom me.”

“Good, because as you stroll around town, you will see the Knights’ guards roaming the docks. No captain will risk the displeasure of the Grand Master by giving you passage. If the captain were to be caught, he would be forbidden from docking here to take on water and provisions. And no ship sailing to the Levant can make the voyage without putting in to Valletta. We are a victualling port. Take this—” She tossed him a sheepskin, catching him in the chest. “It is beginning to stink up my kitchen.” She rinsed her hands in the bucket in the corner. “And let us be off.”

He accepted the skin, wondering what use he would have for it. If only she had offered him a chicken instead, even the stringy old rooster. He said, “Perhaps you would do me the honour of allowing me to write a letter for you one day. You are the only one on this island who has shown me the slightest kindness.”

“Isaac, you will not live long enough to write me fancy letters, nor read to me from the Bible. No man survives the galleys.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am selling you back to Joseph. Being tied to an oar on a galley ship will give you a different view of the world.”

He looked at her. “Please, not to Joseph.”

“I need my fifteen
scudi
back.”

“The Society will repay your fifteen
scudi
. Just let me go and I will somehow forage for food and make my own way.”

“I do not have time to argue.” She marched out to the courtyard, where her wagon stood waiting, the horse munching oats from his feedbag. “Joseph should be at the docks now. Let us depart.”

From the expression on her face, he knew argument was useless. He clung to the sheepskin and followed her out the door with a backward glance at the bowl of apples and the dough rising on the table.

“I thank you for your help. One favour, if you will. I have no place to store these silkworm eggs. They will not trouble you. When they hatch, send for me.” He tried to hand her the small cloth sack.

“I do not want them befouling my kitchen.”

“Please take them. Just keep them warm and dry.”

Giving a martyr’s sigh, she said, “Very well. I see you are determined to saddle me with their custody.” Her lips compressed into a coy expression. “Give them here.”

He dug in his waistband and handed the tiny sack to her. She thrust it into the folds of her habit, and then glared at him, her head moving in tandem with her torso in that stiff way of hers. Then she seemed to think better of it. Through the kitchen door, he watched as she walked
to the hearth, removed a brick, and placed the bag in the crevice. Then she slid the brick back into place.

Isaac started to climb into the cart, but she shook her head and unbuckled the harness from around the mare.

“My poor little mare is exhausted.” Assunta motioned to Isaac. She placed the yoke of the horse’s harness around his neck and let the lines flap at his sides. “Not a perfect fit but you will get us into town.”

She hitched the breeching straps onto the shafts of the cart, then took up the crupper strap and leaned toward him. For a terrible moment Isaac thought she was going to wind it under his private parts, but she tucked it out of the way under the yoke.

“My horse needs a rest. And you need practice with hard labour if you are to survive.” She climbed into the cart and slapped the reins down on his back with more force than she had shown her mare. He struggled forward, dragging the cart no more than a few paces before the road inclined. He shuddered to a halt, the cart threatening to pull him backwards and toss them into a ditch.

All Isaac had to his name was a sheepskin, which even in the open air made his eyes smart from the stink of it. The harness dug painfully into his neck and shoulders. This bride of Christ was right. He would be dead before the week was out.

H
ANNAH PINCHED THE
hand, praying it would retreat back up into the womb. At first, she compressed it with as slight a pressure as possible so as not to rupture the membranes holding back the waters. When it failed to respond, she squeezed again, this time more firmly, feeling a fingernail as small as a seed pearl. In response, she felt an almost imperceptible quiver. The child was alive but weak. Again, she pinched—and the hand moved.

Then, to Hannah’s surprise, the womb hardened in another pang. She withdrew her fingers and waited for the matrix to relax. The pang had been feeble. Yes, Lucia was alive, but for how much longer?

When Hannah reinserted her fingers, she sought the baby’s hand again, but it had retreated into the safety of the matrix. She touched the inner mouth of the womb; it was open sufficiently to permit the head to emerge but as long as the head was twisted, there was no hope of delivering the child alive.

Giovanna stood next to her, the stack of bed linen dropped at her feet. Hannah said to her, “The Contessa is alive and so is the child, but both are weak. Help me lift your mistress. Put these pillows under her bottom. The womb is too constricted. The pains have little force. Hold her thighs in the air so we can straighten her spine.”

Giovanna stacked pillows under the unresisting Contessa, casting Hannah a sideways look. “You seem to know a great deal. Have you borne children yourself?”

“To my regret, I have not.” She remembered her optimism each time she and Isaac had joined together when her period of
niddah
was complete, and her despair each month when her monthly courses commenced.

“Odd that you should choose to be a midwife, having never experienced birth yourself.”

In other circumstances the words would have stung. She thought, Do not physicians provide medicaments for illnesses they have never suffered? But Hannah held her tongue. Two in her care were suspended between life and death. She had more important matters to worry about.

Giovanna went on, “Do all midwives from the ghetto poke their fingers into crevices where they do not belong?”

“The child may turn if the spine is straight,” Hannah
said. She grasped Lucia’s hand and bent low to her ear. “Listen to me,
cara
. Your baby is alive, but you must help me get it born. When the time comes, you must push with all your might. I know you are tired from this endless travail, but you must think of the child and do your best.” Sometimes a whiff from a pot of cayenne pepper and the strong sneezing would expel a child when the mother was too weak to bear down, but this was not such a case because the child was not well positioned.

Some colour came back into Lucia’s face. “You are certain the child is alive? You heard the heart?”

Hannah nodded.

“The Holy Virgin is merciful.”

“Yes, but we have little time.” Hannah stroked the Contessa’s forehead, pushing back a strand of wet hair. Then she grasped both of Lucia’s hands in hers. “I am pouring my own strength into you. I have enough for both of us. Feel it enter your body and make use of it.”

Lucia gave an answering squeeze.

Hannah released her hold and took a step toward the foot of the bed, slipping on a puddle of blood and catching herself clumsily on one of the bed pillars. She thought she saw a dark form fling itself from the top of the canopy and flutter toward the ceiling with a low cry. Perhaps it was a bat from one of the fruit trees outside. Giovanna must have seen it too, for she grew pale and pulled her shawl higher around her shoulders.

In a voice louder than necessary, Hannah said, “God is on our side. With His help, we cannot fail. We will wait a
moment and see whether this baby turns on its own or whether I must manipulate your belly and force the turning. Better that the child does the work on its own.” If the child would only turn, she could then use her birthing spoons to pull it out.

While Lucia lay motionless between pangs, her belly thrust in the air, Hannah darted around the enormous room, opening drawers, cupboards, and all the doors, releasing the sashes holding back the drapes, and lifting the lids off chests. It was well known that this would facilitate the opening of the birth passage.

Giovanna, who should have completed this task earlier, was now in the corridor speaking with the Conte. The murmur of their voices drifted into the bedchamber. Hannah could hear the Conte asking Giovanna about their progress.

“Sir, how can any good come of an infidel attending a birth?”

Hannah could not hear everything the Conte said in reply, but she did hear, “Do whatever you can for the sake of the baby. Hannah is my last hope for an heir.”

Hannah wiped the Contessa’s face with a moist cloth. “Let me see if the baby has turned.” She ran her hands over Lucia’s belly. “Good, the head has dropped. Not enough, but better. We will try now.” Hannah called Giovanna back into the room. “Hold her legs for me. Hurry. She will push now.”

Giovanna genuflected and took Hannah’s position at Lucia’s side. Hannah went to the end of the bed and said, “Now, Lucia, with all your strength, push. Yes, that is right. Good—your baby wants to be born. Push harder!”

Hannah prayed,
Please, God, do not let this child tarry too long in the birth passage. Do not let the mother’s sweat and pain and blood be for the sake of a small blue corpse. Do not force me to take up the iron knife and take Lucia’s life for the sake of an heir
.

The Contessa’s face flushed as she bore down, grunting with the exertion.

“Grab her legs, Giovanna, and hold them up and back.” Hannah bent low and looked. “I see the little one’s head, dark and wet. Just a few more pushes and it will be born. You are a strong and brave one,
cara.”

Lucia dropped back against the bed, exhausted.

“Rest until you feel another pain, and we will try again.” A few moments later, her belly tightened and Lucia said, “I am ready to try.”

Her lips pulled back in a grimace; she grunted and pushed, although not as forcefully as before. She slumped back against the pillows, and Hannah feared she was too exhausted to do more. The baby’s head disappeared. Blood obscured the passage. Then Hannah felt Lucia’s belly harden with a fresh pang.

“Give me another push,
cara
. Please try, for the sake of your infant.”

But it was no good. She could not be roused. Hannah reached for Lucia’s wrist. Her pulse was thready. She pressed her ear to Lucia’s belly and listened for the baby’s heartbeat, but she heard only the faint echo of the Contessa’s heart.

It was time to use the birthing spoons. With God’s help, she would not splinter the tiny skull into fragments
or rip open the birth passage. Hannah reached into her bag and withdrew the spoons from the folds of cloth. She passed them quickly through the glow of the candle so they would not feel cold to Lucia. The silver turned black from the heat of the flame, until Hannah could no longer see her own anxious face reflected in the handles.

Giovanna stared at Hannah as though she had seen a witch. If only Hannah could have banished Giovanna from the room—but she needed her to support Lucia’s legs and position her belly. It could not be helped. Besides, Hannah could no more stop the gossiping tongue of such a woman than the
shochet
could staunch the flow of blood from a slaughtered lamb.

As Hannah rubbed the birthing spoons with almond oil, she repeated the prayer she had heard physicians say, “God, if it pleases you, first let me do no harm.”

She eased the spoons into the narrow passage, slowly and gently, manoeuvring them until she felt them clasp the infant’s temples. She was grateful for Lucia’s unconsciousness.

Giovanna watched as Hannah worked the spoons up Lucia’s passage. “Is she not dying fast enough for your liking?”

“Please, a woman’s mind is unstable during her travail. Do not speak so. Let us work together. Your mistress needs you to give her hope and confidence.” Hannah worked the spoons in farther. “Hold her limbs higher.”

“God may forgive you, but I will not. Neither will my master,” said Giovanna, but she continued to hold the
Contessa’s legs open, one knee resting against her side. “Better to slit open her belly than torture her slowly. Even the Inquisitioners do not have such an instrument.”