The Midwife of Venice (6 page)

“Imagine this, if you will: I am trying to push you out of that window.” She gestured with her chin to the narrow casement window adjacent to the bed, through which could be seen a silver beam of moonlight. “I could come up behind you, give you a firm shove, and you would splash into the canal below quick as a wink. That is the way it is if the infant’s head is well positioned. But imagine this: You are at the window, standing crookedly to one side, or hanging on to the window ledge with your hand. Even a great shove would be of no use. If the babe lies wrongly, strong pains and pushing will be of no avail.”

Lucia’s eyes drooped shut again; it was unlikely she had heard a word.

Hannah continued, as much to visualize the difficulty for herself as to explain it to the Contessa. “But suppose I clasped you by the shoulders and moved you to the middle of the window and then stood outside on the window ledge and with an instrument drew you out.”

“Such a thing is possible?” Lucia’s voice was barely audible.

So she had been listening. “Before I can answer that question, I must place my two fingers inside your sheath. I will do it now, while you are between your pangs.”

Hannah drew the candles on the side table closer. She groped in her linen bag, pushing to one side the silver birthing spoons, extracting a vial of almond oil. Holding her hands over the flame of the candle, she poured a spoonful of the oil on her palms and rubbed them together to warm them.

Too exhausted to plead modesty, Lucia remained still as Hannah reached down, hugged one of Lucia’s legs against her, and braced the other against a large pillow. She pushed Lucia’s nightdress up to her waist, trying not to wince at the sight of apple red blood pooling on the sheets between her legs. Giovanna could not render any assistance, but at least she should have changed the bed linen. The Contessa’s belly was high and full, but otherwise she appeared emaciated. Her limbs were thin, as though the baby had greedily seized all nourishment, sparing none for Lucia. Hannah ran her hands over the taut mound, trying to ascertain whether the head had descended into the birth canal. The infant’s buttocks were high above Lucia’s umbilicus. Hannah put her hand between Lucia’s legs.

“I need to feel your womb to see if it is locked shut or opened.” She hoped to feel the soft and flexible opening of the mouth of the womb and the top of the infant’s head, but knew this was unlikely given what she had felt from the belly. If she managed to touch the baby’s head, she would move her two fingers like a compass over it to see if it was descending straight. It was always a wonderful sensation to touch the head and feel the flutter of a tiny pulse in the skull.

“Don’t push. It is not time for that.” Unnecessary words. Lucia’s faint panting indicated there was little chance she would have the strength to bear down.

It was as she had feared. The head was not in position. It remained above the pelvic bones, deep within the womb, difficult to feel, impossible to manipulate. Her birthing spoons could be of no help unless the head progressed farther into the birth passage.

Dear God, she must fight her growing sense of panic, her urge to flee before the woman died in her arms. Never had she attended a weaker mother. Never had she seen a case where a tragic outcome was so certain. Hannah felt her own breath quicken and her heartbeat increase. She withdrew her fingers from between the Contessa’s thighs and wiped them on a clean cloth.

She considered the Conte’s admonition to save the child above all. Since Lucia was so near death, would it not be better to slice through her belly now and extract the baby before it smothered? To save the child would ensure the Conte’s gratitude. But could Hannah cut open a woman who had tried through her pain to smile at her, a woman who had even made a feeble jest?

“I want you to breathe as deeply as you can. Deeply and slowly. Then we’ll see what can be done to get this obstinate baby out of your belly.”

The Contessa’s head lolled back, her face as white as the damp rectangle of pillow framing it.

Hannah pressed her fingers to the Contessa’s wrist and, after searching, felt a pulse faint as a thrush’s heartbeat.
“God come to my aid and guide my hands,” she murmured in Yiddish.

“Save my poor mistress,” Giovanna said. “You’ll never get this baby out alive. Use the
crochet.”

Hannah motioned for Giovanna to be quiet, hoping that Lucia was too dazed for the words to penetrate. The
crochet
was a sharp hook used to gouge a hole in the anterior fontanel of the infant’s head so that a midwife could insert her fingers through the fractured skull and pull, thus extracting the dead fetus. No. If she was to use any instrument, it would be her iron knife. Kill the mother, save the child. If she went against the Conte’s orders and saved the Contessa by using the
crotchet
, she could expect neither protection from the law nor her fee. Better to have Giovanna out of the room.

“Please, go and fetch fresh linen. Let us see what can be done to make her more comfortable.” Giovanna’s only skill would be to dismember the fetus. Was it any wonder Lucia had suffered so many unsuccessful confinements?

After Giovanna left, Hannah realized she had not asked if the waters had broken. She lifted up the covers and patted the bed linen. There was blood, but no water from the matrix. She grabbed her bag on the chair, took out the iron knife, and concealed it under Lucia’s pillow. It would be at the ready if she had to slice open the belly.

Lucia’s eyes opened and she whispered, “Am I going to die? It would be just punishment for my sins. What is the purpose of my life if I cannot give my husband an heir?” With those words her head drooped to one side and she appeared lifeless.

What possible sins could this coughing, feverish woman be guilty of? Hannah kissed her on the forehead. The smell of burning tallow mingled with blood and flux.

“You are tired and discouraged, but it is too soon to surrender hope.” If by some miracle the Contessa survived, this would be her last confinement. At her age the sinews and ligaments of the womb were tough and did not willingly give way.

“Is the child alive? I have not felt movement for some time,” Lucia said, but before Hannah could answer, her eyes closed and she grimaced as her belly hardened and she twisted with pain. The spasm lasted for several moments, and then, spent, she collapsed back against the pillows.

“Whether the child is alive, I cannot say until I put my ear to your belly.”

If she did not hear a heartbeat, she would reach for the
crochet
, dismember the child, and extract it limb by limb from the Contessa’s body. Then perhaps the Contessa would have a chance. On the other hand, if the baby was alive, she must slice Lucia open, grope about amid the flooding blood, and scoop out the child before it died.

She picked up the Contessa’s hand and held it to her cheek while Lucia endured another spasm. When the belly relaxed, Hannah pressed her ear against it, listening for the flutter of the baby’s heartbeat. She held still and waited. Moving her head lower, below the umbilicus, she listened again. Nothing. Next she tried a location higher up, just below one breast. She listened again. Yes, perhaps there was a faint beat. She did not trust her ears. Was it
her imagination? No, there it was again, the muted heartbeat of a small being. But it was so slow and so faint. The child was dying. The Contessa was dying. Hannah had no time to vacillate.

She must open Lucia’s belly, reach in, and fish out the slippery child. But could she bring herself to gut the Contessa like the
shochet
slaughters the spring lamb before Pesach? If she could perform this horrific deed, the two hundred ducats would be hers, and Isaac returned to her side. Of what importance was the life of a Christian woman to her? The Conte would approve; the Contessa had given her permission. God would forgive.

But could Hannah forgive herself?

She slid the knife out from under Lucia’s pillow. Tipping a drop of almond oil from her vial onto the blade, Hannah rotated the knife from side to side to distribute a coating over the surface. Then from her bag, she removed a whetstone, poured a drop of oil on it, and in quick, circular motions honed the blade. The knife made a rasping noise on the stone. Hannah checked Lucia’s face to see if she had heard, but Lucia remained motionless, unresponsive.

Hannah placed two fingers against Lucia’s neck but could not locate a pulse. She reached over to a small table next to the bed and took up a silver-backed looking-glass. She held it to the Contessa’s lips. No reassuring moisture clouded the glass. Lucia was dead. There was no reason to delay. Taking up the bottle again she oiled the mound of belly. With the tip of the knife she drew an imaginary line
in the oil from above the umbilicus to the sharing bones of the pelvis. Then she raised the knife.

Giovanna entered the room and stood staring, fresh bed linen stacked high her arms. “Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed are thee and the fruit of thy …”

“May you forgive me for what I am about to do,
cara,”
Hannah whispered.

Giovanna took a sharp breath and looked toward the windows.

“Dear God, steady my hand. Let me not slice so deeply that the child is harmed, nor so shallowly that the womb remains shut fast and I cannot reach the child before it drowns in its mother’s blood. Help me to split open this woman’s belly as neatly as one halves a white peach to free the pit.” Her heart was racing.

Hannah said to Giovanna, “When the blood spurts from her belly, use a linen cloth to wipe it from my face so that I may see clearly and seize the baby’s head and shoulders.”

Suddenly Hannah heard ringing in her ears, and it seemed as though all light had left the room. Waves of dizziness passed over her. Her legs refused to support her.

“God forgive me,” she said, “I cannot do it.” She tossed the knife to the terrazzo floor, where it clanged and skidded under the bed. Sinking to her knees, Hannah buried her face in the silk coverlet. Her entire body trembled, her shoulders shook with sobs.

Then she felt something as light as a moth settling on her hair. It was Lilith come to thrust her aside and claim
Lucia for her own. The hand stroked her hair, but it was Lucia’s thin, hot hand pushing Hannah’s curls behind her ears. The tension drained from Hannah. She would have continued that way, head buried in the silk coverlet, drifting, if Giovanna had not grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

“Holy Mother of God, the Contessa is alive. Do something!”

Relief flooded her and Hannah straightened her
cioppà
and took a deep breath. After dipping her hands in the almond oil, she inserted two fingers into the birth passage, hoping the baby had righted itself. The waters still had not broken; the womb remained wet, a small mercy. With the baby in such a poor position, lack of water would have made repositioning impossible. Hannah reached farther between Lucia’s thighs, her index and middle fingers slippery with almond oil. She felt the route leading to the matrix, but before she could touch the mouth of the womb, her hand collided with what she had most feared.

A tiny, limp hand.

M
OMENTS PASSED AS
a pair of seagulls shrieked overhead and Joseph’s hand on Isaac’s arm grew as tight as the iron circle around his ankle. Would no one in the crowd take pity and rescue him from this loutish gentile? It was a trivial sum, but the throng, their hope of further excitement gone, began to drift away.

Finally, a fair-haired woman with wide, angular cheekbones and dimples stepped forward. “Here are five
scudi
for your blessings, Sister,” she said.

Assunta accepted them with a barely discernible nod of her head. The nun tossed the coins at Joseph and hauled
Isaac out of the cart. Joseph stared at the fair-haired woman and seemed about to follow her, but she disappeared quickly into the multitude.

Sister Assunta thrust her white dog into Isaac’s arms. “Hold him while I fetch my wagon.”

The dog, entranced by the smell of Isaac’s unwashed body, wriggled in his arms, licking his face. Assunta returned leading a wagon missing several floor slats, pulled by a spavined roan mare. Isaac, dog under one arm, climbed in.

Sister Assunta’s wrists were as big around as Isaac’s biceps, her face as harsh and angular as Malta itself. Clean water, fresh air, prayer, and wholesome food evidently made nuns grow massive in Valletta. What manner of female was she? Isaac wondered. With those hands and feet and low voice—was she male, female, or a member of a sort of middle sex with the most unpleasant aspects of each gender? Hannah, with her soft voice and silky hair, was as different from Assunta as one woman could be from another.

After a silent, bumpy journey along the coast road, Assunta finally pulled up the pathway to a graceless and stolid building overlooking the sea. Isaac took a deep breath and gazed around. The air was perfumed with the scent of pines and wild roses and salt air. He congratulated himself on his good fortune. A neat vineyard covered the nearby hillside. An orchard filled with orange trees bloomed in the field behind the chapel. Plump, bossy chickens pecked in the yard. Assunta tossed the horse’s reins to a waiting sister and led Isaac into the convent kitchen. Bags full of turnips, carrots, and onions slumped against the walls. A side of beef
hung aging from a hook on the ceiling. There were worse places to wait while the Society negotiated his release.