The Midwife of Venice (7 page)

Assunta threw off her shawl, pushed back her wimple, allowing a hank of brown hair to escape, and busied herself mixing bread dough, measuring handfuls of flour into an enormous bowl and then, with a wooden paddle, blending in water and soured milk. After stirring and mixing until she had the right consistency, she shaped the dough into a ball the size of a goat kid, hoisted it over her head, and thwacked it on the table in front of her.

Isaac stood with his arms dangling at his sides, trying to think of a way to make himself useful. The dough appeared sticky and might require more flour.

“I thank you for rescuing me,” he said, dragging a sack of flour from the cupboard to the centre of the kitchen and shoving it within reach of her arm. “You have saved my life.” For the first time since his arrival in Malta he felt that was something to be grateful for. “God will reward you for your charity.”

It had been months since he had tasted bread that was not crawling with weevils. There was a bowl overflowing with grapes on the table in the centre of the room. As for fruit, he had not eaten so much as a wormy apple since he left Venice.

Assunta ignored the sack of flour and paused in her kneading. “You can also thank that woman in the crowd if you ever come across her. Her name, I believe, is Gertrudis.” In a voice that did not invite questions, she continued, “A woman of some notoriety.” She tucked a sweaty tendril
of hair under her wimple. “It would have been a sin to allow you to be sold to Joseph.” She executed a stiff pivot of her torso so she could see him in spite of her wimple. A gleam came to her eye. “Joseph and I have crossed swords before. I have always got the better of him.”

“ ‘When your enemy falls, do not rejoice,’ ” Isaac said, quoting from the Torah.

“Well said,” she replied. “But a difficult injunction to obey.”

He wished she would turn her head to him when she spoke so he could read the expression on her face, but her habit seemed to make all her movements awkward, as though she were encased in a suit of armour. The Maltese dialect was all spongy vowels and harsh fricatives. Some of her words were unfamiliar, but he could guess at their import; others left him perplexed.

Assunta said, “The Bible does not prohibit slavery. In fact, it says, ‘Slaves, obey your earthly masters with fear and trembling, and with a sincere heart, as you would Christ.’ ” She resumed her kneading, gave another thump to the dough, and continued, “But the Bible forbids doing nothing when you see a wrong about to be committed. I knew Joseph would kill you.” She slammed both fists into the dough, making a huge crater in the middle of it. “You should know,” she said, jabbing a floury finger toward the seashore, “the Knights of St. John have terrorized the seas surrounding Malta for years. They have become no better than brigands.” She rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of flour behind. “Yes, I helped you,
as I have helped others.” Assunta pinched off a piece of dough and dropped it into the upturned pink mouth of her white dog. “I have my reasons.”

Isaac spoke in Veneziano, which, if he enunciated slowly, she seemed to comprehend. “What work can I perform to show my gratitude?” He glanced out the window. “I can prune your vines, help with the harvest. No doubt another pair of hands would be welcome?”

“Do not thank me for buying you. I am not compassionate, at least not the way a nun should be. If I cannot get to heaven by being kind I will do so by righting wrongs, thus ensuring that I ascend to heaven at the proper time.” She gathered up the stray bits of dough and then, cupping her hand, skidded them onto a plate.

“A
mitzvah
is a
mitzvah
regardless of motive,” said Isaac.

She rubbed olive oil on the top of the dough and placed it to rise in a crockery bowl. She patted the top. “Bread for tonight. We have many sisters, all of them hungry from gardening and working in the orchards.” Then she reached into a burlap sack and took out an onion, which she began chopping into small pieces.

Isaac said, “I am a good worker and learn with ease. I am versed in the Venetian method of double-entry bookkeeping. I can keep your books of account.”

“Our vows are poverty, chastity, and obedience.” She waved the knife in his face. “We have no books and nothing to account for.” She laughed so hard at her own jest that she began to cough, then wiped her hands on her apron and looked around the kitchen, considering her next
chore. “Reach that bunch of rosemary hanging from the ceiling and chop it for me. Sister Caterina will return soon to help me prepare the rest of the meal.”

Isaac took the rosemary, rolled it between his fingers, and held it to his nose. It evoked memories of Seder dinners and roasted lamb, and he felt a rush of homesickness. He grabbed a knife and began to chop.

“My wife, Hannah, grows rosemary in a pot on the windowsill,” he said.

Assunta watched Isaac wielding the knife, hacking off ragged sections. “Not like that—small pieces, like so.” She took the knife from him, minced the herb into even pieces.

Why were his hands so clever when it came to writing, turning the pages of a book, and caressing his wife, and so clumsy when doing a task any simpleton could manage? Even the rooster, which had wandered in from the courtyard, seemed to mock his ineptitude. The air was yeasty with the aroma of rising dough. Soon it would be baking in the oven above the hearth. His mouth watered.

“What other skills have you?”

“Buying and selling spices and timber.”

“Somewhat of a problem if you have none,” she observed.

Through the window, he noticed a mulberry tree growing in the courtyard in front of the convent. His cloth sack of silkworm eggs was tucked safely into his waistband. Soon greedy worms would hatch, demanding to be fed.

“There is something I could do … with your help. I have some silkworm eggs. Worms are creatures I know nothing of. But silk fetches a high price. Perhaps together we could find
a way to make my worms thrive. This island could use some commerce other than the trafficking in Jews.”

“Isaac,” she said, glancing up long enough from her work to ensure she locked eyes with him, “Malta is a military fortress. Knights and soldiers do not wear silk. You will find no grand ladies here swanning about in silk ball gowns. We are an island of simple people. You should have stuffed your satchel with hides of beef and sheep rather than silk eggs.” She marched to the corner of the kitchen and picked up a sheepskin dotted with lumps of fat. “This is useful.” She shook it in his face, close enough that he could smell the odour of rancid lanolin and see it glisten on her fingers. “Silk is for the Grand Master who rules this island. Wool is for the rest of us.”

“I can read and write,” said Isaac.

He was about to elaborate, but she patted the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of flour behind. “Good. I will give you the loan of a quill and parchment and you can post a no trespass sign on my kitchen door to keep the chickens out. In the meantime”—she flapped her apron—“I shall chase them out.”

The rooster scuttled past Isaac.

“Let me explain my true reason for buying you,” she said. “My family was originally from Toledo in Castile—La Mancha. They were heretics like you. Eighty years ago they converted to Christianity. It was not their choice. King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella forced all the Jews to convert.”

A sinking feeling seized Isaac. If her family were
Conversos
, then she would be more earnest than most Christians about
demonstrating her piety. “Yes, the Alhambra Decree,” Isaac said. “Convert or be exiled. But not all Jews converted. Many fled to Venice. The Venetian ghetto is filled with Spanish Jews, the Sephardim. Others fled to Constantinople.”

She continued as though she had not heard him. “To be ignorant of the ways of Christianity is forgivable, but only if no one takes the trouble to educate you.” Assunta took an apple from the bowl on the table, cut off a slice, and handed it to him with the point of the knife. “Eat. It is from our orchard.”

He bit through the red skin. The juice flooded his mouth with such sweetness that he choked. If she would cease talking, he could enjoy the nectar to its fullest.

Assunta ate the remainder of the apple. “I have made it my mission to buy Jewish slaves with the small number of coins that come my way and then persuade them from their heretical beliefs. Many of my most devout nuns, for example, Sister Caterina, are New Christians. I will do the same for you.” Assunta polished another apple on the skirt of her habit. “So,” she said, crunching down on the second apple with her square white teeth, “let us discuss the salvation of your immortal soul and how we may best accomplish your conversion.”

Convert? To the Christians, he would be no better than a
marrano
, a pig rooting around for scraps. By his own people he would be seen as a traitor and a coward. The Knights had taken everything—his dignity as a free man, all of his property. Being a Jew and the hope of seeing Hannah again were all he had left.

The rooster pecking in the corner of the kitchen squawked and raced out the door. Isaac considered following, but the bowl of apples was in front of him and the rising dough would soon be baking. How long it had been since he tasted fresh bread.

“Ordinarily, it would be improper for a man to live in our convent,” Assunta said. “But if you accept Jesus as your Saviour and convert, I will talk to the Bishop about making an exception. I will give you shelter, food, and work. You can sweep out the chapel and help with the laundry. You are a handsome man, or will be when you have been fed. A man such as you will be a temptation to the novices, some of whom, I regret to say, are here not because of their spiritual devotion but because their families cannot afford their dowries. So I will watch you like a dog guarding a flock of ewes. You will sleep in the goat shed. So what do you say? You will live in comfort until your ransom is paid.” When he did not reply immediately, she said, “Or would you prefer to beg in the streets of Valletta?”

Given what he had experienced of the flinty-hearted Maltese, he would starve as a beggar if she threw him out. “My people were slaves in the land of the Pharaoh. The ancient Israelites prevailed. So shall I.” Even to his own ears, the words sounded quixotic.

“You are being foolish. Convert. You will not regret the decision.”

There was no need to make an enemy of her. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps someday. In the meantime”—he raised his knife—“I will finish chopping this rosemary.”

“You do not understand,” she said, taking the knife from him. “Unless you convert, you cannot remain here. You would be defiling consecrated ground. I could not permit it.” She gave him a severe look. “I am giving you a chance to enjoy life both here on earth and in heaven. As Christ said, ‘Follow me and I shall give you life everlasting.’ ”

“I am grateful to you, Sister, for all you have done, but I cannot convert.” It would not do to answer her candidly. He wanted to shout,
I will convert when my foreskin grows back
, but the
word foreskin
would have embarrassed her. Christians were squeamish about matters of the body, like foreskins and the monthly flow of women, yet they adored their paintings of Christ’s crucifixion, his hands and feet dripping with blood, and thorns gouging his scalp. There was no fathoming the gentile mind.

So this was the price of Christian compassion: she would give him shelter and food but only if he converted. He felt his face flush. He was a slave, in no position to be angry. His task was to survive. Perhaps he could distract her as one does a child.

“Shall I read the Bible to you?” Isaac offered. “Perhaps that is a more useful form of labour than digging turnips or minding goats.”

“Where would I get a Bible? There are no books at the convent.” She looked at him with impatience. “I am offering you the gift of Eternal Life.”

And along with it, the miracle of the Immaculate Conception, the miracle of loaves and fishes, and Lazarus rising from the dead. The credulity of gentiles was boundless.

When he said nothing, Sister Assunta’s face became set and hard. “Why cling to such a ridiculous religion? That a pig is not suitable for human consumption? That I offend God if I eat a piece of cheese and meat in the same meal? That”—here she blushed in a way he found both touching and grotesque—“that a woman must be cleansed each month before she can return to her husband’s bed?”

At least she knew more of his religion than most Christians.

“I am offering you a chance not only to have food and shelter but to renounce a religion that will always garner scorn and hatred.”

Isaac regarded her determined face and considered his future. He must stay alive long enough to make the journey back to Hannah. Could he
pretend
to convert? Was it within his ability to act with duplicity in a matter of such importance as belief? Sephardic Jews had been forced to convert by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, yet many of them had continued to practise Judaism in secret. Could he? A man never knows what is within his capacity until he tries. God would understand and forgive. He would at least make an attempt.

Isaac held on to the edge of the kitchen table and tried to lower himself to his knees. This was the way Christians prayed: on their knees, head bowed, hands clasped, all signifying abasement before God. Man is nothing; God is all-powerful. It was as though his joints had rusted up like the hinges on the gates of the ghetto. The memory came flooding back of the Rabbi davening back and forth with
the speed of summer lightning while intoning the morning prayers.

Isaac extended his hand to Sister Assunta. He opened his mouth to recite the only Christian prayer he knew, the
pater nostrum
. “ ‘Our Father,’ ” he began, “ ‘who art in heaven …’ ” And then, although his lips continued to move, the words stuck like fish bones in his throat.

Assunta knelt beside him, intoning the next words to encourage him. “ ‘Hallowed be Thy Name …’ ”

He tried once more to repeat the words but his tongue had grown thick and refused to obey. He felt a dark flush of shame creep over him, as debilitating as a fever. The weakest man is the first to submit. Here he was on his knees, holding the hand of a Christian nun. He was the most craven of men.