The Midwife of Venice (19 page)

During the daytime, the spectacle of a nobleman carrying a baby would be remarked upon. But now the streets were deserted except for a rare passer-by too anxious to return to the safety of his home to notice. A passing funeral gondola draped in black curtains caused the water of the canal to splash against the steps leading to a
traghetto
landing. Hannah’s bare feet were numb with cold.

Niccolò veered down the Calle Farnese, and Hannah realized his destination with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. When he mounted the steps of the Ponte dei Ghetto, there could be no mistake. This bridge led to only one place: the Jewish ghetto.

Hannah walked to the crest of the bridge, where she could see Vicente sleeping in his makeshift shelter, a half-empty bottle of wine by his side. Most nights Vicente would have lowered the iron bar across the heavy wooden gates and shoved the deadbolts in place, but he had received his wages today and that meant he had had the money to buy several flagons of wine. The gates were ajar, allowing anyone to sneak through. Vicente did not awaken when
Niccolò slipped past him. He would not budge when Hannah passed by either, but nonetheless, she pulled her head scarf higher around her face and hurried on.

Niccolò crossed the
campo
, passed under the
sotoportego
, past the closed and shuttered Banco Rosso, past the empty shops of the moneylenders where Isaac had once laboured next to the other bearded, swarthy men, hump-backed from bending over their brass scales, their faces contorted with the effort of keeping their loupes in place.

The
campo
was so quiet that she could hear the splashing of someone on the floor above her urinating into a chamber pot. Niccolò strode ahead, moving with purpose. She forged on, her eyes fixed on his broad back, afraid to let him get more than a few paces ahead of her.

He passed the
Scuola Italiana
and, a few steps later, the
Midrash
where the Rabbi in the mornings gave Hebrew lessons.

Niccolò turned down a lane flapping with drying clothes, hardly wide enough for the passage of a broad-shouldered man. She knew it ended without warning at the Rio di San Girolamo.

Niccolò carried the child at an awkward angle, the better to squeeze between the tilting walls of the buildings. At the end of the alley, three steps led down to the rio. Her relief at keeping him in sight gave way to alarm. Did he intend to hurl Matteo into the water? She held back, pressing against the door of the bakery, afraid to enter the alley. There was no place for concealment in that narrow passage, no recessed doors, no convenient
spaces between buildings; Niccolò had only to turn around to spot her.

There was one shop in the alley, the abattoir located at the very end, positioned on the edge of the canal so that entrails, gristle, and fat could be easily disposed of. The
shochet
, the ritual slaughterer, Israel Foà, would have many hours ago slit the throat of his last pullet for Shabbat, closed up the shop at sunset, and gone home to eat his evening meal with his wife and children.

Niccolò halted in front of the abattoir and placed Matteo on the ground. He took a step back and charged the door, ramming it with his shoulder. A couple of hard thrusts and the door gave way. He tumbled in and then returned to pick up the baby and bring him inside. Hannah inched her way down the narrow passageway, skidding on the mud and seeping effluvia from the abattoir. The premises’ sole window was shuttered, but through the cracks she could see the flicker of a candle.

Matteo lay motionless on a scarred table in the centre of the small shop. She watched while Niccolò unwound Matteo’s swaddling bands, exposing his chubby legs, his fat, archless feet. His feet did not kick at the air; his hands, as pale as stars, did not wave at the light of the candle. On the table next to him sprawled the honeycombed tripe of a cow’s stomach, spongy and white. Niccolò reached for the
shochet
’s knife hanging on the wall behind him.

Ignoring everything except the knife in Niccolò’s hand, Hannah ran and flung open the door. She wanted to hurl her body over Matteo’s. She screamed, “Stop, for the love
of God! What are you doing?” The dizzying smell of the rancid tripe and entrails scattered on the floor made her reel and nearly collapse to her knees.

Niccolò’s eyes widened and he froze holding the knife in mid-air. Finally, he spoke. “You dared to follow me?” His voice was calm, but the muscles around his mouth and chin were white from tension. “Perhaps it is for the best. If I kill both the baby and you, it will look as though
you
killed him.”

“Why is he so still? What have you done to him?” Bile rose in her throat. She forced herself to swallow and to ignore the ringing in her ears. She would be no help to Matteo if she fainted. She wanted to snatch him up and run from this foul room. Matteo’s chest rose and fell in shallow fits and starts. A leg twitched, then an arm. At least he was still alive.

“Stand away from him,” Niccolò ordered.

“Surely you do not mean to kill him. What harm has Matteo ever done to you?”

“The greatest harm you can imagine,” said Niccolò, still holding the knife. He walked to the door, closed it, and jammed a rickety chair under the handle to block her exit.

Hannah could feel the heat radiating off his body. “Why bring him here, to the ghetto?” And then the answer dawned on her. “You want Matteo’s murder to look like the work of Jews.”

“I will not be upset if the moneylenders get what they deserve. They have been swindling Christians for decades.”

Hannah willed her breathing to slow. If she could remain calm, perhaps she could reason with this man
who held the knife. It was her only hope. She could not overpower him. He stood a head taller than she, and was stronger, too.

“But no one will believe the Jews could do anything so evil.”

He laughed. “Are you so naive? Of course they will. Especially when they find his flayed corpse nailed to the ghetto gates.”

Blood libel, the belief that Jews killed Christian babies and used their blood for ritual purposes, was an accusation that had been levelled against Jews for hundreds of years. The
Prosecuti
would care only that Matteo’s body was found in the ghetto. It was the only evidence needed to implicate the Jews. Hannah thoughts were racing. Niccolò must have drugged the child, for Matteo lay still, his head lolling to one side.

Niccolò stood over the table, his feet planted apart. He said, “This child has cheated me and Jacopo out of everything we have waited for for so long. It is only right that we should deprive him of his life.” He spoke without looking at the baby.

“So you kill Matteo to inherit the Conte’s money?”

“And his estates, and his precious palazzo, and his warehouses of silk and spices, and his title.”

A thought struck her as she watched Niccolò averting his eyes from the child. She lowered her voice. “I have seen the
shochet
at work many times. The killing of one of God’s creatures must be done with respect and compassion. Slaughter is not just about killing; it is about avoiding
needless pain and bringing sanctity to death.” Hannah looked at the knife in his hand. “Once as a child I watched Israel Foà in this very slaughterhouse, holding a lamb between his knees. The poor creature struggled, so that Israel’s knife slipped and instead of severing the throat with one quick, decisive stroke, he merely nicked it. The terrified lamb broke free of his grasp and ran bleating out the door and down the alley. Israel had no trouble following its trail of blood into the square, where he put the creature out of its misery with a blow of the knife. If you do not kill him right, the child will scream so loud it will bring half the ghetto down upon you.” She looked him straight in the eye. If he was moved by her story, he concealed it well. “It should not be a hard thing to kill such a small creature. I have killed chickens and game birds.”

“You are talking nonsense.”

“You are going to kill me anyway. Let the child’s murder be on
my
head rather than yours. Give me the knife.” She held out her hand.

Matteo’s eyelids twitched as he slept.

Niccolò said, “You must think me a fool.” Then he lunged for her, holding the knife over her head. She backed away from him, trying to keep her footing. He came at her, about to plunge the knife into her chest, when his jacket caught on the corner of the table and he stumbled. Taking advantage of his imbalance, Hannah gave him a shove, sending him skidding. Trying to regain his footing, he came at her again. He slipped but caught himself on the wall.
The knife fell from his grip and careened a few paces away. Hannah bent down and grabbed it by the blade, feeling the cold iron press into her fingers.

She straightened, the hand holding the knife at her side. Niccolò, tight with anger, pulled himself to his feet and scrambled over to the table. He grabbed Matteo and held him high above his head.

“I will have my knife back.” Bits of offal clung to his breeches where he had fallen. “Or I will dash him to the floor. That will do the job as quickly as the knife.”

“Give him to me. Better for him to be killed by a hand that loves him than by your indifferent one.” Matteo was quiet, taking only shallow breaths, not crying, seemingly unaware of what was happening. “You do not have the stomach for the task. I can tell by your face.”

“Place the knife on the table in front of me!” He continued to hold Matteo aloft. “You Jews with your endless talk. Quick as a lawyer you are, arguing this point, arguing that, hoping to find my weak spot.” Niccolò’s face was obscured by shadows.

Hannah stood with her feet apart and, leaning over, placed the knife on the table in front of him.

He lowered the baby to the level of his waist. In the dim light, Matteo appeared so white he seemed to glow. His stomach started to gurgle, and then, whether from a sleeping draught, the stink of the abattoir, or the rough handling from Niccolò, he began to vomit. Copious amounts of greenish bile spewed from his throat and landed on Niccolò’s shirt front.

Niccolò grimaced in disgust, placed him on the table, and reached for a cloth hanging on a hook behind him. He wiped at his chest. “For God’s sake, let us get this over with. You insist on making this a ritual killing? Fine. You can guide me and tell me how to do this right.” He watched her, his body tense, alert for sudden movements.

“Of course. I do not know what Christian prayer would be fitting, so a Jewish one will have to do,” said Hannah. “I will say a
brokhe
, a blessing, even though he is a gentile.” Hannah pulled her head scarf higher. Her mind was racing so fast she could not summon the blessing to mind. She lifted her hands over the baby’s head, closed her eyes, and intoned, “ ‘Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe.’ ”

Niccolò said, “You are taking too long. The sleeping draught is beginning to wear off.”

Hannah said, “Quickly, put your hand on his chest to steady him. If he wriggles, your knife will not cut straight and true.”

Matteo stirred. Niccolò held the knife in his right hand and positioned it next to the baby’s head. The blade reflected Matteo’s tiny fist.

“If you turn him toward me,” Hannah said, “then you can get a good approach.”

Knife raised, he moved in closer and so did Hannah.

“His neck is very fleshy,” Hannah said. “You must hit the neck vein so the blood will spurt. Stroke his throat so his head tilts back.”

Niccolò stroked the infant’s neck with the dull side of the blade. Matteo moved his head.

Hannah said, “Now stand back from the child as far as you can without letting go of his chest.”

Niccolò extended his arm, keeping his fingers splayed on the tiny chest, his knife an arm’s span from Matteo’s throat.

A faint scuffling noise came from the corner, behind a barrel. A rat. Niccolò glanced over, his eyes, for an instant, leaving the baby and Hannah. It was enough. She might not get another chance.

She sprang, grabbing for his knife. The suddenness of her action startled him, and after a brief struggle, he lost his grip on the weapon. She began slashing first at his eyes, then at his shoulder, his chest, his upper arm, any part of him she could reach, driving him away from the table where Matteo lay. Again and again she hacked at him, gripping the knife with both hands and slicing, as blood flowed down his face. Niccolò was so astounded by the suddenness of her attack that for a second he did not react. Then he yelled and rushed at her, grabbing for her. She was too fast and danced out of his reach. The blood coursing down his face blinded him.

The blade hit bone with a crunch, as satisfying a sound as any she had heard. Blood from his arm spurted in an arc and drenched her. Half blinded by it, Hannah slashed and slashed and could not stop. Her knife tore his shirt into strips, revealing his bleeding chest.

Finally, she sliced deep through his side, splintering his ribs where the knife penetrated. He clasped his chest and fell back against the table. “Holy Mother of God.” He
skidded backwards and pulled at the table, struggling to stay upright, but he succeeded only in pulling it on top of himself. Matteo dropped with a thud to the floor, screaming in terror, his face as red as the blood flowing from Niccolò’s wounds. Hannah scooped Matteo off the floor and clutched him to her breast.

Perhaps she was possessed. Were these not the actions of a witch? Taking pleasure in wounding? Even with the infant in her arms, even with Niccolò lying motionless, his blood pooling at her feet, she wanted to continue hacking at his flesh.

Matteo’s screams brought her to her senses. She forced herself to toss the knife to the floor. Matteo was hysterical, struggling against her grip, sobbing. She placed him on a chair. Then she grabbed Niccolò and dragged him by his heels out the door to the canal. For once, she was glad of the slime coating the cobblestones, which made it easier to slide his body into the water. He fell in with a dull splash. Without waiting to see whether his body sank, she ran back into the shop, snatched up Matteo and her bag, and raced back through the maze of alleys and passageways. Out through the gates of the ghetto she ran, ignoring Vicente’s snoring form, until she reached the Ponte dei Ghetto.