The Midwife of Venice (33 page)

Isaac considered her words. And then he nodded slowly, an idea growing. “We could start a weaving workshop …” He told her about the convent and Sister Assunta and her plans for fabricating silk thread.

“In a few days,” said Hannah, “the
Balbiana
sails for Constantinople. It will mean many more weeks of pitching and rolling, but with you, anything will be bearable.”

“And the child? Who will give him suck?”

“I have kept him alive this long,” Hannah said. “I will find a way.”

She smiled at him and then lowered her eyes and noticed the lesion on Isaac’s ankle from the leg shackle. When they were alone she would rub it with almond oil. It would heal with hardly a scar, just as, in time, her memory of Jessica’s death would grow less painful.

It was immodest, but she pulled him closer and kissed him
despite the throng of people in the square. As she pressed her body against his, she felt herself grow warm in a way that had nothing to do with the setting sun beating down on her bare head. She felt his hands, once so smooth, now callused and stained with ink. Hannah ran her hand across his ribs.

“Like a washboard. I have my work cut out, getting the meat back on your bones.”

“And you?” he replied. “Not exactly fat.”

They held the child between them on their laps and he cried now in protest from the pressure of being squeezed. They moved apart, but only slightly. Their hands remained clasped, the three of them forming a tight circle.

I first came upon the idea of writing about Hannah as I was wandering through Venice. I ended my walk having a
correcto
and
hamantashen
cookies in the Jewish Ghetto Nuovo in Cannaregio. I was struck by how closely this small island resembled a movie set, with its open square, only a wellhead to break the expanse, and narrow, knife-sharp buildings enclosing the
campo
on three sides.

In the 1500s, as more and more Jews arrived from northern Europe, Spain, and Portugal, the tiny apartments shrank even more as they were partitioned into cramped living quarters, rather like a cake sliced into small and smaller pieces as unexpected
guests arrive. Floors were added, and eventually the city government permitted the Jews to expand to two additional islands, Ghetto Vecchio and Ghetto Novissimo.

In trying to imagine what day-to-day life must have been like, I thought of women raising large families in overcrowded conditions. This led to thoughts of midwifery and, from there, to the notion of birthing spoons. I then had to imagine how these birthing spoons would be used and who would be wielding them. And so the idea of
The Midwife of Venice
was born.

Did such a midwife exist? I like to think so, although in my research I never came across a reference to such a woman. This is no doubt because the history of women, their fortitude and accomplishments, is written in water.

If you are interested in further exploring this fascinating era of history, I include a list of readable and interesting books from my research.

The Midwife of Venice
has been a labour of love. I wish to thank all of the many people who have helped through its conception, long labour, and birth:

To my wonderful agent, Bev Slopen, who has been a source of encouragement and advice for many years. I thank her for her persistence, wisdom, and insight.

To Nita Pronovost for being the kind of old-fashioned literary editor whom I thought had gone the way of books with marbled endpapers and hand-set type. She smacked this manuscript on the bottom not once but many times until she got it to breathe and turn pink. Instead of birthing spoons, her tools were warm support and meticulous attention to detail. Her insights showed me where to go, how to get there, and how
to know when I had finally arrived.

To Rhoda Friedrichs, Professor of European and Medieval History at Douglas College, my special thanks for suggesting not only scholarly references but plot ideas; to Minna Rozen, Professor of Jewish History, University of Haifa, for answering my questions about Jewish law and customs; and to Lee Saxell, Professor of Midwifery at the University of British Columbia, for explaining how babies come into the world.

To all the many wonderful writing teachers I have had the pleasure of studying with over the years: William Deverell, Joy Fielding, James N. Frey, Jonathon Furst, Elizabeth Lyons, Bob Mayer, Barbara McHugh, Kim Moritsugu, Anne Rayvals, Peter Robinson, and John Stape.

To my writers’ group: Carla Lewis, Sandy Constable, and Sharon Rowse.

To my friends: Katherine Ashenburg, Lynne Fay, Shelley Mason, Jim Prier, Gayle Quigley, Elana Zysblat, Gayle Raphanel, and Guy Immega for their help and support.

To my much beloved daughter and insightful reader, Martha Hundert.

To my stepdaughter and talented editor, Kerstin Peterson.

And to my great friend and gentle critic, Beryl Young.

To the art department at Random House/Doubleday for sending my baby out into the world with such a beautiful face, and to Bhavna Chauhan for championing my book and offering editorial support.

And finally, to Ken, my husband and best friend, who has always known how to keep the pot boiling, the stakes high, and the disbelief willingly suspended.