Rashi's Daughters, Book II: Miriam (53 page)

Judah set up the cot next to their marital bed, as he would continue to do until forty days after the baby’s birth. “I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job.”

Miriam peeked once more at the sleeping form in the cradle and then blew out the lamp. “You said it was
bashert
for my first
milah
to be our son.”

Twice that night, Miriam got up to nurse, and each time Judah sat up with her and explained the Gemara he and Papa were working on. It was good of him to try to distract her, but she still spent much of the night worrying.

When it was light enough to see, she crept out of bed and, for the last time, checked that her mohel’s kit was complete.
Oui
, the oil and cumin that she’d prepared yesterday had not spilled, the
haluk
had no hanging threads, and the small container of Papa’s strongest wine remained sealed.

Then she took out her
azmil
to test its sharpness. Steel blades naturally form a burr during sharpening, so she gently slid her fingertip from one side of the blade over the edge, feeling for a burr dragging against her skin. Next, Miriam pressed the edge lightly against her thumbnail. If it cut into her nail it was sharp enough, if it slipped it was dull, and the sharper the blade the smaller the angle she could make before it slipped. Another reason experienced mohels have such ugly thumbnails, she thought, as she tested both sides of the knife.

Satisfied, she took her
azmil
outside, where the sun was rising over the courtyard wall. Papa had taught her how a good sharpener can see a dull edge. For her final test, she held the blade up with its edge in line with the sun and then moved it slightly, looking for the glint that reflected off a dull edge or a burr. She sighed with relief at finding none.

By now the rest of the household was awake, and Judah called down that their new son was hungry. Miriam took a deep breath and went back upstairs. Lying in bed, baby at her breast, she realized that the next time she nursed him would be after his circumcision.

At synagogue it was a good thing that Joheved had agreed to lead the women in her stead, because Miriam kept losing her place in the service. Judah had made her his agent for the
brit
, but to be sure, Avram had stayed home, complaining of a headache. When Judah refused, terrified that he might move at the crucial moment, Papa had agreed to hold the boy on his lap during the circumcision.

As the time for her son’s
brit milah
approached, the congregation’s prayers grew quieter, and when Miriam carried her new son downstairs to give to Judah, the entire room was silent. He made the father’s invocation, handed the boy to Papa, and it was as if everyone were holding their breath. Miriam placed the wine-soaked cloth in her son’s mouth, picked up the
azmil
, and, for the first time, said the mohel’s blessing, “
Baruch ata Adonai
. . . Who commands us concerning
milah
.”

Then, as she had seen Avram do so many times, she focused her
kavanah
on the tiny penis in front of her, pulled the foreskin tight, and sliced it off. Little Elisha barely whimpered, and the sound of hundreds of people breathing at once was like gusts of wind blowing inside. Miriam realized that she had been holding her breath as well, and sighed with pleasure that there were no shreds left; she had made a perfect cut. Tears ran down her cheeks as she bandaged her son, while Judah made the father’s blessing and Papa led the prayers for her health and the baby’s.

Then, her newly circumcised son content in her arms, she returned Judah’s smile as Papa announced, “May this child, named in the House of Israel, Elisha ben Judah, become great. Even as he has entered into the covenant, so may he enter into Torah, the marriage canopy, and the practice of good deeds.”

 

Three hours later little Elisha had wet his swaddling twice. Three days later Avram came by to check the boy’s health and offer congratulations. And three weeks later, just as her family was leaving for morning services, Joheved’s water broke.

The baby had remained breech, but as Miriam trimmed her nails, she prayed that Joheved’s labor wouldn’t last too long. And while Rachel collected all the family’s tefillin, spread fennel among the rushes in their old bedroom, and chalked the floor and walls against Lillit, Miriam kept reminding herself of the many breech lambs she’d delivered safely.

Papa and Judah came back from synagogue with a Torah scroll and a minyan to pray psalms, just as Meir returned from Ramerupt with Marona. By sunset Joheved’s womb was completely open, but something kept Miriam from announcing that the child would be born that evening. Instead she asked Meir to bring the Torah scroll into Joheved’s bedroom and for the men to go home to get some sleep. A new minyan from the evening service would replace them and stay all night if necessary.

It was necessary. The baby was buttocks down, and even with Joheved clutching Countess Adelaide’s ruby, it took Miriam and Sarah most of the night to get the child’s feet out. The rest of the baby should have quickly followed, but nothing happened. After twenty-four hours of labor, enough of the baby had emerged to know that it was a boy, but his head remained firmly lodged, no matter how many times one of them whispered the verse from Exodus in Joheved’s ear,

When Rachel came downstairs and said she was going to fetch Elizabeth, Meir, who had stood up hopefully when he saw her on the stairs, sank back into his seat. Shemayah gently laid his hand on Meir’s shoulder and suggested that perhaps they should get some rest. Meir shook his head, and Shemayah sat down again.

Elizabeth soon arrived, and her expression became grave upon learning that the baby’s progress had stopped. “The fennel and basil smell nice, but we need something stronger.”

“We’re sending Rachel to buy fresh agrimony at the fair,” Sarah said. “She could get rose oil for Joheved’s thighs; that would also help entice the baby out.”

Miriam couldn’t hide her anxiety. “Even with both of us pulling his legs for hours, he hasn’t budged.”

Elizabeth began examining the patient. “Perhaps we can manipulate the womb to open further.”

“I’ve tried several times, but I can try again.” Miriam turned to her sister. “I know this hurts, Joheved, but if you can relax, it will be easier.”

Joheved closed her eyes and stifled her moans as Miriam tried, to no avail, to get her hand past the baby’s head.

“It’s still early, but if we need to, we can take him out in pieces,” Elizabeth whispered.

Miriam grimaced. Only twice had she been forced to remove, piece by piece, a baby who’d refused to be born. And one of those times the mother had died anyway.

“Don’t kill him,” Joheved pleaded. “I can still push.”

“That’s not the problem,” Sarah explained. “If the child is stuck, you could push too hard and rupture your womb.”

The three midwives exchanged somber glances. They had all treated women whose obstructed labor had ripped an opening from her womb into her bladder or rectum, leaving her with excrement that leaked continuously and made her smell like a privy.

“I have an idea,” Elizabeth said. “If I can get my hands on top of the child’s shoulders, I can push down while one of you pulls on his legs and the other gets some sleep.”

Sarah nodded. “If we do it slowly and continuously, the baby’s head may compress enough to get through.”

“I slept some when I nursed Elisha,” Miriam said. “I can stay here while Aunt Sarah rests.”

Once Joheved’s thighs were smeared with rose oil, and the fresh agrimony was tied there, root down, Elizabeth oiled her hands and slid them up into her patient’s birth canal. Then, when the next contraction came, Elizabeth pushed while Miriam pulled. It was an awkward position, and the oily baby was so slippery that his legs kept sliding out of her grasp.

It seemed to Miriam that they had made some progress when Marona poked her head in a few hours later. “Miriam, your own baby is crying for you, and you should have some
disner
as well. Sarah’s still asleep, so show me what to do.”

Downstairs all eyes were on Miriam as she downed her chicken stew and bread. She knew how badly her family wanted a progress report, but she forced her face to remain impassive. She hoped that nobody would question her, but she wasn’t surprised when Meir followed as she headed upstairs to where Mama was surely pacing her room with hungry little Elisha.

Meir’s face was ashen, and his voice shook as he spoke. “I know you’d tell us if there was any good news. But you’ve got to tell me something. At least give me reason to hope.”

Miriam sighed.
Is it better to raise his hopes only to dash them later or to tell him truthfully how little chance there is?
“I don’t know, Meir. Your son is breech, and we’re trying to pull him out, but he doesn’t want to be born.”

Meir’s face seemed to crumple, and tears began pooling in his eyes. “If it’s a choice between Joheved’s life and the baby’s, don’t even think about it. Save my wife.”

“Of course.”

“And if . . .” His voice sank to a whisper. “If the worst should happen, I want to see her while she still lives.”

“Things aren’t that bad,” Miriam said as she reached the top of the stairs. “After all, how many women in labor have the protection of seven pairs of tefillin?”

As Mama tucked her and little Elisha into bed, Miriam could hear the children downstairs crying and Judah trying to pacify them. Then Mama closed the door and all was quiet.

 

Miriam woke to the sound of her baby whimpering next to her and the smell of swaddling that needed changing, but when she opened her eyes she couldn’t see anything. The sun had set some time ago. She jumped up, grabbed her son, and raced for her former bedroom, her heart beating wildly. Downstairs, the continual murmur of prayers was encouraging.

She opened the door to the sound of her mother’s voice. “My hand is cramping up, Sarah. I can’t pull any longer.”

Aunt Sarah was just standing up when she saw her niece. “Elizabeth’s idea is working. It’s slow going, but the boy’s head is definitely further out than before.”

“Thank Heaven.” Miriam sat down and put her now-crying son to her breast. “How are you feeling, Joheved? I can help as soon as Elisha finishes.”

Joheved’s eyes flickered open and she moaned softly. “If pain could kill, I’d be dead already . . . now I’m just tired of pushing . . . I just want everything . . . the pain, the pushing, everything . . . to be over.”

Marona wiped the sweat from her daughter-in-law’s forehead. “Just a little longer, dear.”

As Miriam fed her baby, she observed her older sister—the unfocused gaze, straggly hair, grey-tinged skin, and labored breathing. When he was done, she leaned over and gently removed the ruby from Joheved’s fist. “Mama, could you bring me a cup of warm wine and a mortar and pestle?”

Rachel gasped, and then nobody made a sound as Miriam ground the small ruby into pieces, dumped them into the wine, and recited an incantation over the cup. The gem was hers to do with as she wished. “I conjure you, Armisael, angel who governs the womb, that you help this woman and the child in her body to life and peace. Amen.”

And they all followed, “Amen, amen.”

Miriam took Elizabeth’s place, and the older midwife stretched her arms out and wiggled her fingers gratefully. “What do you think? Have we made enough progress that Marona can go downstairs and give her son some comfort?”

“You’ve done wonderfully. I can feel his ears.” Miriam made no attempt to hold back her tears of relief. Surely Joheved’s child would be born before dawn.

“I’ll change Elisha’s swaddling and put him to bed,” Rivka said. “Then I’ll try to persuade my stubborn husband to join us.”

Rachel added her strength to the midwives’, but it took most of the night for the child’s skull to mold to fit through Joheved’s birth canal. Joheved was nearly unconscious by then, but the sound of her son’s birth cries, feeble as they were, roused her to open her eyes and make sure that all his parts were as they should be.

“His head looks so odd,” she whispered.

Miriam couldn’t remember if she had ever seen a baby with such a large head before. “Your son’s head was constricted as we pulled him out,” she replied. “It should change to a more normal shape as he grows.”

When Meir came in with Salomon, Sarah confidently assured them that, while it might take several months, the boy’s head would eventually be round like other babies’. Meir thanked her gratefully, then collapsed into the chair near the bed and fell asleep. Salomon sat down next to him and began to study.

 

Two days later Joheved’s temperature started climbing, and she complained that her belly hurt. The next morning Miriam soberly advised Meir to call his students back to pray for his wife’s health, and to hire a wet nurse.

“Is there no medicine that will help?” he asked.

Thinking of poor Rosaline, Miriam slowly shook her head. She had gone to visit the young woman at Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains later, but the nuns told her that Rosaline had died.

“I’ve already been giving her nutmeg mixed with feverfew in ale, which is supposed to prevent childbed fever, but clearly they are not enough to vanquish Lillit and her demons. That requires divine intercession and mercy.”

“I understand,” Meir replied. It was time for prayer, fasting, and giving charity.

Yet by the morning of little Salomon’s
brit milah
, for that was the name she and Meir had chosen, Joheved was so ill that the ritual was again performed on the grandfather’s lap, not the mother’s, and little Salomon was whisked off to his wet nurse almost immediately. Miriam’s mind was so concerned with her sister’s failing health that she did the cutting by rote, as if it had been her hundredth circumcision instead of her second.