The Witch of Cologne

‘I do not love him, nor could I.’

‘Since when did marriage have anything to do with love? Besides, that much-overrated emotion comes with habit.’

‘Many things come with habit, like warts. Anyhow, Tuvia would never allow me to continue my study. No, Rosa, it shall not be.’

‘Be warned: do not make an enemy of Tuvia.’

‘And this is the man you would have me marry?’

Rosa pulls her closer. ‘He has your father’s ear and that of the whole town.’

The other women are murmuring now, whispering in Yiddish, some openly staring, some glancing sideways—the rattle of Spanish makes them suspicious.

Ruth knows what is running through their minds, fed by the rumourmongers, the web of gossip that links the Jewish communities from as far south as Arles through to Minsk. Has the rabbi’s daughter returned a virgin? Is it true she can will a male child upon you by reciting a spell from the Zohar, that she has associated with the heretic Benedict Spinoza and, worse still, Christians? And what about Rachel’s baby, the one that was born silent and hasn’t made a sound since two summertides ago? What curse did the sorceress lay upon that innocent soul? Is it true that she is a secret worshipper of Lilith, the demon?

The muttering grows louder, swirling around the glistening walls of the bathhouse like a low incantation. Rosa, bristling with indignation, takes Ruth’s hand.

‘Ignore them, my darling. They are born from a small town and their minds are as small as their bellies are big. Lord knows, I miss Aragon. Now there was sophistication.’

A young woman, her face pockmarked, a telltale bruise showing under one eye, emerges out of steamy mist. Ruth recognises the voluptuous form as Vida, the fourth wife of the baker Schmul. The young girl inherited her husband Schmul’s six children as well as having one of her own. The baker is not a cruel man but he has enough money to become irritated when he chooses. Vida’s bruised eye is testimony to his short temper but despite this there is a fondness between the two of them: the affection of the protected towards the protector, which Ruth recognises and respects.

Vida curtsies. Unable to help herself Ruth breaks into a wide grin; the formality seems absurd as the young woman is entirely naked.

‘Fräulein Saul, it is an honour to see such a great midwife in the mikvah. May the blessings of the Almighty protect you,’ Vida says loudly, fully aware of the disapproval rippling through the bathhouse.

‘And you, Vida. How is the child?’

‘Thanks to you he has lungs like Joshua himself blowing down the walls of Jericho, may I stay so lucky.’

The birth had been difficult, further complicated by the size of the baby. But the child had lived and Schmul had been so grateful he supplied Ruth with free challah for a full month afterwards.

It was the first of many births Ruth had been called upon to attend. First as a medic then, as her reputation grew, as a midwife. Now even Betsheba, the traditional midwife who delivered Ruth herself twenty-three years before, seeks her advice. And yet they still believe it is witchcraft that makes her good, not her knowledge, she thinks, trying to forgive the women’s hostility as, clicking disapproval, they pull Vida away and turn their shimmering wet backs to her.

‘Ruth, promise me you will be careful. I had a dream last night that you were a baby again and you were snatched from my arms. The spirit of your mother, God bless her soul, would never forgive me if something happened to you.’ Rosa distracts her attention away from the women.

‘Superstitious nonsense. My work goes well, I am being accepted. Only last night I was called to Cologne to deliver a child.’

‘Perhaps, but the wind can change, just like that. Here…’

Rosa presses a small stone amulet into Ruth’s hand. Hiding it from the others, she turns it over. The Shield of David, a six-pointed star

surrounded by six circles filled with kabbalistic lettering, is carved into its smooth surface.

‘May my love and the love of your forefathers protect you,’ the old nursemaid mutters, then turns to hand a towel to another customer.

But as Ruth looks back towards the bathing rooms she is convinced she can see the hazy outline of her mother’s ghost drifting for a moment between the clouds of steam.

‘Outrageous! How dare a trumped-up Spanish rat give orders to the archbishop, protector of the holy bones of the three great Magi themselves! And how dare he intercept my personal correspondence!’

Maximilian Heinrich strides down the centre aisle of the great cathedral where sunlight streams in through the half-constructed roof, his green mid-week vestments flying behind him. ‘A pox on Leopold!’

‘Sire! Be silent, I beg you, there are spies everywhere!’

Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg follows like a hawk at Heinrich’s shoulder. The archbishop reaches the altar and stares up at the massive Gothic carving of the crucified Jesus, garish blood oozing from his elongated oak hands and feet. The nobility of the martyr is laudable, he thinks, but regrettably he himself will always err on the cowardly side of human nature. He loves life too much to end it as some forgotten assassinated pawn.

The Hapsburgs’ days are numbered, but still Heinrich wrestles with guilt about courting France as a potential ally against the Austrian emperor. The future lies with the French king, Louis: he will be the new order. Is he, a Wittelsbach prince, to be silent like a fawning puppy? The dilemma which has tortured him for years circles again around and around in his mind. Staring at von Fürstenberg, he is reminded of the wheedling way the minister has drawn him into this Byzantine maze of information and intrigue, how he has skilfully manipulated both Heinrich and his informants at the French court. Squeezed between the demands of the bürgers and the expectations of his aristocratic peers, Heinrich sometimes feels little more than a puppet being jerked by a thousand invisible threads. Suddenly the complexity of the situation infuriates him.

‘No!’ he shouts aloud. A flock of roosting pigeons scatter from the rafters. Unruffled, von Fürstenberg gestures to a small page who goes running for a bottle of good wine—the archbishop’s favourite tonic.