Cover
Anne Dublin
The Baby Experiment
A NOVEL
Dedication
For my dear grandchildren
“Whoever destroys one life it is as though he had destroyed a whole world; and whoever saves one life it is as though he had saved a whole world.”
— Talmud (Mishnah, Sanh, 4:5)
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.
— Chapter One —
The Interview
Hamburg, Germany
1703
Johanna had been waiting on the hard wooden bench for over an hour. She shivered as cold drafts of air seeped in through the doors and windows. The hall was very grand with its tiled floor and faded tapestries, but it wasn’t made for comfort.
She stood up, sat down, stood up again. She smoothed her dress and straightened her hat. She sat down again.
Johanna stared at the other girls sitting on benches that lined the hall. Some were chatting to each other; others sat stiffly, gazing at the walls or the floor.
Am I mad? Johanna thought. Why did I come here? Perhaps if I do something, I’ll be able to calm down. She took a piece of lace out of her bag. She loved the way the bone shuttle drew the thread back and forth, making knots and creating a design. She had learned to do lacework like this from Grandmother Rachel. But her fingers trembled so much that, after a few minutes, she put her work away.
Last week, she had seen the announcement posted in front of the town hall:
Young women needed
to work in orphanage ––
Under the sponsorship
of the Duke of Brunswick.
Apply in person
at Hamburg Town Hall.
Wednesday September 15, 9:00 a.m.
Johanna felt guilty. She should have stayed to help Mama at the market. Every day they tried to sell the lacework she and Mama made, or notions like buttons and thread. On good days, they earned a few schillings; on bad days, they went to bed hungry.
Papa had been a stonecutter, specializing in headstones for the Jewish cemetery in Altona. Jews were forced to bury their dead there because they weren’t allowed to have a cemetery in Hamburg. Papa often travelled between the towns.
Three months earlier, on his way home from Altona, Papa had been attacked by robbers. They had kicked him in the ribs and beat him on the head with heavy clubs, all the while calling him names like “dirty Jew.” Some passersby had helped Papa get home. He lay in bed for several days until he succumbed to his wounds and died.
Papa hadn’t been one of the wealthy merchants who had profited from trading tobacco, wine, cotton, or spices. Nevertheless, he was skilled with the chisel on stone. Now he himself lay buried beneath a stone in the Jewish cemetery where so much of his work stood.
Johanna helped Mama with the housework as well as at the market. But she hated cooking, cleaning, and washing! She was so tired of helping Mama! Today, Johanna had told Mama she was going to visit her friend, Marianne. Mama had grudgingly agreed.
Instead, Johanna had come here, to the town hall. She was sorry about lying to Mama, but if she got this job, she’d be able to buy a new dress or shoes or coat. More importantly, she would be able to give some money to Mama.
“Excuse me?”
Johanna was startled. She looked up into the blue eyes of a young woman sitting beside her. Her blonde hair hung in two neat braids on each side of her round face.
“Do you know anything about the new orphanage?” The girl twisted one of her braids through her fingers.
Johanna shook her head. “No. Nothing.”
The girl smiled. “If I were as pretty as you,” she said, “I would try to marry a rich man. Not look for work in an orphanage.”
Johanna blushed. Mama always said she was pretty, with her auburn hair and hazel eyes, but Johanna didn’t really believe her. After all, mothers always thought their daughters were beautiful. “You need a dowry to get married to a rich man,” Johanna said, “and I don’t have one.”
“Nor do I,” the girl replied.
“My name is Johanna. What is yours?”
“Cecile. Cecile Hansen.”
“Are you from Hamburg?” Johanna asked.
“No. Altona.” Cecile lowered her voice. “My brother, Antoine, is a merchant. He often travels between Altona and Hamburg on business. Last week he saw the sign posted outside. He told me about the job. So, I begged him to take me with him today.”
“Perhaps we’ll both be lucky.”
“I hope so,” Cecile answered.
A short man stood at the door at the end of the hall. “Next,” he said and motioned Johanna to follow him. He wore a long, brown, full-bottomed wig. His jacket was light brown wool; his breeches, dark brown; and his buckled leather shoes were plain brown.
The windows’ interior shutters had been opened wide and shafts of sunlight were playing with dust motes in the air. Johanna tried to walk quietly, but the sound of her shoes resounded loudly on the tiled floor.
The man sat down behind a large oak table. Beside him, a stout woman glanced up as Johanna approached. The woman wore a dark grey, woollen dress cut in severe lines. Her thin black hair was streaked with grey. Her small black eyes seemed to bore into Johanna’s head, while her nose jutted out like a bird’s beak.
Johanna couldn’t find a comfortable place for her hands. She wanted to run away but her feet felt stuck to the floor. Her smile felt like the one painted on the Till Eulenspiegel puppet she had seen last summer at the Hamburg fair.
“What is your name?” barked the woman.
Johanna curtsied. “Johanna, if you please, ma’am.”
“Last name?”
“Richter.” Johanna had almost blurted out her real name, but stopped herself just in time. If she told them her name was Eisen, her real, Jewish name, she wouldn’t get the job. People didn’t give such work to Jews. To be sure, a few wealthy Jews lived in the city. But most Jews made their living in small trades — tailors, shoemakers, bookbinders. The Christians didn’t trust Jews; they still believed all the old lies.
The man riffled through some papers on his desk and reached into his pockets, searching for something. Then he touched the spectacles resting on his nose, shook his head, and smiled. He dipped his quill into the inkpot, licked his lips, and wrote Johanna’s name onto the paper. The scratching of pen on paper put Johanna’s nerves more on edge.
“My name is Frau Taubman,” said the woman. She pointed a fat finger at the man next to her. “This is Herr Vogel, the duke’s secretary.” The man nodded and pushed his spectacles farther up the bridge of his nose. “What is your age?”
“Fourteen.”
“Do