The Missing Madonna, Chapter 10 "Bastard Child"

Rachel is suckling at my breast. She is just a week old. She is so small, so vulnerable and yet each time I look at her a feeling of revulsion overpowers me. She has dark hair and brown eyes, just like Nathan’s, no-one will know for certain that she’s not Nathan’s child, but I know and Nathan does too, that she is the child of my child’s murderer.

Nathan has tried very hard not to let his feelings about the child show. He has protected me, he has said nothing to anyone about my shame, not even to his or my parents. His mother was overjoyed when he told her that I was pregnant again, she predicted another grandson to replace the one she’d lost and carry on the male line of the household. She was bitterly disappointed when a girl was born, she was scarcely civil to me, although Nathan remonstrated with her. I shudder to think what she would say if she knew my child was not her son’s. His father was more understanding, but was clearly disappointed.

I said nothing either to my own parents about the origin of the child growing within me and they were pleased for me and thankful for the restoration to health and activity of the daughter they had known. They congratulate Nathan on bringing me out of my grief and fathering another child, even though it was a girl. Nathan bit his tongue and said nothing.

Rebecca attended me as well as my mother when my time came. She has been a good friend to me, as has Miriam, wife of the rabbi, Joel. Throughout my pregnancy I have had their support. I don’t think they suspected that the child was not Nathan’s although they do know I was raped by one of Herod’s soldiers as were several other women and girls that night. All of us were dishevelled and bloodstained after our children’s murder. Who knew then and cared which of us had been additionally defiled? Some of the women made their distress very public, they cried out and accused the soldiers in their anguish, they wailed in the street, their shame and humiliation was only too obvious. I was deadened by my experience, shocked into silence. I thought I’d confided in no-one except my husband, but someone knew, and the rumour had reached Matthaeus’ son, or else why did he taunt me, or did he just guess?

So everyone appears to be happy for me, they see the child at my breast and my husband at my side and I try to show that I am happy too, but it is a sham. She is the result of a great crime, a hideous act. How can I look at her and love her? What does Nathan really think each time he looks at her, at us? Does he see my rapist, does he imagine him violating me even as he’s just ripped the life from my only son? There is something guarded about Nathan’s joy, he handles the baby carefully as though he fears to drop her. He wills himself to embrace the child.

We called her ‘Rachel’. I don’t know why, there is no ‘Rachel’ in my family or that of Nathan. It was as though we were acknowledging her to be a stranger in our home. Nathan’s mother kept asking him why we had chosen this name and not the name of one of her sisters or cousins as is normal.

And so, Rachel, we have got to get used to each other, you and I. I must learn to love you, because the mess of your conception was not your fault. You try your best to be lovable. You search for my eyes and I try to look back into yours, although sometimes I flinch and look the other way. You stare so intently, sometimes I think you are accusing me. You are pulling at my breasts now, you are a greedy child and I am sore. When you cry at night and wake me because you are hungry, then I feel resentment, not the maternal love that I ought to experience. I know it’s wrong to feel like this, but I can’t help it. Forgive me, little one, I’ll try my best. Nathan will acknowledge you as his own. I pray that no-one will ever tell you that your real father murdered your half-brother. I pray that I shall never betray you in this way, however angry or upset I may be with you.

Rachel is satisfied at last. She relaxes and slips from my aching nipple and I hold her and try to sing to her. Her eyes close and I feel her warmth against my skin. I could put her in the cradle that used to hold Benjamin, but I deliberately hold her in my arms to try to compensate for my lack of natural love for her. She is relying on me. She has no-one else to care for her. I cannot, I must not, let her down, but it will be hard.

Nathan has had to work especially hard these last few months. A number of the men from the village have gone away. They went mysteriously one night, without any public farewell. Nathan tells me that they have gone to join a Zealot group to take revenge against Herod and his soldiers, but that I must not speak of this to anyone. The absence of these men puts extra burdens on the remaining male adults and youths. Several have left families behind that need support and sustenance. We are honour bound to help them, share what we have. So Nathan spends longer in the fields, tilling and planting the land of other families as well as our own.

We have this particular additional duty and responsibility for Jude’s family, for he has deserted his wife, Salome, and his four year old son, Simon. And unbeknown to Jude, his wife is pregnant, a child conceived before Jude left with the other village men. I have to be the comforter now, because Salome was distraught when her man left with the others. She remonstrated with him, tried to get him to see his responsibility for her and his remaining child, but his anger at the loss of the younger boy was too great and he was persuaded to go in search of revenge. Salome is doubly vulnerable now, burdened also by the knowledge of the little one within her and desperate to know how they will survive. Her own father died many years ago, and her husband’s family can be of little assistance as they are nearly destitute - Jude’s father is crippled with arthritis and cannot labour in Jude’s field, which was going to waste until Nathan stepped in and offered help.

Our well is just outside the village down one of the rocky slopes where such water as falls is likely to sink into softer soil and a couple of streams form when it rains. It is a bit tricky to get there without slipping on the rocks, especially when we return back with our laden water-pots. It is the first time since the birth of Rachel that I have been down to the well myself to fetch water - both Rebecca and Miriam have done this duty for me this past week. I’m a little nervous as the other women will all want to see my baby and there’s bound to be speculation over whether she’s Nathan’s or the result of the rape. I ponder whether I should go later when the sun is high and when no-one else will be about, but that is what outcasts and women who are ostracised will do, and in the mind of the other village women, that would only confirm my child as an object of shame.

It is now time, therefore, to go. I secure Rachel in the shawl and tie it round my body so that my arms are free to check any slip. Then I can hold the large water jar, especially on the return trip when it is heavy. My situation is not unique, four of us have had babies in the last few days. There will be much gossip in any case, and speculation about our children’s fathers because they all know that conception would have been about the time of the massacre and violations. We shall all be under pressure to admit that our children are bastards, they don’t mean to hurt us, they will express sympathy, but in their hearts they will not accept our children and treat us as unclean and to be pitied.

There are over a dozen of the women already there waiting their turn to draw water. I see immediately that Ripah, Miriam and Susannah also have tiny bundles in their arms. The other women all have toddlers trailing round their feet, these children are running around playing together without restraint, rushing back and clinging to their mothers’ legs if they need reassurance.

Everyone turns to look at me as I arrive.

“Ruth, let’s have a look at her! Look at her dark eyes. Is she like your husband, Nathan?”
See, they are already probing, testing me!

“Yes, of course, Nathan’s mother is convinced that she’s the image of him when he was a baby. Well, with one obvious exception, of course,” I add as some of them burst out laughing.

“Well, you do wonder when you think of the time of conception, four of you at once, it can’t be coincidence, can at?”

“I’m sure she’s Nathan’s, I really am,” I say as convincingly as I can, feeling that my lie must be transparent to them.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just have this feeling and Nathan is convinced, he has no reason to doubt,” I lie again.

A group of the women huddle round me and I pull back the shawl to reveal Rachel’s face. She wakes and opens her brown eyes and stares at the faces peering so inquisitively at her. They note her dark hair. It is not inconceivable that she’s Nathan’s. They give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m not sure how many of these women, anyway, know that I was raped. I have not consciously confided in anyone other than my husband that I was violated by a soldier, although as I’ve mentioned before, Matthaeus’ son tried to taunt me. I still don’t know if he really knew through some unguarded word of mine that spread rumour until it reached his ears, or whether he was just guessing, looking for some snub in the manner typical of that obnoxious boy.

After the first flurry of interest in Rachel, speculation and gossip centres on the other new born babies present. This is not Miriam’s first child, her new son already has a sister and an older brother who just escaped the massacre as he was then three years old. She is a feisty woman, loud and outspoken compared with most other village women, and she is not shy of admitting that she had been raped and there was the possibility that the child was that of the rapist. However, in her next breath, she says that her man, Barthaeus, a gruff giant of a man and no fool, took her immediately afterwards, in order to ensure no-one could ever be certain, if a child was conceived, of its parenthood. In any case, the boy does not look unlike his father, her husband is quite satisfied to call him his own and act accordingly, so she holds her head high and seems to defy any of the women present to cast any further slur. I think, she’s a strong character, she’ll get away with it, even if the child was a soldier’s she’d not let gossip and the opinion of others get to her.

Neither Ripah nor Susannah can cope with the speculation as well as Miriam. Ripah is very guarded, one of the women, Martha I think it was, challenged Ripah very directly, observing that her baby bore little resemblance to her husband. I’m glad that the attention has gone away from me and Rachel until I see Ripah suddenly burst into tears. She is sobbing her heart out, unable for a while to get out any words of explanation. Then it all comes tumbling out. She admits that her child is the consequence of her violation and her husband has refused to accept the child, what’s more, he’s threatened to divorce her.

The mood of the women changes violently, her tears have worked their effect and they commiserate with her, they are angry with her husband Thaddeus.

“What will you do? Will you oppose him?”

“What can I do? Of course I don’t want to lose him. But I’ve no children of his own to hold him. I’m not like Susannah or Miriam who both have older children for whom their husbands have responsibility.”

Susannah joins in the general comforting of Ripah, saying nothing about her own situation. Her own violation is no secret, nor the fact that her child is probably that of one of the soldiers too, but the women have not pursued their curiosity about that fact any further because they are too preoccupied with supporting Ripah who is still sobbing.

The hauling up of water has ceased while the gossip about our children has been the sole source of interest. Other women, not affected by our predicament, contemplate aloud what their own husbands would do, were they in the place of Ripah or Susannah. Some of the women present must have been close to a similar situation for rumour has it that over a dozen rapes took place that dreadful morning, although only four of us have born children as a possible outcome. And some of those present now certainly lost children in the killings.

As we at length get round to filling our water-pots, and make our way unsteadily up the rocky path, I’m joined by Susannah, who peers afresh at my Rachel and confides in me.

“Lucky you! At least your husband does not doubt his own child. Even if mine understands and does not blame me, I can feel his shame that the boy is not his own.” As she says this, she is pulling back the cloth to show the face of her sleeping baby boy. “He would have been so proud that I’d delivered him a son at last after the two daughters.”

“Yes, I’m fortunate, I suppose.”

was going to add more, but I’m frightened I’ll give away that my situation is similar to hers. The other women may sound sympathetic but the children spawned by the soldiers will always be objects of curiosity, they’ll be pointed at in the village, they will be called ‘bastards’ behind closed doors, if later there is mischief caused by children in the village, they’ll be blamed. Bad blood will out, they’ll say, and that cloud of suspicion and prejudice will always be there.

I will not have that for my child. I may find it hard to love her, but I’ll protect her, that I will promise. I’ll not have her labelled a ‘bastard’.