Reviewed by Margaret Donsbach for historicalnovels.info
The
Midwife of Venice is an imaginative, suspenseful tale about a
sixteenth-century Jewish midwife from Venice's Ghetto Nuovo. Hannah Levi
sorely misses her merchant husband, a captive in Malta after
mercenaries attack his trading ship. "He had been fond of eating oranges
in bed, feeding her sections as they chatted. She had not washed the
blanket since Isaac had departed for the Levant to trade spices."When a Christian nobleman comes to her house by dark of night and begs her to assist his wife, Hannah knows she must turn him down or risk torture for breaking the law. Jewish midwives are forbidden to deliver Christian babies. But the nobleman has heard Hannah is a wonder worker. Indeed, she has a dangerous secret for which she could be accused of witchcraft: "her birthing spoons, two silver ladles hinged together." The spoons can save lives, but they can kill, too. "At a recent confinement, she had exerted too much pressure and had crushed the skull of the baby instead of easing it out." But the nobleman is desperate and will pay her price, a sum high enough to ransom her husband away from the Knights of Malta.
With a baby at the center of the tale, The Midwife of Venice is as fast-paced as any thriller, the childbirth scene as gripping as any battle story. Cliffhanger chapter endings bounce readers back and forth between Hannah and her husband as each faces a series of potentially deadly perils. The setting is well researched, although the way Hannah pushes boundaries and encounters one worst-case scenario after the other can make the story seem frothy and implausible. Readers willing to suspend disbelief, though, will find her a swashbuckling midwife in a novel whose pages seem almost to turn themselves. (2011; 329 pages, including a bibliography and a brief Author's Note on the historical background)
While
rifling through the bargain bin at your local bookstore for a dime
novel to read on the plane, you come across what looks like just the
right smut: a classically pulpy woman on the cover, eyes cast down to
the text in front of her. Even the title, with its exaggerated cursive
font, seems right: They Called Her Rebbe.
Once
upon a time there was a shtetl named Trochenbrod. In its heyday,
Trochenbrod, which is located in Western Ukraine just 30 kilometers
northeast of the city of Lutsk, was home to approximately 5,000 Jews,
with seven synagogues, and a rich farming culture. In typically frank
Yiddish fashion, Trochenbrod means "bread without butter."
What
do cosmetic shoulder blade surgery, flak jackets made of spider silk,
high-end shopping sprees as a stage of grief, and The Twilight Zone's
Rod Serling have in common? Nothing, perhaps, but their convergence in
Textile, a newly translated novel by celebrated Israeli writer Orly
Castel-Bloom.
The
past might never be dead, but just how deeply can it be buried? That's
the question brothers Franek and Jozek grapple with as they uncover the
secrets of their rural Polish village 60 years after World War II, in
Władysław Pasikowski's controversial film Pokłosie (Aftermath).
The
final week of September 1961 proved to be an auspicious one in American
Jewish history — or, at least, in the history of Jewish-American
celebrities.
"The
Lottery" might be the most famous American short story. Written by
Shirley Jackson and published in the New Yorker in 1948, it tells of an
unnamed American town where, once a year, residents draw slips of paper
from a black box, choosing one person to be murdered by the rest of the
village.
Plenty
of fictional energy has been devoted to what might have happened if a
modern Jewish state were established somewhere other than the Middle
East: Michael Chabon has examined Alaska and Ben Katchor upstate New
York. But what if some enterprising Jews left Planet Earth entirely?
So
begins "The Song of the Red Cow," one of 54 strange and delightful
Torah commentaries in Unscrolled, a motley collection of essays,
memoirs, cartoons, and shticks. Each is as unique as the poor red
heifer, who we come to see as young, beautiful, unblemished…and
tragically doomed.
There
are many different ways to be dumb about literature. When you’re in
high school, the men and women who teach it to you—sometimes passionate
and sweet, too often underpaid, insecure, and sour—insist that your
primary task as a reader is to decipher the hidden meanings that the
author weaved throughout the text like a serial killer leaving behind
clues to taunt his weary pursuers. When you’re in college, the men and
women who teach it to you—also underpaid, also probably sour—turn their
attention from text to author, wrestling the creative spirit down to the
therapist’s couch and squeezing it until, anguished, it is ready to cry
uncle, or, more likely, mother. Both approaches are vile and joyless,
but when it comes to Dvora Omer—the great Israeli writer of novels for
young adults who passed away earlier this year—they seem inevitable:
More than those of any other writer I can think of, Omer’s life and work
are best understood as threads of the same tale, an epic poem of
sacrifice and betrayal on which all Israeli children were reared.
If
you’ve been anywhere near a Canadian newspaper or news website in the
last week, then you’ll know that a scandal involving author and English
professor David Gilmour has been dominating the headlines. The dustup is
in response to remarks Gilmour made discounting Canadian, women and
minority writers.
There’s
no other living Israeli author who is as well known around the world as
Amos Oz. Inside Israel, he’s one of the country’s most respected
cultural figures. Oz has lived a tumultuous life. When he was 10 years
old, he witnessed the founding of the Jewish state. When he was 12 years
old, his mother committed suicide. When he was 15, he joined a kibbutz
and changed his last name to Oz, Hebrew for “strength.” He eventually
left the kibbutz for the desert because of his son’s asthma, but as he
tells Vox Tablet contributor Daniel Estrin, he still dreams of kibbutz
life at least once a week. In his newest short story collection, Between
Friends, he revisits the early years of the kibbutz, when the
collective farms were still a wild Israeli ideological experiment.
Estrin sat with Amos Oz in his home in Tel Aviv for a far-ranging
discussion about the new book, his love of Hebrew, his predictions for
Israel’s future, and a bit of celebrity gossip. [Running time: 27:45.]
Before
we explain what the list is, we should tell you what it’s not: It’s not
a list of “The Greatest Jewish Books of All Time,” an undertaking that
would involve sifting through thousands of texts in dozens of languages
produced over the course of millennia and that could only result in
either a Cecil B. DeMille-like cast of thousands or a list with one
entry: the Bible. What we wanted to create was a library of works that
have actually moved us and shaped the way we understand ourselves as
Jewish human beings in the world. We read some of these books as
children; some we read under our covers as teenagers; some we got off
college syllabi; some we discovered, with wonder and awe and surprise,
as adults. But all are books of supreme importance in shaping our lives
and our understanding of the different ways one might be a Jew in the
world—whether the authors are religious Jews, or secular Jews, or not
Jewish by your definition or someone else’s definition, or by any
definition at all.
Dara
Horn’s home, like her life, has two levels. On the higher level are
rooms full of toy dinosaurs and Babar posters. On the lower one, shelves
full of Yiddish and Hebrew books and Zambian carvings and wooden panels
from China do battle with water guns and baby bottles. “I live a double
life,” she said as she provided me with the abbreviated grand tour of
her Essex County, N.J., home. “I think all parents have a double life.”
Horn’s double life is just a bit more double than most other parents’;
perhaps we can call it her quadruple life. The relevant statistics: age
36; four children; and, with the publication of her new book, A Guide
for the Perplexed, four novels.
Vienna,
1895. Minna Bernays, a laughably incompetent lady's companion, moves in
with her sister Martha and Martha's husband, Sigmund Freud. Freud, a
39-year-old struggling professor of the fledgling field of
psychotherapy, is charmed by the intellectually-minded Minna, who
attends to the Freuds' 6 children and, owing in part to her fascination
with her brother-in-law's work, begins enjoying his romantic attention
as well.
WASHINGTON
— An anecdote described in the opening of the new book that has been
rattling the nation’s capital tells the story of NBC correspondent
Andrea Mitchell and former Reagan chief of staff Ken Duberstein, who are
described as “Jews by religion and local royalty by acclamation.”
At
a recent rally for the Voting Rights Act in Alabama, Minister Louis Farrakhan of
the Nation of Islam spoke of the Jews. Surrounded by a cadre of tall, glowering
men with snappy suits, sunglasses, and folded arms, Farrakhan addressed an
enthusiastic crowd in terms that would be unsurprisng to anyone familiar with
his unique way of stirring up an audience. After asserting, with a benevolent
smile, that he is not an anti-Semite, Farrakhan dove into his feelings about
Jews: “I just don’t like the way they misuse their power,” he said. “And I have
a right to say that, without being labeled anti-Semitic, when I have done
nothing to stop a Jewish person from getting an education, setting up a
business, or doing whatever a Jewish person desires to do.” The remarks were
evocative of the sentiments he has shared widely throughout his decades-long
career as a public figure—namely, that blacks should not trust Jews.
“Writing a biography means living through an intimate
and sometimes intimidating adventure,” writes Benoît Peeters in his newly
translated biography of Jacques Derrida, who would have turned 83 today. But
what is the difference between the biography of a living man and a dead man? In
the Introduction to Derrida, published in France in 2010 and now beautifully
translated into English by Andrew Brown, French artist, critic, and author
Peeters writes, “Whatever happens, Jacques Derrida will not be part of his own
life, like a sort of posthumous friend. A strange one-way friendship that he
would not have failed to question.” The author continues in the book’s
introduction: “I am convinced of one thing: there are biographies only of the
dead. So every biography is lacking its supreme reader: the one who is no longer
there. If there is an ethics of biographers, it can perhaps be located here:
would they dare to stand, book in hand, in front of their subject?”
Derek B. Miller‘s debut novel, Norwegian by Night, is about aging snipers. Or,
it’s about parenting and loss. Or, the lingering traces of the Korean and
Vietnam Wars. It feels about as full as life itself, and almost as real. 
The British Jewish writer Howard Jacobson’s eleventh
novel, The Finkler Question, was awarded the Man Booker Prize today. On the eve
of the announcement, Jacobson spoke to Tablet Magazine about English
anti-Semitism, Israel “swaggering around,” and why Jews used to be good at
ping-pong. Plus: The first U.S. publication of Jacobson’s 1999 profile of table
tennis champion Marty Reisman. 
Karen Joy Fowler we are all completely beside
ourselves1. We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, by Karen Joy Fowler
In 1894, boys like Jiří Langer were a dime a dozen:
Born into an assimilated Jewish family in Prague, there was nothing notable
about him until, at 19, he bought "a railway ticket to a little place in eastern
Galicia," where he met the Hasidic rebbe of the town of Belz. He returned to
Prague wearing traditional dress and observing Hasidic customs. 


Dr Emily Michelson is a transplant from the United
States, and has previously lived in Italy, Jerusalem, Salt Lake City, Manhattan,
and other parts of the US East Coast. She received her undergraduate degree from
Harvard University in 1995 in History and Literature of the Renaissance and
Reformation. Despite vowing never to go to graduate school, and taking a few
years off after university to pursue other interests, she returned to the field
to earn a PhD from Yale in 2006 in History and Renaissance Studies. 
"It
is important to quiet the lamb, that is the first thing." So begins Naomi
Alderman's The Liars' Gospel, a fictional account of Jesus' life set against
the backdrop of the Jews' struggles against Roman rule. 




The winner of the Sami Rohr Literary Prize—which, at
$100,000, is one of the most generous literary awards in the world—won’t be
announced until April, but many of the finalists, along with some 150 writers,
editors, and publishers, attended the National Jewish Book Awards, held last
night at the Center for Jewish History in Manhattan. Sitting for dinner at what
people took to calling the “Rohr Kids Table,” writers, both nominated and not,
gossiped nervously about the five finalists: Francesca Segal (The Innocents),
Ben Lerner (Leaving the Atocha Station), Stuart Nadler (The Book of Life), Shani
Boianjiu (The People Forever Are Not Afraid), and Asaf Shurr (Motti). “If you
don’t hear by 10 a.m., you didn’t get it,” said Allison Amend, a novelist and
Rohr finalist in 2011, to Boianjiu, who was visiting New York from Israel.