KIM GOTTLIEB-WALKER

PART 1 1465 – Women Behind Walls

The Convent of Le Murate, Florence, Italy

With his warm arms around me, I snuggled against my papà's chest. I could hear the thumping of his heart, mingled with the soft clip-clop of Luna’s hooves on the dirt road beneath us. The swaying of our old mare was like when my nonna used to rock me in her chair each night, singing me a lullaby.

Papà’s voice rumbled in my ear. “Wake up, Cati.”

I rubbed my eyes and looked past the trees. The road crossed through a big meadow, and on the other side was a very large building with gray stone walls.

“You see, sweet one? We are approaching your new home.”

I could feel my own heart begin to pound.

“I don’t want a new home, Babbo. I like the one we have.”

“I know, my dear child, but our home is no longer ours. Now I must travel far away, and I cannot take you with me. The kind ladies here will take care of you while I am gone. They will be your family.”

Nonna was in heaven with Mamma now, so my papà was all the family I had left.

“But I don’t want a new family, Babbo! I am happy with you.”

“I know, my little love. I do not want to be away from you, but it cannot be helped, so I have found a safe place for you to stay until I can return.”

As we drew closer, he pointed down the dirt road ahead of us. “You see? Here are the blessed sisters, coming to greet us!”

I saw ladies in black robes coming outside through the big front doors. I had seen some dressed that way before, when my nonna took me to the church in San Gimigniano, but never so many at once, and all just alike. She only took me there one time, since the paintings on the walls were so frightful that I cried out and could not be still. As Nonna explained, they showed demons stabbing and choking bad people and pooping coins into the mouths of greedy sinners. She had to take me home so my wailing would not disturb the prayers of others, and we never returned.

“Why are all the signoras wearing the same clothes and hats, Babbo? And why do they all wear black?”

“Because they are Benedictine nuns, Cati dear. Their head coverings are called wimples. They wear them to hide their hair for the sake of modesty. They serve God without vanity.”

I did not know what ‘vanity’ was, and I was not so sure about God, though I knew he lived in Heaven. I had often heard Papà say “God be praised!” or “Thank God!” whenever I had a mishap but was not hurt, or “God forbid!” if someone spoke of misfortune. Before she went to Heaven to be with Mamma, Nonna told me that if I was a good girl I would also be with God someday. She seemed very happy about seeing God, but I just wanted to see my mamma and my nonna again.

“I cannot provide all you need to become a proper young lady,” Papà said. “Here you will receive food and shelter, and you will learn to read and write. Le Murate will be a safe home for you. You will see.”

Papà swung one foot over Luna’s back, slid to the ground, and lifted me down. I wrapped my arms around his leg and held tight. I was afraid that if I let go he would disappear, and I would be alone among all those strangers.

The nuns gathered around us with their black robes flapping in the breeze. They reminded me of the dark wings of the ravens that had flocked around our dead cow. Then the group of women parted, and they all nodded respectfully to a tall lady who stepped forward to greet us.

“Welcome, Signor Cellini.” She looked down at me. “This must be the daughter you wrote to us about.”

“Yes, Holy Mother,” Papà replied as he bowed. “This is my Caterina. She is five years old.”

He turned me to face her. ”Cati, this is the prioress. She is a learned and gracious lady from a noble family of Rome, and she will be your teacher.”

He took a pouch from his saddlebag and handed it to her. “This should be enough to provide for the child, but I will send more from abroad. I have deposited two hundred florins in the Medici bank’s dowry fund so that by the time my Caterina is ready to wed, there will be a sizable amount for her husband.”

“We will take excellent care of your daughter, Signor Cellini. Sister Agnese will be in charge of her.”

A nun with plump pink cheeks stepped forward as my papà knelt down to give me a kiss.

I threw my arms around his neck and tried not to cry.

“Please take me with you, Babbo! I promise to be good.”

“You are always good, my sweet girl, but the hardship of travel to distant lands is not for a child. This is what your mamma wanted for you, to be raised as befits a member of her distinguished family, so you will be a wise and educated woman as she was.” His eyes filled with tears. “Your mother was a great lady, and I miss her every day of my life. But she lives on in you. You, too, are a Bardi. Never forget that.”

I tried to wipe away the tears that slid down his cheeks. “Please, Papà. Don’t leave me! I can help you, and I won’t be any trouble at all. Please, please take me with you!”

“I wish I could, my sweet Cati. You will always be in my heart, as I pray I will always be in yours. But this is better for you right now. I will return to you, but in the meantime, be my brave girl. Promise to be obedient and listen to the blessed sisters who will care for you.”

He hugged me, then pulled my arms from around his neck and reached into his pocket. He drew out a small, white horse and showed it to me. “This keepsake is precious. It was carved from the tooth of an ancient beast. Whenever you feel lonely, it will remind you that I love you and that your mother watches over you from Heaven.”

I could not stop weeping as he tucked it into my pocket, kissed the top of my head, and turned me to face Sister Agnese. She leaned down and wrapped her cloak around me. Then she lifted me into her arms and patted my back, but I did not feel any better.

My father bade me goodbye, mounted our horse, and rode back down the path. I could not help but sob as I watched him ride away from me. He turned and waved just before disappearing into the distant woods.

I struggled free and tried to run after him, calling, “Babbo! Come back! Please!” but I slipped on the gravel path and fell onto my knees and hands.

I managed to stand, but my knees were bleeding. I could hardly breathe but could not stop my tears.

How could he leave me?

Sister Agnese lifted me into her arms again, and I soaked her shoulder with my weeping. She did not seem angry but said, “We do not run or cry aloud here. We walk with dignity, and we bear our pain with courage, like the saints.” She turned and carried me toward the big stone building. “I will take you to Sister Benedicta in our convent infirmary. She makes special plant medicines and knows everything about healing.”

I held the little horse tight inside my pocket, fighting back tears and hoping that my pa pà would hurry back to take me home again. Sister Agnese carried me through the gate, inside the walls, past a garden, and through a door leading into a white chamber.

The chamber walls were lined with shelves covered with jars of many colors, sizes, and shapes. There were many types of plants, some in pots and some hanging like laundry pinned up to dry.

Sister Agnese lifted me onto a long table, where an older lady-nun with kind eyes washed my bleeding knees and hands. Then she took a pouch from one of the shelves, removed some brown powder, and sprinkled it on my scrapes.

“This is called myrrh,” the older nun said. “It is one of the gifts the Magi brought to the Christ child when he was born. It will help you heal quickly.”

While Sister Benedicta wrapped my knees and hands in soft strips of cloth, I wondered at all the rows of bottles and jars and the leaves and flowers hanging from the ceiling. I longed to know how she had made them into medicines.

“We glory in God’s creations,” she said, lifting me down to set my feet on the floor. “For every ill, God provides a balm. For every sadness, he offers joy to come.”

The myrrh made my knees feel better, but it did not take away my sadness.

Sister Agnese led me to a bare room with a pallet of straw that would be my bed. I asked why there were no playthings, no vases with flowers as we had at home.

“We need no distractions from our work and prayers. We have no personal possessions to tie us to this earth, since we are all here simply to serve Our Father as we wait to join him in Heaven.”

“My mamma is in Heaven already. And my nonna is there, too.”

“As we all will be someday, if we are very good.”

I kept my little horse hidden in my pocket. Although I thought it must be a “personal possession,” I could not bear the idea of parting with it. I did wish to be very good so I could be with their father and my mother and grandmother in Heaven some day, but it was all I had of my own father.

The next morning, Sister Agnese woke me to attend prayers and break my fast and then took me to see the prioress. She brought me as far as the entrance to her private chambers, bowed, and left me standing in the doorway. I was not sure what I should do. I peeked inside and saw pictures on the walls and many books on shelves.

The prioress rose from her table. From the lines on her brow and at the edges of her eyes, I knew she must be quite old, but she looked kind. She smiled at me and held out her hand.

“Come in, child.”

She beckoned me to stand beside her desk. Then she turned her chair to face me and took my hands in hers.

“Welcome to the Lord’s House, my dear. Here you are free from the vanities, temptations, and limitations of the world. Here you will learn to do good in the eyes of Our Lord.”

I did not know what any of that meant, except for being good. I only knew that I did not wish to stay there to learn anything. I thought about my father riding away, and even though I tried not to weep again, my chin began to tremble.

The prioress tilted her head slightly and tapped her finger against her cheek as she gazed at me. She removed a large, leather-bound volume from the massive bookcase behind her and opened it. She turned it so I could see a colorful page. There was a man in armor with wings, his head circled with shining gold. He fought a fearsome winged beast that spat flames and snarled at the end of his lance. I wanted to touch the bright images and trace the shapes of the letters, but I did not know if that would be allowed.

“Would you like to read the stories about our Lord and the saints and their bravery and sacrifice?”

I had not expected to hear stories or see such lovely pictures.

“Yes, please.”

“Very good.” She smiled and nodded. “Every night after vespers and before bedtime, you will come to me, and we shall read together. Tomorrow we’ll begin learning letters. But for today, I shall read to you.”

She lifted me onto her lap, as my nonna used to do. I did not feel it would be right to snuggle into her arms, so I sat very straight as she began to read the tale of Saint Michael and the Dragon. It was so exciting that I felt a bit better, even though I was among strangers.

When she finished the story, she set me back on my feet, rose, and took my hand to lead me to the doorway. We passed a small table where little figures of kings, queens, horsemen, and soldiers stood on a board made of many black and white squares. They reminded me of Papà’s little horse, and I longed to play with them. I reached for a white stone lady wearing a crown.

The Prioress noticed my interest. “Do you know what this is?”

I shook my head.

“It is a game called chess, and I will teach you how to play it.” She lifted me onto one of the chairs and took the crowned lady from my hands. “The queen is the most powerful piece in this game. If a woman is forced to live in the secular world, as you might one day, she must be both clever and well educated.”

Each morning after that, Sister Agnese woke me before Lauds to pray as the sun rose, and I often worked with her in the garden. At midday we would gather in the refectory with the rest of the nuns and novitiates for bread and soup.

But my favorite time of day was after Vespers, when I would visit the prioress. Every evening after I had finished working on my alphabet and listening to a story about the saints, she taught me how to play chess, showing me the different movements of each piece and how to counter them successfully. I could not wait to teach Papà when he returned, so he could play with me.

When my own saint’s day, the twenty-fifth of November, approached, we read the story of Santa Caterina. She was also patron saint of the convent. I learned how the wicked pagan Romans tortured her and tried to break her on a spiked wheel. In the painting, poor Caterina was stretched across the cruel spikes, her eyes looking toward heaven as the wheel broke into pieces beneath her. The next page showed that a man in armor had cut off her head with a huge sword.

The pictures were painted in bright colors. Deep red blood gushed from her neck as her head seemed to fly across the page. I covered my mouth to prevent myself from screaming, but I could not tear my eyes away.

The abbess quickly turned the page to show Santa Caterina rising to Heaven with wings like a dove, her happy smile proof of her peace and holiness. “Despite the pain and torture we must all endure in life, the saints were rewarded after death with pure bliss and joy in Christ’s love.”

I was not sure what “bliss” was, although I was relieved to know that my namesake was finally happy in the arms of Our Lord. But I could not forget the horror of her impalement on the dreadful spikes of the wheel or the sight of her head flying through the air, streaming blood.

When I repeated the tale to Sister Agnese, she told me the story of her own namesake, who was sent to a brothel, had her breasts cut off, and was stabbed with a sword and condemned to be burned. I did not know what a brothel might be, but if it was a place where people were cut apart and burned, I knew it must be terrible.

I could not stop thinking of these stories and the images of poor Jesus on the cross, with blood spurting from his side, hands, and feet and from his forehead beneath the crown of thorns. That night I awoke screaming, and for many nights after that I saw visions of torture each time I fell asleep.

When I first awoke in the night, wailing from those terrors, Sister Agnese took me to see a lovely painting of the Madonna and Child to guide my attention to the gentle tenderness of Mother Mary. This made me long for my own mother, whom I had never known because she had died soon after giving birth to me. When I dreamed of my mother after that, she always appeared as the beautiful Madonna from the painting.

Each day I prayed to Mother Mary to bring my father back. Every morning I would hurry to the front gates to see if he had returned for me. But he was never there.

After I had been at the convent for several months, Sister Agnese took me to visit Sister Dominica’s workshop. I stood on tiptoe so I could see over the edge of the sturdy oak table where she was grinding some blackened twigs.

Sister Dominica was an artist—a very rare accomplishment for a woman, I was told. She was preparing to create a painting on the wall of the refectory where we took our meals, a picture of Lord Jesus and His last supper with His disciples. She had a collection of powders of different colors, and as she turned them into paint, they grew as bright as berries and looked delicious.