Free The Devil in Jerusalem by Naomi Ragen

each gram of precious metal, each decorative, colored gemstone. Most important, she learned to evaluate the men and women who were buzzed in wanting to buy them, becoming as cynical and accurate a judge as her mother, and with it, learning a healthy dose of self-contempt. What a shallow way to judge people, by the material and fit of their clothing, the kind of shoes they wore, the type of handbag they carried! Even worse, though, was how accurate these things were as indicators of their value as customers.
    She hated that people could be labeled and dismissed so easily. Every day, she hoped for a surprise, for some bearded stranger wearing purple Crocs and a Metallica T-shirt to ask for a delicate pink morganite. But it never happened. Except for the young couple who wanted the black diamond, there were no surprises at all, until the day she was standing behind the counter and suddenly found herself in a puddle of her own making.
    â€œCall Shlomie!” she begged her mother, as they hurried out to the car for the ride to the hospital.
    Impossibly, Shlomie was waiting for her at the entrance. She was so happy to see him! Her loyal, sweet husband! Here to rescue her from her mother!
    â€œI can’t be with you during delivery—it’s not allowed,” he whispered to her. “And I can’t touch you. The moment you started labor, you’re a niddah . But I will help all I can,” he assured her. She felt devastated he wasn’t going to be by her side but had no time to dwell on it, the contractions coming fast and furious.
    â€œIt won’t be long now,” the midwife said.
    She was wrong. The labor took hours and hours. The pain was excruciating.
    â€œPlease, can’t you give her something?” her mother begged the doctor.
    â€œShe signed up for natural childbirth, and it’s too late for an epidural. I’m sorry.”
    In the end, the baby’s heartbeat started to show distress.
    â€œI want my husband!” Daniella shouted. But he was nowhere to be found. Then she forgot about Shlomie completely, engrossed in the expression on the faces of her doctor and the midwife as they exchanged somber glances of terrifying seriousness, nodding in wordless agreement.
    The next thing she knew, they were cutting her and inserting a vacuum extractor as the midwife pressed down hard on her stomach. It was like a Holocaust movie, she thought with horror. But seconds later, there was the cry of the baby.
    â€œA beautiful, healthy girl!” the midwife said as she wrapped the baby in a blanket and showed her to Daniella.
    â€œA girl,” she whispered, shocked as she stared at the tiny, bluish, wrinkled bundle. She was accustomed to magazine photos of plump three-month-olds masquerading as newborns; this was her first encounter with the reality of a human being newly emerged from the womb.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with her? Why does she look so old, so damaged?”
    The midwife and doctor laughed. “She looks exactly the way every newborn baby looks, maybe a little bluer because she had a bit of a stressful entry. But by tomorrow, she’ll be pink and shiny and new—trust me,” the doctor assured her.
    He would say that, Daniella told herself, not in the least reassured. Doctors always worried about their malpractice insurance going up. So she wavered between hopefulness and the fear that something had gone terribly wrong because of something she’d done. Maybe it was her resistance to the idea of being pregnant, her despair at having her plans disrupted? Perhaps all that stress had somehow been communicated to the child in her womb? If there was anything wrong, she would never forgive herself. She prayed, “Please, God. Don’t punish her for my sins. Let her be perfect.”
    The prayer was still on her lips when they wheeled Daniella to her room. Physically and emotionally exhausted, she closed her eyes and slept. When she awoke, Shlomie was