Leiden, 1612
The blade sliced through skin with practiced precision. Blood no longer flowed from the corpse—that had stopped hours ago—but Clara's heart pounded enough for both of them. She stood in the shadows of her father's butcher shop, watching his hands work. Not with the usual pork or beef, but with something far more forbidden.
"Hold the lamp higher, child," Pieter Jansen whispered, his breath visible in the cold November air.
Clara raised the oil lamp, illuminating the small back room where her father had dragged the body—a beggar found frozen behind the shop that morning. No one would miss him, her father had reasoned. And knowledge was worth the risk.
"See how the muscle attaches here?" Pieter pointed with his knife. "Just as Dr. Tulp described in his lectures."
Clara nodded, studying the exposed tendon. At nineteen, she had spent more hours watching her father butcher animals than most girls spent at their embroidery. But this was different. This was human flesh—God's most sacred creation—laid bare before her curious eyes.
"The university's first public dissection begins tomorrow," Pieter said, wiping his hands on his apron. "Dr. Frederik Ruysch himself will preside."
"I know, Father." Clara couldn't keep the longing from her voice.
Her father glanced up, his expression softening. "You understand more about anatomy than half the students at the university. If only..."
"If only I were born a man," Clara finished.
Pieter shook his head. "Put these thoughts from your mind, Clara. We've discussed this. Your mother arranged a good match with the baker's son before she died. He's kind and prosperous."
Clara bit her tongue. Jacob, the baker's son, was indeed kind, with soft hands and a soft mind. He spoke of nothing but bread and blessings, while Clara dreamed of sinew and bone.
Later that night, as her father snored in the next room, Clara pulled a small wooden chest from beneath her bed. Inside lay her most treasured possession: a worn copy of Vesalius' De Humani Corporis Fabrica. Her father had traded three months of prime cuts to a traveling scholar for it, gifting it to Clara on her sixteenth birthday.
Running her fingers over the detailed illustrations, Clara made her decision. The public anatomical theater had been erected just weeks before in the Falk Church. Tomorrow, while the city watched in wonder, she would be there—not as Clara Jansen, butcher's daughter and bride-to-be, but as Claes Jansen, eager medical student.
Dawn broke with a heavy fog, perfect for secrets. Clara bound her chest tightly with linen strips, wincing at each wrap. She donned her brother's old clothes—he had died of the fever five years past—and tucked her long auburn hair beneath a woolen cap. The final touch was a pair of spectacles with plain glass that she'd purchased from a peddler, claiming they were for her father.
When she entered the kitchen, Pieter looked up from his porridge, startled.
"What madness is this?" he demanded.
"Please, Father." Clara's voice cracked with emotion. "One day. Just this one chance to see real anatomy taught by a master."
Pieter's face reddened. "They'll hang you if they discover you. Or worse."
"They won't," Clara insisted. "Students come from all over Europe for the university. No one knows everyone."
Her father studied her disguise with a critical eye. "You look... convincing enough. But your voice—"
"I'll claim a throat ailment. Please, Father."
After a long silence, Pieter sighed. "One day. You return by evening bell. And you speak to no one."
Clara embraced him fiercely, then stepped back, assuming the posture she'd observed in young men—shoulders square, chin raised.
"I am Claes now," she said in her practiced deeper voice. "Claes Jansen of Amsterdam, come to study medicine."
The anatomical theater was built in concentric circles, rising steeply so that even those in the back rows could witness the miracle of human dissection. Clara paid her entrance fee and took a seat in the middle rows, not daring to sit too close to the demonstration table nor too far back with the city's elite.
Students packed the benches around her, their excitement palpable. Most were older, but a few appeared near her age. None gave "Claes" more than a passing glance. Clara kept her head down, conscious of her smooth jaw among so many bearded faces.
A murmur swept through the crowd as a tall figure entered, flanked by university officials. Professor Frederik Ruysch moved with aristocratic bearing, his hands clean and pale—hands that had never butchered cattle or gutted fish, but had opened human bodies in pursuit of knowledge.
"Gentlemen," Ruysch began, his voice carrying to the farthest benches, "today we embark on the most sacred journey God permits us in this life—to understand His most perfect creation from within."
As attendants wheeled in the covered body—a criminal executed that morning—Clara leaned forward, forgetting herself momentarily. The man beside her shot her an irritated glance, and she quickly composed herself, mimicking the restrained interest of her fellow students.
Over the next three hours, Professor Ruysch worked methodically, explaining each cut, each revelation. Clara's fingers twitched, mentally tracing the paths his scalpel took. When he exposed the heart, placing it in a silver basin, she had to stifle a gasp of wonder.
"Notice," Ruysch said, lifting the organ, "how the ventricle walls differ in thickness. Why would the Creator design such asymmetry?"
A student near the front ventured an answer about the distance blood must travel. Ruysch nodded approvingly.
"Indeed. The heart must force blood throughout the entire body, yet receive it back with gentler pressure. Though Galen taught that blood is continuously created in the liver and consumed by the body, some have begun to question..."
He paused, his eyes scanning the room as if to gauge his audience. "But perhaps such speculations are best reserved for private discussion."
Clara frowned. She'd read Vesalius' careful challenges to Galen's ancient teachings. Was Ruysch hinting at something more radical?
As the demonstration concluded and students began to disperse, Clara remained seated, studying her notes. She had filled several pages with detailed sketches and observations, already planning how to describe everything to her father.
"You have an unusual technique."
Clara froze. Professor Ruysch himself stood beside her bench, examining her open notebook.
"Your hand moves like one accustomed to a butcher's knife, not a quill," he observed.
Clara's throat constricted in panic. She coughed, lowering her voice. "My father is a butcher, Professor. I grew up with his trade before pursuing medicine."
Instead of suspicion, Ruysch's face showed interest. "A practical foundation. Most students arrive knowing nothing of blood or tissue." He pointed to her sketch of the heart. "Your rendering shows exceptional understanding of structure. Are you recently arrived at the university?"
"Yes, sir," Clara managed. "From Amsterdam."
"What is your name, young man?"
"Claes Jansen, sir."
Ruysch studied her face. For a terrifying moment, Clara was certain he saw through her disguise.
"Well, Jansen, I find myself in need of an assistant to help prepare tomorrow's demonstration. My usual man has taken ill. Would the task interest you?"
Clara's heart leapt. To work alongside the great anatomist himself! Yet fear tempered her excitement. Prolonged exposure would surely reveal her deception.
"It would be an honor, Professor, but I—"
"I shall expect you at my laboratory behind the university at dawn," Ruysch interrupted. "We have much to prepare."
Before Clara could protest further, he strode away, leaving her torn between ecstasy and terror.
That evening, her father's reaction was predictable.
"Absolutely not!" Pieter thundered, pacing their small kitchen. "One day, we agreed. One day of madness, not two!"
"Father, this is Professor Ruysch himself offering to teach me," Clara pleaded, still dressed as Claes. "How can I refuse such an opportunity?"
"By remembering you are a woman in a world that hangs women for less than what you're doing!"
Clara sat heavily at the table. "What if... what if this is God's plan? What if He made me a woman but gave me a man's mind for a purpose?"
Pieter stared at his daughter, his anger softening to sadness. "Clara, my child. Your mind is not a man's or a woman's—it is simply extraordinary. But the world is not ready for extraordinary women."
"Then when will it be?" Clara demanded. "Someone must be first, Father."
After hours of argument, a compromise was reached. Clara could assist Ruysch for one day only, and only if she promised to end the deception afterward, accepting her place as a butcher's daughter and future baker's wife.
As she lay awake that night, Clara wondered if she could keep such a promise. Something told her that tomorrow would change her life forever—for better or for worse.
ns 15.158.61.12da2
