Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 12

  Despite this string of victories, it was said that Bonaparte was now miserable. Whispers circulated through the men’s tents that the great man had written his wife, telling her that he’d never been so bored as by this sorry campaign. Daniel and the others caught his mood. They snapped at one another, at the foul weather, at the long wait. Their food supplies were running low and they would have to take the city to replenish them.

  “It’ll be soon,” Sebastian consoled them after their meager dinner that evening, lighting his pipe.

  “Not soon enough.” Pierre touched his aching shoulder. His wound always troubled him in damp weather.

  Daniel said nothing, looking over the bay at the harbor. Something about the city glowing white against the hillside stirred a childhood memory. “I just remembered—I have cousins in Ancona,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll meet them.”

  “Cousins in Ancona?” Christophe picked his head up and stared at him. “In the army?”

  Daniel smiled and shrugged. “Doubtful. The boy’s too young and the father too old. And I don’t think the pope’s army accepts Jewish soldiers in its ranks.”

  The next morning, their orders remained unchanged. Daniel’s lieutenant poked his head into his tent early in the afternoon.

  “I’m rounding up volunteers to go foraging,” he said. “Christophe and Sebastian are coming. You too, no?”

  It was drizzling again, and Daniel felt cold and damp. But he was hungry, too. He stared at the mud at his feet. “What do you think you’re going to find?”

  The lieutenant, Adrien, who was just a few years older than Daniel, looked thoughtful. “There are farms outside the city. Maybe the farmers will treat us to a hen. Or some cheese. I’d be happier with a pig, but I know you—”

  “No pigs,” Daniel said. “It’s bad enough I can’t keep kosher. What my brother Salomon would say . . .”

  Christophe, entering the tent just then, laughed. “He’d tell you you’re going to hell—that is, if you Jews believed in hell. Look, my stomach can’t take this. From what I hear, it’s going to be a few more days before we attack the city. Let’s go, shall we?”

  Daniel laced up his boots and followed. Sebastian was waiting outside the tent. As they left camp, Adrien rounded up a few more men, who grumbled but acquiesced.

  They tramped through brackish lanes, the ground squishing beneath their feet. The rain was gentle, but it soaked every inch of their uniforms.

  Noticing Daniel’s drawn face, Sebastian laughed. “You need to learn how to be a soldier, mon ami. If I told you what it was like in America, fighting the British . . .”

  “No one’s complaining,” Daniel snapped. “Just where are these farms, anyway?”

  “Around that bend—about half a hectare away.” Sebastian motioned down the road. They passed a grove of almond trees, their leaves just unfurling.

  “Not so bad, then,” Christophe said. “I can just about taste—”

  A shout cut his words short. Daniel’s breath caught as a mass of men ran toward them from all sides, surrounding them, shrieking, waving cudgels and daggers. His mind whirled. Ambush! He snatched his saber from its sheath and was comforted by the twang of metal against metal. His fellows formed a tight knot, back to back, ready to fight.

  “Cani francese!” one of the Italians cried. “Arrenditi oti uccido!”

  “What’s he saying?” Christophe muttered. “Daniel?”

  “Surrender or be killed, I think.” War-hardened as Daniel was, his heart skipped a beat. After all those terrifying battles, was this how he was going to die? At the hands of Italian thugs?

  “We’re not going to surrender, and I for one would rather not die here,” Sebastian said coolly. “Sir, shouldn’t we charge them?”

  Adrien often took his lead from Sebastian, since he was the unit’s most experienced soldier. So Daniel wasn’t surprised when Adrien cried, “Charge them, men!” And he was even less surprised when Christophe was first to leap into the fray, sword arm flashing.

  Overwhelmed by the direct assault, the Italians raced away down the roadway, screaming curses as they fled. One man, a swarthy ruffian already sporting a bandage from an earlier injury, was left behind. He lay in the dirt, howling in pain.

  “What should we do with him?” Christophe looked down scornfully.

  “Just leave him.” Sebastian kicked the Italian in the ribs and laughed as he curled into a tight ball.

  “No.” Daniel was aghast. “We should bring him to camp, get him a doctor.”

  “They’ll return for him,” Sebastian argued.

  Adrien stood apart, face drawn tight in concentration. “This was an ambush—not a well-planned one, but an ambush all the same.” He glared at the Italian. “What’s your name?” he demanded. “Nome?”

  “Emilio Marotti,” the Italian groaned.

  “Daniel, Christophe—take him back to camp to be interrogated,” Adrien ordered. “The rest of us will head to those farmhouses. I’m hungrier than ever.”

  Daniel watched as the men marched down the road, then turned to his friend. “Should we carry him between us?”

  Christophe shook his head. “I’m not carrying the bastard. He can walk. Tell him so.”

  “But he’s hurt.”

  Christophe started down the road, looking over his shoulder, face hard. “Let’s go.”

  Daniel dug deep, trying to remember the right words. “Alzati e cammina,” he said, grabbing Marotti by the elbow and forcing him to his feet. “Muoviti!”

  19

  FEBRUARY 7

  After a week, the period of mourning officially ended. Even though Mirelle felt that the heavy stone on her heart would never lift, she slipped from the house early that morning and made her way to the ketubah workshop.

  Sabato Narducci was in her father’s office, sifting through some letters, though not using Papa’s desk, which might have upset the workers. It certainly would have upset Mirelle. He stared as she entered.

  “I came to work,” she said in answer to his unasked question. “Papa is still in bed. I know he’s worried—”

  “No, no, Mirelle. You’ve been through so much already. You should be at home with your family.”

  “Thank you—but I want to be able to tell Papa all is well.”

  “We’re making do. Truly, child, go home.”

  Mirelle studied his face. She couldn’t let him brush her off. The workshop was her family’s responsibility, and she was the only one who could tend to it right now. “That’s kind, Signor Narducci, but I’m certain you’re shorthanded. Weren’t Baruch and Tonio wounded in the attack?”

  “We’re doing our best,” Signor Narducci said heavily, sitting down. “Yes, we’re shorthanded. But we’re managing.”

  “Can’t I do something for you? Has anyone checked this morning’s schedule of deliveries? Or the accounts?”

  Narducci looked down. “Not yet.”

  Mirelle picked up the heavy ledger and turned the pages. For the first time since her brother had died, a kind of peace settled over her. But the feeling was short-lived. She frowned to see heavy lines striking through obvious errors. One entire page of figures was scrawled out, as though the bookkeeper had surrendered to confusion. She flipped to the page where she had made her last calculations and moved forward slowly; her face blackened as she turned the leaves of the big book.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered under her breath. “What a—”

  “Mess?” Signor Narducci shrugged. “Your father isn’t happy with Arturo. He’s spoken with David Morpurgo and they’re looking for someone else.”

  “Putting this to rights will take days,” Mirelle said unhappily. A quick visit, under the circumstances, might be excused, but what would Rabbi Fano say if she stayed on? She thought of Jacopo and her parents. She set her mouth in a firm, determined line, picked up a pen, and started to work.

  Narducci, watching her, seemed to intuit what she was thinking. He paused for a long moment before asking, “Do you know what
will happen now that your brother . . . ?”

  Mirelle shook her head. “Papa should explain all that.” She picked up the delivery schedule. “Well, here, at least, we’re in good shape,” she said, running a practiced eye down the list. “We haven’t missed any of our dates yet. But”—she pointed to the top date—“this commission for London is coming up fast. Who’s working on it?”

  Narducci looked at the notation. “Leo. I’ll check in with him this morning, make sure he’s aware of the date.”

  After returning home, Mirelle walked resolutely into her parents’ bedroom. The shiva was over and it was time to resume their lives, hard though that would be.

  Her mother slumped in a chair by the bed, asleep, her face still crusted with blood, a dried trace of saliva in one corner of her mouth. One was not supposed to wash or comb one’s hair during shiva, and Mama looked unclean and unkempt. Her father lay in bed, his body tense, his hand at his side where the stab wound was slowly healing. He opened his eyes as she entered the room and stared blearily, barely able to lift a hand in greeting.

  “My darling girl,” he murmured before letting his eyelids fall shut again.

  She could feel the pain radiating from her parents; she had to take a deep breath to stop from bursting into tears. Turning on her heel, she went into the kitchen and poured warm water from the kettle into a basin, then collected her ivory comb from her room.

  Kneeling by her mother’s side, Mirelle wrung out a flannel and gently began to clean the blood and dirt from her face. Mama’s eyes fluttered open. She reached down and touched the top of Mirelle’s head.

  “Mira’la,” she whispered, her voice thick. “What . . . ?”

  Mirelle took her hand and kissed it softly. “It’s been a week.”

  Mama’s eyes flooded with tears. “My Jacopo. My baby.”

  “Shhh,” Mirelle said, putting down the cloth. She began loosening her mother’s hair from its pins. It tumbled down her back, snarled and filthy. She gently tugged at the tangles.

  Mama was sobbing quietly now. Mirelle looked at her father. He was lying in bed, open eyes fixed on his wife and child. A tear ran down the side of his face, wetting the bank of pillows supporting him.

  “How are you feeling, Papa?” Mirelle asked, voice hushed.

  “Fine, child. Healing quickly.” But his waxy face and eyes, deep pools of dark pain, belied his assertion.

  “I stopped into the workshop this morning,” Mirelle told him.

  He and her mother shared a swift look.

  “You know you’re not supposed to—” Mama began.

  “Things have changed, Mama. I needed to go—and the men needed to see me. It was important to make sure that everything was all right.”

  “Is it?” Papa asked, scouring her face anxiously.

  Mirelle nodded. “Signor Narducci has the deliveries well in hand. I can’t say the same for the accounts, though I did start to put them right.”

  Papa sighed wearily.

  Mirelle waited for him to say something more. When he didn’t, she said, “After I’ve cleaned Mama up, I’ll fetch the barber.”

  Her father smiled with obvious effort. “A sweet thought, child.”

  “Dolce’s father suggested it, Papa. They’ve been here every day. Everyone came to condole with us—all the neighbors and the boys from . . . from school . . .”

  Mama began to wail loudly. Mirelle stopped combing her hair and hugged her tightly.

  “Thank you for greeting them.” Papa’s voice was a mere thread, hard to hear over Mama’s sobs. “It’s been a week? The medicine makes me so sleepy.”

  Mama sat up and wiped her face with her grimy apron.

  “Time for your next draught.” She rose from the chair and stepped over to the table, where a reddish liquid sat in a small vial. She carefully measured a few drops of the opiate into a cup of water, stirred it, and brought it to him, reaching behind his back to support him.

  “Must I?” Papa complained. “Can we not wait for the doctor? It’s long past time for me to leave my bed. To return to work.”

  Mama shook her head. “I’ll ask him when he comes, but I want you to take this now. I insist, Simone.”

  He opened his mouth—like an obedient child, thought Mirelle—and swallowed.

  “Please tell everyone how grateful we are,” he said to Mirelle, settling back against his pillows. His eyes closed.

  Mama sat down in the chair, looking limply out the window.

  “Mama, you must let me help nurse Papa. You need sleep. Use my bed.”

  But her mother shook her head, struggling against tears. “I can’t leave him, Mira’la. I can’t lose him, not like I lost . . .”

  Mirelle nodded softly. “Can I bring you anything? Anna tells me you’ve barely eaten since . . . for a week now. Let me bring you some food. Everyone’s brought a dish.”

  Mama sighed. “All right. Something small.” She stopped suddenly, wincing. “I haven’t asked, but you must know by now who else was killed. How many?”

  Mirelle’s shoulders sank. “More wounded than killed, thank the Lord. But at least ten dead. I’ll fetch you some food and we can talk.”

  When the doctor finally arrived, later than expected, Papa was awake again. Mama tried to shoo Mirelle from the room, but she refused to leave, concealing herself modestly behind a screen instead.

  “The site of the stab wound is healing nicely,” the doctor said after examining Papa and applying some camphor to his stomach and side. “Another few days—perhaps a week—and you can return to work on a very limited basis. Not until then, however.”

  Papa nodded. “I’d like to talk with my foreman. Can he pay a visit?”

  “A short one. Your best medicine is sleep. And plenty of tea or water—no coffee, no spirits.” The doctor started to put his instruments away. “But just because the immediate danger is past doesn’t mean you’re completely healed.”

  The air in the room grew still.

  “The dagger thrust compromised several of your internal organs, Simone. You’ll have difficulty making your water for a long time. Perhaps forever. And should you become sick—with even a trifling illness, such as a cold—you’ll find your resources are depleted. Sickness will drag on for long periods or may carry you off unexpectedly.”

  Mirelle covered her mouth with a hand.

  “So you’re saying,” Papa said, his voice ragged, “I’m living on borrowed time?”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Medicine is not an exact science, my friend. But there are accounts of patients who never fully recovered from such wounds. I would suggest hoping for the best—a long life ahead—but preparing for the worst.”

  “The worst has already happened,” Mama murmured. “Our Jacopo . . .”

  “I know,” said the doctor softly. “I understand your daughter is of age to become betrothed. Perhaps her husband might take over the ketubah works when—if necessary?”

  Mirelle’s other hand rose to clasp the first. Was this possible? Could they find her a husband who could manage the factory with her help? Then she felt ashamed. How could she think of taking over the workshop when what it really meant was taking what had once been Jacopo’s? Yet her visit that morning had proved how important it was for her to return. She would have to convince Papa that her continued presence was the best thing right now, rabbi or no rabbi.

  “No, no,” Papa said. “My nephew, Beniamino, will inherit.”

  “We should send for him,” Mama said. “To train him.”

  The doctor’s bag snapped shut. “Don’t wait too long,” he said. “Merely as a precaution.”

  20

  FEBRUARY 9

  In the end, Ancona fell into the general’s hands like a wet, bruised plum.

  He rode into the city with a squadron of cavalry, Christophe two rows back from the officers. The French negotiated a cease-fire with the pope before a single shot was fired. The rains had stopped, and high, puffy clouds chased one other in a brilli
ant blue sky. Craning his neck, Christophe enjoyed the sight of the red-tile-roofed buildings rising from the edges of the sea, elbowing one another in their climb up the sheer cliffside, surrounding the bay like an amphitheater of rose-tinted stone. People lined the streets—some cheering the French soldiers, waving handkerchiefs and small, handmade flags, others sullen and withdrawn.

  “I want to see the harbor,” Napoleon called to Junot, smiling and waving from his saddle. “That’s why we took the city, after all.”

  “I can show you, Cittadino Generale,” said a small, dapper man who’d maneuvered his way beside the general’s mount. He had joined them at the gates of the city as they entered, introducing himself with an elegant bow as Fedele Bianchi, leader of the city’s Jacobin Club.

  “Is it true that a ship that sails from your port is just ten days’ distance from Constantinople?” Bonaparte asked. He shot a glance over his shoulder. “Lucien, think of it: the riches of Constantinople. We could set sail tomorrow and arrive next week. What a treasure to lay before the Directory! And the man who takes Turkey—what power he would yield!”

  “Careful, brother,” laughed the boy-faced Lucien Bonaparte, who served as one of the general’s aides. His sleepy blue eyes gleamed. “Your ambition is showing.”

  “Pah!” The general waved a hand. “Whatever I achieve is for the glory of the Republic.”

  Christophe’s chest swelled. Silly hero worship, he chided himself. As if he were a boy instead of a war-weary soldier. But even so, it was an honor to serve Bonaparte. Christophe repeated the general’s words in his head, to recall them for Daniel later that evening: For the glory of the Republic . . .

  The ranks of onlookers thinned. Some dirty-faced boys tried to mix in with the orderly rows of the grenadiers, but they were shooed away.

  Bianchi regaled Bonaparte’s staff with facts about the city as they rode toward the port. “Ancona was named by the Greeks, Generale. They called it an ‘elbow,’ and the name ‘Ancona’ derives from the Greek word.”