Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 13

  “I was told Trajan built an arch here,” Bonaparte said. “We must arrange a parade so our soldiers can march under it.”

  “Consider it done.” Bianchi clasped his right hand to his chest. “I will make the arrangements. Tomorrow? The next day? What a glorious day for Ancona!”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps,” Bonaparte said. “But I interrupted your history lesson, signore.”

  “Please, honor me with the title of Cittadino.” Bianchi stopped short. “We are such admirers of the French, of your revolution, of your tender embrace of liberty!” Bianchi moved his fingers to his mouth, kissed them extravagantly, and flourished them in the air. “We seek—no, we demand!—your assistance in helping us throw off the shackles of il Papa.”

  Both Junot and Lucien Bonaparte cast a worried glance toward Bonaparte. Everyone knew he was frustrated by the Directory, which kept dispatching contradictory orders on how to treat local progressive movements. Christophe recalled the victory at Mondovi, where citizens had cried “Long live the Republic!” and soldiers had helped them plant Arbres de la Liberté, the Liberty Trees of the Revolution. Yet in Milan—under orders—Bonaparte had rebuffed the political clubs of Milan, and he would probably do the same here.

  But Bonaparte did not seem to mind the little Italian’s enthusiasm. “We shall see,” the general replied, looking around.

  “Here,” Bianchi said, “is the port. We approach the Arch of Trajan, Generale.”

  Bonaparte dismounted and threw his reins to his groom. The rest of the men followed suit, tying their horses to a railing near the harbor and forming ranks.

  “I have long admired Emperor Trajan.” Bonaparte surveyed the high expanse of sparkling white marble.

  The archway was an impressive monument, Christophe thought, towering above the harbor wall, supported by two pairs of fluted columns, a steep marble staircase leading up to it. It was twice as high as it was wide, and the white stone gleamed brightly against the blue sky.

  Bonaparte stood beneath the arch with the Italian, his back to his troops, gazing out upon the turquoise waters. The ocean lapped the shoreline; a few seagulls flew languidly overhead.

  “Trajan was a commoner, like me,” Bonaparte said, his voice echoing through the archway. “Yet he was one of Rome’s most beloved Caesars. We have much in common, he and I—both generals fighting beyond our country’s borders to secure peace. Under Trajan, the Roman Empire expanded to its fullest extent. He conquered Germany, the Near East—what, Lucien?”

  Bonaparte’s brother, who had dismounted and followed him up the steps, whispered in his ear. Christophe noticed how much alike they looked, with their beaky noses and flushed cheekbones.

  Bonaparte laughed and shrugged. “A great leader, as I said.” He came down the worn marble stairway, the wind whipping at his bonnet. “And yet—I say it again, brother, and fear not to do so—by birth, nothing but a commoner.”

  21

  Mirelle sat with Dolce in the smallest sitting room in the Morpurgo mansion, a room Dolce favored for its street view. The sky-blue walls and a sentimental frieze of white swans, necks intertwined as they floated close to the ceiling, made the room feel airy and spacious. The furniture was upholstered in peach silk, and inlaid tables and elegant knickknacks were scattered about. Seated in that tranquil oasis, trying to set her mourning aside, Mirelle found it difficult to remember that a conqueror now commanded their city.

  But it was so. The ghetto was still locked and barred against Gentiles, whose threats had grown dire during French diplomatic negotiations with the pope. The Christians circulated rumors, Signor Morpurgo told the girls, that the Jews planned to supply the French from a cache of weapons concealed somewhere in the ghetto. But they were not to worry, he hastened to reassure them: Bonaparte’s troops would counter any fresh attacks.

  Mirelle wished she were back at home. She felt heartsick; her loss was still an ever-present bruise. But Mama had insisted that the two girls spend the afternoon together at the Morpurgo mansion.

  Mirelle and Dolce sat sewing. At least, that was what they’d intended to do. But Dolce threw aside her organdy shirtwaist after setting a few untidy stitches. Mirelle’s own needle moved slowly and steadily. She concentrated on her embroidery, trying to forget the heartbreak of the outside world. Her sewing was not as effective a distraction as her nervous friend, however. Dolce roamed the room, fidgeting with the curtains, adjusting them so they could view the street, yet remained unseen.

  “Should you not ring for a footman to attend to that?” Mirelle asked, watching Dolce struggle with the heavy silk drapes.

  “Look up, Mirelle,” Dolce demanded. “Is anything happening at the gate?”

  Mirelle craned her neck. “The guardhouse is empty, the street deserted. It’s been deserted for days.”

  “You’d think Bonaparte was the bogeyman, scaring everyone into hiding. He needs to come to the ghetto and reassure the people. What’s keeping him?” Dolce walked back to her seat, irritably shifting her skirts.

  Mirelle tucked her embroidery into her workbasket and held out a hand. “Give me your blouse.”

  Dolce shook her head, her face bright with mischief. “Mirelle, forget the blouse. Don’t you want to see the French troops? I hear they are charming.”

  Mirelle sighed. As if she could think of flirting with soldiers at a time like this. “Dolce! If your father heard you . . .”

  Dolce rose, lifted her arms high over her head, and paced in a tight circle. She looks like a blond tiger, Mirelle thought, half-admiring, half-disapproving. A tiger trapped behind bars.

  Imprisoned, just like every other girl on the cusp of womanhood. Mirelle’s thoughts drifted back to the argument she’d had with her parents that morning. She’d once again left the house early and gone to the workshop for a few hours of work. For the past two mornings she’d sat at her father’s desk, concentrating on the accounts, helping Signor Narducci make decisions about some of the newer commissions. It soothed her bruised soul to be there; it was a brief escape from the pain of her brother’s murder. This morning the numbers had once again woven their spell on her, and it had been nearly midday before she’d made her way back home.

  Mama was standing at the front door when she walked in. “Where have you been?” she asked accusingly.

  “At the workshop,” Mirelle responded, trying to make light of it. “I’m not late for luncheon, am I?”

  “Mirelle,” her father called from his bedroom, his voice still weak. “Come here, please.” He was propped up in bed, his face sallow, pain etched into his forehead, long fingers fidgeting over the coverlet that was drawn to his chest. Mirelle saw disapproval mixed with the suffering on his face.

  “Are you feeling any better this morning?” she asked.

  “How likely is that,” Mama sniffed from behind her, “when the rabbi paid us a visit this morning?”

  “Rabbi Fano?”

  “Is there another rabbi in Ancona?” Mama asked sourly.

  “Pinina, hush,” Papa said. “Mirelle, where were you?”

  “I told Mama—at the workshop. The men appreciate it, Papa. And it’s good to know that everything is going smoothly, isn’t it? With you sick and Jacopo . . .”

  Mama gasped.

  Mirelle cast her a pleading glance. “Mama, I’m sorry, but it’s important to have someone from the family there.” She looked at her father’s pained expression. “Papa, aren’t you pleased to know the men are managing? That I’m helping them manage?”

  Papa closed his eyes.

  “Mirelle, didn’t you hear what your mother said? The rabbi paid us a visit today.” Papa opened his eyes again. “And it wasn’t a condolence call.”

  Rage bubbled up inside Mirelle. Weren’t rabbis supposed to be compassionate, especially in the face of such tragedy? “What did he want?” she asked, voice shaking.

  “People are talking about your visits to the workshop. He demanded assurances that this would not be a permanent arrangement. It’s no
t that he was unsympathetic.”

  “He doesn’t sound sympathetic.” Mirelle sat in her mother’s chair with a thud.

  Papa took her hand and stroked it lightly. “I know you thought you were doing a good thing, child. I appreciate your intentions. But you mustn’t go back. Promise me?”

  “But, Papa—” “Mirelle,” Mama snapped. “Are you going to argue with your father? Now?”

  Mirelle opened her mouth, then shut it again. She wanted to ask what the rabbi had said, if he had threatened them with sanctions once more. But her father’s fingers trembled in her grasp. She couldn’t upset him, not just then.

  But now, watching Dolce pace restlessly through the room, she felt her own prison bars—the ones formed from society’s expectations—close tightly around her. I must find a way to break them down, she told herself, sewing Dolce’s discarded shirt. Rabbi or no rabbi, Papa and the workshop need me.

  22

  Christophe watched as Bonaparte walked the length of the quay. The rest of the cavalry tied their mounts to a long fence rail near the water and followed him on foot to the center of the harbor, where the Via Astagna ran upward through the steep hillside. A huge stone and iron gateway blocked the street entrance, a deserted guardhouse standing beside it. The gate was padlocked from the inside, secured by an enormous metal chain.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Bonaparte demanded. “Do your citizens believe they can keep out my troops with a mere lock, Signor Bianchi?”

  “I . . . I’m not certain . . .”

  Before the Italian could stammer out the rest of his reply, a man emerged from a villa near the gate. The elaborate home seemed out of place on the crowded Via Astagna, whose close-packed houses created puddled shadows despite the noontime sun.

  Christophe watched the man draw nearer. A look of confusion crossed the general’s face.

  “Lucien! What is that man wearing?” Bonaparte demanded.

  Lucien didn’t respond. Instead, Major Junot stepped up and said, “He is a Jew, General. This must be one of the cities where they enforce what Jews must wear on the streets.”

  The man drew closer. Christophe could see that he was richly dressed, his clothes tailored to his portly proportions. Only his armband and ridiculous yellow bonnet set him apart from other Italians. He came up to the barred gate and, looking through its ironwork curlicues, doffed his cap and bowed deeply.

  “General Bonaparte? I am David Morpurgo. Welcome to Ancona’s Jewish Quarter.”

  “If you are Jewish,” Bonaparte told him, “you must know you have nothing to fear from us. Why are these gates locked?”

  “Not against you, General. Against this city’s Catholics, who recently led a riot here, killing and maiming our people. They’ve threatened to harm us again if we support the French cause.”

  Bonaparte’s eyes narrowed. “How did they think you planned to support us?” the general demanded. “And why did no one tell me you were living under threat?”

  Morpurgo shrugged. “I speak of the Gentiles’ suspicions, not actual facts, General. They insist we’ve concealed a cache of weapons within the walls of the ghetto to fight on your behalf. I only wish it were true.”

  Bonaparte raised an eyebrow. “So you will open this gate?”

  The Jew shook his head. “My people are afraid. Blood still stains our streets. Please understand, General, this is not a sign of disrespect.”

  Bonaparte thought for a moment, lips pursed. Then he turned to Junot. “We have some Jewish soldiers in our ranks, do we not?”

  The major shrugged. “I’m not sure.” “General?” Christophe called out, standing stiffly at attention. “You have a unit of artillerymen formed of almost all Jews.”

  Bonaparte turned, his face flushed with quick anger. “Who gave you permission to speak, soldier?”

  “No one, sir. Sorry, sir.” Christophe looked directly into the general’s hooded eyes, his heart thudding in his chest.

  “The men need to understand military discipline,” Bonaparte snapped, looking at Junot.

  “Yes, sir.” Junot’s light gray eyes turned hard as slate as he surveyed Christophe head to toe.

  “Approach, soldier,” Bonaparte told Christophe.

  Christophe stepped out of the ranks and took three steps forward. He snapped again to attention, swallowing hard as he pushed out his chest.

  “What is your name? I see you are a corporal.”

  “Christophe Lefevre, General.”

  “Not from a military family?”

  “No, General. My father died at the Bastille. My uncle, who raised me, is a printer.”

  “And now you are a corporal in III Corps. But one clearly without a proper understanding of the usages of military rank. How long have you been serving?”

  “Since I turned seventeen. A little over a year now.”

  “All with the Army of Italy?”

  “Yes, General.”

  Bonaparte turned to Junot, his stern face lightening. “Can you imagine being eighteen again, my friend?”

  Junot smiled. “That was before we met, General. I find it hard to remember my life before we met.”

  Bonaparte laughed. “Flatterer.” He turned back to contemplate Christophe, seemingly mollified by his trim appearance. “At ease, Corporal.”

  Christophe relaxed a fraction, keeping his shoulders stiff. Morpurgo cleared his throat. “General, if I may . . .”

  Bonaparte looked over his shoulder impatiently. “Wait a minute.” He turned back to Christophe. “Corporal, you were saying—about a unit of Jewish soldiers?”

  “Yes, sir. Many of them enlisted when I did. One is a friend of mine from childhood.”

  “You are friends with a Jew? Isn’t that unusual?”

  Christophe allowed himself a small smile. “He apprenticed with me in my uncle’s printshop. That was unusual, too.”

  Bonaparte looked at Morpurgo. “Would you wait a moment?”

  Morpurgo nodded.

  Bonaparte turned his gaze back to Christophe. “Walk down to the beach with me so I can give you some orders,” he said, and moved toward the water’s edge.

  Christophe followed, breath caught in his throat. Given orders directly by the general. Wait until Daniel hears this!

  23

  The sudden din of clanging metal brought both girls to the window.

  Several soldiers stood at the ghetto’s entrance, swinging hammers and axes. The clash of iron against iron reverberated through the narrow streets.

  “What are they doing?” Dolce’s voice rose uneasily.

  Mirelle yanked the curtain aside. “It looks like . . . they’re breaking down the ghetto gate!”

  Up and down the Via Astagna, shutters flung open and heads poked from the buildings. Fingers pointed at the gates. A wave of shouts, excited and terrified, echoed along the street.

  “Where’s Father?” Dolce rang a small crystal bell imperiously.

  A footman appeared, his face flushed.

  “Where is my father, Antonio?” Dolce demanded.

  “He left the house about an hour ago, mistress, and has not returned. Shall I ask if anyone knows where he has gone?”

  Dolce shook her head. “Where is Uncle?” “He has headed in the direction of the ghetto gates to investigate the commotion.”

  Dolce dismissed Antonio with a wave of her hand, then returned to the window, elbowing Mirelle aside. “What do you think is happening?”

  Before Mirelle could answer, the room shuddered with the shock of an enormous crash. The floor trembled beneath them. The clamor rocked both girls back from the window. Mirelle involuntarily clapped her palms over her ears. Dolce whirled around and snatched up her shawl and kerchief.

  “I’m going to see,” she shouted over the racket.

  “Dolce! Is it safe?”

  “You do what you like,” her friend snapped. “But I’m going.” She strode from the room, narrow skirts swirling about her ankles.

  Mirelle ran after her.
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br />   “Shalom,” Daniel called as the men in his unit stepped over the ruins of the smashed gate and entered the main street of the ghetto. “Yehudim! Ain l’ fached!”

  “What are you saying?” Christophe asked curiously.

  “I’m telling the Jews not to be afraid of us,” Daniel responded. “Where are they all? Yehudim! Bo hena! Kumm hier! Come here! Venite qui!”

  An old man approached, his dangling sideburns and dark clothes marking him as a pious Jew. “Why have you broken down our gate?” he asked querulously. “What will the Gentiles say?”

  “You are under the protection of the French Republic,” Daniel told him. “There is no reason to fear.”

  The man fingered his armband. “You talk as though you were the Messiah himself,” he quavered.

  Daniel noticed a small knot of people gathering in the street. Where the men wore yellow bonnets, the women covered their hair with yellow kerchiefs. He gritted his teeth. In other Italian cities they had conquered, he recalled, the whores wore similar kerchiefs.

  Thinking quickly, he unpinned his tricolor rosette from his jacket lapel. “Come here, old man,” he said, as gently as he could.

  The man took a reluctant step forward. “What do you want?” Daniel reached out. With a quick twist, he pulled the man’s armband off his forearm and then plucked the hat from his head. He dropped both into the gutter.

  “What have you done?” the man cried, stooping to pick up the discarded clothing.

  But Daniel gripped his arm and pulled him upright. “Here,” he said, pinning the tricolor onto his jacket. “Wear this instead.”

  The other soldiers followed his lead, tearing off yellow armbands and head coverings, replacing them with the tricolor. Some of the crowd grabbed the cockade with glee; others accepted it fearfully. A few even slipped their armbands into their pockets, too scared to fully accept the change.

  “You speak to us in Hebrew and Yiddish,” a tall, painfully skinny man said, “but you are a soldier.”