Beyond the Ghetto Gates Read online

  But the rabbi shook his head. “Did you not hear? This is a man’s place. A man’s job. Besides, it’s unwomanly for you to fritter away your time this way. You must learn from your mother to become akeret haBayit—the mainstay of the home. The Torah commands you to make a Jewish home, keep kosher, take part in such commandments as candle lighting and baking challah for Shabbat. When you intrude yourself in the realm of men, puff yourself up with pride and immodesty, you commit a sin. It’s contrary to Torah. Don’t you want to command your husband’s respect so he will bless you every Friday evening, call you a woman of valor, praise the fruit of your hands?”

  “But I can do those things!” Mirelle cried. “I can do all that and manage the accounts for the workshop.”

  Rabbi Fano reared back, shock darkening his face. “Simone, this is exactly what I was afraid of. You’ve made her headstrong. Prideful. Immodest.”

  Papa frowned. “She’s not really—”

  “She spends nearly all her time here,” Mama declared. “It’s wrong. What husband will want her? I’ve told Simone . . .”

  Mirelle glared at her. “Papa understands, even if you don’t.”

  The rabbi gasped in horror. “Honor your mother!” he boomed, finger wagging.

  “I do, Rabbi Fano,” Mirelle snapped. “I also honor my father.”

  The rabbi’s fist struck Papa’s desk, making Mirelle and her parents jump. “Enough! I will not tolerate this nonsense any longer. Mirelle, I have told your father what I will do if you do not obey me. And I will not shirk from my duty!”

  Abruptly he stood, moved around the desk, and laid a hand over her head—heavily, forcing her to bend her neck. Mirelle’s skin crawled at his touch. He muttered a blessing under his breath and, with a brusque nod at her parents, eased out of the office.

  Mirelle watched his retreating back, a squeezing sensation in her chest. She whirled on her father. “What does he mean?”

  Her father reached over and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. “My love, no one could manage the workshop better than you,” he said—in a whisper, as if afraid Rabbi Fano would overhear him. “But the rabbi may be right. We must consider the future.”

  “What threats has he made?” she demanded.

  “He will put the workshop under interdict if you continue to work here.”

  “Interdict? What does that mean?”

  Papa’s jaw clenched. “It means he won’t perform a marriage ceremony if the ketubah comes from our workshop. And he’ll convince other rabbis throughout Italy to do the same.”

  “But that would ruin us!” She couldn’t believe the rabbi—a rabbi, of all people!—could be so malicious. “He’s bluffing, trying to frighten you. He can’t mean it, Papa.”

  “I’m afraid—”

  “He can’t mean it,” she repeated.

  “Don’t interrupt your father,” Mama admonished, tsk-tsking.

  Mirelle turned away, hunching a shoulder.

  “He’s not bluffing.” Papa ignored the tension between wife and daughter. “He has a list of the next couples to marry in the ghetto, said he’ll visit them all if you don’t comply.”

  “Mirelle.” Her mother spoke softly. “Stop being selfish. Don’t you understand what will happen if you insist on remaining here? You’ll ruin the workshop, your father’s hard work, the scribes, the artists. You’ll ruin all our lives. You must see that.”

  Mirelle felt a pang for the workers. Mama was right—an interdict would ruin them.

  Papa’s shoulders slumped. “I want you to know that I tried to change Rabbi Fano’s mind. I even had David Morpurgo try—you know how persuasive David is. But the rabbi is adamant. You can’t work here anymore.”

  Mama handed Mirelle the market basket. Absently she took it, staring dully at her father’s defeated figure.

  “I know you think I’m to blame, Mira’la,” Mama said briskly. “But this is best—for the business, for the family. Even for you.” She waited a moment for Mirelle to reply, and when she didn’t, continued. “You’ll stay home with me. There are still one or two things I can teach you. Right now, I want you to go to market. The list of what we need is in the basket. Come straight home afterward. There’s work for you there.”

  She reached over to kiss Mirelle’s cheek, but Mirelle hunched a shoulder again. Mama hissed between her teeth and left without another word.

  Papa shook his head. “I’m sorry, daughter. If only . . .”

  Mirelle knew what her father wasn’t saying. If she were a boy, she could work with him, help him run the business. For a moment, she hated him, along with her mother and the rabbi. But looking into his woebegone face, she recognized that he was trapped by the traditions of his life and work. A lump lodged in her throat. In a moment, she’d burst into tears.

  No, she wouldn’t. She refused to break down, at least not there. She walked stiffly away, the straw container banging against her leg. She took some comfort from Narducci’s sympathetic glance as she passed his workbench, but her mood plunged again as she noticed how many of the men averted their eyes.

  Out on the stoop, she reached instinctively to touch the blue-and-green enamel mezuzah attached to the front doorpost, which contained a parchment inscribed with the Shema: “Hear, oh Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.” She hesitated for a long, angry moment, then kissed her fingertips and stalked off.

  2

  Tall buildings loomed on either side of the street. Mirelle was used to the narrow space, but today the air seemed more fetid than usual, the close-packed homes more menacing. The buildings—many built centuries before and precariously expanded upward—were crumbling at their foundations. Apartments exuded the smells of a hundred cooking pots, paint curling under the sweat and filth of packed living.

  The sounds of boys chanting their lessons—her twelve-year old brother, Jacopo, among them—rose from the tall schoolhouse. Her brother had described how the boys crowded onto splintering benches and spilled into the hallways to find room to study, how they squirmed over their books while the headmaster moved among them, swishing his cane like a whip. Mirelle threw the building a black look, her mind full of the rabbi’s threats. Interfering fool.

  Toddlers played in the streets, ignoring the refuse running down the center sewer. Housewives stopped to gossip, straw baskets crushed against their sides. The market was bustling, with vibrant oranges and lemons piled into pyramids, cut citrus samples sharp in the spring air, bundled chard and spinach, flowery clusters of cauliflower and broccoli, and long spears of artichokes piled high. Crusty breads, fruit-filled flans, and boxes of biscotti wafted enticing odors. But today all Mirelle felt were the centuries of dirt and sweat trapped inside the enclosed ghetto. The walls pressed in on her, making it difficult to breathe. On impulse, she decided to visit a different market—the one outside the gates, where she could feel sea breeze and sunlight on her face.

  During daylight hours, the ornate, wrought-iron gates at the ghetto entrance were flung wide. Because her friend Dolce often designated them as a meeting spot, Mirelle knew their every nook and curve. As she’d wait, she’d run her fingers over the peeling patterns, twisting and curling. From dawn until nightfall, ghetto residents moved freely through the stone archway into the city of Ancona. As the sun dipped behind the horizon, however, city guards slammed the gates shut and chained a heavy padlock to the bars. The clang of the closing gates always raised the hair on the back of Mirelle’s neck.

  It affected her generally carefree brother even more. Jacopo often railed against being imprisoned inside the ghetto. “Just once, I want to see what the sea looks like under the stars,” he’d said one night as they stood outside, straining to see more than a few inches of night sky. “Just once, I’d like to walk freely out of the gate and not have someone stare at me because I’m Jewish.”

  Something had stirred in her chest as he spoke. She felt the same when a packaged ketubah left the workshop to travel to a distant shore. A whole world existed o
utside the ghetto. If only they could both walk out of the gates freely!

  But they were trapped. Day or night, whenever the Jews left their homes, they were required by law to don the yellow hat and armband that branded them as different. For as long as she could remember, Mirelle had covered her brown locks with a yellow kerchief before walking in the streets. She always wrinkled her nose in the mirror as she adjusted the badge of her faith. They make us wear yellow because it is the color of urine, she’d think distastefully. And of cowardice.

  Her brother might feel caught inside the enclosure of the locked ghetto gates, but she felt doubly trapped—as a Jew and as a woman.

  Catching sight of the open gateway, she tossed her head high and walked through. The street led straight to the quay, where the Gentiles gathered to sell their produce. She would have to buy kosher meat and bread on her way home, but at least she could buy fresh fruit and vegetables and eggs here.

  As she neared the water, she took a deep breath. Early spring air mixed with the salty tang of the sea. The piercing cry of gulls and the shouts of men working on the docks drifted up. The quay was alive with the bustle of sailors and housewives, beautiful, glass-fronted shops, and busy coffeehouses.

  Mirelle made her way toward the market stalls. She’d just started to select some brown eggs from a smiling woman when a man rudely elbowed past her.

  “Francesca Marotti!” he cried. “A word!”

  “Good morning, Signor Russo.” Signora Marotti’s fingers, gripping the wooden cross at her neck, belied her calm tone. “I’ll attend you after I wait on this customer.”

  Signor Russo, a rough-looking man with a sour expression, glared at Mirelle, cold eyes lingering on her kerchief and armband. He sneered. “She can wait.”

  Mirelle felt a protest rising but closed her lips tightly against the rush of words. Anything she said would just sharpen his hatred. She was nothing more than dirt beneath his feet, all because she was a Jewess and he a Catholic.

  Even the market woman, noticing the man’s scornful glance at Mirelle’s Jewish insignia, lost her kind smile. “You’ll have to wait,” she said to Mirelle, without a trace of apology in her voice. “What is it, Signor Russo?”

  “Where is your husband, Signora Marotti? I’ve been looking for him for three days.”

  The woman squared her shoulders. “Where should he be but at home, tending to our acres?”

  “Do you think me an idiot?” the man spat. “I’ve been there already. He’s not home.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Signora Marotti replied. “He promised me—”

  “You’re a fool.” Signor Russo laughed humorlessly. “I trusted his promises, and where did they get me? He owes me, Signora. He owes half of Ancona, I hear, but I’m the one he’ll pay.”

  “Talk to him.” The woman’s hand clutched her crucifix, knuckles turning white. “I can’t help you. Why are you bothering me and my customers?”

  “Your customers?” Signor Russo looked Mirelle over, disgust writ large on his face.

  Once again, Mirelle bit back her words.

  “I’ll take whatever money you’ve earned this morning, Signora. And I’ll be back later today to collect the rest. As part payment of what’s due me.”

  Signora Marotti gasped in anger. “You’d rob an innocent woman—pregnant besides”—Mirelle’s eyes went to the woman’s slightly protruding midriff—“and her young daughter?”

  “I’ll have what I’m owed. Let it be a lesson to you.”

  He extended a hand, and Mirelle watched as the woman slowly reached into her apron to retrieve the few soldi she’d earned that morning.

  “And you,” Signor Russo said, pocketing the money and turning on Mirelle. “Give me the money you were going to pay for the eggs.”

  Mirelle thought fast. “I already paid her.”

  “That’s right, she did,” Signora Marotti agreed.

  Their eyes met for a second, then both glanced away.

  “Pah! This is all you’ve made this morning? Pitiful. I’ll be back this evening—and you’d better be here. And tell your husband that he has until the end of the week to finish paying off his debt—or else.” He stomped off.

  The women watched his retreating back. When he’d turned a corner, Mirelle counted out the coins for the eggs. “I’ll take some artichokes, too,” she said, though she hadn’t planned to.

  Signora Marotti nodded, her face pale. She slipped the coins into the neck of her blouse. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Maybe she doesn’t have to wear yellow, but she’s as trapped as I am, Mirelle thought as she made her way back to the ghetto. Jew or Gentile, we women must do as we’re told.

  3

  MARCH 27, 1796 NICE, FRANCE

  Daniel had never been so hungry.

  He daydreamed about his mother’s Friday night dinners: chicken and fried potatoes, beef stew with dumplings, grilled fish with olives and onions. Like all Jews, he was no stranger to hunger. Every year on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, he and his family fasted from sundown to sundown, and he remembered how a day’s missed meals made his stomach ache. But you didn’t have to be Jewish to know hunger. During the Revolution and Terror, hands on Paris streets had stretched out, begging for food. His family had survived only because, even in the hard times, Mama had made magic out of the sparest of ingredients, turning chicken bones into savory soup and bean husks into rich stews.

  But this was nothing like Yom Kippur, when he only had to wait for the setting sun and three stars. Now he was just another lowly soldier in France’s Army of Italy, and every fiber of his body protested this enforced starvation.

  He looked down the line of small white tents that marked the boundary between the senior officers and the men they commanded. Enlisted men lay listless on their bedrolls. Trails of smoke curled upward from useless cooking fires. An orderly folded clothes into neat stacks on a nearby boulder, peeling them off a laundry line heavy with long underwear and graying shirts. The camp stunk of horse dung, smoke, and the refuse of thousands of men. Watching the mess sergeant turn over his stew pots, Daniel felt the now-familiar grip of hunger tighten in his gut.

  Cries of protest about lost food carts spread through the camp.

  Daniel didn’t join the outcry. Instead, he rummaged through his kitbag, digging deep for a clasp knife and trencher, then walked past the tents to the open field behind them, looking for Sebastian. Sebastian, who’d served in the wilds of America—at thirty-three, the oldest soldier among them—knew how to forage for food.

  Daniel squelched through mud that seeped through the holes in his boots until he found the broad-shouldered man digging in the dirt, tossing early dandelions into a bucket.

  “We’ll make a soup of these,” he told Daniel. “Better than nothing.”

  Daniel wasn’t so sure—the last time he’d eaten dandelion stew, he’d retched up the green mess—but he bent to help. As he dug, his knife clogging with mud, he thought of his family’s warm kitchen and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting up from the bakery downstairs. Suddenly, he remembered when Marc Baker had nearly been lynched in the early days of the revolution. An angry mob had dragged Marc into the street, clamoring to hang the baker for the imagined crime of hoarding bread.

  “Look how this Jew fattens upon your misery!” a wild-eyed Jacobin had cried. Even now, Daniel quaked to recall how the epithet “Jew” had sounded so damning to the crowd.

  He shook himself. It was long past. As the Terror wore on, rage against the Jews had lessened. Today, as citizens of France—citizens for the first time ever in any European country—they were granted the same rights, duties, and protection as any other Frenchman. This newfound citizenship was what had prompted Daniel to volunteer for the army at the age of seventeen, before he was liable for the draft. But he knew that patriotism wasn’t really why he’d enlisted.

  “Good enough,” Sebastian said, hefting his full bucket. “Have I ever told you how those American redskins taught us
to cook greens and berries? After the skirmish at Jumonville Glen, those of us left alive fled from the British. No time to hunt—all we had in our kit bags was some hardtack.” He laughed. “If the savages hadn’t taught us to scavenge, we’d have starved for certain.”

  Daniel let Sebastian’s story wash over him as he shook off his painful memories and hauled their modest harvest back to camp.

  Sebastian clapped a hand on his shoulder as they neared the tents.

  “I can always count on you,” he said. “You’re quiet, but always there when you’re needed.”

  Daniel shrugged, but the praise warmed him.

  Still grumbling over the lost food carts, the soldiers boiled a kettle of the dandelion stems and roots over the campfire. The dense, green smell made Daniel queasy, but he forced down a cupful anyway. The slimy mess slipped reluctantly down his throat; still, the act of chewing and swallowing eased the empty feeling inside him.

  He settled back after eating, his seat a rough, cold circle of grass, his spine propped against a heavy boulder. Not the soldier’s life I thought I’d be living, he reflected. Silly as it was, he’d imagined himself the hero of hard-won battles, medals of valor pinned to his chest. He’d come home and Mama, Papa, even his devout brother Salomon, would heap praises on him. Salomon would compare him to the great warriors of Jewish history: Joshua, King David, the Maccabees. His neighbors in the Jewish Quarter of Le Marais would cheer, and the matchmakers would suggest the richest, prettiest girls, the ones fit for a hero’s bride.

  But none of that had happened, not yet.

  “So I’ve seen him,” said a familiar voice.

  Daniel looked up at his childhood friend, Christophe, a cavalryman from III Corps. “You did? What’s he like?”

  The other men gathered around. Christophe was tall, broad-shouldered, and fair, with tightly clipped hair the color of straw and a thin, carefully groomed moustache. Daniel, in contrast, was shorter and thinner, his skin olive-hued, his hair an untidy mass of brown curls. His dark eyes were more serious than his friend’s brilliant green ones, his mouth slower to smile, and he preferred to keep his face clean-shaven. He and Christophe had apprenticed together at the age of nine at Lefevre Printers in Paris, owned and managed by Christophe’s uncle Alain. Christophe’s obsessively Catholic mother, Odette, had encouraged her son to despise all Jews—Daniel included. But during eight long years of apprenticeship, the two had become unlikely friends, mastering the intricacies of the printshop together—until they’d decided to enlist.