Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 5

  Eschewing matrimonial snares didn’t prevent Dolce’s father from enjoying the elegances of the fashionable world. A court Jew, given special privileges by the pope for his services to the Papal state, he was tolerated by Gentiles at public functions. He attended these affairs in a long-tailed coat and constricting pantaloons, shoes polished to a mirrored gloss, his salt-and-pepper hair pomaded and curled. He had to lace his portly figure into a corset of rigid whalebone to bundle himself into his stylish clothes.

  Mama stepped forward briskly and took the sunflowers, rousing Mirelle from her reminiscences.

  “Anna,” Mama called, “fetch the vases Dolce’s footman has for you.”

  Anna, her face damp with exertion, hurried over. Mama handed her the flowers and the maid bustled off.

  “What a lovely gown!” Dolce said brightly, studying Mirelle from head to foot. “Turn around.”

  Smiling, Mirelle whirled. She was wearing one of the new high-waisted dresses in a soft lilac, tied with a moss-green ribbon under her chest. She turned back to return the compliment. Dolce, as always, was exquisitely arrayed in the latest fashion—a slim column dress of blue sprigged muslin, a tall hat tilted rakishly to one side, her feet encased in soft slippers of sapphire kid. Her blond curls were dressed high on her head, one falling delicately onto her shoulder.

  “I wish I had your style,” Mirelle said wistfully. “You look charming.” Dolce crooked her arm about her friend’s waist.

  In a few minutes, the narrow hall of the manufactory was full. The workers’ children started a game of Speculation in the corner—Jacopo having snuck a pack of playing cards to the party in his pocket—and their giggling threaded through the earnest conversation of the grown-ups. Mirelle and Dolce circulated arm in arm through the crowded room before joining the large circle surrounding David Morpurgo.

  “You’re not worried that Bonaparte is going to rampage into Ancona?” Papa was asking. Mirelle’s father was increasingly panicked about the French general’s advances through Italy.

  “What I don’t understand,” one of the workers said, “is what the French intend with us. The Austrians seem helpless to stop them. Will they free Ancona from the pope’s control?”

  “Bonaparte is only obeying orders from the Directory in France,” Dolce’s father replied. “Look at what happened in Mondovi. The people there cried out for a Republic as he marched through their streets. But did he give them one? No, he ignored them.”

  “Anyway, Italy’s not the point,” his brother, Ezekiel, argued. “The French are at war with Austria, not us. Italy’s just a feint to force the Austrians to move troops from the Rhine to defend their territories in Lombardy. We don’t have to worry about them.”

  “We don’t?” Papa shook his head, disbelieving. “They may want to fight the Austrians, but they are on our soil. Heading in our direction.”

  “Our soil?” Narducci piped up. “Our homes are here, but I don’t think anyone else in Italy would consider Ancona our soil. We’re not citizens—”

  “Because we’re Jewish?” David Morpurgo said. “We may not be—but the Jews of France are. You have family in Paris, don’t you, Simone?”

  Papa nodded. “One of my cousin’s sons is even serving in the French army.” His face grew darker. “He could be marching against us even now.”

  “He’s not marching against us,” Ezekiel persisted. “Not against us Jews and not against the Italians. If you need proof, just consider Napoleon’s address at Piedmont.”

  “What did he say?” asked one of the apprentices.

  Ezekiel fished a newspaper out of his waistcoat pocket. “I’ll read it out loud.”

  “Uncle!” Dolce protested. “You brought a newspaper to a party?”

  “I thought people would be interested.” Ezekiel shrugged his bony shoulders. “Why not?”

  Mirelle hid a smile as Ezekiel read the proclamation: “Peoples of Italy, the French army comes to break your chains. The French people are the friends of all peoples, meet them with confidence. Your property, your religion, and your usages will be respected. We make war as generous enemies, and we have no quarrel save with the tyrants who enslave you.”

  “That’s not true.” Papa’s face was set in grim lines. “Bonaparte is looting the country, taking any art and valuables he can lay his hands on. We may just be the road to Austria, but the French are certainly helping themselves to our treasures as they pass through.”

  Always so afraid, thought Mirelle. Why is Papa always the first to suspect the worst?

  “Our art?” Narducci said, echoing the inflection he’d used when he’d asked, “Our soil?” He scowled. “Simone, do you really want to lay claim to paintings of crucifixions and Madonnas?”

  “Besides, those are just rumors,” scoffed Dolce’s father. “Rumors circulated by the Austrians. The general will see that many of us want what the French have. A unified Italy ruled by the people, not by the pope, the Austrians, or any of our antiquated nobles.”

  “But if he does nothing but what the Directory tells him—as you say, David—what will it matter?” Papa shrugged.

  David shook his head. “The French are still experimenting with their own republic. Right now they’re struggling between the left and the right, the Jacobins and the Royalists, both trying to seize control. But eventually they will help us become a republic founded on the principles of the Enlightenment, no matter how long it takes. Isn’t that right, Dolce?”

  “Viva la Repubblica,” Dolce said, giving a mock salute. “I hope so, Papa.”

  Mirelle smiled wistfully. Dolce always seemed to know what to say. She had a more enlightened education than most boys. The books she read—like Voltaire’s Candide or Bacon’s The New Atlantis, many of which she loaned to Mirelle—and the tutors hired to teach her gave her an astonishing range of interests. She could talk fashion, philosophy, poetry, and politics. She was a fearless horsewoman, adept on the harp and pianoforte, and spoke several languages. She even kept abreast of her father’s wide-flung financial empire, which she would inherit. And no rabbi will prevent it, thought Mirelle, envy momentarily getting the better of her.

  “Consider,” Signor Morpurgo said, putting his arm around his daughter, “what the French have done for their Jews, giving them full citizenship. Imagine, being a citizen of Ancona—of all Italy!”

  Mirelle’s mother, who was hovering at the edge of the circle, coughed discreetly. “Simone, some of our guests are asking when you plan to open your gifts.”

  Mirelle bit her lip. As if Papa was five years old and this a child’s party! But gift opening was a yearly tradition. Besides, Mirelle realized Mama wanted to shift the conversation away from controversial topics, especially the war. She disapproved of talking politics in open company. You never knew who was listening, she’d say.

  Obedient to their hostess’s wishes, everyone trooped over to the gift table.

  There were polite exclamations as Simone unwrapped his presents. His men had chipped in and bought him a fine ivory snuff box and a jar of snuff. The Morpurgos gave him a magnifying loupe in a leather case, which Papa passed around so every workman in the room could look through it. “This will be helpful for close work,” Papa said gratefully, and the brothers smiled. Papa unwrapped a pair of gloves, embroidered slippers, and linen handkerchiefs. He took his time with each present, not noticing how the children fidgeted or whether the grown-ups grew bored. He thanked each giver profusely, holding up the gift and admiring it.

  Finally, he reached for the family gifts that Mama had moved to the bottom of the pile. Most of the guests had wandered off by now. The children were playing hide-and-seek under the long worktables. Their mothers and fathers huddled around the refreshment table, talking quietly.

  Papa opened Mirelle’s gift and regarded it closely. “A watch guard!” he exclaimed. “Clever girl! Did you make this yourself?”

  “It’s beautiful,” Dolce said, reaching out a hand to touch it. “What exquisite colors!”


  The smile on Papa’s face melted the frustration Mirelle had felt toward him earlier. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Like it? I love it!” He opened his arms and hugged her tightly. “I’m going to put it on right now.” He clipped the chain onto his watch, fastening it to his pantaloons. He looked down for a long moment, admiring it.

  “My turn now, Papa.” Jacopo reached for the scroll. “I made this especially for you.”

  Papa took the proffered roll of parchment and smiled at his son. “You made it?” He slid the clumsy bow from the scroll. “I’m a lucky father to have children who care so much.”

  Jacopo shifted his weight from side to side as he watched their father unroll the parchment. Mirelle leaned forward to catch a glimpse, but Papa was holding it too close for her to see.

  He stared at it, his face suddenly frozen. He glanced quickly toward his son, who couldn’t hide his delight. Mirelle was surprised to see tears in her father’s eyes.

  “That’s—remarkable,” Papa whispered. “Simply remarkable.” He held it up.

  Jacopo had laboriously drawn a Jewish marriage license, etching an arch in black ink and decorating it with colorful Biblical characters, vines, and flowers in soft watercolors. Mirelle knew it was the brilliantly illuminated letters and the distinctive pointed upper border, called an ogee arch, which had led to the high demand for Ancona ketubot throughout Europe and beyond. At the top of the page was an enormous word in Hebrew, followed by a block of text that had been rendered in careful calligraphy. The effect was stunning.

  “I had some help with the lettering,” Jacopo admitted, “but the drawing is all my own.”

  “I knew you were talented,” Papa said. “But I had no idea how much.” He still looked astonished.

  Mirelle bit her lip. “It’s beautiful,” she said, amid the chorus of wonder and congratulation.

  Her father’s eyes remained fixed on the splendid ketubah.

  Mirelle swallowed hard, a lump of disappointment bitter in her mouth.

  Were she only a boy . . .

  She wandered away from the group, heading into her father’s office. I’m just going to take a quick look, she thought. No one will even notice that I’ve gone.

  Mirelle sat behind the desk and reached for her father’s ledgers. Casting her eyes over the newly entered rows of numbers, smeared and uneven, she did a quick tally. She made a few small adjustments, but for the most part, everything added up. She felt almost disappointed as she started to close the book, wondering if anyone cared that she was no longer working there.

  “Mirelle? What are you doing?”

  She looked up. Narducci stood in the doorway. She felt a quick twinge of embarrassment at having been caught checking the books. Saying nothing, she shut the ledger and covered it with both hands.

  Narducci gave her a sidelong look and chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Mirelle smiled. “Thank you.”

  Narducci sighed. “I’m sorry that your father couldn’t convince Rabbi Fano to let you stay on. All of us are. For a man of God and a preacher of peace, our beloved rabbi can be awfully vengeful.

  “You know how much I admire your father,” Narducci went on, “but we both know he has no head for numbers.”

  “He’s looking for someone.”

  “I hope he finds him soon. Otherwise, there might be trouble.”

  Mirelle stared at him, surprised. “But everything’s in order. I just checked.”

  “For now.” The foreman looked at the ledger. “But I don’t want to return to the days when your grandfather almost ruined us through his mismanagement.”

  Mirelle furrowed her brow. What can he mean? Her father’s stories about her grandfather were full of his courage in leaving Alsace, his brilliance in founding the workshop. She had only the vaguest recollection of him, a stoop-shouldered old man with graying hair who would hold her lovingly on his lap and tell her bedtime tales in a thick accent. Jacopo—for whom he was named—had never even met him. “What are you talking about?”

  Narducci sat on the other side of the desk and folded his hands in his lap. “My father told me. Your grandfather was a wonderful craftsman and scribe. He built this workshop from nothing, starting out as a solitary artist.”

  Mirelle nodded. This much she knew.

  “But he ran into trouble when he brought in other workers. He promised to pay them lavishly, but to entice customers, he offered to do the work at a lower price than his competition. Then, like your father, he trusted in the quality of the men’s work and let them spend as much time as they’d like. Too much time. They began to miss dates, to the embarrassment of the married couples. Never mind, he’d tell the men, we’ll just use your work for someone else. But nothing spreads as quickly as a bad reputation. And no matter how beautiful the work, nobody wants a ketubah fashioned for someone else.”

  Mirelle glanced down. Her hands were still spread across the large leather-bound ledger. It felt warm to her touch, almost like a living thing. “But—ours is the most successful workshop in all of Italy.”

  “In all the world,” Narducci agreed, his voice full of pride. “Now. But what saved us then was David Morpurgo’s father.”

  “Dolce’s grandfather?”

  Narducci nodded. “Jacob went to him for a loan to save the business. He didn’t want to let anyone go—I give him credit for that—but he couldn’t pay them. Morpurgo looked at the books and agreed to become a partner in the business, but only if he managed it.”

  “I never knew that,” Mirelle said.

  “When the old man died, David took on the partnership. But in name only—he’s involved in too many other businesses to keep such a close eye. You, on the other hand, young as you are—you have the head for it.”

  Mirelle flushed.

  “Your father is brilliant,” Narducci added. “He has the same gifts his father had before him, the same gifts Jacopo already shows—artistry, creativity, an ability to inspire his men. I’m honored to work for him. But this is a business, Mirelle, and you need more than a keen eye and a quick brush to run a business.” He smiled at her. “There is more than one type of artistry, you know.”

  Mirelle felt dread crowding her throat. She slowly raised her hands from the ledger. “Papa’s looking for someone.”

  Narducci nodded. “I hope he finds him. Soon.”

  Mirelle sat, silent, for a moment. “We should go back out there,” she finally said, rising. “Mama will wonder where I am.”

  7

  MAY 10 LODI

  Daniel was suffering from painful water blisters as his company quick-marched along the shores of the Po River in hot pursuit of the enemy. To distract himself, he thought back over the last few weeks. It felt good to be a soldier under General Bonaparte’s command. In the last month and a half, they’d vanquished city after city, celebrating victory at Montenotte, at Millesimo, at Dego—and, remarkably, later that same day, at Cosseria. Ceva followed, then Mondovi, where the residents had shouted “Long live the Republic!” as they massed on the streets, tossing flowers and fruit to the victors.

  The general was already accomplishing the goals set out for him by the Directory when he began the Italian campaign: wresting control of Austrian-ruled lands in Lombardy and severing the Sardinian-Austrian alliance. The young Republic feared reprisals from the Austrians for executing the French royal family, especially their native daughter, Marie Antoinette. By sending Bonaparte into Italy, they’d created a second front, crippling Austria’s hold on their Italian possessions. Napoleon was also charged with preventing the pope from supporting the Republic’s enemies. The French rampaged through Italy’s cities like wildfire, staging lightning attacks against the Austrians, Bonaparte’s unconventional tactics utterly confounding them.

  While the glory of victory stirred him, however, the bleeding and lifeless bodies on the battlefield turned Daniel’s stomach. He recalled the Talmudic teaching, “Whomever destroy
s a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world.” Yet the Austrians would kill me without thinking twice. He was a soldier, wasn’t he? The first generation of Jewish soldiers since Roman times. If the Torah praised the victories of King David’s warriors, the siege of Jericho—surely God would understand Daniel’s defense of the French Republic.

  The desperate Austrian retreat, the ranks whispered gleefully as they marched through the beautiful spring day, was trying to reach Milan with their forces still intact. Napoleon had cut off their river crossing at Piacenza. The retreating troops had left a force behind in Lodi, a half day’s march south of Milan, to slow the French surge. So at Lodi, located on an Adda River swollen from springtime rains, its banks boggy and sprinkled with delicate wildflowers, Bonaparte now engaged General Sebottendorf.

  As they dragged the cannons to the field, Daniel saw the enemy had taken positions on a narrow wooden bridge. He counted fourteen cannons pointed directly at them and estimated two or three battalions facing them. He’d gained enough battle experience not to tremble in the face of the enemy, but he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of doubt.

  “Want to cross?” one of the Austrians called. “You must pass us first!”

  Behind the bridge stood the Austrian infantry, guns leveled at the approaching French.

  “Ready, steady, boys!” cried Daniel’s captain as they halted several yards away.

  Daniel inhaled the clean, fresh air. The day was made for picnicking under olive trees and taking a long nap after lunch, not for trading bullets and cannon shot. Red-throated birds chased one another in the blue sky, indifferent to the impending battle. Aristocratic Austrian officers, thinking themselves safe, mocked the ragtag French troops with elegant French taunts.

  “Thus far and no farther,” one called, pristine in his white uniform, sunlight catching fire on his gold epaulets. “How fares your country now? Are they still guillotining innocents?”