Beyond the Ghetto Gates Read online

  She threw a handful of hay at him. “You do and I’ll kill you both,” she shrieked.

  He laughed. How changeable women’s moods could be. From purring to alley cat in an instant. “You? Nonsense, chérie.” Boots laced, he rose and brushed the excess hay from his uniform. “Be a good girl and I’ll return.” He looked down at her body. “Mon dieu, you’re beautiful!”

  “Come back tonight,” she urged him, thrusting her chest out enticingly. So much for protestations of virginity. “Promise me!”

  With a careless wave, he turned on his heel and left the barn.

  Back at the barracks, Christophe sank on his bedroll and sighed, exhausted. Daniel, who had wandered over to talk to him, shook his head but said nothing. Even so, Christophe could feel the waves of disapproval coming from his friend.

  “Want me to introduce you to a friend of Lissandra’s?” he asked, half in earnest and half-mocking. “You could do with a little loving.”

  Daniel studied his boots. “No, thanks. I’m fine as I am.” Christophe sat up. “Seriously, though, Daniel, why not? Your wife won’t thank you for coming to the marriage bed a virgin. She’ll want someone who knows how to pleasure her.”

  Daniel’s lips thinned. “I wouldn’t marry a woman like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . that.” Daniel hesitated for a moment before adding, “We’ll learn how to give one another pleasure.”

  “Two virgins together? You’ll flounder around, not knowing what goes where.”

  Daniel turned away and Christophe realized he’d gone too far. “Or not,” he said. “Don’t mind me, Daniel. I’m tired.”

  “Did you get any sleep at all?” “Not much.” Christophe lay down again. “I should catch a little nap before maneuvers.”

  He closed his eyes and felt rather than saw Daniel wander off. He drifted, half-asleep, thinking about his friend’s disapproval. Alain expected Christophe to sow his wild oats, and he wasn’t disappointing his all-knowing uncle. This army adventure rewarded a young man’s appetites: he could swoop in, charm a girl into bed, then march off the next day, forgetting her in the arms of another beauty.

  But it was evident from his friend’s thin-lipped stare that he thought Christophe was acting like a cad.

  His half-conscious thoughts wandered. Was he wrong and Daniel right? Would he want Lissandra as his wife?

  The idea made his eyes fly open. Definitely not.

  He closed his eyes again, trying to picture his ideal wife. She would be pure in body and soul, he decided, a woman of integrity and virtue. A woman—he chuckled—that he had yet to meet. In the meantime, he would enjoy all the sweets Italy had to offer.

  10

  JUNE 25 ANCONA

  “Barbara! Get dressed!” Francesca called as she stepped into the backyard. Beyond her henhouses and kitchen garden were fields of sunflowers and a small orchard of fig trees. She tied a black kerchief over her dark hair and loosened her apron. Her husband had been away for two months now and she’d grown used to deciding when to sow and weed, plant and pluck. In fact, she thought wryly, it was easier to get on with the work without Emilio’s constant grousing, with just Barbara to chide into doing her chores.

  “Is it already time?” Barbara was perched in the apple tree, where she often sat in the heat of the day, swinging her gangly legs and daydreaming.

  “We said we’d meet at the harbor and walk to church together.” This was Father Candelabri’s idea. “We don’t know when the French will break through our defenses,” he’d explained at a service a few days earlier. “Best none of you walk alone for now.”

  Sighing, her daughter jumped down and landed with a thud on the hard-packed earth. “Why are there all these extra services?” she asked, pumping the water spigot and sticking a hand under the tap.

  Francesca grabbed her daughter by the nape of her neck and pushed her hair under the flowing water. “You’re wearing a necklace of dirt,” she scolded, “and there are spider webs in your hair.”

  Barbara sputtered, yanking her head away. “Church every day and clean every day, all because the French are marching on us,” she muttered, rubbing her dripping head with a ratty towel. Eyes half-shut, she turned to her mother. “Fiona says that the soldiers take food from the farms. And . . . women, too.”

  Francesca, already in her sixth month of pregnancy, placed a protective hand over her bulging belly. “Rumors,” she scoffed. “They won’t want me, not in this condition. And you’re still just a scrawny girl. Don’t worry.”

  “But Fiona—”

  “As if I have patience to listen to all the nonsense that girl spouts,” Francesca said. “Go put on your church dress.”

  Barbara stalked inside. Francesca stopped at the little altar to the Virgin Mary in the corner of the yard. “Keep us safe, Blessed Mother,” she whispered, touching the roughhewn statue’s stone curls. “Keep the Corsican monster from our door. And bring my Emilio home from the sea, safe and sound.”

  Barbara came outside, wearing her faded green dress. The girl’s skirt barely covered her scratched brown legs, and Francesca realized with a jolt that she’d grown a couple of inches again, seemingly overnight. With luck, Emilio would bring home enough soldi so they could afford new clothes.

  The walk to the cathedral was steep; it made Francesca, burdened by her pregnancy, gasp for air. The women rounded a bend in the road and paused, looking over the panorama spread before them. The red, white, and pink stone buildings with their red-tiled roofs were bathed in a golden glow. In the harbor, multi-masted cargo ships with furled canvases were anchored in the bay.

  “It looks so peaceful,” said Francesca’s friend Maria.

  “And it will stay that way,” asserted Bella Marscipona, a withered woman who’d looked old when Francesca was a child. Her age remained one of the city’s deeply held mysteries. “The Virgin Mother will intercede. Something—or someone—will halt the Corsican in his tracks.”

  Francesca closed her eyes, half-scornful of the naïve statement but still hoping that old Bella was right. Holy Mother, keep my husband safe, she prayed silently. And, she added with a swallow, help him become the man he should be.

  “Have you heard from Emilio?” Maria asked, as if reading Francesca’s thoughts.

  Francesca opened her eyes. “Not recently. He’s not one for writing, my husband.”

  “It must feel strange with him gone. Quieter.”

  Francesca glanced quickly at Maria, who averted her face. Does she mean what I think she means? Francesca had never admitted to anyone how hot-tempered her husband could be, how his drinking and gambling woke the devil in him. Once or twice in the confessional, she’d been tempted to unburden herself. But she always ended up confiding only her own sins. If anyone in Ancona learned how her husband treated her, she’d be ashamed.

  They made the final ascent to the cathedral.

  As she entered, the coolness of the stone-vaulted cathedral washed over her. The church’s familiar beauty soothed her. Even more than the small farm in the foothills below, this ancient building was home.

  The women moved to the left transept, the Chapel of My Lady. Father Candelabri led a special mass for the women of the city every day, during which they prayed for Ancona to remain untouched by the war and destruction tearing through Italy.

  Some women gathered below the altar of the Virgin Mary; others mounted the marble steps closer to the delicate portrait of the Madonna.

  “Come up today,” Maria said. “Seeing you there will touch the Holy Mother’s heart and keep Emilio safe.”

  Francesca knew Mary favored those who kept her close in their hearts. For Emilio, she told herself, diffidently climbing the stairs.

  Father Candelabri, his back to the devout, had just begun the antiphon: “Introibo ad altare Dei, ad Deum qui lætificat iuventutem meam—I shall go in to the altar of God, the God who gives joy to my youth.”

  Even with her eyes shut, Francesca felt her daughter at h
er side, breathing heavily, mouth open, arms slippery with sweat.

  “Mama.” Barbara tugged at her arm. “Look at the Madonna. Why is the painting doing that? Moving its eyes?”

  The priest started the confession: “I confess to almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the archangel . . .”

  Francesca opened her eyes. “Barbara,” she muttered, “hush—”

  “But Mama,” the girl whined, her voice carrying through the high-ceilinged room. “Look!”

  Unwillingly, Francesca turned her head toward the features of Our Lady Queen of All Saints, the image of the gold-crowned Mary, red dress peeking out of the folds of her blue mantle. This sweet face had graced Francesca’s growing years, blessed her marriage to Emilio, witnessed the christening of their daughter, the girl who was once again tugging at her sleeve and whispering, “Do you see, Mama?”

  “Oremus,” pronounced the priest. “Let us pray.”

  And then she did see it. Her body throbbed with shock as the Virgin’s downcast eyes looked directly at her and shed a single tear that fell from her right eye and trickled down her pale cheek.

  “The Madonna!” cried Francesca, springing up from her kneeler and pointing at the portrait. “Mother Mary weeps! She weeps for us!”

  A hush, then a cry, then a sudden roar as the congregation huddled around the altar, pushing and praying. Many of the women clasped their rosaries in their hands and sobbed as they murmured, “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”

  Francesca somehow found herself in front of the painting with a bewildered Father Candelabri. She knelt and reached up to grasp his arm. “She weeps—look how pale she looks, how she turns her head to watch us, Father.”

  The women fell to their knees. Father Candelabri raised a single finger and touched the wet mark the tear had left on the Virgin Mother’s cheek.

  “A miracle,” he murmured, crossing himself. He whispered a line from the novena, Mary Help of Christians: “You are awe-inspiring as an army in battle array.”

  The women responded, “Defend me from the power of the enemy.”

  “What did I say?” Old Bella’s voice rose above the hushed prayers and the sobs of the faithful, transfixed by the sweeping eyes of the weeping Madonna. “Our Lady will protect us from the Corsican monster! Napoleon will never enter our city now!”

  11

  AUGUST 28 ANCONA

  Mirelle was playing the piano for her parents and a bored Jacopo one sultry evening when Anna poked her head into the parlor. “Signor and Signorina Morpurgo,” she announced.

  Dolce and her father followed close on Anna’s heels. Mirelle jumped up from the piano, grateful for the interruption. Mama and Papa rose more slowly.

  “Come in.” Papa welcomed them with a bow and a smile. “Anna, fetch wine and biscotti for our guests,” Mama added. “How lovely to see you, David. And you, Dolce.”

  Jacopo, having made his schoolboy’s bow, looked around as if he wanted to escape. But a swift glance from his father made him sink back into his seat, while an even quicker glare from Mama, reminding him that Dolce was still standing, forced him to pop back up again.

  “We’re sorry to interrupt.” Signor Morpurgo glanced at Mirelle. “That was a lovely tune we heard as we came in, Piccola. Won’t you play it for us?”

  Mirelle shook her head, smiling at his endearment. He had called her “little one” since she and Dolce were children. “I’m still practicing it.”

  “Another time, then.” Dolce’s father turned to Mama. “We are sorry to stop in so unexpectedly, Pinina. But she”—he nodded toward his daughter, his smile widening—“couldn’t wait to share our news.”

  “Mirelle!” Dolce grabbed hold of her hands and sat down with her on the divan. “We’re going to Venice!”

  “We’ll stay with Levi Balarin in the Ghetto Vecchio,” Signor Morpurgo explained. “I’m going for business—and a ball at the Doge’s Palace.”

  “Just think—a masked ball at the Doge’s Palace!” Dolce sounded breathless. “The palace is exquisite, and just imagine the dresses the women will wear—the jewels . . .”

  “You’ll have a wonderful time,” Mirelle said slowly.

  “No, no, you don’t understand!” Dolce cried. “You’re coming, too!”

  “I . . . ?”

  Signor Morpurgo put up a hand. “If your parents permit, of course. We won’t be there long—just a week. Balarin’s wife will act as chaperone and look after the girls.”

  “That’s very generous of you, David,” Simone said.

  “Mirelle, you’ll love Venice! It’s like living in a dream. Just think of the lovely young men we’ll meet!”

  Mama’s smile faded slightly, as if she suspected Dolce’s choice of suitors.

  Anna entered, carrying a decanter of wine, crystal glasses, and a plate of almond biscotti. As she served the refreshments, Mirelle saw Jacopo was scowling. Noticing her eyes upon him, he hastily left the room.

  Mirelle excused herself and followed him into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” she asked, grabbing his hand.

  “It’s not fair,” he muttered. “Why do you get to leave?”

  “Oh, Jacopo. It’ll just be a lot of fancy lords and ladies.”

  “Yes, but you’ll be somewhere else,” he said bitterly.

  Before Mirelle could answer, Mama entered the room, eyes flashing. “Where did you go?” she demanded. “How rude! You especially, Mirelle—after receiving such a marvelous invitation.”

  Mirelle, flushing, followed her mother back into the drawing room. When she looked around, her brother had disappeared.

  The next few days were hectic, as both Mama and Dolce instructed Mirelle on how to behave in society. Mama harangued her on the importance of remaining modest, while Dolce explained how to flirt, walk in heels, and wave a fan.

  “Men will throw themselves into the canals for your sake,” Dolce said, laughing, as Mirelle practiced a coquettish look.

  Mirelle shrugged, unconvinced. “For you, maybe. Not for me.”

  Mama fussed that there wasn’t time to make Mirelle a new dress, that she didn’t possess a ball gown rich enough for the Doge’s Palace. “She’ll look like a beggar compared to the noble ladies,” she complained to Papa.

  But the moment Signor Morpurgo caught a whiff of Mama’s hesitation, he called on her. Mirelle never learned how he managed to convince her mother, but she was informed later that day that a dressmaker would be engaged in Venice to fashion a ball gown worthy of the event.

  “He won’t let us pay for it, either, Simone,” Mama told Papa that evening. “He says Mirelle’s doing him a favor, keeping Dolce company while he conducts his business.”

  Papa’s forehead wrinkled. “And you accept that? It’s unlike you, Pinina.”

  Papa was right; Mama rarely accepted such grand favors. But she seemed willing to do so now. In fact, she stopped fussing altogether.

  The day before they left, Mirelle walked by the kitchen and heard Jacopo talking in hushed tones inside with a group of his school friends. They were eating bocconotti—chocolate-frosted cream buns. As she hovered in the doorway, Moise said, “We should do it Saturday night, after Shabbat.”

  “What’ll they do if they catch us?” Jacopo asked anxiously.

  “What are you talking about?” Mirelle asked abruptly, entering the room. “Catch you doing what?”

  “Moise, you and your big mouth!” Raffi hissed.

  “It’s just Mirelle,” Jacopo said, glaring at her. “She won’t tell.”

  “Tell what?” Mirelle demanded.

  “There’s a hole in the wall surrounding the ghetto—near the tanner’s yard on the Christian side—and we’re going to go through one night. So the Christians think they can keep us penned up?” Moise puffed his chest. “We’re going to prove them wrong.”

  “Jacopo—you mustn’t!” Mirelle turned to her brother, alarmed. “They’ll flog you or throw you into prison!”

  “It would be worth
it,” Jacopo replied grimly.

  Mirelle knew better than to argue with him in front of his friends. But later that evening, she pulled him aside. “Promise you won’t leave the ghetto at night,” she said. “At least not until I’m back home.”

  “Why not? You get to leave—why can’t I?”

  “What if you got caught? Mama and Papa would be frantic with worry. Promise.”

  “I won’t promise.” He stared at the floor. “Don’t ask that of me.”

  “You can’t,” she persisted. “Think how you’d frighten Mama and Papa.”

  He bit his lip. “They’ll never know.”

  “I’ll tell them if you won’t promise.” Even as she voiced the threat, she hesitated. She knew how much he longed to slip the bonds of the ghetto, just once. But he and his friends were too careless. What if they ran into the constable? It wasn’t worth it.

  Finally, she extracted a reluctant promise. He barely spoke to her the rest of the day, his face sulky and his voice curt. But before she left for Venice the next morning, he threw his arms around her and hugged her tightly.

  They traveled up the coastline in a yacht Signor Morpurgo had borrowed from one of his wealthy business associates. The girls stood over the railing, pointing out sights along the way, and sat in deck chairs in the late afternoon, enjoying the gentle spray of the ocean.

  “You’ve grown quiet,” Dolce said, nibbling a pastry they’d been served with afternoon tea. “What are you thinking?”

  “Just that it’s been five months, now.”

  “Five months?”

  “Since I was allowed to work for Papa.”

  “I thought you were past all that.” Dolce sighed, looking at the horizon. “Venice will help. We won’t be cooking or cleaning there, that’s certain. Maybe we’ll even find a beau to take your mind off that dreary workshop.”

  Mirelle shrugged. But as she watched the coastline slip by, a twinge of adventure tugged at her heart. Would she find a future in Dolce’s dream of a city that Ancona could not provide?