“I am Jewish. Almost every Frenchman here is Jewish,” Daniel said. “And we are all soldiers—an artillery unit. We’ve fought alongside Bonaparte himself.”
“Jewish soldiers.” The man shook his head in disbelief. “Perhaps Jehudah is right and you are the Messiah in disguise.”
Daniel laughed. “I am merely a French soldier and citizen of the Republic.”
“Uncle!” A young blond woman in a rich red gown, her arms draped with a fine silk shawl, grasped the skinny man’s elbow. She had to shout above the sound of clanging metal; some of the soldiers were still hammering the iron gates. “What is happening?”
“The end of times, perhaps,” the man shouted back. “These soldiers are tearing down the ghetto gates and say we can discard our armbands and hats.”
“Truly? How wonderful!” The woman slid her armband off her arm and removed her head covering, holding them at arm’s length for a dramatic moment before dropping them into the gutter.
Daniel looked at her in surprise, taken by her beauty. He bowed. “Signore. Signorina. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Daniel ben Isidore of Paris.” He had to shout to be heard over the noise.
“I am Ezekiel Morpurgo, and this is my niece, Dolce.” Ezekiel looked at the girl disapprovingly. “Dolce, did you really come here all alone?”
Dolce looked around. “I thought Mirelle might follow me but—oh, there she is!” She waved, and a slender, brown-haired woman stepped forward. She had already been intercepted by one of the other soldiers and relieved of her Jewish insignia.
“This is Mirelle,” Ezekiel said. “Her brother was killed in the riots that caused us to lock the ghetto gates.”
Daniel bowed again as Christophe joined them, elbowing him in the ribs.
“There is great beauty in Ancona, I see,” Christophe commented, looking at Dolce with appreciation.
Daniel smiled at his friend’s stylish slouch. He didn’t think Christophe’s flirtatious manner would do him any good in a Jewish ghetto, but it was amusing to watch him try.
“They are all Jewish, these soldiers,” Ezekiel told the two girls.
“Really?” Dolce’s eyes widened as she looked the two soldiers up and down.
Christophe grinned. Daniel opened his mouth to correct the old man, but the hammering and sawing of metal grew even louder, making conversation impossible.
Several soldiers carried driftwood from the beach. Daniel stepped back to let them through. The earsplitting clatter of the iron gates being chopped to pieces stopped. The soldiers piled the iron onto the large stack of beach wood.
“Are your men mad?” Ezekiel asked Daniel. “Those gates are iron. They won’t burn.”
“But if we set fire to them, everyone will know we’re in earnest,” Daniel replied. “We’ll collect the pieces of iron after we extinguish the flames.”
Someone splashed oil from a container on the pile, while another soldier dropped a fiery torch on the logs. With a whoosh, the bonfire caught hold and flames rose. A cry of wonder sprang from everyone’s throats, followed by the Shehecheyanu blessing. Daniel joined the Morpurgos and Mirelle in chanting, “Blessed art thou, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.”
Christophe waited until they had finished the Hebrew prayer before nudging Daniel again. “Won’t you introduce me to your new friends?”
Daniel performed the introductions and Christophe bent his head over Dolce’s hand. “Signorina. We are delighted to present you with this token of our great esteem.” He fished a couple of cockades out of his jacket pocket and pinned one to Dolce’s shawl with a flourish.
Mirelle’s eyes were fixed on the bonfire. “Is this really happening?”
The blond French soldier turned to her, smiling. But then the smile froze. Mirelle stared at him, the back of her neck tingling.
“Do you remember me, signorina?” Christophe asked in a hoarse whisper, as if he could barely utter the question.
“Remember you? Why would I remember you?” It was hard, suddenly, to breathe.
“We have met.” Christophe’s voice was insistent. “You must remember.”
“What a strange thing to say.” Dolce tossed her head. “You’ve never been in Ancona before, have you? Mirelle has only left Ancona once in her life.”
“Only once?” Daniel looked from one to the other curiously. “Where did you go?”
Mirelle, her eyes locked with Christophe’s, suddenly paled. “Venice,” she whispered.
“Christophe!” Daniel cried out. “It can’t be. Is this the young lady from the ball?”
“Yes!” Christophe cried exultantly. “I knew you could not forget me, lovely lady.” He bowed low, flourishing his cap. “I knew we would meet again—I told you so, Daniel, didn’t I?”
“You’re that Frenchman?” Dolce studied first Christophe, then Mirelle. “But how romantic!”
“The very same,” Christophe said, handing Mirelle the second cockade.
Dazed, as if struck by a lightning bolt, she stared at him, clutching the Revolutionary badge in ice-cold fingers. “I’m glad you got away,” she said, heart hammering.
“We were grateful to you,” Daniel replied, bowing low.
“And now you are here, Jewish soldiers tearing down the ghetto gates.” Mirelle couldn’t believe it. She had almost convinced herself that the blond Frenchman was a figment of her imagination. Not real. He couldn’t be. And yet there he stood, the ghetto gates burning behind him.
Christophe shook his head. “I’m not . . .”
Daniel interceded. “He’s not Jewish, though I am, as are most of the men here.”
Mirelle felt a sharp pang of disappointment. For the briefest of moments, she had dared to hope. I knew it couldn’t be, she thought. But she still felt drawn to him. Wanting to conceal her tumultuous thoughts, she tore her gaze away from the blond stranger and stared again at the blaze. “My brother would have rejoiced in this day,” she whispered, fingers trembling as she pinned the emblem to her shirtwaist collar. “He always longed to be free of the ghetto.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Daniel said. “If I may ask, signorina, who is your family?”
“My father is Simone d’Ancona,” Mirelle said, shaking off her sorrow and drawing herself up proudly. “Proprietor of the best ketubah workshop in all of Italy—in all the world.”
“Simone d’Ancona?” Daniel asked, an amazed look on his face. “Does he have relatives in Paris? And in Bischheim?”
“He does,” Mirelle replied, staring at him in astonishment. She struggled to control her voice. “How can you possibly know that?”
Daniel’s laugh rang out over the hubbub of the crowd and the crackling of the bonfire. “We are cousins, you and I,” he said. “That’s how I know.”
24
FEBRUARY 12
Mirelle was playing piano when she heard a knock at the front door. Anna was elbow-deep in bread dough, so Mirelle went to answer.
Dolce stood there with Daniel and Christophe. “They wanted to pay the family a condolence call,” Dolce said, the twinkle in her eye belying her solemn face, “and I said there was no time like the present.”
Mirelle stepped aside to let them enter. “Show them into the parlor, would you? I’ll let Mama and Papa know that they’re here.”
As Mirelle headed toward her parents’ room, she felt Christophe’s piercing green eyes fixed on her retreating back.
Papa, who’d risen from bed the previous day for the first time since the attack, was sitting in an armchair by his bedroom window, looking out at the street, while Mama tidied his bedside table. Mirelle told them of their visitors.
“I must go see them,” Papa said, rising with difficulty.
Wife and daughter ran to take either arm.
“Is that wise, Simone?” Mama asked.
“It’s three steps and I’ll lie on the divan in the parlor. You can suffocate me with all the blank
ets you want. But how often does a cousin from Paris pay us a call?”
Arm in arm, they helped him to the room. The moment they entered, both young men jumped up and hurried over. Between them, they settled Simone on the cherry-red divan and tucked a warm robe over his lap. Mirelle slipped from the room to ask Anna to bring some wine and sesame biscuits. When the refreshments arrived, Mirelle poured the wine, watering it for her father, then handed the tray around. She stood, head bowed, as Papa recited the blessing over the wine, trying to ignore the Gentile’s eyes on her face.
But as they drank, she watched him curiously from behind the shield of her wineglass. He sat in a rare beam of sunlight, his golden hair gleaming in its rays. He leaned forward, sipping the drink. His eyes flickered back to her and lingered on her face. Her breath grew ragged as she met his gaze. Not daring to hold his glance any longer, she turned away to study her cousin.
When she looked at Christophe, it was his penetrating green eyes and quick, easy smile that made her heart beat faster. He was the epitome of a fairy tale hero—tall and broad, with a glint of mischief about him. But with Daniel, the first thing she noticed was the worn, patched French uniform. Were the patches the result of battle scars? A Jewish soldier—who would have thought such a thing possible? Looking more closely, Mirelle noted with approval his taut, wiry frame, the tiny sun wrinkles around his dark eyes, the close-shaven olive complexion, the black curly hair. He was a handsome man, her cousin.
“So you are Isidore’s son,” Simone was saying to Daniel in flawless French.
Mirelle’s grasp of the language was nearly as good as her father’s, having had the advantage of Dolce’s tutors. Only Pinina struggled to understand. Every once in a while, Simone or Mirelle stopped to translate.
After condolences had been extended and a brief conversation about the French conquest of the city had concluded, the subject turned to family history and how they were related. It appeared that Isidore and Simone were either third or fourth cousins on their fathers’ side.
“I haven’t seen the French branch of the family since I lived in Bischheim,” Mirelle’s father said. “I was a small child when my father moved to Ancona to start the ketubah works.”
“I understand that your workshop is the most illustrious in all of Europe,” Daniel said. “You are to be congratulated.”
“That’s very kind.” Simone smiled, clearly gratified.
“Not at all,” Daniel said. “I hope to see it while we’re stationed here. You know that Christophe and I were apprenticed in his uncle’s printshop? I’m interested to compare the two.”
“That reminds me,” Christophe said, a mischievous expression lighting up his face, “we have a delivery for you, Signor d’Ancona.”
“For me?” Simone’s eyebrows rose.
Christophe pulled a missive embossed with a heavy seal from his coat pocket and handed it to Simone with a flourish. The thick paper crackled as Simone slipped a finger under the seal, unfolded it, and read.
“Your general wants to visit my ketubah manufactory?” he cried. “Tomorrow?”
“What?” Mirelle jumped up to look over her father’s shoulder. She translated the note for her mother, who sat twisting her apron in her lap.
“It’s a tremendous honor,” Dolce said, her face glowing. “My father arranged it when he paid the general a visit. General Bonaparte wanted to know what was worth visiting in the ghetto. He’s going to commission a ketubah for his wife, Josephine.”
“But Dolce,” Pinina said in rapid Italian, “how will it look when the general arrives, and Simone cannot be there to meet him? He’s not well enough.”
“Not be there to meet him? Are you joking, wife? Of course I’ll be there. Thank your father for us, Dolce. An honor, indeed!”
Pinina glared at Dolce. Mirelle hurried to cut short whatever her mother might say next.
“Mama, from what Cousin Daniel and Corporal Lefevre tell us, it will only be a quick visit. The general is going to tour the ghetto in the morning and head to the cathedral in the afternoon.”
“My father, uncle, and I will accompany him during his visit to the ghetto,” Dolce said. “May Mirelle join us? Papa specifically asked that I invite her.”
“Oh, no, Dolce—I’ll help Mama and Papa in the workshop, of course, but I couldn’t possibly spend the entire morning with you,” Mirelle protested. “Not on such a gala occasion—in my current state—”
“Ah, but signorina, you must!” Christophe chimed in. “After Venice, I thought I’d never see you again. I insist you accompany your friend.”
Mama might not have understood Christophe’s words, but she clearly grasped his meaning from his tone. Mirelle flinched as her mother scowled at the French soldier.
“You can’t refuse the general’s request,” Daniel said gently. “He is wearied by politicians and wants to be shown the ghetto by someone with no hidden motives. Signor Morpurgo told him you were the ideal choice.”
“Besides, Mira,” Dolce added, “my father feels that seeing the French in possession of the city after all you’ve suffered will be healing for you.”
“Dolce—” “There is no more to be said, daughter,” her mother said, a strange, knowing look on her face. “If Signor Morpurgo wishes it, you must represent the ghetto as best you can.”
25
FEBRUARY 13
“She’s my angel!” Christophe told his friend, stretching one long leg before him as he perched on a fallen log. “I never stopped thinking about her, knew I’d see her again. It’s fate.”
Daniel was shaving, his eyes focused on the sliver of glass he had propped up on a branch. It had turned temperate suddenly, as though Bonaparte’s troops had brought the spring with them. His heart pounded oddly at the thought of his cousin—the warmth of her smile, the unhappiness lurking deep in her eyes. He bit his lip, resentment bubbling inside him. Christophe would never fully understand Mirelle’s tragedy, the hollow emptiness of her brother’s death. How could any Gentile know what it meant to be hated simply because you were born Jewish? Daniel thought of his childhood, of the days before the Revolution when he’d heard slurs on the street and in the printshop—even from Christophe himself, before his friend learned better. And now he thought he loved a Jewess?
“I don’t understand you,” Daniel said slowly. “It doesn’t seem like you, this sudden infatuation.”
Christophe laced his fingers in his close-cropped hair. “I never knew true love before.”
“True love?” Daniel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t believe me?” “With this girl? I’ll wager she’s been strictly raised. You can’t flirt with a modest Jewish maiden. Her parents would never consider you a suitor. Do us both a favor and forget her.”
Christophe rose. “You’re right—you don’t know her, even less so than I do. I’m the one who danced with her in Venice, remember? There’s more to her than her upbringing. She has spirit, fire. Remember how she saved us?” He paced, avoiding the gnarled tree roots breaking through the thin soil that, a few yards distant, gave way to shoreline.
Daniel shook his head. “She’s not like those freethinking girls in Paris. And certainly not an Italian light-skirt. She’s a modest Jewish girl, raised to be a virtuous wife and mother. She celebrates the festivals, keeps herself pure.” Daniel glanced up, groaning. “Oh lord, I’m just making this worse! That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be knight-errant to some untouched maiden.”
Christophe bit his lip. “I want . . . I want something different. When I think of the girls back home, the girls I’ve met here, and especially the ones I slept with, I feel queasy. You know who I mean. Girls who flirt from behind their fans, dampen their muslins, part their legs—”
“The ones who flirted with you, you mean,” Daniel interrupted, a twinge of lust lancing through his body. “And you flirted back!”
“I admit it. But they left me feeling empty inside, wanting something more than their kisses, their bodies.” He lo
oked at the sandy soil. “I thought fair maidens only lived in fairy tales or medieval romances. I never thought I’d actually encounter one.”
“You don’t know that you have,” Daniel retorted. “You know nothing about her. I’m shocked, actually, that if you had to fall for a Jewish girl, her friend isn’t more to your taste.”
Christophe shrugged. “Her friend has none of the sweetness I see in Mirelle’s eyes.”
“Oh, please. You just want something you can’t have.” Daniel used the towel around his shoulders to wipe away the rest of the shaving cream, then ran a hand down the planes of his cheekbones to his chin. “Mirelle was raised chastely, like me. She’s something you’ll never have. You like the challenge more than the girl.”
Christophe laughed. “You don’t believe in love at first sight?” “Oh, please. Love at first sight? You two are strangers. Meeting her exactly three times can’t have changed that.”
“So today I will learn more about her,” Christophe said. “She is going to show General Bonaparte her father’s workshop, and we’ve been seconded to his escort. What better place for me to get to know her than the place where her father works?”
Daniel plucked his looking glass from the tree branch and dropped it into his kitbag. He pulled his braces up over his shirt and buttoned it. “You promise you’ll behave? You won’t hurt her?”
“I won’t.” Christophe’s face lit up. “I would never hurt her.”
Daniel watched his friend’s retreating back. His lips twitched, thinking how horrified Christophe’s mother would be if she knew her son was infatuated with a Jewess. His smile faded, however, when he reflected that Odette, once again, would blame him. Any excuse to blame a Jew.
Later that morning, they arrived at the steps of Villa Morpurgo, traversing the narrow streets carefully. The mood of the ghetto had changed dramatically since the day they’d dismantled the gates. Children played outside in the streets; mothers hung laundry from their rooftops, calling to one another. The shopkeepers called out their wares confidently; the young Torah students sang a song as they strolled down the street, arms draped over each other’s shoulders.
Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 14