Christophe’s attention turned to a young Italian woman, a woven basket tucked against her hip, which was swaying seductively. “I remember back in Paris when you told me not to stare at Jewish girls because of their modesty,” he mused. “That one must not have listened.”
Daniel glanced at her, grinning. “She must not have.”
“Well”—Christophe clapped his friend on the shoulder—“let’s go see your cousin, who is a modest Jewess.”
Once seated on a plush, straw-colored couch, Christophe pounded a cushion to soften it. He placed it between his head and the top edge of the sofa.
“What are you doing?” Daniel snapped, amused and appalled.
“I haven’t felt this comfortable in months.” Christophe settled in, tilting his head back, eyes drifting shut. “Women always take an infernal amount of time to get ready.”
“Some of us don’t take that long,” came a voice from the doorway.
Christophe’s eyes flew open and he flung himself upright. “Signorina d’Ancona! Good morning,” he said, bowing low.
Daniel felt the atmosphere in the room shift as Mirelle stared back at Christophe. The air seemed charged, as if vibrating in the aftermath of a cannon blast.
“Why is he here?” she demanded bluntly in Hebrew, turning to her cousin.
“The general asked us to escort you and Signorina Morpurgo this morning,” Daniel answered in the same language, frowning at Christophe’s suddenly rapt face. “But my friend is sincere in wishing to further your acquaintance, cousin.”
“He isn’t Jewish,” Mirelle replied. “What can he gain from getting to know me better?”
Christophe stared from one to the other, clearly annoyed at the language barrier. With a shrug, he sank down on the sofa and leaned back again. “If you’re going to ignore me, I might as well take a nap,” he said, looking up under hooded eyelids at Mirelle’s astonished face.
“I am a guest in this house, monsieur,” Mirelle told him in fluent French. “Please, you’ll embarrass me if you fall asleep.”
Christophe swung his feet back down and stood. Once again, he bowed low. “Citizen Corporal, if you please, signorina, not ‘monsieur.’ We no longer use such titles in France.”
“Citizen Corporal,” Mirelle said, her hands on her hips, eyes flashing with amusement. “Where were you raised that you think it’s proper to take a nap in a stranger’s home?”
“Ah, my childhood home was a strict one, sweet scold,” replied Christophe, eyes twinkling. “But I have spent months outside, sleeping under the stars in a bedroll—sometimes in the shelter of a tent, but mostly not. So I take comfort where I find it.”
“Much like the rest of Bonaparte’s army,” said a sultry voice from the doorway. “His troops have ravaged our farms, pillaged our towns and villages.”
Daniel turned toward Dolce, who was leaning against the doorframe. If Mirelle was demure in black muslin, Dolce looked magnificent in green velvet. Both soldiers bowed as she swept them a deep curtsy. Despite Dolce’s beauty, Daniel found his eyes drawn to Mirelle. Was it Dolce’s wealth that made her seem unattainable? She reminded him of the noble ladies he’d seen in Venice, the ones who’d peered over their fans, looking past him for more eligible suitors.
“Our commander is known for saying, ‘The war must feed the war,’” said Christophe. “It is a harsh reality we simple soldiers regret.”
Dolce swept an arm grandly about her. “I shall send you back to your quarters with ample supplies. Perhaps then you will leave this neighborhood in peace.”
“I think you underestimate the sheer volume of food it takes to feed the army,” Christophe retorted.
Daniel was surprised at his friend’s impatience. He would usually flirt with a woman as captivating as Dolce. But he, too, seemed interested only in Mirelle.
“And you underestimate just how wealthy I am.” Dolce laughed gently. “We can keep the troops fed for a day or so, at least.”
“It would be a great mitzvah,” Daniel said. “It’s been a while since we’ve eaten well.”
“A mitzvah.” Christophe paused, head tilted to one side. “I’ve heard that word before, but I don’t remember . . .”
“A good deed,” Dolce said. “We Jews believe they serve us better than gaining absolution in a little wooden box.”
Christophe laughed. “I gave up confession and communion many years ago. Many French citizens have stopped practicing Catholicism.”
Mirelle looked perplexed. “How can any nation give up on religion?”
Daniel felt reassured. No, a Gentile would never win his cousin’s heart.
Christophe was surprised when the girls didn’t ring for a carriage. He thought they would drive, and that he and Daniel would ride behind them.
“The ghetto streets are too narrow,” Mirelle explained, seeing his glance toward the mounts.
“My servants will bring your horses back to camp,” Dolce added.
Because of his friendship with Daniel, Christophe had often been in Le Marais in Paris, but even those crowded and dirty streets seemed luxurious compared to Ancona’s ghetto alleyways. The houses rose straight up from the gutters, hiding the sun. There was no space between the apartments, pink stucco nestling next to gray stone and peeling yellow walls. Dozens of sallow-faced children stared out from inside doorways and windows. Mirelle and Dolce, evidently used to the muck of the streets, held their skirts high and kept their eyes on the ground beneath their slippers. The cobbles of the streets felt loose underfoot, as though the ground was still boggy from the recent rains.
Christophe took Mirelle’s arm. “The street is only wide enough for two,” he said. “You and I will lead the way.”
Mirelle looked at his hand on her arm as if she wanted to pull away, but she didn’t. Her modesty excited him. He longed to make her blush.
“I have met many beautiful ladies in Italy,” he told her, “but none quite like you, signorina.”
“I’m certain you say something similar to those ladies,” Mirelle countered, the color in her cheeks steady. “You strike me as someone who enjoys flattering—or perhaps flirting with?—every woman you meet. The mark of the conquering soldier, perhaps.”
“So you don’t think I’m serious?” Christophe placed a hand on his chest, striving to look hurt despite the twinkle in his eye. “I will have to work to gain your trust.”
“You may not succeed,” Mirelle said.
Christophe chuckled. “Nevertheless, it’s the truth. Something about you touches me deeply.” He smiled to see a blush finally decorate Mirelle’s cheeks.
“Why should it?” she replied. “You’re a Christian, a soldier, from another world entirely. You don’t know anything about me.”
“Ah, but I do!” Christophe squeezed her arm. “After all, we shared a secret, didn’t we? An adventure? Shall I tell you about yourself?”
“You’ll be wrong.”
“Let me try. Your eyes seem demure until mischief flashes in them. I think some part of you yearns for a different life than the one you have here in the ghetto. The type of adventure, perhaps, to be found at a masquerade ball.”
A shadow crossed Mirelle’s face.
“No? Am I so very wrong?”
Mirelle shook her head. “Very wrong. Don’t you know I’ve been raised to be obedient? Dutiful? Those are the qualities my people prize.”
Christophe stifled a smile. “Nonsense. They’ve taught you to believe these things from childhood. I know what they’re like, those chains with which your family and religion so gently and lovingly bind you. But my chains shattered the day my father died at the Bastille. The Revolution taught us Frenchmen—and women—to cast aside religion and replace its misguided restrictions with the light of reason. What if I could show you a different world—a world outside the confines of your ghetto and your family?”
He heard something catch in her throat. She averted her face, lips tight. They walked on in silence, but Christophe kept his hand o
n her arm, all the while wondering why he was, in fact, attracted to her. She was right about her quiet modesty. Yet she had helped him and Daniel escape detection at the ball. There was a suppressed quality in her, a kind of longing that excited him. Daniel was right—she was unlike the loose women of Italy, the ones all too willing to be seduced. Mirelle would not give herself easily to a man’s keeping. But once she did, he thought, she would be loyal forever. He wanted her to be loyal only to him. The thought made him close his eyes, longing to do more than touch her arm.
Bonaparte was already at the workshop when the foursome arrived, being guided from workbench to workbench by Mirelle’s and Dolce’s fathers. Mirelle’s mother hovered in the background, at a table laid with a snowy white cloth and covered by delicacies. The workmen bent over tall tables, standing cheek by jowl or sitting perched on high stools. The bustle of the room and the smell of ink reminded Christophe of his uncle’s printshop in Paris. The only thing missing was the clatter and clang of machinery.
Dolce and Mirelle curtsied deeply to the general, who was leaning over a ketubah.
“Ladies.” Bonaparte bowed, a warm smile creasing his face. “I am pleased that you’ll accompany us during our visit to the ghetto today.”
“We’re honored to have been asked,” Dolce said.
Bonaparte looked both girls over, head to foot, nodding approvingly. Then he turned to Mirelle. “I was admiring your father’s beautiful artwork, signorina, and was just giving some instructions for a marriage contract to be created for my own bride. Perhaps you have heard of her? Her beauty is spoken of not just in France but throughout all of Europe.”
“Yes, indeed, Citizen General, we have heard much of your wife’s charm and beauty,” Mirelle said. “Fortune certainly smiles upon you.”
Bonaparte’s chest swelled. He beamed at Mirelle, who returned his regard with twinkling eyes.
“I understand you help here at the workshop,” Bonaparte said. “Your father tells me you know the business as well as he does. Come assist me.”
“Of course, Citizen General,” Mirelle said. She moved closer to the samples that her father had spread before the general. “Which of these pleases you?”
Christophe had noticed, bemused, how Mirelle began to glow with an inner light the instant she entered the workshop, as if she were a jewel and this her natural setting. The general, known for his gallantry to women, seemed to have discerned it, too. He leaned in, took Mirelle’s arm, and tucked it into his. Christophe felt color rush to his face; ducking his head, he moved aside.
Dolce led him to another table, where a workman was tracing an arch with gold paint.
“Signorina, tell me about these documents,” Christophe said, hoping his interest would conceal his sudden flare of jealousy. “My friend tells me they are Jewish marriage certificates.”
“The most beautiful in all of Europe,” Dolce replied. “Jews as far away as the Russian steppes and even the Americas commission work by the ketubah makers of Ancona.”
“And what does it say?” Christophe pointed at the ornate, neatly painted words.
“It is a contract assuring the woman of clothing, food, and”—Dolce smiled—“happiness in the marital bed. If the husband fails to uphold his side of the bargain, the woman can collect the sum designated here, which is”—Dolce leaned closer, careful not to disrupt the craftsman—“three hundred scudi. Cheap at the price.”
“You would command more, I take it?”
“Without a doubt. I am not some poor girl who would wed at any price. Or wed any man who comes along. I’ll wait for the right one.”
“And Signorina d’Ancona? She is not betrothed, is she? She is free to marry whomever she likes?”
Dolce lay cool fingers on Christophe’s arm and ushered him aside. She put up her fan and whispered behind it, “Today she is. But who knows what tomorrow brings? Since the death of her brother, her fortune is uncertain. Her father’s health is frail, and he may die at any moment. If he does, she and her mother will be forced to depend on relatives from Rome. And what if they refuse to provide for them? My father has nothing good to say of Mirelle’s aunt. Will her French family take her in if she needs it?”
“Daniel’s family?” Christophe asked, bewildered by the sudden flow of confidences. “They are poor people themselves, but I’m sure if she needed it . . .”
“Of course, if worse comes to worse, she can stay with me, as my companion,” Dolce said smoothly, her eyes on Christophe’s face. “But she is far too proud for that.”
Christophe glanced at Mirelle, who was showing the general another ketubah scroll.
“But no matter what, she is not for you.” Dolce’s pretty lips curled in a smile. “Mirelle would never consider marriage outside her religion.”
“You might be surprised. Who knows?” Christophe’s green eyes challenged Dolce’s blue ones. “The liberty we French bring to Italy may teach her to think differently.”
26
“This way, Citizen General,” Signor Morpurgo said, ushering
Bonaparte out of the ketubah workshop. Mirelle nodded farewell to her parents and followed the contingent along the narrow streets to a tiny courtyard where a small garden plot had been dug and fenced off. A quiet crowd was gathered there.
“We have heard of Liberty Trees being planted throughout Italy—a symbol of the Revolution, honoring your liberation of our country,” Signor Morpurgo said. “We Jews have a tradition of planting trees on our own Arbor Day, a holiday called Tu B’shvat—which, by lucky chance, was just two days ago, on our Sabbath. We decided to combine these celebrations this year and plant our Liberty Tree to honor Helek Tov!”
Bonaparte looked confused. “Helek Tov?” he asked. “Who is that?” The crowd chuckled and Signor Morpurgo smiled. “It is a Hebrew rendering of your last name, General: Bonaparte—which we translate as “a good part.” We are honored to have you play a ‘good part’ in the latest episode of our history.”
Dolce’s uncle, who had hovered in the background during the workshop tour, now stepped forward. “Our history has not always been a happy one, Citizen General. We are indebted to you for breaking down the ancient gates that held us fast. For liberating and protecting us. Your actions have made our lives lighter.”
Bonaparte nodded. “I see. Helek Tov—Bonaparte. A good omen.” He thought for a moment. “I was going to announce this later today, but this seems like an opportune time. Your city has lived under the boot of the pope for far too long. The treaty I negotiated allows me to declare that Ancona is now Republic Anconitana, and to replace the papal governor of Ancona with a municipal council. This council includes three members from the Jewish community: Samson Costantini, David Morpurgo, and Ezekiel Morpurgo!”
A resounding cheer rose from the assembled. Mirelle, standing next to the general, glanced toward Dolce. Her friend did not look surprised. Of course, Bonaparte would have informed the Morpurgo brothers about their appointment before this announcement. No wonder, Mirelle thought, Dolce’s father had been so eager to encourage Papa to give Bonaparte a ketubah scroll as a gift.
Boys from the yeshiva began digging the hole for the sapling designated as the ghetto’s Liberty Tree. A group of singers sang the beautiful lines from the Song of Songs to a tune generally sung on Tu B’shvat:
See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.
Flowers appear on the earth; the season of songbirds has come.
Women passed through the crowd, offering platters of dried fruit and nuts and glasses of wine. Bonaparte raised his eyebrows as a plate was presented to him.
“What’s this?” he asked, turning to Mirelle.
“The foods we traditionally eat on our holiday,” she said. “Please take some.”
The general helped himself to a handful, then reached for a glass of wine, which he downed in one swift gulp. “A charming ceremony, but we must move on,” he said to Dolce’s father. “It’s time for us to head to the cathedral. I’m curio
us to see this miracle portrait that caused so much uproar—and we have other business there as well.”
“We will part ways with you here,” Signor Morpurgo said, smiling genially. “You understand, Citizen General, that Jews cannot enter a Catholic sanctuary. Do you still plan to attend my daughter’s salon tomorrow night?”
“I hope to,” Bonaparte said. “But one never knows. A general’s life is not his own to command.”
“Of course,” said Signor Morpurgo. “We hope you will honor us with your presence. If not, I will see you at the municipality before you leave Ancona.”
The two men bowed. Bonaparte signaled to his soldiers and they followed him up the steep hill toward the cathedral. Mirelle watched as her cousin and his friend marched off.
The celebration continued after the general left. Mirelle tried to slip away, but Signor Morpurgo stopped her.
“I will walk you home myself,” he said. “And we will see you tomorrow.”
“There’s no need,” Mirelle protested. “It’s only a few steps away. And I’m afraid I won’t be able to attend the salon. My mourning . . .”
“Nonsense,” he said. “We’re not Christians, who mourn a full year. Jacopo would want you to enjoy yourself, my child. I want you to enjoy yourself.”
Suddenly, Mirelle felt the older man was standing too close. He breathed fumes of spiced wine on her neck. She edged back.
“You are too busy to escort me,” she tried again. “Oh, and congratulations on being appointed to the council.”
“I want to talk to you about that,” he said.
Before he could say anything further, Dolce was at her side. “Papa, I’m ready to go home.”
“Your uncle will take you. I’ll escort Mirelle. I need to run a few errands that take me past her house anyway.” He looped an arm around Mirelle’s waist.
Mirelle was suddenly tired of being pushed and pulled by one man or another. The general had not let her arm go the entire time they were together. Had she imagined him casting a measuring glance at her figure? She would have expected that Dolce, so like his wife in temperament and beauty, would be more to his taste. Then there was Christophe, who thought he knew her better than she knew herself. It flustered her. And now Dolce’s father, a man she had known all her life, taking command of her in such a possessive manner . . .
Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 15