“You wanted me, Excellency?” she asked.
Before he could answer, Bonaparte bellowed, “Over here, woman!” Startled, she turned around. “But I thought . . . ?” Her eyes sought Daniel’s.
“The general wishes to speak with you,” he told her.
The cardinal nodded. “General Bonaparte has questions for you, Signora Marotti.”
Francesca thought for a moment before shaking her head. “I will not answer unless he releases my husband.”
The general’s face turned to stone. “I won’t be blackmailed!” he shouted. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll execute your husband for the conspirator he is!”
Francesca blanched but stood firm. “Then I will go silent to my grave.”
“I assure you, woman, I can arrange that as well,” Bonaparte snapped back.
She turned to the wall where the portrait usually hung. Seeing it removed, her gaze skirted the chapel before finally recognizing the frame lying under the gold cloth. “My Lady will not let harm come to me,” she said calmly. “And if she does, it’s God’s will.”
Daniel had never before seen Bonaparte so agitated. His face purpled and veins stood out on his forehead.
Cardinal Ranuzzi stepped forward. “May I suggest, General? Free Marotti and imprison me in his place. As you have said, I lead the Catholic Fellowship. I gladly surrender myself, so this woman’s husband can be returned to her.”
Bonaparte drew a deep breath, quieting his rage through sheer force of will, scowling at the clergyman. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Ranuzzi? I make you a martyr for the Catholic cause throughout Italy, and suddenly conspirators pop up out of nowhere to harass my troops. No, Cardinal, I think not.”
“Then we seem to be at an impasse.” Ranuzzi’s eyes glinted with malice.
Bonaparte walked over to Francesca and took her by both hands. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. “If you tell me what I need to know—simply what you have already told others—I’ll consider freeing your husband. What I saw . . .” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Never mind.” He stared into her eyes, and for a moment she seemed mesmerized. “You were first to see this so-called miracle, but you were not its only witness. I am giving you a chance, signora. I want to hear your story, but if you force my hand, I will seek out others. You don’t want that.”
“I don’t want that.” Francesca spoke as if in a trance. “But you must free Emilio first.”
Bonaparte shook his head. “No, Madame. I will not.” He turned to Daniel. “I will give her time to consider. You—what’s your name?”
“Daniel Isidore, sir,” Daniel said, standing to attention.
“Corporal Isidore. Stay with her. Don’t let her speak with anyone—not the cardinal, not any of her other countrymen. Bring her to the Palazzo Triumph this evening. I will speak with her again directly after supper.”
“Yes, sir,” Daniel said, saluting. He turned to Francesca. “Come with me, signora.”
Francesca’s calm ruptured. She looked toward the cardinal, her face distraught. “If you hadn’t brought Emilio into the Catholic Fellowship . . .”
“He was more than willing,” Ranuzzi replied coldly, folding his hands across his chest. “It’s in God’s hands now.”
29
Francesca marched out of the chapel and past the crowds, Corporal Isidore’s presence preventing her from speaking to the people who crowded around her. Father Candelabri tried to block their path, but the French soldier put a hand to the hilt of his saber in obvious threat.
“Non parlarle,” he said. “Don’t speak to her. She’s a prisoner of the French army.”
Father Candelabri crossed himself and moved out of the way. Bella Marscipona, however, tried to grab the soldier’s arm. “What do you mean, she’s a prisoner? Isn’t it enough you’ve taken her husband? She has a baby and a child to care for. Let her go!”
“Where are you taking me?” Francesca asked, suddenly panicked. “I have to go home.”
“Let her go!” Several other women crowded around them. The old woman’s gnarled hand grasped the Frenchman’s forearm tightly, her fingers curling into his uniform sleeve.
The young soldier stood for a moment, as if undecided about how to handle this. Finally, he yanked his arm free. “Get away, old woman,” he yelled, looking shamefaced. “I’ll take her home to her baby and child. No harm will come to her—unless you provoke me!”
“It’s all right,” Francesca said, hurrying to assure her neighbor. The thought of little Mario let down her milk; she put a hand to her breasts as her blouse grew damp.
They left the commotion of the cathedral behind, and Francesca led the boy down the steep hill toward home. I could take him anywhere in Ancona, she thought wildly, and he wouldn’t know the difference. If it weren’t for the baby . . . She had to think of something other than her hungry child, otherwise she wouldn’t have enough milk to feed him. She hurried, making the soldier stumble over the rocky path.
“You speak Italian,” she said over her shoulder to distract herself from her thoughts. “Where did you learn it?” With his thick, curly hair and dark eyes, the soldier might pass as an Italian—until his accent betrayed him.
“Here—in Italy. It’s not very good.” “It’s better than most soldiers. Most just know dammi when they want to take something. And cibo for food.”
They reached the farm. Francesca heard Mario wailing from inside the small house. Not caring if the soldier followed her or not, she picked up her skirts and ran inside.
Barbara sat at the kitchen table, trying to make Mario take goat’s milk from a sopping rag. She looked up, furious. “Where were you? He’s been screaming for an hour! I didn’t know . . .”
Francesca plopped into a chair, grabbed the baby, and thrust up her blouse so he could latch on. He was almost purple with fury, reminding her unexpectedly of the French general.
“Shh, little one, Mama’s here,” she crooned.
The baby lunged at her breast. She flinched as his newest tooth sunk into her nipple.
The soldier, who stood in the doorway, flushed brick red and turned away.
“He’s hungry,” Francesca said.
“I see that.” The boy kept his face averted.
“Who is he?” Barbara demanded. “Why is he here?”
The baby’s frenzied nursing slowed down, and Francesca let out her pent-up breath. “He’s a French soldier, sent to guard me.”
“Guard you?” Fear entered Barbara’s face. “Why? What did you do?”
The soldier glanced around the kitchen, eyes lighting on everything but the nursing baby. Francesca, covering herself with her shawl, wondered what he made of her home. Craning her neck, she inspected her gleaming pots and pans hanging around the red stone hearth, cane-back chairs, and the polished wood table, sullied only by the heap of wet cloth Barbara had used to feed the baby.
“What’s your name, soldier?” she asked him.
“Daniel Isidore,” he said, looking at Barbara. “She’s your daughter?”
Francesca nodded. “Barbara. And the baby is Mario.”
“Mama! What did you do?” Barbara repeated impatiently.
“I refused to tell General Bonaparte about the Mary portrait unless he let your papa go.”
“Really?” Barbara’s face lit up. “Good for you!”
Francesca deftly pulled the baby from one nipple and put him over her shoulder, rubbing his back. He let out an enormous burp from deep in his belly, making the soldier’s lips twitch.
“Do you have brothers and sisters at home, Daniel?” she asked.
“I’m the youngest,” he replied. “But we have lots of little ones in the neighborhood.”
Barbara sat at the table, looking calmer. “Where do you live?”
“Paris.” He smiled at her. “It’s very different from Ancona.”
“Paris!” Barbara breathed out in wonder. “Is it as splendid as they say?”
T
he boy’s face grew somber. “It’s the most beautiful city in the world. But life there isn’t easy right now.”
Francesca put the baby onto the second breast, pulling the shawl securely. She, too, was curious about France. “Because of the revolution? What was that like?”
“I was very young, signora,” Daniel said. “But the man I was apprenticed to was at the Bastille the day it fell.”
Mario had fallen asleep at Francesca’s breast. She gently disengaged him and left the room to put him down. “What I don’t understand,” she said when she returned to the table, “is how any nation can turn away from the Lord God. Don’t you know it’s a sin?”
Daniel laughed gently. “I’m not a Christian, signora—I’m Jewish.”
“Jewish!” Barbara leapt from the table in shock.
Daniel looked pained. Francesca studied him. A Jew, she thought wildly. She would never have guessed! She trembled slightly, looking him over from head to foot. She had seen so few Jews up close.
“No horns, I’m afraid,” Daniel said dryly. “Really, I’m no different than you.”
“Except you are damned for all eternity,” Francesca blurted.
He sat silent for a moment. Francesca was surprised to see a smile flit across his face.
“What’s so funny?” Barbara scraped the chair back and sat. “I forgot you Christians truly believe that. A woman I knew in Paris—a Catholic, like you—would tell me the exact same thing almost every day. You made me think of her, that’s all.”
Francesca didn’t know what to say. He looked like any other young stripling—not more than eighteen, perhaps even younger. He was polite and soft-spoken. And handsome, with his short, curly dark hair and expressive eyes. His skin was tanned, and he was slender yet strong. His nose wasn’t even that long—certainly not the hooked, deformed beak she’d seen in pictures.
“But you are damned,” Barbara said, looking to her mother for support. “How can you laugh when you’re going to burn in hellfire forever?”
Daniel frowned and said nothing. Francesca rose. “I’ll make us something to eat,” she said. “Can you eat at my table?”
“I’m a soldier, signora. I can eat anywhere.” Daniel raised his eyebrows. “As long as it isn’t pork or seafood.”
Francesca fought the urge to laugh. “Pork or seafood? Do you think it’s a holiday? I left some bean stew to simmer this morning. Can you eat that?”
“With pleasure,” Daniel said. “Can I help you?”
“Help me? No. I may be your prisoner, but you’re my guest.”
Daniel suddenly looked tired. “You’re quite calm. I’ve never seen anyone stand up to the general like that.”
“He’s formidable,” Francesca admitted. She moved about the kitchen, bringing out bowls for the stew and a jug of wine, cutting some brown bread and putting it in a straw basket. “I was frightened, but the Madonna told me what I must do.” She placed the food on the table, then sat.
Daniel lowered his head for a moment and whispered under his breath in a strange language. It didn’t sound like French.
“What are you saying?” asked Barbara, already gnawing the heel of the loaf of bread.
“I’m saying thanks for the food,” Daniel told her. “Don’t you do that too?”
“We do,” Francesca said, eyeing her daughter balefully. She extended a hand to Barbara. “Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Barbara around a full mouth. “Amen,” echoed Daniel, dipping a spoon into his bowl.
They ate quietly for a few minutes. Francesca was surprised that, rather than an awkward silence, the mood felt companionable. It was her duty as an Italian and a Catholic to despise this young soldier, but for some reason she couldn’t do it. Why not? she wondered. Not only was he French, an enemy, and her captor but he was also, of all things, a Jew. She never thought she’d eat a meal with a Jew. She winced, thinking how furious Emilio would be when he found out. Daniel poured some wine and said something else under his breath. Again, it clearly wasn’t French.
“What language is that?” Barbara asked.
“Hebrew,” Daniel said. “It’s the language we Jews use to pray.”
Francesca shook her head. “I don’t understand. The priests say they outlawed religion in France. Didn’t they? Or just Christianity?”
“All religion,” Daniel replied. “Though they started allowing priests back just last year. But we Jews have lost our Shabbat—our Sabbath, the holiest day of our week—just as most Christians no longer go to church on Sundays. Many of my traditions—how I used to dress and keep my hair, for instance—aren’t permitted. But it is difficult to completely lose touch with your faith. I still follow the rituals I can, praying before meals and drinking wine.” Daniel finished his bean stew and pushed the plate away. “The woman who used to tell me I was damned—Citizeness Odette—still prays to your Holy Family, even if she hides her rosary in her pocket. Many French Catholics keep their faith.”
“So they have not fully forsaken the Lord, then,” Francesca mused.
Daniel shook his head. “Officially, we’re free to believe as we choose.”
Francesca felt queasy. It was wrong to allow such a conversation before Barbara, but she wanted to hear more. “They say your government has sold churches off to the highest bidders, stolen the bells and silver from French churches just as your army has from ours. That priests aren’t allowed to celebrate mass on Sundays and must swear allegiance to your Republic rather than the pope.”
Daniel sighed. “All true, signora—though most of this happened during the Terror. It’s not so bad, now, honest.”
“We’ve heard about the Terror,” Francesca said. “Weren’t you frightened?”
“It’s like my master used to say: revolutions are fed on blood,” Daniel said. “Our lives are better than when the king and queen stole bread out of our mouths. They will be even better when our borders are secure.”
Francesca eyed him, incredulous. “You believe that? What has Ancona to do with France’s borders? What gives you the right to come here and take the treasures from our city and imprison our people? My husband? Me?”
Daniel sighed. “You’re casualties of war, signora. We’re fighting the Austrians and the pope, both of whom threaten the Republic’s survival. Nothing is more important than that.”
The baby started to wail. Francesca rose to get him.
“Mama’s right,” she heard Barbara say, voice dripping with malice. “You shouldn’t be here. You are going to hell when you die, all you Jews and Frenchmen. I only wish my father had killed more of you.”
30
After Barbara hissed her malediction at the French soldier, the afternoon dragged uncomfortably. A few neighbors stopped by to check on Francesca, but Daniel chased them off. Barbara whined that he wouldn’t let her go play. Sensing the tension, Mario whimpered and fussed. Francesca felt wretched—frightened at the thought of provoking the general once more, terrified that she might be imprisoned along with Emilio in the French camp. If they did not allow her to return home, who would care for the children?
When Daniel, his eyes on the sun setting in the horizon, told her it was time to head to the Palazzo Triumph, she stooped to pick up Mario.
“You can’t bring him.” His mouth was pulled tight. “The girl can watch him.”
Francesca, ignoring him, put the baby on her shoulder. “He’s fussed all afternoon. Barbara can come too and hold the baby outside the Palazzo. Please? I can’t leave them home alone again.”
Daniel looked like he was about to back down when Barbara came dancing into the room and crooked two fingers at him, maliciously invoking the evil eye. “Malocchio!” she whispered.
Francesca took two steps in her direction and slapped her. Barbara started to cry, Mario to wail. Daniel’s eyes turned hard as obsidian. He grabbed the baby from Francesca’s arms, thrust him at Barbara, then
seized Francesca’s elbow and dragged her away. “She can get a neighbor if she can’t manage herself,” he hissed. “Let’s go!”
Out on the road, they stumbled a few paces before Daniel stopped. “Where do we go?” he snapped. “Where is the Palazzo?”
Francesca wanted to scream back at him, but his dark expression stopped her. “It’s this way,” she said, pointing, trying to remain calm. “In the hills overlooking the harbor.”
They walked in silence. Francesca told herself that Mario would be fine, that Barbara would take care of him. She stole another glance at Daniel. His shoulders were slumped, his mouth set, the look in his eyes still black and angry. He must dislike having to be so rough, she thought. He was so young, so far away from home. Had he ever been forced to manhandle women and children before?
As they rounded a curve in the road, she gathered her courage. “Daniel? I’m sorry for what Barbara said. I thought what my husband and the Catholic Fellowship did in the ghetto was terrible.”
Daniel glared at her. “They killed my cousin, you know. A schoolboy. What could he have possibly done to deserve that?”
“You have cousins in Ancona?”
“What difference does that make? Your Catholic Fellowship killed so many. And why? What did my people ever do to them? Lend them money? Refuse to pray to Jesus?”
“They thought the Jews were on your side—the French side.”
“So your daughter hates me for being both French—and Jewish? What a loving, compassionate Christian you’re raising, signora. My congratulations.”
Francesca opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it.
“We must hurry,” Daniel said. “The general does not tolerate tardiness.”
As they ascended the steep road toward the magnificent palace looming before them, Francesca felt a creeping sense of intimidation. The mansion was hewn from the same rose-colored stone as most of Ancona’s buildings. Two of its four stories were punctuated with double arched windows, each window divided by a slender white column. Francesca found it hard to believe that the pope’s representative resided alone in the Palazzo; it could easily house ten or more of Ancona’s poorer families, with room to spare.
Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 17