Mirelle blushed.
David’s smile deepened. “And consider this. Without boasting, women have thrown themselves at me—and not one of them tempted me. Not one. Not until I saw the young woman you’ve grown into, like a spring blossom unfurling before me. My darling, you may not love me now, not as I love you. But I promise you will never lack for anything. And perhaps you will, in time, grow to love me, too.”
“You must be the kindest, most generous man in the world,” she said, wishing she didn’t have to hurt him. “But I simply can’t—”
David raised a hand. “Don’t say no, not yet. All I ask is that you think about it.”
Mirelle blinked back tears. He looked at her with such tenderness that her heart went out to him. It would be so easy to say yes, to give in to a life of ease and comfort. She’d been fond of him her entire life. But there was Christophe. She needed to think. Needed time.
Leaning forward, she picked up his hand and raised it to her lips. “All right,” she replied. “I’ll consider it. You’ve been so patient with me that I dare ask for just a little more patience.”
“How much more, exactly?”
She was relieved to hear amusement in his voice rather than indignation or anger. When she looked up, his eyes were twinkling. “Tell me how long I must endure waiting.”
She drew a deep breath. Did she dare? “My birthday is the nineteenth day of June,” she said. “I will be eighteen years old, a perfect date to contemplate marriage. Give me until then.”
David’s eyebrows rose. He looked less amused. “June nineteenth?” he asked. “You really want me to wait more than three months for your answer?”
Mirelle stood, her breath constricted in her throat. “I do,” she said, barely able to believe her own audacity. “I’ll give you my answer then.”
42
APRIL 8
The weather was unpredictable that early spring. Glorious days would turn overcast in seconds, torrents of rain pelting the streets and harbor. Mirelle’s father was caught in a downpour one morning late in March while supervising the unloading of a new shipment of vellum. The calfskin parchment, imported from Tuscany, was reserved for the finest of ketubot, and Papa trusted no one but himself to check it off the boat.
He returned home that evening, clothes still damp.
“You’ll catch your death,” Mama scolded him.
He shrugged. “I had no time to change during the day.”
“You shouldn’t be this careless, Simone! You’ll be ill!”
He laughed. “Nonsense! It was an excellent day. A beautiful shipment of vellum came in, and we completed three major commissions this afternoon. And two of those were completed three days before expected. Everything is just fine, Pinina. You worry too much.”
But the next morning Mirelle found him hunched over a cup of beef tea at the breakfast table. “Papa, what’s wrong?” she asked. He never drank beef tea unless he was feeling ill.
“I have a headache,” he confided. “And my bones ache.”
“Mama was right,” Mirelle said. “I’ll get her.”
“No—don’t!”
She turned, surprised.
“Don’t tell your mother,” he cautioned. “You know how she worries. She’ll have me back in bed in an instant. And there’s too much work to do.”
“But Papa,” Mirelle protested. “If you’re sick, you must take care of yourself. You know what the doctor said.”
“Pah!” Simone stared moodily into his cup. “What does he know?”
Mirelle wanted to argue, but just then Mino came gamboling into the room, whining about the workday ahead. Frowning, Papa hustled the boy off to work, and Mirelle lost her chance.
She pushed the thought out of her mind. Today, one of the days she didn’t go to work, she would entertain both her suitors—Christophe in the late morning and David in the early evening. Mirelle kept considering what life as a soldier’s wife would be like. Would she regret giving up the rich and comfortable life David offered, possibly resenting Christophe for it? And yet—how could she marry her friend’s father? Every time she pictured her wedding night, only one man came to mind. And it wasn’t David Morpurgo.
Christophe appeared almost every day she didn’t go to the workshop, with an increasingly uncomfortable Daniel in tow. Sometimes Dolce joined them and flirted with Daniel, freeing Christophe and Mirelle to talk. Mirelle found it odd, watching Dolce pursue her cousin, like a cat stalking a mouse. So many men had tried to woo and win her friend. But Daniel just shied away from her advances.
But Mirelle had little time to contemplate the mystery—not when Christophe’s mere presence sweetened the atmosphere like champagne bubbles.
Christophe was taking Mirelle’s desire to know him better seriously. Today he spoke again of how his father died at the Bastille, how his uncle Alain had arrived with the news late that evening, his clothes torn and face bloodied. Mirelle was shocked to learn that his mother had once wished him to become a priest.
“I was a child,” he explained as they walked along the harborside. “My mother said the priesthood was my destiny—and being young, I believed her.”
“A priest?” Mirelle pulled away from him.
“Uncle Alain took me under his wing after Papa died, taught me my trade. I met Daniel there, and learned that Jews were not the monsters my mother and the priests claimed them to be.”
Mirelle’s mouth grew dry. “You thought we were monsters?”
Christophe stopped short and, tightening his grasp on her elbow, swiveled her to face him. “I won’t lie to you. It’s what I was taught from the cradle: how you killed Christ and were condemned for it, how God punished you with misshapen features, forced you to wander the earth forever cursed. Ask Daniel and he’ll tell you what a brat I used to be, making his life a misery. But I’ve changed.”
Later that morning, the four of them sat in the parlor, discussing the movements of Bonaparte’s men. When Daniel mentioned deploying cannon in battle, Mirelle asked about his calculations. Christophe sat across from her, eyes shifting from one enthusiastic face to the other.
“I didn’t realize you were so fond of mathematics,” he finally said when Daniel’s explanation wound to a close.
Mirelle flushed. “You know I keep the accounts for my father, help him manage the workshop.”
“Well, you won’t have to work once we’re wed,” Christophe said gaily.
Mirelle stared at him. “But your mother works in the printshop, doesn’t she? I’m curious to see how the business is run.” She paused thoughtfully. “Probably much the same as our workshop.”
Christophe looked taken aback. “I assure you, chérie, my uncle’s printshop needs no assistance, especially not from my wife. My mother felt obligated to work there, to pay Uncle Alain back for housing us and apprenticing me. But I wouldn’t want the same for you.”
“Not even if I wanted to?”
Christophe laughed. “You’ll be too busy making me happy.”
I can do both, Mirelle thought bitterly.
“Do you want to?” Daniel chimed in. “Work at Alain’s printshop, that is?”
“Perhaps,” she said.
Christophe’s expression soured.
Dolce often praised Christophe’s handsome manners and face. In contrast, she spoke about her father’s age, his vanities of dress, his annoying habits born of years of living as a widower. Mirelle knew her friend was trying to sway her. She learned to distrust Dolce, in this at least.
David Morpurgo came less often than Christophe—perhaps two or three times a week, generally for dinner or to squire her to an evening’s entertainment. When he did, he was made joyfully welcome by her mother and aunt. Prudenzia was always happy to chaperone Mirelle. Ancona’s society was nothing compared to Rome, she often commented scornfully, but at least David had entrée into the few fashionable houses that existed in this backwater. Mirelle disliked how much of an upstart her aunt was, but she was a far better guide than
Mama when it came to dress and social graces.
David didn’t overwhelm her with attention, but he showered her with small gifts: ingenious bouquets and sweets, expensive, out-of-season fruit. Under her mother’s approving eye, Mirelle accepted them all. But she wished she could refuse them.
Over the next few days, Mirelle noticed Papa doctoring himself—in small ways, so that Mama wouldn’t realize. He’d ask Anna to prepare a tisane and sip it surreptitiously or force himself to swallow spoonfuls of restorative lamb jelly. In the office, he worked more slowly than usual, sometimes putting his head down on the desk to rest. At mealtimes, he pushed the food around on his plate. Mama clucked at that, but he always managed to devise some excuse—he was tired from the long day, excited about a new commission. Busy with the annual spring cleaning before Passover, she remained none the wiser, and Mirelle kept forgetting to mention it to her.
One afternoon Mirelle and Mino sat outside while her cousin droned on with his usual refrain, complaining about work in the ketubah workshop. She paid scant attention. But when Mino mentioned her father, her ears perked up.
“Your father used to be out in the shop much more often,” he observed. “The men wouldn’t dare insult me then. But when you’re not there, he spends the day in his office, sleeping or dosing himself. So they feel free to torment me.”
“Papa’s doing what?” Mirelle was startled.
The boy looked at her with his big, innocent eyes. “He’s been sick for nearly two weeks now. Surely you knew?”
Did I? Mirelle felt a wave of shame. She should have pieced all the clues together. Gone to Mama with them, even if Papa said not to. She scrambled to her feet. “I’m going to find Mama.”
Her parents were in the dining room, Mama listing all the tasks yet to be accomplished before the first night of the holiday. Papa’s eyes were glassy, his cheeks sallow and drawn. How could Mama be so oblivious?
Mirelle interrupted her mother mid-sentence. “You should be in bed, Papa.”
“Mirelle!” Papa’s lips tightened.
Mama stared at him, alarmed. “Bed? Why?”
“Ask him,” Mirelle said, pointing.
Simone sighed, his look of betrayal softening under his wife’s scrutiny. “I’ve been feeling under the weather since the rainstorm,” he admitted. “But I just need rest.”
“Mino says he’s been spending his days in his office, sleeping,” Mirelle persisted.
Mama rose. “Simone, get into bed this instant. I’ll send for the doctor. We’re not taking any chances.”
Papa glared at Mirelle. “You see? Now you’ve worried your Mama. Pinina, please. The last thing I need is more time in bed.”
But Mama wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she bundled her husband under the covers for the rest of the day. Perhaps, Mirelle thought later, this enforced rest was the final straw, because as soon as he sank into the feather bed, Papa’s fever spiked. By midnight he was delirious.
By dawn he was dead.
43
APRIL 13
“Mama, that soldier’s out there again,” said Barbara, peering through the window into the front yard. “Again?” Francesca’s hands were deep in bread dough. The baby was playing peacefully on a mat in the kitchen. The little house was as serene as Francesca could remember it. Punching down the dough, she suppressed the wish that Emilio would stay away forever. How differently I felt when he first left to join the merchant marine. When all I had to worry about were his gambling debts and temper.
Before he had shown his true nature, before he’d killed or hurt anyone. And taken such pleasure in it.
“What does he want?” Barbara asked. “Why won’t he leave us alone?”
Drying her hands on a scrap of towel, Francesca walked over and glanced out the window. “He wants to find your father.”
“When will Papa come home?” Barbara’s face was scrunched, holding back tears.
Francesca felt a pang of pity for her daughter. No matter how badly Emilio treated the child, she still adored him. Just as I did once.
“I’ll throw rocks at him,” Barbara said. “Chase him away.”
“No, don’t,” Francesca said quickly. She reached out and smoothed her daughter’s hair.
Barbara pulled away. Francesca wondered why the child couldn’t accept her caresses gracefully.
“Just ignore him.”
“But Mama—”
Francesca boxed the child’s ears. Barbara stomped off to her room and slammed the door.
Francesca looked out the window again. There he was, sitting on the large rock in the front, keeping a close eye on the house. She glanced toward little Mario, shoving his tiny fist into his mouth, his chin and blouse wet. He was teething again. She walked over and wiped his tiny face with her towel. He laughed at her, then started babbling. She leaned close and tickled his stomach. He gurgled a laugh, making the world feel right for a small slice of time.
“Who’s the sweetest baby boy in the world?” Her singsong voice rang out. “Who? Who?”
He reached chubby arms toward her and she lifted him, his sweet heft nestling against her neck. She closed her eyes, breathing in his warm, milky smell. When had Barbara lost her baby sweetness? When had she turned into a whining, gangly girl? Would this baby do the same?
She tried to put him down, but he grabbed hold of her shirt and fussed, so she propped him against her hip and finished kneading the dough. After plopping it into a bowl and throwing a damp towel over it, she swayed around the kitchen, rocking from foot to foot to lull the baby to sleep. Barbara was unusually quiet. Francesca hoped she’d wept herself to sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The baby sagged against her. He was quiescent enough to lay in his crib. Creeping softly, Francesca opened the door to the children’s room. Barbara was nowhere to be seen. The window was wide open, curtains blowing inward with the breeze.
Careful not to tense, Francesca slipped Mario into his crib and covered him with a warm blanket, humming a wordless lullaby when he started to stir. He settled down, one thumb jammed deep into his mouth. She pressed a butterfly kiss on the soft fuzz atop his head, quietly closed the window, and tiptoed from the room.
She opened the front door to find Daniel, gripping a squirming Barbara, standing before her, his fist raised.
“Shush!” Francesca hissed. “The baby’s asleep.” “Take your brat,” Daniel thrust Barbara forward, “and tell her not to throw olives at me.”
“Barbara, what did I say?” Francesca caught her daughter’s elbow and shook her slightly.
“You said not to throw rocks. I didn’t throw rocks.” The girl yanked her arm free.
“Barbara!” Francesca chastised her. “If he’s going to skulk on our land, he can’t complain if he gets hit with an olive or two,” Barbara snapped.
“For Heaven’s sake! Go play with Fiona. And don’t hit Daniel with anything ever again. You hear?”
Barbara scampered off, not bothering to reply.
“You’re not going to punish her?” Daniel pushed his tall shako cap off his head and tucked it under one arm.
Fists tight at her side, Francesca’s stomach clenched. “What are you doing here, Daniel?” she asked. “I’ve seen you lurking in my yard for days. What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?” Daniel’s eyebrows rose. “I want your husband. Where is he, Signora Marotti?”
“You expect me to tell you?”
Daniel moved the cap from one arm to the other. “Why do you defend him? Hide him? He’s a murderer, signora. A coward. I thought you a devoutly religious woman. Thou shalt not murder, says the Ten Commandments.”
“He’s my husband.” The words stuck in Francesca’s throat. “‘For better or worse’ were my marriage vows.”
“This much worse? He killed my cousins. Not just the boy, but his father, too, who died last week. The doctor said his death was due to complications from your husband’s attack, that his body was too weak to protect itself
against illness. Your husband, madame, left his wife a widow and both her and his daughter paupers.”
Francesca felt weak in the knees. She walked past Daniel, went to the small bench in the yard, and collapsed onto it.
Daniel hovered behind her like a malevolent spirit, breathing hard on her neck. “Where is he, Signora Marotti? Tell me. He deserves to be hanged for his crimes.”
“So you would make me a widow, Daniel?” she cried. “It’s not enough that your own family has suffered—you want to harm me and my children, too?”
“I’m not the one who’s harmed you.” Daniel moved to stand in front of her. “He has. You’re an honest woman, a good woman. You know what I’m saying is true. Yet you continue to shelter him.”
Francesca closed her eyes. She brought Emilio clothes and food three times a week. It would be an easy matter to show this young soldier his hiding spot, to give him up. Could anyone blame her? Would anyone even have to know? She thought of the portrait of the Madonna, still covered by gold cloth in the cathedral. What would the Lady do in her place? If only she could see the Madonna’s blessed face, gain peace from a smile or tear. But Francesca knew: the Lady wouldn’t betray her Son. Just as Francesca wouldn’t betray her husband.
“Go away,” she told Daniel, her eyes still shut. “And leave us alone.”
44
APRIL 14
They buried Papa next to his son, Mama weeping on Mirelle’s shoulder, somber black dresses and bonnet ribbons fluttering in the stiff April wind. Mirelle couldn’t help but compare this shiva to the one held for Jacopo. They sat on the same hard boxes, mirrors covered, sideboard full of funeral offerings from kind neighbors. But everything else had changed.
Prudenzia and Mino now owned the house as well as the manufactory. David Morpurgo explained it to Mama one afternoon while Mirelle listened, their faces drained of color.
Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 25