“New men from where?” someone called. “Every skilled man in Ancona already works here.”
“Who says they have to be skilled?” Turko countered.
The men gasped in unison, then began shouting.
“What? Would you ruin us?”
“Don’t you know it takes years to train someone?”
“How dare you come here and change how we work! If Simone were still alive . . .”
The last shout made Mirelle’s face pucker. She took a deep breath. The men’s anger was plain, but there was deep despair lying underneath it. She recalled an evening about six months ago when one of Papa’s young workers, Gabriele Levi, had visited. Because of a death in his family, he wanted to move to Milan to care for his brother’s widow and children.
Jacopo had looked confused as Papa and Gabriele argued back and forth. After Gabriele left, Papa had explained that his workers were all committed to him for a period of years. They couldn’t leave his employ unless they paid enough money to compensate him for their loss. After all, he had invested in their training. If someone left, he lost not only their skills but also all the time and effort put into their education. So Papa had laid out a payment plan for Gabriele, which both men had agreed was fair.
That was why, Mirelle realized, the men looked aghast. Even if it became unbearable at the manufactory, they were not free to leave. Their articles bound them to the shop, to Prudenzia, and now to Turko.
“Cazzo!” Turko’s voice boomed. “I don’t give a fig how you used to work, and I won’t stomach insubordination. Signora Fermi wishes me to manage this shop, and manage it I will. If that means the lash, my arm is strong and my aim sure. And here”—he waved a piece of paper in air—“this list goes on the office door. If you’re late, if you don’t deliver your work on schedule, if you mouth off—you pay a fine. First fine is five scudi. Second is ten. Break the rules a third time . . . Well. Break the rules a third time, lads, and your life won’t be worth living.”
Mirelle cringed as the men groaned. Several of them looked to Narducci, as if expecting him to say something. He swallowed hard and stepped forward.
“Signora Fermi,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. “You cannot have considered what bringing this man here will mean. We know what he did to our fellow workers, our friends in Rome. His cruelty didn’t produce better work, just more of it. Sales fell off and many were dismissed. Turko’s fines meant their families suffered too—his whippings and other punishments scarred many of them for life. I’ve even heard of some brought to the brink of death—”
“That’s enough.” Prudenzia’s voice dripped acid. “I won’t stay in this backwater any longer. Someone must manage the shop and make sure there is no malingering. With Turko in charge, I’ll be able to return to Rome.”
“If a manager is all you need, why not appoint the man who knows how we do our best work?” The question came from deep inside the pack of men. “Narducci speaks for us. Let him manage us.”
“Yes, Narducci!” The cry rose from all corners of the room.
“Silence!” Prudenzia shouted. She looked at Turko, who was surveying Narducci with a toothy grimace.
But the men would not be quieted. They continued to shout Narducci’s name. Finally, Turko reached behind him, pulled a bullwhip from his belt, and flicked it toward the ceiling with an enormous crack. An immediate silence fell.
“The next man who speaks out of turn,” Turko said, “will feel my answer on his backside.”
Prudenzia suddenly craned her neck and Mirelle realized she had seen her. Her aunt said nothing, but her eyes narrowed.
“So,” Turko continued, “you want one of your own to manage the shop. You want this man”—he looked Narducci up and down—“and think he’ll do a better job than I will. You are Narducci?”
Narducci took another step forward. “Indeed.”
“And you’ve been here how long?” “I was apprenticed at the age of six. Thirty-three years, I’ve worked here.”
“And you know people who I—how did you put it?—‘brought to the brink of death’ in Rome?”
“I do.” Narducci nodded. “Isaach Piattelli.”
“Piattelli? That pitiful excuse for a man? He’s your example?” Turko threw back his head and laughed.
“He was the best craftsman in Rome,” Narducci said. “Before you broke him.”
“Of course he was.” Turko’s face was drawn up in sardonic lines. “Because he always took three times as long as anyone else.” He turned to Prudenzia. “Is that what you want? Men who put artistry above production? Because if so, this is clearly the right man for you.”
Prudenzia glared at Narducci. “My son said you insulted him. You think because your wife is friends with my sister-in-law that you can rile up the men and oppose my decisions? Signor Turko, I want you to make an example of this man.”
“You can’t do that!” Mirelle heard her own voice crying out.
All eyes turned to her.
“Who is this?” Turko demanded of Prudenzia. “What’s this girl doing here?”
“My name is Mirelle d’Ancona,” Mirelle said, swallowing down her fear. “I am the daughter of Simone d’Ancona, the man who made this shop the most celebrated ketubah manufactory in the world.” She glanced around quickly, meeting every man’s gaze, struggling to keep her voice from breaking.
Turko’s jaw hardened.
“And he did so because of men like Signor Narducci. A man my father respected.” As she spoke, resolve stiffened her spine. She raised her voice. “You would rob my father’s legacy of everything that made this workshop special. You would destroy it.”
“Signora Fermi.” Turko looked at Mirelle’s aunt.
Prudenzia raised a hand. “Mirelle,” she said in a soft, even tone of voice, like a hissing snake, “you forget yourself. Your father is dead. Your brother is dead. My son owns the workshop. You have no place here.”
“You are destroying my father’s work,” Mirelle said, holding her head high. “My father didn’t know how terrible you were until you came to live with us. But I know. My mother knows. And I will make sure all of Ancona knows.”
She walked up to where Turko stood, his whip in his hand. “I do not think you dare strike this man—any of these men—for defending my father and grandfather’s good name and the place they’ve dedicated their lives to.”
Turko looked at her with cold fury, the whip clenched tight.
“You will not strike this man,” Mirelle repeated.
Turko lowered the whip, but growled, “Your aunt wants you to leave. Don’t think because you are a girl that I won’t lay hands on you.”
The men gasped and Narducci stepped up again. “Even you wouldn’t dare.”
Turko laughed deep in his throat, his face disfigured by a sneer. “Well, perhaps not. But nothing will stop me from whipping you or another man to punish her, if she persists in coming here. Do you hear me, girl?”
Mirelle tossed her head up, still defiant. “We’ll see about that.”
As she exited, she was cheered by the sound of clapping. Her heart was in her throat; every inch of her buzzed. The men’s applause rang in her ears. Papa would be so proud.
But Turko and Prudenzia were right. She had no rights in the workshop any longer. She could not help the men.
46
MAY 25
Daniel and Christophe moved quietly through the scrub. They kept the girl in their sights, never drawing close enough to alarm her.
Not that she seems worried, Daniel thought. She was singing at the top of her lungs, a children’s song that he translated as “Goat, Little Goat.”
“Capra Capretta,” she warbled, “che bruchi tra l’erbetta, vuoi una manciatina, di sale da cucina?”
More than a month had elapsed since the olive-throwing incident. While Daniel tried to keep watch over Francesca daily, their conversation had turned her cautious. She continued to deliver food and supplies to her husband, but havi
ng lived in the shadow of these mountains all her life, she was adept at finding her way. More than once he had trailed and lost her.
This morning, however, Daniel had received a stroke of good luck. Together with Christophe, he’d arrived at the tiny farm just as two women left the house. The soldiers had ducked behind some trees to listen.
“The baby needs a doctor,” the younger one said.
“Nonsense,” said the elder. “It’s just the croup. The string of garlic will help him breathe. And he certainly isn’t lacking for prayers.”
With Francesca distracted by the baby’s sickness, it was the girl,
Barbara, she’d sent to deliver supplies to her father. Daniel and Christophe had watched from the trees as Francesca kissed her daughter on the forehead, looking around cautiously.
Now, with Barbara singing her ridiculous song, it wasn’t hard to keep up with her.
“Il bimbo é nel prato, la mamma é alla fonte, il sole é sul monte, sul monte é l’erbetta, capra, capretta!” she trilled.
“What is she singing?” Christophe muttered.
“Some nonsense about a goat and the mountain . . . in the grass? That can’t be right.”
“Why not? This mountain is in the grass,” Christophe said, moving around a giant boulder in their path.
After a half hour of steady climbing, Barbara stopped in a clearing before a rocky face that jutted upward toward the mountain peak. She put the basket down, stuck two fingers in her mouth, and whistled sharply. The whistle—two short, one long, and one short—was clearly a signal.
In a moment, Emilio emerged from a cave carved in the face of the rock.
“Barbara!” he cried, opening his arms. “My girl!”
As they hugged, Daniel observed the man he’d hunted for more than a month. Emilio’s clothes were stained and torn, his beard and hair wild and unkempt. Daniel expected the same loathsome coward he’d seen at the palace. He was surprised to see love in the man’s eyes as he embraced his daughter. Daniel exchanged an awkward glance with Christophe. Then his jaw hardened, thinking of Mirelle and her brother and father.
“Where’s your mother?” Emilio asked the child, holding her at arm’s length.
“The baby is sick. Mama couldn’t leave him. Hug me again, Papa!”
He obliged, holding her to him for a long moment. Christophe started forward, but Daniel grabbed his arm to stop him.
“Wait until the child leaves,” he murmured. “I don’t want her to see this.”
Christophe nodded. Emilio started into the cave with the basket, Barbara at his heels.
“What if there’s more than one way out?” Christophe asked. “We could lose him.”
That might be true. Reluctantly, Daniel removed the pistol from his holster, poured in powder, and dropped a lead ball in the barrel. Christophe followed suit. They moved swiftly into the cave.
The moment they stepped inside, they realized their fears were unnecessary. The cave was nothing more than a dimpled hollow in the rocky cliff. Well lit by the large opening, there was just enough room for a fire in the middle, a straw mattress on the ground, and a rough table made from a plank of wood suspended unevenly over two stones. The half-unpacked basket stood on the ground next to the table.
“Hands up!” Christophe yelled in French.
“Mani in alto!” Daniel repeated in Italian.
Slowly, Emilio turned to face them, hands raised in the air. “Don’t harm the child,” he cried.
But Barbara had her own ideas. She launched herself at Daniel’s legs, trying to topple him. He stumbled but managed to keep his balance. Seeing that Christophe had Emilio covered, he lowered his flintlock, seized her by the arm, and, grabbing her by the scruff of her collar, pulled her off his legs.
Barbara twisted in his grasp, kicking, biting, and clawing. “Diavolo, demonio!” she screamed in his face. “Lasciare mio padre da solo!”
“My friend will shoot your father if you don’t calm down!” Daniel yelled in response.
“Barbara!” Emilio shouted. “For once in your life, hush!”
She pulled out of Daniel’s grasp and sank to the ground in a heap, crying.
“It’s all my fault,” she blubbered. “Mama said be careful. To watch for someone following me. Oh, Papa!”
Daniel and Christophe exchanged glances. Even if he felt a twinge of guilt at using the child to catch her father, it was too late for regret.
Daniel raised his pistol again. “We’re heading back to Ancona,” he said. “If the girl is coming with us, she has to behave. Tell her, Marotti.”
Emilio narrowed his eyes. Daniel could tell that he was trying to weigh his options.
“You killed two of my cousins,” he said coldly. “You slaughtered one in front of his parents and sister. The other died slowly and terribly, finally succumbing to the weakness caused by his wound. Look into my eyes and ask yourself if I am lying to you. I will not hesitate to shoot. Not even with your daughter standing beside you.”
“Barbara—come here!” Marotti said.
The girl picked herself up and ran to him. He started to lower his arms when she clutched his chest, but Christophe motioned with his weapon for him to keep them raised.
“Bambina—be a good girl and listen to these men,” he told her, ducking his head to kiss her tangled hair. “They won’t hurt you if you do.”
“But they’ll kill you, Papa!” she cried, gripping him closer.
He stepped out of her tight embrace, eyes hard as iron, and shot Daniel a look of pure hatred. “I am already a dead man.”
Daniel would never forget the long trip back to the barracks, keeping his weapon trained on Marotti while negotiating the steep mountain pathways. He had to keep an eye on his prisoner, the trail, and the unpredictable little girl all at the same time.
Before they arrived on the outskirts of Ancona, however, they let Barbara go, even though Daniel knew she’d run to alert her mother and possibly every other Catholic in Ancona of her father’s capture. The cathedral bell chimed noon as they marched Emilio toward the barracks.
Daniel wasn’t surprised to find Francesca and Barbara already in front of the building when they arrived, Mario wailing in his mother’s arms, a mob of townspeople at her back. A smaller crowd of Jews—including David Morpurgo, Dolce, and Mirelle—stood to one side. A group of French soldiers watched them warily, hands on their saber hilts.
Pushing Emilio forward, Daniel recognized the cardinal in the crowd before him. Then his gaze settled on Francesca. She stood upright, a shawl draped over Mario. As they approached, she handed the baby to one of the women and moved in front of the barracks doorway, arms clenched across her chest.
“Daniel,” she said slowly, her black glare unsettling him. “What have you done?”
“Move,” Daniel barked.
She didn’t. The townspeople stepped closer together, barring them from the door. The soldiers pulled their sabers from their sheaths.
Daniel’s heart pounded in his chest. He jerked Emilio before him and raised his flintlock barrel to the back of his head.
“Move,” he said. “Now.”
He heard Christophe slide his trigger to arm his gun. The second barrel moved alongside his. Keeping his eyes on Francesca’s stony face, Daniel cocked his weapon.
She drew in a startled breath. “You wouldn’t.” “Don’t wager on that,” he replied. “You’re a good woman, but you married a bad man.”
The silence hung heavy.
Finally, Francesca asked, “What will you do with him?”
“That’s not up to me, Signora. He’ll be questioned, and if it’s found he tried to murder one of the councilmen, he’ll hang.”
Barbara started forward with a shriek of rage, but one of the other women caught the back of her dress and pulled her away. Francesca kept her smoldering gaze fixed on Daniel’s face for another moment, then looked at her husband. Emilio was preening like a game cock, clearly enjoying the attention.
Just as they approached the barracks door, Emilio whirled around. With a gleeful expression, he cried, “Hear me, Ancona! I will be free soon enough—and when I am, blood will rain down on the ghetto, on these miserable Jews, every single one of them! I’ll take my revenge on these French soldiers, make them suffer, pay for what they’ve done!”
A ragged cheer rose from the midst of the townspeople. The skin at the back of Daniel’s neck crawled.
Buoyed by the applause, Emilio glared at the small gathering of Jews. “You hear me, you pigs? I’ve killed your kind before—and I will again, as soon as I’m—”
Out of the corner of one eye, Daniel saw a boy—perhaps twelve or thirteen—step out from the crowd of Jews and launch a missile of mud. It struck Emilio squarely in the face, making him reel back.
“Got him!” the boy called out.
Other Jewish boys pushed their elders aside to lob rotten produce and garbage at the captive, berating him: “Murderer! Scum! Dog!”
“You dare!” one of the Christians cried. Men and boys scrambled for projectiles. Insults and curses rang out as both sides pelted one another with whatever they could scoop up from the filthy streets. Women, grabbing their children by the hand, backed away, stumbling over the cobbles and shrieking.
“Arrêtez!” The French soldiers, caught in the crossfire, screamed for them to stop. Sabers were raised.
“Ready, steady, men!” came the order from the guard commander.
Any moment, Daniel realized, his stomach sinking, the melee could turn into a riot.
Emilio wiped mud and splattered produce from his face. His lips pulled back in a snarl. He reached deep into his left boot. A dagger sparkled between his fingers. “Bastardo!” Ignoring the two pistols still trained upon him, he raced toward the first boy, who was kneeling in the gutter, collecting a new wad of refuse.
Daniel felt the ground shake under his feet, smelled the gunpowder from Christophe’s discharged weapon. Emilio gripped his chest with a shocked gasp and tumbled to the ground.
Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 27