“Listen to me,” he panted, pulling Daniel tighter against him. “I’m going to marry her! And nothing you”—he tugged his arms again, slamming the back of Daniel’s head against the ground—“or anyone else says will stop me.” He battered his friend’s head once more, and then, with a fluid motion, let go and jumped up and away, watching Daniel cautiously in case he didn’t accept defeat.
But Daniel remained prone on the ground, breathing hard. Christophe watched as his friend’s eyes stared at the starry sky, as if searching for some kind of answer.
After a moment, a look of resignation crossed his face. Seeing it, Christophe kneeled beside his friend, keeping out of arm’s reach.
“She’s having my baby, and no, it’s not what we wanted. But otherwise she’d have kept her promise to that old man. And I couldn’t allow that.”
“That Jewish old man,” Daniel muttered, refusing to look at him. “Do you think she’s going to be happy, marrying out of her faith? And you’re a soldier. Where will she live once you’re married? With Odette? Can you imagine what your mother will do to her?”
Christophe felt an uncertain qualm. “Mother will grow to love her. Can you imagine not loving Mirelle?”
Daniel’s laugh was full of sour memories. “We’re talking about your mother, Christophe. The woman who still thinks I’m the scum of the earth because I’m a Jew. And now you’re going to send the poor girl home to her—and pregnant besides? Odette will explode.”
“Alain will be there,” Christophe said. “He’ll protect her.”
Daniel shut his eyes. “I’ll marry her,” he said slowly. “You know I care for her. I’ll raise the child.”
Christophe felt his hands balling into fists. He took a deep breath. “She doesn’t love you. She loves me. We’re getting married. It will all work out.”
Daniel sat up, brushed himself off, and clambered to his feet. “For her sake, I hope so. But I think you’re both making a huge mistake.”
With that, Daniel turned on his heel and walked off into the darkness.
56
SEPTEMBER 30
The long day of prayer during Yom Kippur was especially hard for Mirelle that year. Pregnant women were excused from fasting, but where did that leave her? One day won’t matter, she told herself as she dressed that morning, already famished. The baby can survive one day.
The time would soon come when she could no longer conceal the truth. Better to break the news early, she thought, than have them discover it on their own. But Christophe had asked her to wait until he had made the necessary arrangements.
Was she sensing reluctance in him—the same reluctance she felt? Or was he just being practical? “I can’t afford to pay for your lodgings, and a wedding, and your passage to Paris,” he’d said. “And you can’t stay in the barracks.”
“But I don’t want to go to Paris,” she’d wailed. Once the idea had excited her. Now it just seemed frightening. “I want to stay with you, here in Ancona.”
He held her to him, stroking her hair. “Darling, I won’t be here forever. Besides, think what your life would be like. Your family and friends will shun you when they learn you’ve married a non-Jew and had his baby. You’ll be friendless and alone.”
“But to go to Paris without you!” She wept against his shirt, staining it with her tears.
“Uncle Alain will be there,” he said. “I don’t know what we would have done without him, after my father died at the Bastille. How we would have survived the Terror. You’ll grow to love him like I do.”
Mirelle noticed he didn’t say anything about his mother. She wondered what living with her mother-in-law would be like. She suspected the worst.
“I’ll request some leave,” Christophe said soothingly. “Think how happy I’ll be to come home and find you there!”
She’d smiled tearfully at him, thinking, He’s doing his best. I’ll never tell him how I really feel.
Christophe wasn’t trying to delay the inevitable, she reassured herself now. He just wanted everything in order before they upturned everyone’s lives. She had to trust him, rely on him. But her emotions were riding a runaway horse, terrifying and uncontrollable. She’d heard from young matrons in the ghetto that such feelings were natural when you were expecting, but simply knowing that didn’t help. The effort of hiding her pregnancy from her mother, David, and the servants was exhausting. She’d already had to take Nina into her confidence. Thank goodness for Dolce, she thought, pinning up her hair. Her friend was cunning as a fox, capable of turning anything out of the ordinary into a jest.
Dolce agreed with Christophe about saying nothing until all the arrangements were finalized.
“Our parents are so happy, planning this wedding,” she told Mirelle, combing her hair and braiding it one night before bed. “Let’s give them a few more days of joy.”
“But it’s wrong to let all these arrangements go forward—expensive, too,” Mirelle argued. “And what about the ketubah workshop? I can’t just abandon the men.”
Dolce shrugged off the expense. “Papa can afford it. And we’ll sign over the workshop to your mother.”
Mirelle’s eyes widened. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“One of my father’s clerks can draw up the papers.” Dolce grinned as she concocted the plan. “I know just the one—Bartholomo. He’d do anything for me.” She dimpled mischievously, then continued more thoughtfully, “Pinina will have a secure living. My father will help her run it. And I’ll insist your mother stay here as housekeeper, besides.”
“Do you think she will?” Mirelle wondered. “After all this?”
“Mira’la,” Dolce said, sounding amused. “How could she say no? To me? Don’t you know that when I want something, I find a way?”
Mirelle couldn’t help a frown at that—a frown she quickly hid. She was grateful to Dolce for her help. But she was well aware that what Dolce really wanted was for Christophe to carry her off so her father couldn’t marry her.
Later that morning, Mirelle sat in the women’s balcony at synagogue, bitterly reflecting on her hypocrisy in being there at all. She put a hand on her rumbling stomach. At least in Paris she would have family. Daniel had stopped by during the days of Atonement, offering the traditional apology for anything he might have said or done to upset her during the year. When she offered him the same, his blush told her he knew her secret.
“It’s all right,” he murmured, moving out of her mother’s earshot. “I understand.”
“Did Christophe tell you?” she whispered, and hunched when he nodded. “Oh, Daniel.”
“He says you’ll live with his mother and uncle in Paris,” he said. “It’s difficult to be a Jew in France these days, to observe any religion openly. But you can always visit my parents in Le Marais. They’re the kindest people on the face of the earth. They’ll welcome you and . . .” His eyes flickered to her belly; she slid a surreptitious hand over it.
“At least for the holidays,” he added. “Keep some of our traditions alive.”
Remembering that, her prayer book seemed to scorch her hands. Where would she be next year? At a secret prayer service in Paris? Or, worse yet, absent from synagogue altogether?
The cantor began to intone the Al Chet—the list of sins one might have committed during the year for which one begged forgiveness. Mirelle followed along, mouthing the catalogue of iniquities with the other women, her conscience squirming within her.
For the sin which we have committed before You with immorality, she repeated, cringing. How everyone would condemn her, once they learned! For the sin which we have committed before You by improper thoughts. For the sin which we have committed before You by a gathering of lewdness.
She felt faint. It was hot in the synagogue, the crush of bodies pressed together stifling. At the first interlude in the Al Chet, she begged the Lord, “For all these, God of pardon, pardon us, forgive us, atone for us.”
The list continued. Some of the sins Mirelle felt l
ightly, but others battered her like blows:
For the sin which we have committed before You by a glance of the eye.
For the sin which we have committed before You by running to do evil.
For the sin which we have committed before You by a confused heart.
Next to her, Dolce, dressed elegantly in black silk, recited along with ease, “For the sin which we have committed before You by scheming against a fellowman.”
Mirelle glanced toward her friend. But Dolce never lifted an eyelash.
The long, doleful service wasn’t even half over. Mirelle rose and crept through the crowded benches to the balcony railing for some air. Her body, constricted by a too-tight bodice and corset, made it hard to breathe.
As she looked down, a plume of sunlight lit the very spot where her father used to stand, wrapped in his prayer shawl, swaying back and forth to the cantor’s melodies. Jacopo would stand next to him, dark curls threatening to dislodge his kippa, earnestly following along. Daniel stood in their stead, her father’s tallit draped over his shoulders. Mama had given him the prayer shawl during the shiva. He looked lit from within, the sun dancing over his dark hair, illuminating his intent expression. His mouth moved together with those of the other men, eyes fixed upon the altar.
Mirelle wondered why her pulse was suddenly racing. She forced herself to turn away.
When she did, she nearly jumped at the sight of Dolce’s piercing blue eyes narrowed upon her face.
“They sit today in their synagogue,” Cardinal Ranuzzi cried from the pulpit, “wallowing in transgression, speaking of wrongs done this past year, praying for forgiveness. But they can never be forgiven for the worst sin of all. Christ died on the cross for our sins, and still they deny Him. They turn away, as did their people more than a thousand years ago, forsaking His love, nailing Him to the cross every day with bloodstained hands. How can the Lord God, Christ our Savior, or the Holy Ghost do anything but cast them into a hell of their own making? All of Mother Mary’s tears cannot stop them from wandering the Earth, forever homeless, a foulness upon our city, a blot upon the holiness of Italy itself.”
Francesca shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looking out from under lowered eyes at the rest of the congregation. The cardinal’s description of the Jewish people didn’t match what she knew of Daniel. But all around her, people in the pews were nodding.
“And the godless French marauders? They come to conquer, to spread their so-called Enlightenment, to blind our nation with false wonders. They’ve cast off Catholicism, beheaded their king and his family, executed their nobles, sentenced thousands to the merciless edge of the guillotine. They’ve dispatched their armies to empty our churches and cities of our precious religious objects, take our food, and rape our women.” The cardinal’s face was purple with fury.
“Is it any wonder that they have joined forces, these godless French and sinful Jews? That we have aldermen of Jewish blood sitting on our city council, contaminating our laws, grabbing greedily at everything they can pillage? Is it any wonder”—and here Cardinal Ranuzzi’s eyes rested on Francesca’s averted face—“that they have killed or banished the men of the Marotti family—not just Emilio but also Desi the blacksmith and gentle Roberto? For did these men not defy them, say that we must take arms against the Jews and the French, rid our country of their scourge?”
Everyone turned to stare at Francesca. She struggled to keep her face neutral. How dare the cardinal use her husband and his family for his own purposes? Hadn’t he banished Emilio from the Catholic Fellowship, forcing him to act alone? Prayed publicly for the return of the painting, damning Emilio’s cousins for endangering it?
“We must act,” the cardinal bellowed, winding toward the close of his homily. “Honor the Marotti men, show these enemies that we will not tolerate their reign of blasphemy and sin. We cannot—will not—stand idle while such wrongs go unpunished!”
Suddenly, Francesca saw them—Roberto and Desi, sitting in a pew in a dark corner behind the altar. Her heart thudded with sudden fear. Why were they back? What did the cardinal intend for them? Didn’t anyone else see them?
Ranuzzi cast his eyes to heaven. Francesca knew he had won the hearts of everyone in the church. Everyone but her.
Father Candelabri stepped forward. “Credo in unum Deum,” he intoned as the congregation stood for the Apostle’s Creed. Francesca kept her face closely guarded as heads bent and eyes closed.
57
OCTOBER 15
When Christophe and Daniel entered the printshop at noontime, they were surprised to find Lucien Bourrienne waiting for them.
“We need to talk,” said Bonaparte’s secretary. “Dismiss your men for an hour.”
While Daniel went to tell them, Christophe asked, “Is this about the letter I sent you? About my wedding?”
Bourrienne smiled. “No, Sergeant. But my news may help.”
Christophe’s eyebrows rose. Bourrienne turned toward the door, waiting for Daniel. Christophe heard the soldiers laughing and shouting, as if they were schoolboys released for an unexpected holiday. “Be back in an hour,” Daniel called after them. A door slammed, and boots clattered up the stairway.
Daniel had barely reentered the room when Bourrienne started to speak. “I’ve several stops to make today and must be back in Campo Formio without fail in two days’ time.”
Christophe leaned against the tall table where they loaded the forms.
“This is confidential, men,” Bourrienne continued. “Revealing what I’m about to tell you is a court-martial offense.” He stopped for a moment. “To anyone. Even your fiancée, Sergeant Lefevre. Yes?” At Christophe’s curt nod, he sat on one of the tall stools. “The army is leaving Italy. General Bonaparte, so victorious in war, has proven an adept peacemaker as well—despite the Directory’s interference. In three days’ time, we’ll sign a treaty with the Austrians. We have won all we were fighting for—the Austrians admit our victory—so hostilities can cease. You two were on the front lines and have done much since to keep the peace here in Ancona. So, on behalf of General Bonaparte, I congratulate you both!”
Christophe grinned. Looking over, he noticed a similar smile lighting up Daniel’s face.
“Now, you must—discreetly—prepare to leave. At the same time, your printing activities must continue until you announce the treaty in the military press. The day after, you will pack up the equipment and we’ll provide transport for you to Paris.”
“And our staff?” Daniel asked.
“The general feels you will find more skilled help in Paris. The men will remain here as part of Ancona’s guard. But you have proven efficient and effective, so we want you to continue to manage the military press. And for that reason, we are giving you a second battlefield commission—to go into effect after you reach Paris—making you both Sous Lieutenants.”
With that, Bourrienne rose and stood at attention. Christophe and Daniel followed suit. Christophe felt his chest swell. Second Lieutenant! Who would have thought it two years ago, when they were both half starving over a paltry campfire? How proud his uncle would be at the news!
Bourrienne kissed them on both cheeks and handed them each a small drawstring bag. “Epaulets befitting your rank. You’ll be issued new uniforms when you arrive in Paris, but I wanted to present these to you myself. With the general’s thanks and best wishes.”
“Where do we report in Paris?” Daniel asked.
“You’ll be sent orders before you leave Ancona. We may establish the military printshop in Les Invalides, but that remains unconfirmed.
In all events, you’ll be stationed in Paris until it’s decided where Bonaparte will be sent next. Perhaps England—but that, I’m sure you realize, is not to be shared with anyone.” Bourrienne turned to Christophe. “Now: your fiancée. I am arranging transport for military wives to leave Venice on the twentieth. If you marry the girl and she can arrive in Venice by then, I can make room for her.”
Christophe’s hear
t dropped. “I can’t marry her in Ancona,” he said slowly. “Could I have two days’ leave, so I can bring her to Bologna?”
“Now?” Bourrienne frowned. “Impossible. Why can’t you marry her here?”
“In Ancona, weddings are purely religious affairs.”
Bourrienne shrugged. “So find a priest.”
“A priest would not marry them, sir,” Daniel chimed in. “Mirelle is Jewish.”
“A Jewess?” Bourrienne frowned. “And you, Christophe? Not Jewish with that first name, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“I see.” Bourrienne thought for a moment. “This is highly irregular. I can’t put her on the wives’ transport unless you are legally married. Nor can I grant you leave until you reach Paris.”
“I couldn’t possibly afford to send her to Paris,” Christophe protested, then remembered he was speaking with a superior. He strove to make his tone respectful. “We haven’t been paid in months. Sir.”
“Let her parents pay for it,” Bourrienne said. “Or borrow the money.” He cleared his throat. “I must go. Remember: what I’ve told you is a military secret. Understand?”
Christophe and Daniel nodded, saluting. Bourrienne returned their salute and walked swiftly from the room.
380 Michelle Cameron
The cathedral bells were chiming two o’clock when Mirelle was handed a note by one of the Morpurgos’ servants.
“It just arrived, signorina,” he said. “One of the French soldiers delivered it.”
She waited for him to leave before tearing open the seal and unfolding it. The note was scarcely two lines long: We need to talk. Today. Can you come to the municipality? I can’t leave the printshop. C.
Mirelle pursed her lips, annoyed. This summons brought her in direct proximity of the man she was still promised to wed. Didn’t Christophe realize that she might easily bump into David there? If that happened, how could she explain why she was there? Time was flying by—the wedding was a mere two weeks away!—and still Christophe refused to allow her to confess the truth. Did he expect her to abandon David at the chuppah? As she adjusted her hat in the mirror, she made a decision: either he came with her tonight to tell them, or she’d do it herself. Her conscience wouldn’t let her wait another day.
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