Mirelle made her way to the printshop. As she entered, Daniel looked up from the plates he was examining, and she felt the same tingling of her pulses that she’d felt in the synagogue. She swallowed, hard, then forced a smile on her lips as he welcomed her.
Christophe emerged from the back room. “Good girl,” he said. “Daniel, can you give us a few minutes?”
Daniel nodded curtly. Mirelle wondered at his grim expression. But then Christophe drew her into the inner room and shut the door.
58
OCTOBER 18
Mirelle decided that they should reveal their plans to her mother and David at the printshop. David, Christophe, and Daniel would all be in the building, so it would be simplest if Mirelle brought Mama there. While she dreaded making the announcement, Mirelle was relieved that her secret would be a secret no more. Even Dolce agreed.
That day, not wanting to see David before their meeting, Mirelle remained in her room until the clock chimed twelve. She slipped on a plum-colored dress with a matching pelisse suitable for travel, grunting a little at the effort of fastening the back herself.
She walked slowly downstairs, trailing her fingers on the banister. Mama sprang up as she entered the sitting room. “Darling,” she cried. “Feeling better?”
Mirelle had stayed in bed this long, pleading a headache. Now her fiction turned real, pounding her temples and making her feel sick. “I’m fine, Mama,” she lied. “Let’s take a drive. Dolce, too. I’ll feel better with some fresh air.”
“If Dolce joins you, I’ll stay home,” Mama said. “I have too much to do.”
“No, Mama,” Mirelle insisted, taking her mother’s hand. “I want you.”
“Are you certain you’re feeling all right, sweetheart?” Mama asked, studying her face.
“Yes, but I’ll be ill if you don’t come. Dolce, tell her she must.” Mama patted the hand atop hers. “Of course I’ll come. I’ll change into a hat and get my cape.”
When she left the room, Dolce turned to Mirelle. “You’re pale. Can you manage this?”
Mirelle sighed. “What choice do I have? I can’t disappear without telling them. Or just leave a note. That would be the coward’s way.”
Mama was surprised when the carriage rolled up at the municipality. “Why are we stopping?”
“I thought you’d like to see where Papa works,” Dolce said. “And Daniel, too,” Mirelle added dully. “In fact, why don’t we go down to the printshop first? You’ve never seen a printshop.”
“Are they expecting us?” Mama asked, frowning. “I don’t want to disturb them at work.”
“Daniel knows we’re coming, Mama—and it’s a surprise for David.” Mirelle did her best to sound lighthearted.
Mama, still looking reluctant, followed her daughter and Dolce down the steps to the basement. She flinched when the doors sprang opened and three soldiers almost collided with them, chattering about more unexpected time off. Seeing the women, the soldiers cut short their bantering and stood aside.
“What’s going on?” Mama asked, suspicious. “Welcome, Cousin Pinina.” Daniel was at the door; he ushered them in with a bow.
A circle of chairs was set up in the front room near a high table. The frames that generally lay there were tucked into a corner. The table served as a sideboard, with a tea tray containing a porcelain pot of tea and several unmatched cups.
“I’ll fetch Papa,” Dolce said, slipping out.
Christophe bowed to Mama, leading her to a chair. “Thank you for honoring us with your visit, Signora d’Ancona.”
“What’s going on?” Mama repeated, her question high-pitched with anxiety.
“Just wait, Mama.” Mirelle’s voice quavered. Her mother cast her a worried glance and Mirelle tried to smile. But the corners of her mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
David entered the room with Dolce following close behind. “Pinina!” he cried, sounding both surprised and upset. “Mirelle! What are you doing here?” He bowed, face creased with annoyance. “You called me out of an important meeting. Can’t this wait?”
“I’m afraid not, Signor Morpurgo,” said Christophe. “May I ask you to take a seat? Would anyone like tea?”
No one wanted tea.
Christophe stood behind Mirelle’s chair, his hands on her shoulders. Mama and David glared at the possessive gesture.
“What’s this about?” David growled.
“Signor Morpurgo,” Mirelle started. “Mama.” She had insisted that she be the one to tell them. Now she wondered if she could. She stared at them, willing the words into her mouth, but they wouldn’t come.
“So formal!” David’s smile didn’t reach his uneasy eyes. “Piccola, we’ll be wed soon enough. Call me by my given name.”
“I’m afraid we won’t,” Mirelle said. “You see . . . I’m with . . . with . . .”
“With child,” Dolce said, unable to keep quiet. “Papa, she’s pregnant.”
Mirelle shut her eyes to blot out the look of horror that crossed her mother’s face.
“It’s my child,” Christophe said. “Sir, I’ve wronged you.”
“Wronged me!” David roared, jumping from his chair, which fell, clattering behind him. “And what of her?”
“Wronged her as well,” Christophe agreed. “But I plan to do right by her.”
Mirelle looked at her mother. She was staring at her, face working, white-knuckled hands gripping the arms of her chair. “You . . .” she moaned. “You . . . How could you?”
Mirelle hung her head.
Christophe turned to Mama. “Signora d’Ancona. It’s not Mirelle’s fault. We love one another. She promised to marry Signor Morpurgo out of duty to you. Because he could provide you both a home. But she couldn’t withstand what we are. We are—what’s the word, Daniel?”
“Beshert,” Daniel whispered, his eyes on the ground.
Mirelle cast an anguished look toward him, but he didn’t see it.
“Beshert,” Christophe said. “Soul mates fashioned for one another by God for eternity.”
The silence in the room was palpable. Finally, David spoke, his jaw clenched. “God does not pair Jews and Gentiles. I don’t care how you try to excuse this—you seduced the girl. You should be horse-whipped. Caned. Drummed out of the service.”
Mirelle reached up and compulsively clutched Christophe’s hands.
Mama’s eyes narrowed. “Mirelle. I trusted you. And you . . . you . . .” She paused a moment, swallowing hard. “I’m glad your father isn’t alive to hear this. Or your brother.”
“Mama!” Mirelle protested, tears streaming down her cheeks.
But her mother turned away, shoulders shaking.
“And you, daughter?” David turned on Dolce, black fury evident on his face. “Do you want to pretend you didn’t know about this?”
“Of course not!” Dolce said smoothly. “How can you accuse me?” Her eyebrows rose in pretended affront.
But David scoffed. “Don’t think I didn’t know you opposed my marriage to Mirelle. I’m certain you had a hand in this.”
“Papa!” Dolce’s look now was one of genuine alarm.
But David swiveled sharply away from her and stared at Mirelle.
“And what of the workshop? What would you have happen to the poor men whom I rescued at tremendous expense—for no other reason than to please you?”
Mirelle raised her head, her face soaked with tears. “I know. I’ve lain awake nights, thinking of the debt I owe you. That the men working in the workshop owe you. Dolce helped me sign over ownership of the workshop to Mama. The papers are back at home—I mean, at your home. In an envelope on my dressing table.” She looked at her mother, her voice pleading. “I’ve left you provided for, Mama. With Sabato Narducci in charge, you’ll never know want. And Dolce says that you should stay with the Morpurgos, as their housekeeper. I wouldn’t leave you to starve.”
“How can you possibly think I’d be able to stay there, Mirelle?” Mama whispered, still refusi
ng to look at her. “In such shame?”
“But, Mama—”
“Dolce helped you, Dolce says,” David muttered. “So you knew nothing, daughter?”
Dolce turned pale. “It’s not what it seems. Of course I knew—after Mirelle told me. Do you think I wasn’t as shocked as you? But someone had to think about poor Pinina.” She pointed at Mirelle. “She certainly wasn’t.”
“Dolce!” Mirelle cried, aghast.
Christophe stepped around to hover threateningly over Dolce. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Pretending you didn’t have a hand in this? You plotted against your father’s marriage from the start. You said you would help me—and you did. And now you play the innocent?”
Dolce clenched and unclenched her hands. “Don’t dare utter such lies.”
“Enough!” David shouted. “I’ll deal with you, Dolce, in my own time and my own way. As for Mirelle . . .” He hesitated a moment, looking at Pinina with concern. She was bent over in her seat, sobbing in great, heartrending gulps. He stepped over and put a hand on her arm. “All will be right,” he murmured. “I won’t desert you, my dear.”
She just wept louder.
He bit his lips. “Perhaps you should tell us your plans, Lefevre.”
“We can’t be married here—and for reasons I can’t share, I won’t be in Ancona much longer.”
“The Treaty of Campo Formio,” Morpurgo said, nodding. “My sources say it will be signed today or tomorrow. You’ll return to Paris?”
“I should have realized you’d know.” Christophe shrugged. “I borrowed enough money to send Mirelle to Paris. She’ll live with my mother and uncle until we can be married.”
“Married?” Mama burst out. “In a Catholic church?”
“In a civil ceremony. That’s how marriages are conducted in Paris nowadays.”
“That’s not a marriage,” Mama said. “Not for my daughter.” “Mama.” Mirelle rose and knelt in front of her. “It’s the only way.” Her mother hunched her shoulder, ignoring her.
David looked down at her. Mirelle saw the regret in his eyes. Her heart twisted.
“When do you leave?” he asked. “Will you let Mama stay with you?” Mirelle pleaded. “Keep her safe?”
“If she wishes,” David said.
Mama reached up and took hold of the neck of her linen dress. She tore it at the neck. The sound of ripping echoed through the room.
“Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash,” she began, praying the mourner’s Kaddish, “sh’mei raba . . .”
“Mama!” Mirelle cried. “No!”
But Pinina was relentless: “ . . . b’al’ma di v’ra khir’utei . . . ” Christophe gaped. “What is she doing?” he asked Daniel in a low whisper.
“Praying the prayer for the dead,” he muttered. “Because she’s marrying a Gentile—you—she no longer recognizes Mirelle as her daughter. She is dead to her.”
Christophe stepped over to Mirelle, who had collapsed at her mother’s feet. He reached down a hand to her. “Come,” he said.
But before she could take his hand, two people raced into the room, jostling one another. Through her agony, Mirelle barely recognized Dolce’s uncle Ezekiel and . . . was that Francesca Marotti?
“Daniel!” Signora Marotti cried. “They are gathering to attack the ghetto!”
“Brother!” Ezekiel shouted at the same moment. “They’re going to cast the cathedral bell into cannon to defend against the French!”
59
The room erupted in confusion, shouting voices clamoring and overlapping.
Daniel regained his senses first. “Everyone—shut up!” He turned to Francesca in the abrupt silence. “Who’s attacking the ghetto?”
“The Catholic Fellowship,” she panted.
“Ezekiel!” David grabbed hold of his brother’s arm. “What do you mean, they want to cast the cathedral bell into cannon?”
“Father Candelabri sent one of the village women to tell us.” Ezekiel wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. “They’re going to melt the bell to forge a cannon and fire on the French.”
David shook his head. “Fools!”
“Melt it down?” Francesca asked, swerving to stare at Ezekiel. “That means Desi.” She covered her mouth with both hands.
“What? Who? Tell us what you mean, signora.”
She spoke through her fingers, voice muffled. “My husband’s cousin. He’s a blacksmith. They’ll use his forge to melt the bell.”
“We’ll stop them,” David said decisively. He thought for a moment, eyes shut. “We’ll need French support.”
Daniel reached for the bayonet he always left in the corner of the room. “Christophe, let’s get to the barracks and tell the captain what’s happening.”
Christophe cupped Mirelle’s shoulder. “You stay here, chérie—you and your mother and Dolce. You’ll be safest here.”
“But you?” Mirelle’s eyes widened with fear. “Will you be safe?”
Daniel felt his heart twist. He wished that Mirelle would look at him that way, would worry about his safety. He could only wonder what Morpurgo thought, watching them.
“I’m a soldier. You know that. But I promise to return.” Christophe turned to Daniel. “You’ll need to head to the ghetto—they’ll want someone who can speak to the people.”
“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Dolce asked him softly, touching Daniel’s arm.
Daniel shifted out of her reach. “Let’s go.”
“I’m coming, too.” Francesca tugged on Daniel’s sleeve, face strained.
“Absolutely not! It’s dangerous, signora.”
“I’m not asking you,” she said firmly.
“You can’t!”
But before he could stop her, she turned and ran from the room.
“Signora Marotti! Wait!” Daniel ran to the door, calling up the stairwell. His voice echoed back to him.
“We’ll go with the soldiers to the cathedral,” Morpurgo told Christophe as Daniel returned. “They’ll need the authority of the Council to stop them from taking the bell.”
“We’re going where?” his brother asked.
“To the cathedral,” Morpurgo replied.
“No!” Ezekiel blurted, alarm clouding his eyes. “I must make sure Speranza is safe.”
“Don’t worry, brother. The French will make short work of the rioters. Speranza and the rest of the ghetto will be fine.” Morpurgo looked at Pinina, who had stopped praying and now sat quiet, hands limp in her lap. “Pinina, I’ll take you home when this is all over. We’ll talk about the future then.”
“I’ll take care of her, Papa,” Dolce said, her eyes on his face. “Count on me.” She drew herself up to full height and stepped in front of Pinina, arms outstretched. “Come back safe.” She tried to hug him, but he pushed her aside. Daniel saw a quick flash of hurt cross her face.
Mirelle was clutching Christophe’s hand with both of hers, knuckles white. Daniel locked eyes with his friend and tipped his head to the door in silent command.
Gently, Christophe extracted his hand and kissed Mirelle’s forehead. “There’s no time to waste,” he said quietly. “I’ll return for you soon.”
At the barracks, Captain Bossard was already mustering the men to head to the ghetto. The stomping of boots and the clanking of weapons as the men formed ranks was deafening. Daniel and Christophe took the captain aside and explained the situation at the cathedral.
Bossard looked annoyed. “It’s not as if we have hundreds of men to call out,” he said, shaking his head. “Or as if taking the bell were as dangerous a situation as the ghetto. Sergeant Lefevre, take five men. Stop them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bossard’s second-in-command, Lieutenant Paget, offered a soft-spoken objection. “We don’t really have a say in what they do with the bell, Captain. Not if the cardinal permits it.”
Bossard shrugged. “We do if they plan on casting it into cannon. Besides, two members of the municipal counci
l have requested our aid. We’re just lending our support.”
Christophe watched his fellow soldiers, Daniel among them, march toward Via Astagna. “We’ll take your carriage,” he said, turning to Morpurgo, as the last soldier passed out of sight. “Quicker than the climb.”
“You’re in charge,” Morpurgo muttered. “At least for now.”
Christophe could sense the anger simmering beneath the older man’s words. After a moment’s thought, he snapped his heels together. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, standing at attention. “I request the use of your carriage in the name of the French army.”
Morpurgo waved an irritable hand. “Let’s just get on with it.”
They crowded inside; two of the soldiers climbed onto the box. The men lurched as the coach clattered over the uneven road, heading up the steep mountainside toward the cathedral.
Captain Bossard stationed men on either side of the road at the entrance to Via Astagna, flanking the open space where the ghetto gates used to be, then sent Daniel to reassure the inhabitants.
“Don’t be afraid,” Daniel called out, in Hebrew, Yiddish, and Italian, his boots echoing loudly as he walked the empty streets. The residents of the ghetto already knew of the imminent attack, he realized. Doors were locked, shutters closed, the narrow avenue deserted. “We’ll protect you. No one will burn your homes or attack your families. The French army won’t permit it.”
Eyes followed him as he walked past the crowded homes. Window curtains fluttered.
“Stay inside,” he called out.
“God bless you,” someone called back.
Mirelle didn’t know what to do. As the seconds ticked by, she grew increasingly anxious. Her mother turned her back, refusing to utter a word. Mirelle still couldn’t believe that Mama had declared her dead. Dolce seemed more concerned about her father’s mood than her friend’s welfare. And David hated her. Why wouldn’t he? She had broken her promise to wed him, deceived him in the ugliest way possible. And what if Christophe is killed? I’d be pregnant, penniless, and alone.
Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 34