Her heart heavy, Mirelle made her way to the ketubah workshop. She paused by the blue-and-green enamel mezuzah attached to the front doorpost, just as she had the day they told her she could no longer work there. Now, as then, she reached up to touch it, then kissed her fingers.
The men’s faces swiveled curiously in her direction as she entered. Focused on her task, she approached the office where Narducci sat. The sight of him in her father’s old chair did not upset her as it once would have.
“Mirelle!” he cried, rising quickly.
“Good morning,” she said.
“It’s wonderful to see you, but . . . what are you doing here?”
Mirelle smiled patiently. “I’ve come back to work, if you’ll have me.”
“But . . . aren’t you going to Paris with your young man?”
Her smile faded a little. It would take a long time to live down the scandal—if she ever did. But she wouldn’t let it stop her. “No longer. Nor will I marry Signor Morpurgo.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mirelle pulled the original agreement out of her reticule. “Did you ever see this? When Signor Morpurgo bought out your articles, Prudenzia realized that she’d own nothing but an empty shell of a building. So she let him buy the entire works and he put it in my name. As owner.”
He studied the page. “With him as trustee,” he said, pointing to the clause. “Entailed on your firstborn son.”
“Yes. And as owner, I feel it’s in my best interest—and yours—to come to work. Every day.”
Narducci nodded slowly, and she felt her heart lift.
“I’ll need to find someplace to live. I don’t need much—just a place to rest my head at night.”
He stared at her. “You’re serious?”
“As serious as I’ve ever been,” Mirelle declared with a grin.
“The men will be delighted. And you’ll stay with us.” He waved a hand toward her father’s chair. “That’s your seat now.”
Gently, Mirelle lowered herself into her father’s seat and reached for the ledger. The prospect of doing real work again nearly banished her headache. Narducci gathered up his notes and headed to the workroom.
Mirelle had been checking through the accounts and orders for an hour. When she heard the cathedral bell sound, she rose to make workshop rounds.
She was bending over Anselmo’s ink work, discussing his ideas for the commission, when the thud of the door swinging open made her heart skip a beat.
David Morpurgo, Dolce, and Rabbi Fano were clustered at the entrance. Mama stood behind them, wringing her hands; Daniel stood at her side.
“Mirelle d’Ancona!” the rabbi barked, making her jump. “What are you doing here?”
Her chin rose as she turned to face him. “Well, I would think that was obvious, Rabbi Fano. I’m working.”
“Is that not forbidden? How many times must I tell you? Your parents forbid it—your erstwhile fiancé forbids it”—the rabbi cast a sheepish look at David—“and I forbid it! A maiden working where holy work is done, among scribes . . . I have been far too lenient with you. You have not a shred of reputation left in Ancona. Why are you still here? Here in this town where you’ve made a mockery of common decency? Here in this workshop where you contaminate God’s holy word?”
Mirelle’s fists clenched as she straightened to full height. “This is my workshop.”
“Your workshop?” the rabbi sputtered, incredulous.
“In name it is, Rabbi,” David agreed, one eyebrow rising. “Legally, Mirelle owns it.”
The rabbi stared at him.
“My workshop, just as Ancona is my home,” Mirelle said. “Yes, I’ve made mistakes, and I beg pardon of those I’ve hurt because of them.” Mirelle glanced at her mother, who hunched a shoulder; at David, who watched her with his mouth agape; and at Daniel, who nodded in response. She refused to look at Dolce. “But no one will tell me I cannot stay in Ancona—or work here.”
Narducci moved to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. “Every worker in the d’Ancona Ketubah Workshop adds their voice in our owner’s support. We’ll proclaim to all Ancona if need be: she has earned her place here among us.”
“A ruined woman, working hand in hand with young scribes? Are you a fool, Narducci?” The rabbi shook his head. “Don’t you see what disaster may come of this?”
“We do not hire men of loose character to work here,” Narducci said scornfully. “And any man who approaches Signorina d’Ancona with sinful intent will bear the brunt of our wrath and be turned off without a character. Trust me, she is safer here than anywhere else on earth.”
A murmur of agreement rose from the men.
“And heed this,” Narducci added, “we don’t forget what she’s done for us. Her counsel to Beniamino. Her defense of the workers against Turko, trying to stay his hand from the whip. Her sacrifice at surrendering the work she was born to do, agreeing to marry a man older than her father—solely to secure our well-being.” He stood firm by her side. “No, we won’t let you dismiss her.”
Mirelle blinked hard, eyes smarting. A thick silence followed, stretching for what seemed like minutes.
Finally, David turned to her. “Is this truly what you want?”
“Yes, Signor Morpurgo. What I’ve always wanted.”
“And your Christian lover?” He lobbed the question at her like a missile.
She took a breath. “That was wrong. But we realized our mistake in time.” She looked straight at him, buoyed by Narducci’s warm words. “Will you forgive me? I never wanted to marry you, would never have agreed had my family not needed it so desperately. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I treated you dreadfully. But we should not wed.”
“No,” he agreed slowly. “And perhaps, in time, I’ll forgive you. Besides”—his mouth twitched—“you owe me quite a sum of money, don’t you? This way, you’ll be able to repay me.”
“I plan to,” Mirelle said solemnly, putting out her hand to shake his.
“No!” the rabbi cried, his face almost purple with rage. “I do not agree!”
David, still clasping Mirelle’s hand, looked at him, an amused expression crossing his face. “But I do, Rabbi. And if you attempt to place an interdict on the workshop once more, you’ll find I have more influence in the community than you do.”
Rabbi Fano swallowed; a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. For a second, it looked like he might mouth another protest, but then he grunted in frustration and pushed out of the shop.
The men cheered his exit.
Mirelle squeezed David’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Come by my office tomorrow and we’ll make this arrangement official,” he said. “Pinina, Dolce, we’ll go home now. Mirelle, you are welcome to stay as my guest until you can find somewhere to live.”
“I’ll be staying with the Narduccis until I can find lodgings,” Mirelle told him. “But I’m glad Mama has a place to stay.”
Mirelle glanced at her mother’s face and realized, her heart twisting within her, that it would be fruitless to approach her just then. Pinina’s eyes bore a hole in the ground. Someday, Mirelle thought, she will understand.
“You go, Papa,” Dolce said. “I want to talk to Mirelle.”
Mirelle watched her mother and David file out of the shop. Daniel hesitated, unsure whether to follow or not. She stopped him. “Daniel, please stay. Whatever Dolce has to tell me can only take a moment.”
Dolce drew herself up. “That is, if you’ve a moment to spare,” she seethed. “You are certainly fortunate, aren’t you? What did Christophe say your name meant in French? Admired one? Admired by all these men you’ve jilted or wronged—my poor father, your Christian lover, even the men in the workshop, and who knows how many others?”
“What exactly do you want, Dolce?” Mirelle asked. “You never wanted your father to marry me. You never cared if Christophe married me—only that he’d ruin me for your father. So you got what you wanted, no?”
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Dolce waved her words aside impatiently. “I want to understand. You’re a woman who has defied all decency, who slept with one man while promised to another, who pretended to be pregnant to entrap him. No better than a common slut. And yet . . .” She threw a hurt glance at Daniel.
“Dolce.” Mirelle’s voice was sharpened by the rage building inside her. “You pushed me into Christophe’s arms. Saying it was romance, fate—anything but sin.”
Dolce opened her mouth to retort, but Mirelle flung up a hand, stopping her.
“For once in your life, be satisfied. Go home.”
Dolce stared from Mirelle to Daniel. Her mouth opened. But then she shut it again and stalked off.
Mirelle glanced around the shop. The men looked to be hard at work, but she could tell every ear was tuned to hear what came next. “Come into my office,” she told Daniel.
They settled in the chairs, Mirelle stifling a groan as she sat.
“You need rest,” Daniel said, concerned.
“Soon enough. Daniel, did Christophe . . .”
“He told me that you’d broken off the engagement. He left Ancona this morning, went with the first convoy to Paris.”
“Is he—all right?”
Daniel leaned back. “He will be. And you?”
Mirelle sighed. It had been such a short time, even though it felt like years had passed, since she and Christophe were together. The baby, the attack—everything felt like a whirlwind. Days ago, she’d thought she loved Christophe with all her heart, but now? It was as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. Still, I am a ruined woman, she thought bitterly. No man will ever want me again.
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow,” Daniel said slowly. “We leave tomorrow.”
Mirelle smiled sadly. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
He laughed, and she detected a bitter tinge to the laughter. “I wish we didn’t, either. But I’m a soldier, with no say in where or when I go. Not for years to come.”
She sat silent for a moment, wrestling with her feelings. And then she had an idea. “Would you write? It wouldn’t have to be much—maybe a letter every month or so. I just wouldn’t want to lose you altogether.”
Daniel’s bitterness evaporated and he smiled. “You could never lose me, Mirelle. Of course I’ll write.”
The next day, the French garrison left the city. As Mirelle watched Daniel march off behind the cart that carried the printing presses, she couldn’t help but think of how much had changed since they’d met. Mama might still not understand, the rabbi might yet oppose her, and Dolce, well, Dolce would require careful watching. But all of that was unimportant. She had a workshop to run.
Once Daniel disappeared beyond the bend of the road, Mirelle walked toward the stone archway that had once housed the ghetto gate. She paused for a moment and reached out to where she’d wound her fingers through the ironwork curlicues that had imprisoned her nightly. All her fingers touched now was the morning mist—and the open world before her.
Without looking back, she walked through the entrance, heading toward her future.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to both early and later readers: Stephanie Cowell, Sipora Coffelt, Caprice Gavin, Laurie Lico Albanese, Meg Wiviott, Beverly Jackson, and Mally Becker.
Judith Lindbergh, my partner in The Writers Circle, gave me the means to earn a living while “living the writing life.” I am continually inspired by the energy and enthusiasm of our student writers, particularly the kids, teens, and my aspiring novelists. Judith served as sounding board, long-suffering reader, and someone on whose shoulder I could both cry and exalt as I worked on this book.
Alex Cameron was instrumental in making this novel all it could be—from working through plot points to honing my pitch to editing an early version to working through radical changes throughout a lengthy revision process. Sorry for playing the “mother card” so often, Alex—and I hope the book’s dedication makes up for it!
Agent Heather Schroder worked tirelessly to improve the novel. Independent editor Susan Dalsimer challenged me to make some significant changes, including a fundamental shift in the novel’s conclusion. Julie Maloney introduced me to She Writes Press and gave me the push I needed. The publisher of She Writes Press, Brooke Warner, along with Lauren Wise, Krissa Lagos, Pamela Long, and Julie Metz, have all been a joy to work with. And at an important juncture in the publishing process, my brother, Matthew Kreps, meticulously proofread the novel.
Frederica Heiman, a native Italian speaker, vetted my Google Translate Italian. I thank Liz Samuel for introducing us.
My family has never failed in their support throughout the long process of writing, revising, revising again, and then many more times. While Alex had a special role in the making of this book, I am also grateful to my son Geoff and husband, Steve, for so generously rooting for me throughout.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As a historical novelist, I have been blessed by discoveries—gifts, in a manner of speaking—made during my research. When I started writing Beyond the Ghetto Gates, I possessed only a few historical facts. I wanted to focus on Napoleon’s campaign in Italy, especially his tearing down of ghetto gates in the country in which they originated. I placed the novel in Ancona, a harbor city previously unknown to me, because that was where Napoleon’s Jewish soldiers first dismantled the gates. I learned about the riots that took place just before General Bonaparte arrived on the scene. And in reading the story of Napoleon’s involvement in Ancona, I discovered the Morpurgo brothers, Jews whom Bonaparte appointed to the newly formed municipal council.
But that was all I knew, before further research showered me with two substantial gifts.
The first was learning about Ancona’s reputation as Europe’s foremost ketubah makers. The idea that this small city contained some of the most talented scribes and artists in the Jewish world, producing exquisite marriage licenses, gave me both a home and a passion for Mirelle. Her desire to further her family’s legacy, blocked by the city’s rabbi and her parents’ wish to see her wed well, provided a starting point. Mirelle—like so many young women of the time—was raised to marry to enrich her family, a duty that would run counter to her own happiness.
The second gift was stumbling upon the miracle of La Madonna del Duomo. Ancona lay claim to a miracle portrait of Mother Mary—purported to smile, cry, and turn her eyes upon the congregation. Who could resist Napoleon’s alleged reaction to seeing the portrait in person? Bonaparte, like conquerors before and after, was denuding the treasures of Italy and sending them to fill France’s empty coffers, and this made his encounter with the portrait all the more compelling. And accounts of the “prodigy,” the term the Church uses to describe miracle art treasures, introduced me to the historical characters of Francesca Marotti and her daughter Barbara. Emilio, Francesca’s Jew-hating husband, is, however, wholly my invention.
The young General Bonaparte, his staff, and his family are all historically based, though naturally I’ve embellished their characters. However, there is no reason to believe that a military press was ever established in Ancona. Nor was the miracle portrait ever stolen or held hostage.
Aside from the two Morpurgo brothers, Francesca, Barbara, Father Candelabri, and Cardinal Ranuzzi, most of Ancona’s cast of characters here are fictional. While a riot did take place in Ancona’s ghetto before Napoleon arrived, and there was a surge of indigenous fellowships throughout Italy to combat the perceived French threat to the Catholic religion, Emilio and his cohorts in Ancona’s so-called Catholic Fellowship are imagined. I owe Cardinal Ranuzzi an apology, as there is no historical evidence to support the rabid anti-Semitic beliefs I thrust upon him.
I made a concerted attempt to accurately follow Bonaparte’s military campaign and political maneuverings as he conquered Italy, though I’m certain errors abound. And while there was a second riot in Ancona, as well as an attempt to seize the church bell to ca
st a cannon—a plot historically foiled by the Morpurgo brothers—these events took place a few years later than portrayed. I deliberately condensed the history for dramatic effect.
Mirelle’s dilemma—to marry David Morpurgo or her dashing Gentile French soldier—highlights a theme I’ve explored in nearly all my writing. The intersection between assimilation and safeguarding religious belief is a muddy one, and it’s difficult to know where to draw the line. This was why I was so drawn to the story of the Jews during the French Revolution. The question of surrendering the traditions you were born into to pursue a secularized life is fraught equally with guilt and exhilaration. I hope my portrayal of the challenges Mirelle faced does justice to the depth of the quandary faced by many individuals during both this era and others.
I also wished to convey how difficult it is to overcome taught prejudice. Jews and Catholics in Ancona lived separate lives before the ghetto gates were torn down, and the resulting clash of cultures contains echoes of our modern-day experience. How does one transcend deeply held beliefs about a group of people who are different? Is getting to know someone personally enough to overcome prejudice? Can you ever fully discard bias imbibed from people you trust, such as family or clergy? Francesca and Daniel’s relationship gave me the scope needed to explore this issue in all its messy complexity.
I owe an immense debt to Michael Goldfarb, whose impeccable book, Emancipation, gave me both the backdrop and the details needed to begin this novel, while Franz Kobler’s Napoleon and the Jews provided further insight. I consulted too many biographies about Napoleon to mention, but books specifically dealing with his Italian campaign included Desmond Gregory’s Napoleon’s Italy and Guglielmo Ferraro’s The Gamble. Philip Haythornthwaite and Richard Hook’s Napoleon’s Campaigns in Italy not only detailed the battles but also illustrated in full color what the well-dressed French soldiers and officers wore. One of my students, fellow SWP author Eileen Sanchez, helped me locate a translation of the Catholic Church’s juridical examination into the prodigy of Ancona. And I would be remiss if I failed to mention one of my favorite childhood books, Annemarie Selinko’s Désirée, where my fascination with Napoleon originated.
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