The Ghost of Hannah Mendes

by Naomi Ragen

  “That’s fantastic! But, Marius, why can’t he just copy the material and fax it?”

  He looked pained: “Francesca, they don’t let you photocopy rare fifteenth-century original manuscripts. And there’s something else, some notes in the margin, hardly readable. I’ve got to see it before anyone else does.”

  “When do we leave?” She shrugged.

  He touched her shoulder gently: “Listen to me, my love! I’ve got to leave immediately. And you’re going to stay behind and follow up the lead from Caceres.”

  “But, Marius, all I’ve got is a name and an address! We don’t even know if the person is alive anymore. And even if she is, how will I speak to her? I don’t know Italian!” she protested.

  He kissed her. “You’ll do just fine! Besides, I’ll be back in a few days.” He took her suddenly cold hands, warming them between his own. “Trust me?”

  “What’s a few days?”

  “Two. Four. Maybe less.”

  She sat down heavily, sinking into the down pillows of the sofa in the lobby. They sucked her in like quicksand. Her eyes darted to the elevators, dull with disappointment. She felt immobilized. “I can’t believe that tonight, of all nights, you’re going to abandon me!”

  “Darling Francesca, I’m doing this for you, for your family!”

  “For your own unmatched reputation,” she added sullenly.

  He grinned, holding her chin in his palm, caressing her cheek lovingly with his thumb. “Actually, I’m afraid you’ll take advantage of me in this romantic setting. I don’t want to be seduced in the moonlight only to be abandoned in the sensible light of day over bran flakes and the International Herald Tribune. I want to give you time to think about all this.” His eyes grew serious as he laced his fingers through hers. “But when I come back, I want an answer.”

  “What’s the question?” she said flippantly, scared.

  “You know,” he whispered, rubbing his knuckle along her cheek.

  What he was saying was not only right, but admirably sensible, she tried to convince herself as she watched him pack, ride down the elevator, and climb into the vaporetto. But as she lifted her arm to wave goodbye, she felt a sense of stunned disbelief that bordered on physical injury.

  He was gone.

  That night, sleep felt like a deep, dark hole. She awoke feeling heavily drugged, or like someone who’d spent too many hours on the beach. She literally dragged herself out of bed, struggling with the unbearable idea that her life had finally returned to normal.

  Breakfast for one.

  The stock page.

  Bran flakes.

  She pulled back the curtains. The fog had vanished, taking with it all mysteries, leaving behind the mundane light of day. She took out her day planner, checking her schedule, feeling the day stretch out before her like a long, hard road.

  She looked through the phone book, but could find no one by the name of Elizabeta Bomberg listed. She felt inexplicably relieved, wondering what she was doing anyway initiating a telephone conversation in a language she neither spoke nor understood. She opened the old book and looked again at the address: 12 Rio della Misericordia.

  The concierge, a charming older man who spoke decent English, was delighted to help her locate it on the map. She wrote down his directions carefully, all the while looking over his beautifully cut hair, the way the black color gradually turned to gray at his temples. Old age didn’t have to be a jump off a cliff, she mused, just a walk down a gently sloping hill. Until, of course, illness gave you that grand push.

  She thought of her grandmother, wondering if all was well. The maid or the answering machine always answered her calls these days, and when Gran phoned back, her tone was overly cheerful, as were her faxes and letters. She seemed delighted at the progress they were making, and there was never a word of criticism. Considering it was Gran, that was extremely suspicious, as were the ever increasing gaps of late between their contacts. It worried her.

  On the map, Rio della Misericordia didn’t seem far.

  She walked around the corner to the Piazza San Marco. Times Square, Venetian style, she thought, gazing into the windows of lovely little pastry shops whose enticing displays of cakes and chocolates made her mouth water. Later, she promised herself, her pace slackening as she passed shops selling beautiful porcelain collectors’ dolls, unique, hand-painted face masks, luxurious furs, and gorgeous glazed ceramics. There was nothing for sale you couldn’t live without. But why, in heaven’s name, would you want to?

  Everything was so beautiful, arousing a desire for possession that was almost irresistible. One became irrational, she thought, amazed at the almost physical desire she felt to take out her credit card. As if under a spell, she was lured into a doll store. She fingered the smooth porcelain heads, the gold-lame clown outfits, the fool’s cap with tiny bells, the ruff of lace trimmed in gold thread. Each one was lovelier than the next. But you couldn’t possibly buy just one, she realized. Buying one would mean rejecting all the others, a virtual impossibility. You’d have to buy the whole store—or at least a good portion of it—to satisfy yourself.

  You could go mad, she thought, fleeing. Really. You could turn into one of those tabloid horrors that shoot their parents to get their hands on loot for shopping sprees. Venice, she began to realize, was a dangerous place.

  The streets were narrow, winding and short. She found that she never walked very far in a straight line before coming upon a campo, those charming little squares from which alleys led off in all directions, multiplying your chances for getting lost.

  How quickly one could get used to getting places by foot, she thought, watching the Venetians pulling their shopping carts after them along the bustling streets. How clean, quiet, and charmingly Old World it all was!

  It was the absence of cars, she realized. The noise of honks, the exhaust fumes, the harried pace of people traveling at inhuman speeds gave a certain character to modern life everywhere. Without wheels, life seemed to slow down to a more human pace.

  She bought a vaporetto ticket. The ghosts were gone, she thought, climbing up to the prow and watching the bright spring light sparkle on the eddies of water that slapped against the seaweed-green foundations of Venetian palazzi lining the route. Imagine, living in one of them! The most romantic thing in the world, even if their plumbing was rotting and there was no central heating.

  And, of course, churches, churches everywhere.

  She got off at San Marcuola and asked directions. It was surprisingly easy to find. She rang the bell once and waited, not wishing to be appear rude or demanding. Five minutes later, she rang again. She was just about to leave when she heard the shushing noise of slippers rubbing against the floor. The door opened narrowly, with a creak.

  A beautiful woman of indeterminate age stood looking through the crack. She wore a well-cut suit of heavy blue brocade whose skirt fell well past her calves. It was an outfit that seemed very expensive, yet at the same time strangely worn, like those clothes one sometimes found in genteel secondhand shops catering to the castoffs of spoiled, rich women. Her hair was drawn back and hidden in an elaborate headdress, the kind worn by women artists to match their flowing caftans.

  “Si?”

  “Per favore,” Francesca floundered, unable to stop staring. “Are you Elizabeta Bomberg?” She switched to English, rattled.

  The woman stared as if she’d seen a ghost. “And you are?” Her accent was slight and charming.

  “Francesca Abraham.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know exactly. I…that is, we, found this book in Cáceres with your name and address…”

  “Cáceres? Books?” She opened the door wider.

  “Yes. Someone left it at the Spanish border during the war.”

  “Is that one of them?” The woman’s voice rose in excitement as she looked at the volume in Francesca’s hand. “Per favore! Come in, come in!” The door was suddenly flung open. Francesca h
urried over the threshold.

  The rooms were long and narrow, leading off a central hall. It seemed expensive, but gloomy and a bit musty. Like the clothes, Francesca thought, imagining that the windows had not been opened for quite some time. She shivered as she followed the woman into the dark hallway, beginning to feel a bit queasy. “I’d appreciate any help you can offer. Thank you.”

  “Please, may I look at it?” the woman suddenly pleaded, staring hungrily at the book.

  “Of course,” Francesca responded quickly. But a sudden unease compelled her to add: “My friend—he’s a rare-book dealer—says it’s not worth much.”

  “Ah!” She took it. “Does he?” She walked to the windows and drew back the thick, velvet drapes. A sudden burst of light flooded the rooms. Francesca caught a small gasp of surprise before it burst from her throat. All around the room there were giant bookcases holding hundreds, even thousands, of volumes.

  Francesca glanced at the woman once again. In the clear light, it was easy to see that she was extremely old, her face lined like those Afghani mountain people claiming to be one hundred thirty.

  How could I have missed that at the door, Francesca thought, shocked. Even with the poor lighting, it was so obvious!

  “Light is very destructive to parchment and paper. So we live like moles. Have you ever heard of the Bombergs?”

  Francesca shook her head no, following the woman’s slow, halting steps across the living room to the gilded, period furniture grouped around an old stone fireplace.

  “Please, take a seat,” the woman said graciously but with unmistakable authority. Francesca sank down, breathing deeply. There was the scent of cold ashes and fresh roses…and something else…something spicy and pungent and unfamiliar.

  The woman’s heavy but graceful body settled itself comfortably amid the thick cushions. “You have never heard of the Bombergs? Ah, then we must begin at the beginning. It is a long story. Would you join me in some Madeira? Or coffee perhaps? Nothing? Are you comfortable? Good. Tell me something about yourself.”

  Francesca looked at her, flustered. “What would you like to know?”

  “Who you are. What you’re doing wandering around with a rare book from Cáceres looking for Elizabeta Bomberg in Venice.”

  “I’ve been sent by my grandmother to locate a family heirloom, the memoirs of one of our Spanish ancestors.”

  “And do you have any real interest in your ancestors, your history, or do you do this to please your grandmother?”

  She paused, taken aback by the probing, almost rude frankness of the question. But that’s the way old people are sometimes. She tried to shrug it off.

  “At first, I saw it as a job. But along the way, I learned many things of interest that made me see that time really can’t be divided into these neat compartments—past, present, future. That sometimes it spills over and the present looks and feels like the past, and the past seems like an omen for the future,” she heard herself say, to her surprise.

  “And do you admire what you’ve learned about your ancestors, or not?” the woman interrogated.

  “I don’t know. Certain things were admirable and romantic. Others, appalling and incomprehensible.”

  “Appalling? What do you mean?”

  “The way people betrayed each other during the Inquisition. Children testifying against their own parents.”

  “And you judge them? You think you would have acted differently?”

  “I can’t imagine turning in my own mother!”

  “Let me help your imagination, then,” she said, settling back and staring out the window. “You are fourteen years old—a sweet little thing. Maybe you’ve just been let in on the family secrets of why, unlike your neighbors, you light candles Friday nights, keep pork out of the menu, avoid lighting fires on Saturdays. You know, nothing major, quaint customs here and there. This is what our ancestors did, Mother tells you, and we try to keep it going. Or maybe you and your family have been good, loyal Christians for generations with all those customs as strange to you as to the next person.

  “And one day the soldiers and the priest show up at your door. Someone’s turned you in. Maybe one of the neighbors who didn’t like your dog, or a serving girl who coveted the family silver. No explanation, no warning. Mother’s weeping and begging, but they drag you away and throw you into this dungeon and lock you up. Now your cell is about the size of a broom closet and it’s got this wet straw on the floor. They throw you your food. No one is allowed to see you. And you can’t talk to anyone. Weeks go by.”

  Francesca rubbed her temples.

  “Do you wish me to stop?”

  “No! Please! Go on.”

  “They come to get you. A man who looks eight feet tall in a white sheet, with only his eyes showing through the slits; a priest; a notary. They lead you down damp, wet corridors into the casa santa.”

  “The what?”

  She looked at Francesca with pity. “The torture cell.” She paused. “They open the door. The place smells of blood and vomit. The walls are pitted, like people clawed at them. You’re standing there and you see the garrucha, the pulley attached to the ceiling where they will hoist you up and tie your wrists and ankles, the wheels tightening the ropes in opposite directions until your joints are loosened from their sockets. You see the rack with the ropes that they will tie around your wrists, breasts, and waist, squeezing you until you pass out. Maybe they’ll turn the wheel around once just so you can hear it squeak and grate.”

  Francesca shuddered. “My G-d!”

  “Then they start asking you questions: ‘Sister in Christ,’ the one in the friar’s robes starts, ‘confess your sins and be reconciled to the Church.’ Yes, you’re thinking. Anything. But you don’t know what sins they’re talking about, you see. You explain this to them. But they will not even give you a hint. No, they tell you. It’s got to come from you. You plead and beg and cry, and protest your innocence. Well, they finally say, in that case, we have no choice but to refresh your memory.

  “The giant grabs you and strips you naked, tying the ropes around you. Already you feel it cutting into your flesh. One more chance, they say, looking at you expectantly. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say,’ you weep and beg. They begin turning the pulleys. You have never felt this kind of pain before….”

  “Please!! Really…this is…” Francesca protested, beginning to feel frightened. The woman seemed almost possessed.

  “I asked you if you wanted me to stop. Do you?”

  “Yes! No. I don’t know. It’s horrible.”

  “Yes.” The woman looked out at the pale light coming through the window. “Horrible. And you are only a child, really. You have only known kindness.”

  Almost against her will, Francesca found herself asking: “What happened when you didn’t give them the right answers?”

  “They give the wheel a few more turns. By now you are screaming in the worst pain you have ever felt. You will say anything, anything, to make it stop. ‘Yes,’ you confess, ‘I am guilty. I have done everything, everything you suspect me of. List them,’ you beg, ‘and I will acknowledge.’ But that isn’t enough for them. They’ll keep turning and turning until you come up with a few ideas of your own, which may or may not have been on their original list, in which case they’ll say, oh, we didn’t know about that one, let’s add it!’ But maybe they have other things to do that day, so they start asking questions: ‘Have you ever believed another faith to be true other than that the Roman Church believes to be true?’”

  “‘Oh, no!’ you protest.

  “‘Then what are you confessing to?’ They turn the rack again.

  “‘Oh, yes,’ you agree, when the pressure goes slack. ‘Anything, say anything.’

  “‘Did you observe the Sabbath day on Saturday instead of Sunday?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘Did you eat meat during Lent? Did you eat unleavened bread during the Easter season? Did you cook food on Friday for Saturday?
Were the words Adonai and Merciful One contained in books in your home, and not Jesus Christ?’”

  Francesca looked up with a sense of shock. “I’ve read this, heard this somewhere, these questions…I don’t remember exactly…But go on. Then what?”

  “Well, you’ve confessed. And by then you’re hoping to die. You just don’t care anymore. But they’re not finished. ‘Now,’ they tell you, ‘tell us about your family.’”

  Francesca looked up, transfigured by horror.

  “That’s it, you think. I’ll never do that. I’ll never betray my own family. Then they show you something else: It’s a metal instrument, pear-shaped with sharp prongs. There are three of them: one for the rectum, one for the vagina, and one for the throat.”

  “Please,” Francesca begged, wiping her eyes.

  The woman got up slowly and bent over, putting motherly arms around Francesca. “Forgive me. But this is the truth. Otherwise, you can’t understand anything about your people, your past, the danger that forced such terrible choices. Whole families were betrayed and condemned as a result; burned alive. It was a popular thing, the auto-da-fé, like bullfights or parades. First, they marched you through the streets in this yellow robe with depictions of demons all over it, called a sanbenito. All your neighbors and friends came out to jeer. Then you reached the pyre. All around you, it was set up like a royal festival: grandstands, banners, nobles, and the town’s elite. It wasn’t just an execution—it was an occasion, a way to honor coronations, or national celebrations.

  “If you repented, they garroted you before the flames reached you. If you insisted on your innocence, or declared with pride you were a Jew and proud of it, you were burned alive.” She walked painfully back to her chair.

  “Please, who was Elizabeta Bomberg?” Francesca asked weakly, her throat dry.

  “Daniel Bomberg settled here in Venice in the early 1500s. He had a printing house. Just by chance, he made the acquaintance of Felix Pratensis, a converted Jew, who convinced him of the great need to print Hebrew books. He became one of the most important Hebrew publishing houses in the world. Hebrew books are still printed copying his typeface and page layouts.”