The Secrets of Italy

by Corrado Augias

  The end of that March brought about a new institution and a new word: ghetto. Ghettoization has since grown depressingly widespread, taking various forms worldwide. The word’s etymology remains uncertain, although it was apparently derived from the Venetian term geto, indicating a foundry, from the Italian verb gettare, to cast or pour melted metal. Although Italians would have pronounced it with a soft g, it is believed that the German Jews who were the first to move there pronounced it with a hard g (hence the later shift in spelling from geto to ghetto).

  Confining a portion of the population to a fenced-off area and locking them in was odious in and of itself. But that was not enough: all doors and windows facing out of the ghetto had to be walled up, the four gates were locked at midnight and reopened only in the morning, and two boats (paid for by the Jews) patrolled the outer canals at night for extra surveillance.

  And yet, in its practical application, this otherwise despicable measure nevertheless had a few advantages (backhanded as they were). It established a neighborhood where Jews were allowed to reside, which granted them official recognition and guaranteed certain rights, if not outright privileges. Within those confines Jews could observe their rites in peace, without fear of attack, and they were sheltered from the murderous calls for violence being launched from all the city’s pulpits. It was a tight space, and only grew tighter (still today you can see how the ghetto’s buildings are even narrower and taller then most in Venice), but it was a protected space. Their banks and shops were protected from attempts at plunder. Moreover, the Venetians’ political pragmatism meant that many restrictions were applied with some elasticity, not least because the banks were essential to merchants’ ability to receive loans at reasonable interest rates. As a contemporary chronicler pointed out, it helped local “poor folks, since there are no monti di pietà here as there are elsewhere.”4 District attorney Antonio Grimani was quick to add, in no uncertain terms, that not only did the Venetians “need Jews to subsidize the poor,” but that “in this war they also helped the city hold onto its money.” Indeed, the Jewish population continued to bolster the government’s coffers, providing a series of “forced loans” to underwrite the many wars the Serenissima found itself involved in over the centuries.

  Even the prolific Marin Sanudo (1466–1536), a politician and detailed chronicler, emphasized the social utility of moneylenders. Various passages in his endless diaries (which totaled fifty-eight volumes!) express his thoughts on the matter: “I would gladly have spoken, not to discuss the children of Israel and their scams, lending money at high interest, but … to instead prove that the Jews are as necessary in a town like this as bakers are … our elders have always advised us to keep the Jews around, so that we have access to loans.” Sanudo maintained that expelling the Jews without establishing monti di pietà or other moneylending institutions would be a reckless decision.

  But establishing the ghetto was not the only measure taken by the Venetian Republic. Any time they exited their neighborhood, Jews had to wear a yellow badge on their clothes, so they could be clearly recognized. Later on, instead of a yellow badge, they had to wear a yellow cap. Only doctors, who were highly esteemed, were exempt from this rule, and even then only for a set period of time. From Maundy Thursday to Easter Sunday they were to remain locked in the house as a sign of penance for their ancient crime, but also so they would be protected against potential Christian attacks spurred on by the memory of Jesus’s Passion. In his book The Ghetto of Venice the Jewish historian Riccardo Calimani (to whom I am grateful for many valuable insights) notes that locking “foreigners” into a set area was not a uniquely Venetian practice—in the Egyptian city of Alexandria, Venetians were themselves forbidden to leave their homes during the hours of Muslim prayer and on Fridays.

  Rome eyed the establishment of the ghetto with great interest. Gian Pietro Carafa, who ascended to the papacy in 1555 as Paul IV, immediately considered imitating it. Just two months after his election he hastened to set one up in Rome with a bull that became (in)famous, known by its first few words, Cum nimis absurdum. What, exactly, did he consider so “absurd”?

  Since it is absurd and improper that Jews—whose own guilt has consigned them to perpetual servitude—under the pretext that Christian piety receives them and tolerates their presence should be ingrates to Christians, so that they attempt to exchange the servitude they owe to Christians for dominion over them; we—to whose notice it has lately come that these Jews, in our dear city and in some other cites, holdings, and territories of the Holy Roman Church, have erupted into insolence: they presume not only to dwell side by side with Christians and near their churches, with no distinct habit to separate them, but even to erect homes in the more noble sections and streets of the cities, holdings, and territories where they dwell, and to buy and possess fixed property, and to have nurses, housemaids, and other hired Christian servants, and to perpetrate many other things in ignominy and contempt of the Christian name …5

  This introduction was followed by a series of provisions: first, the establishment of the ghetto, and there was to be no more than one synagogue in each ghetto; further, Jews were forbidden to own real estate; they were to wear an outward sign of recognition; they were forbidden to employ Christians; they were authorized to conduct limited professions, including, once again, trading in used clothing and moneylending. Pope Pius V (Antonio Ghislieri), one of Paul IV’s successors (served 1566–72) known for his anti-Semitism, recommended that all neighboring states establish ghettos, an exhortation readily implemented everywhere, with the sole exceptions of Livorno and Pisa.

  In Rome, many of these measures were observed for a long time. To choose just one of the many anecdotes, I will point out that the artist Amedeo Modigliani was born in Livorno in 1884 as the direct result of a mishap his great-grandfather had experienced in Rome. The Modigliani family had settled there long before, perhaps because it offered greater business opportunities. Amedeo’s ancestor was a wealthy man—perhaps a banker or, more likely, manager of a pawnshop—and had had the opportunity to lend money to a cardinal, sparing him a great embarrassment. The deal ended well for both of them, so well that Modigliani’s reckless ancestor thought he could defy the papal ban on owning property, and used his proceeds to buy a vineyard on the slopes of the Alban Hills. When word got out, the curia ordered the insolent Jew to immediately hand over the land, threatening him with hefty fines. Merely saving a Church higher-up from dishonor was not enough to warrant safe-conduct. Modigliani had to obey, but he was annoyed and deeply offended, so he immediately gathered his family and belongings and left Rome for Livorno. He chose Livorno because Ferdinand I, Grand Duke of Tuscany and major patron of the arts and sciences, was eager to populate his growing port city. An astute leader, he turned the town into a free port of sorts, welcoming any- and everyone who wanted to live there, including religious and political exiles. Indeed, Livorno’s Jewish community enjoyed real prosperity, as can be seen in the magnificence of its baroque synagogue, among other sites. When the Modigliani family arrived in 1849, there were about 5,000 Jews in Livorno out of a total population of 70,000.

  In comparison, the Jewish community in Venice was always much smaller. According to Riccardo Calimani, toward the end of the sixteenth century the total Jewish population of the Venetian Republic was approximately 3,000 out of an overall population of one and a half million. By the mid-seventeenth century there were almost 5,000, but the 1869 census recorded only 2,415 (within an overall population of 114,000), which then rose to 3,000 just before World War I. The Fascist racial laws and raids during the Nazi occupation had tragic consequences: of the 200 Venetian Jews deported, only seven survived. By the end of the war the community counted 1,000 members, and by 2000 it was only half that.

  The Venetian community fluctuated in size, and was divided into three parts or “nations.” The largest was the German community, followed by the Levantine (Eastern) and Ponentine (Western) communities. Over time, due especially to int
ermarriage, the diverse languages and rituals began to fade, but they never entirely disappeared. Even rabbis who initially represented only their own “nation” came to be elected, based on personal merits, to represent the entire community. The community’s division into “nations” can still be seen in the many synagogues of the Venetian ghetto: the various “schools” included German, Spanish, Italian, and Levantine synagogues. These places exude rich traditions visible in their architecture, interiors, vestments, and silver ritual objects.

  Like any closed community, the ghetto also fostered its own kind of eventful relationships: friendly and even amorous relationships thrived, as did hostilities. Intense alliances and rivalries, jealousies and supportive friendships, and quarrels were all commonplace. And all that was made even more complicated by the community’s relationship with the city and Christian Church authorities. The general atmosphere in Venice was certainly more relaxed than in Rome or in the Papal States, but it was widely believed that the city had been founded with the help of God, and that its commercial and military fortunes continued to depend on divine benevolence—which gave the clergy a significant influence over all city-related matters.

  The Venetian Republic had always tried to maintain its freedom and independence by avoiding any open allegiance to the papacy, which was prevalent in other areas of the Italian peninsula. But, despite its power, not even Venice could completely ignore the Church’s hostility toward the Jews, especially during periods when the local government had to strengthen its political or military alliances with Rome.

  In 1542, as the vast complex of rules later known as the Counterreformation was being prepared, Pope Paul III Farnese had reinstated the Inquisition with his infamous bull Licet ab initio. Five years later, upon the doge’s decree, Church tribunals were established in Venice under the supervision of the papal legate, the patriarchs, and a Franciscan who, although forced to swear obedience to the laws of the Venetian Republic, became the de facto inquisitor (after 1560 the roll was passed on to the Dominicans). In any case, Franciscan preachers were the most vocal in proclaiming their belief that God’s favor could only be regained if the city purged itself of all sin, and one of its worst sins was that it had given the Jews too much freedom.

  The Church’s reaction to the Lutheran Reformation empowered the papal inquisitors to pursue “heretics” as well. Toward the end of the century the philosopher Giordano Bruno, who in 1592 had moved to Venice to tutor a nobleman named Giovanni Mocenigo in memorization techniques, was forced to prove his innocence to the Holy Tribunal at his own expense. The arrangement had not worked out well, so when Bruno announced his intention to leave his offended employer ran to report it to the ecclesiastical tribunal. He accused the philosopher of blasphemy, said he despised religion, did not believe in the Trinity, and instead believed in the eternity of the world and that there are infinite worlds—he also supposedly practiced black magic, denied the virginity of Mary, and so on. That very evening Bruno was arrested and put in jail. Perhaps he thought he could get out of the charges, but at that particular time, with a jubilee year approaching, the case was of great interest to Rome, where he was transferred and retried. On February 17, 1600, he was burned at the stake in Campo de’ Fiori.

  Conversions presented yet another nagging problem. In Rome forced conversions were common practice, but in Venice the Church could not use the same (often brutal) methods applied in the papal capital, because the government would not have allowed it. Furthermore, Jews were not generally considered heretics, except in a few special cases. For example, a decree by Pope Boniface VIII stated that a Jew who converted to Christianity—that is, was baptized—and then decided to go back to Judaism had to be considered a heretic and treated as such. While the Jews of Rome were under constant pressure to convert and were forced to attend catechumenical sermons supervised by the Swiss guards, in Venice Jews generally were not pushed to the new religion. Indeed, conversions were rare, although some cases caused quite a stir.

  The baptism of the son of Asher Meshullam, founder of the ghetto, in the church of the Frari aroused a great interest. A solemn ceremony was held, and the new convert was received with high honors, but that was an exceptional case. In general such conversions were discreet, and there were a few embarrassing cases where conversions had effectively been bought in exchange for a handout. That is precisely what happened to an impoverished young jew who was baptized four times in Venice, Ravenna, and Modena. Brought before the Inquisition, he confessed: “I was baptized because my clothes were in rags and in order to have someplace to go … I knew it was wrong and that it went against the principles of the Christian religion, and that it was a sin, but I did it because I had no livelihood.”6 They condemned him to twenty years of forced labor in the galleys.

  Converts almost always took the surname of their sponsors, and their new name was taken from the saint whose feast day fell on their conversion. Lorenzo Da Ponte, Mozart’s famous librettist, is one curious example of such a transition. His original name was Emanuele Conegliano, son of Jeremiah, a leather merchant and fur trader who had been widowed and wanted to take the hand of a Catholic woman as his second wife. But in order to celebrate the marriage he had to be baptized, and he decided to baptize his children as well, including Emanuele. It was 1763, and Emanuele was fourteen years old. The bishop of Ceneda, Monsignor Da Ponte, gave the boy his surname and baptized him Lorenzo, offering to underwrite his studies in the seminary, which would lead to an ecclesiastical career. At the age of twenty-four Lorenzo became an ordained priest, and began teaching at various schools around the Veneto region. But he was not a natural fit for the priesthood. He knew many women—in the general as well as the biblical sense of the term—and was an open follower of Rousseau and the Enlightenment. He also fathered a son with a Venetian noblewoman, which is likely why he then fled the country. In 1781, now thirty-two years old, he arrived in Vienna with a letter of recommendation in his pocket addressed to Antonio Salieri, Kapellmeister at the imperial court. He was given a job as librettist (nowadays we would probably call him a scriptwriter), dove into his work, and met many great musicians, including Mozart, for whom he wrote three major Italian operas: The Marriage of Figaro, Don Giovanni, and Così fan tutte. The rest of his rich life was no less adventurous. He embarked for New York, where he taught literature at what is now Columbia University, and died at the ripe old age of eighty-nine.

  The ghetto’s borders were actively enforced through the end of the eighteenth century, and its abolition met with understandable joy, but the broader circumstances surrounding the event were quite dramatic. Napoleon had triumphantly concluded his Italian campaigns of 1796–97, but there was still some concern about the spread of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which he wanted to keep in check. For centuries it had wanted to take possession of the Venetian territories on land and sea, and Napoleon satisfied that desire by using Venice as a pawn in the exchange. In April 1797 in Leoben and again the following October in Campo Formio, Napoleon signed two treaties with an imperial representative. Article 6 of the final agreement stated:

  The French Republic consents that His Majesty the Emperor and King should possess in complete sovereignty and proprietorship the countries hereinafter designated, to wit: Istria, Dalmatia, the former Venetian Islands of the Adriatic, the mouths of the Cattaro, the city of Venice, the lagoons and countries included between the hereditary States of His Majesty the Emperor and King, the Adriatic Sea, and a line which setting out from Tyrol shall follow the stream beyond Gardola, and shall cross the Lake of Garda, to Cise; from there a military line to San Giocomo, offering an equal advantage to the two parties, which shall be marked out by engineering officers appointed by both parties before the exchange of the ratifications of the present treaty.

  This officially constituted the end of the Serenissima, sanctioned by the man who had waged wars and celebrated victories in the name of republican virtues and freedom for all peoples. But, as usual, there was a bit of quid pro quo,
and the loss of Venice was offset by the birth of the Cisalpine Republic, as provided for in Article 8 of the same treaty:

  His Majesty the Emperor, King of Hungary and of Bohemia, recognizes the Cisalpine Republic as an independent power. This republic includes the former Austrian territory of Lombardy and the areas of Bergamo, Brescia, Crema, the fortified city of Mantua and its surroundings, Peschiera [del Garda], and all parts of the formerly Venetian territories to the west and south of the line cited in article 6 above; the border of His Majesty the Emperor’s states in Italy will run through Modena, the principality of Massa and Carrara, and the three legations of Bologna, Ferrara, and Romagna.

  This was not just the end of Venice—the cold language of diplomacy now confirmed the high price all of Italy would continue to pay for its inability to unite into a secular nation-state. Compared with what we now consider the world’s superpowers, the political weight of the late great Serenissima was reduced to zero, and the city, its lagoon, its possessions throughout the Adriatic, and most of the Veneto region were gambled away in a round of international poker.

  By May 12, 1797, the government had abdicated, opening city gates to the French troops. As the historian Samuele Romanin writes in Storia documentata di Venezia: “[This was a] time of extreme dejection under an illusion of independence … a time when everything yearned for something new, but the state rulers, be they the deceived or the deceivers, competed to issue the largest pronouncement, reducing government to a theatrical spectacle.” We can certainly say, without fear of contradiction, that several times in the history of Italy this “theatrical spectacle” of various governments and their deluded/deceptive rulers have had their go at things, in equally dramatic moments.