The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (5 page)

“Monna Vanitas, you have made a god of your head. Deny that false god. Pull down that proud tower. For I see upon its battlements the devil’s banner.” And, would you believe it, the woman rose to her feet and began to tug at her hair and to pull it down in full view of the crowd.

Now Fra Bernardino began to intone the litany of women’s vanities — from the
ale
, those wide sleeves which he called wings and warned would be clipped, to the
pianelle
, the foot coverings that have a pointed heel and many layers of leather beneath the sole to make women appear taller.

“God has made a woman small, and you put stilts under her to make her tall,” he berated them. “He has made her dark and you smear her up with lead to make her pale. He has made her yellow and you paint her red. Do not try to improve on God,” he admonished sternly. “He is the best painter.”

By the time Fra Bernardino left off talking of clothes and started in on
delicatura
, I had fallen into a drowse, lulled by the heat of the March sun and the buzz of the crowd. So I was caught quite off guard by his first mention of Jews. The
frate
did not speak loudly and I was not certain if I had heard him right, but a look from Cateruccia told me I had.

“Listen! Listen to the saint!” She grasped me in her sturdy arms and, with a great grunt, yanked my hand from Jehiel’s and hoisted me onto her shoulders.

“. . . If only you spent as much time beautifying your souls as you do beautifying your bodies.” There was no censure in the
frate
’s tone, only infinite regret. “But no. Instead you invite Jewish witches into your houses with their ass’s milk and sulfur paste and promises of beauty. . . . How many of you are guilty of consanguinity with Jews?”

Here and there the odd reluctant hand was raised.

“Confess it,” he urged sweetly. “Confess and you will be forgiven.”

A few more hands.

“I command you,” he roared in a completely different voice. “Tell the world that you have been a dupe of Jewish witches. Shout it out so God can hear you.”

This brought the required screams and faints, which the friar allowed to run their course before he returned to his theme,

“Some there are among you whose mouth stinks from their cosmetics. Some of you reek of sulfur and smell so foul in the presence of your husbands that you turn them into sodomites. In this you are urged on by these domestic enemies who weasel their way into your houses to work their evil . . .”

Behind us a cry went up: “I repent my vanity, O blessed friar.”

Now, many of the women around us began to strip themselves to the waist and scourge themselves with small whips passed around by the friar’s boys, his so-called Army of the Pure in Heart, along with flacons of wine and wine-soaked cloths to ease the wounds of those who were scourging themselves. The sun was high in the sky and its penetrating rays, together with the fragrance of the wine and the sight of blood, must have driven me into something of a delirium. I only came to my senses after repeated pokes and pinches from Cateruccia. There was something she wanted me to hear.

Love. The friar was speaking of loving kindness. “See to it that there is nothing in your heart but
caritas
— charity. And remember,” he warned, “the greatest sins are sins against
caritas
: avarice, blasphemy, witchcraft, and usury.”

“For these sins you will go to the hot house. To the devil’s house . . .” A great moan went up. “And you will have many a visit from Brother Rod.” Another great moan.

Then suddenly, a different tone, thoughtful, almost pedagogical. “Money is the vital warmth of a town. Usurers are leeches who draw the blood and warmth from a sick limb with insatiable ardor. And when the blood and warmth leave the extremities of the body to flow back toward the heart, it is a sign of death. Do you understand?” I didn’t. Not a word made sense to me, but Cateruccia shook her head up and down in a positive frenzy of comprehension.

“And it is not enough that you do not commit these crimes yourselves. You must cleanse your town of those who do. You must destroy the usurer in your midst, for he is the enemy of Christian charity.”

From some dim, arcaded corner, an unseen voice boomed out, “Kill the Jews.” The phrase echoed eerily across the piazza.

All at once the white curtain was down and all around us men, women, and children were crowding toward the pulpit, many of them with a wild light in their eyes, like mad people.

Cateruccia put me down and began to chant, “
Dio! Dio!
” quietly at first, then louder and louder. All around us people took up the cry, “
Dio! Dio!
” It seemed that the entire crowd was shouting “
Dio! Dio!
” Carried away completely, Cateruccia let go of Jehiel and began to throw her arms up into the air as if she were reaching for heaven. “
Dio! Dio!
” she shouted, her eyes closed tight, her body jerking convulsively with each repetition of the sacred word.

I saw my chance. Yanking my brother from between her legs, I made for the arcades at the side of the square, pulling the poor child, half dead with fear, past the friar’s boys now brandishing knives, along streets echoing with fearful shouts, and finally through our portal, where I fell headlong into Zaira’s arms, panting and weeping.

3

“U
pstairs, quick, and clean up before your poor mother sees you looking like a pair of little Gypsies . . . and on the night of the first seder . . .” Zaira’s sole concern was to save Mama from any further perturbation. She didn’t even inquire what mischief we had been into to get ourselves so bedraggled. In fact, no one had even noticed we were gone.

“Look there. Your cheek is all mottled. What have you been leaning on? Here, let me . . .” As she dabbed away, I told myself it would be best for Mama if I kept silent about what we had witnessed at the Piazza delle Erbe. Perhaps I lacked the courage to take the punishment for my disobedience. Whatever the reason, I dressed for the seder in silence and arrived at the table loaded down with my guilty knowledge of what was happening in the town.

Seated at Mama’s sumptuous table, lit by the glow of pure white candles and swaddled against the winds of the world by the comfort of the ritual, everyone — even the servants — had managed to forget the unease stirred up by Monna Matilda and had entered fully into the spirit of the Passover. Everyone except me. And Cateruccia. Wherever I moved in the room, I felt her eyes on me, gloating. When Papa called us to take our places for the seder, she placed herself modestly at the foot of the great table, from which vantage point she could look directly into my face without being observed. To a casual eye, she was her usual sleepy, slow-witted self. But, even though I tried to keep my eyes on the prayer book, I could feel her eyes boring into mine, taunting me with the secret we shared.

Finally we came to the climax of the ritual, that moment when the youngest of the house rises to ask his father the Four Questions. Jehiel stood tall at Papa’s side, his tiny waist encircled with a gold link belt and his sturdy little body encased in a padded velvet doublet. He had a taste for red, and Papa had ordered him a pair of
borzacchini
which the cobbler swore were the smallest pair of trimmed boots he had ever made, ever so fetching in soft black leather with a turnover cuff of red velvet and a rosette of green and peacock ribbons fastened to the right boot. Since the time of our first
condotta
with the Gonzagas, they had permitted the dei Rossi men to display their colors.

To complete Jehiel’s ensemble, Mama had fastened to his hair just above the widow’s peak a pearl which nestled there amid the chestnut curls like a glowing charm. He was a prince that night. He made our house a palace. My father was a king and all of us were members of a royal family.

And when that little boy took hold of our precious illuminated Haggadah with its velvet and filigree cover, and began to read the ancient questions in the ancient tongue, he was letter-perfect. Nothing about his manner suggested that he had been through the most terrifying experience of his short life a few hours before. Not the slightest hesitation or stammer marred his performance.

“Wherefore is this night different from all other nights?” His reedy boy’s voice sang out like Pan’s pipes.

As he and Papa went through the ancient dialogue, my memory of the afternoon retreated. Somehow our
famiglia
would be saved from the
frate
’s marauding boys just as the Jews had been saved from Pharaoh centuries before.

By the time we got to counting the ten plagues which were inflicted on the Egyptians — frogs and gnats and mullein (whatever that was) — I was spilling out the droplets of wine that marked each plague with the same gleeful abandon as the other children.

Now, it was my turn to glower at Cateruccia. “See, you slut, what happens to those who persecute the Jews! Flies and dust and boils and mullein.”

But my happiness was short-lived. Halfway through the meal, a loud ringing of the outer bell announced a visitor. At first I thought it was Elijah, for whom a silver cup is always placed in the center of the table in the unlikely event that he decides to make a miraculous appearance. But the adults of the
famiglia
knew that trouble comes to the door in the dark night far more often than a miracle. And indeed, the messenger, a distant Gonzaga connection by the name of della Valle, had brought evil tidings.

He held in his hand a
grido
issued by the Marchese that very hour warning the Jews of Mantova to remain in their houses for their own safety. A disturbance had broken out in the Gradaro district. Rulers never use the word “riot” unless they have to. “But the Marchese has instructed me to advise you that your family has no cause for worry,” the equerry assured Papa, with the excessive condescension that courtiers always use when addressing those they consider their inferiors. “The dei Rossis occupy a particular place in my lord’s heart,” he intoned, as if conferring a benediction. “As a mark of his affection Marchese Francesco has sent with me two carts to carry your
famiglia
to the Porto Catena and an armed escort of ten men to see you safely aboard a boat bound for Ferrara, where you will be safe in the bosom of your family until the unnatural fever of our people has burned itself out.” No mention was made of how many Jews might be consumed in this fire.

Papa was the first to recover his equanimity. Having thanked the equerry profusely, he turned to his
famiglia
.

“As you hear, the gracious Marchese has sent wagons to take us to the port. Let us therefore stanch our tears” — this advice was accompanied by a stern look at Dania and Cecilia, two young women of the
famiglia
who had embarked on a fortissimo duet of weeping and wailing — “and with all good haste, make our preparations.”

“Pack no
cassones
. No boxes. Nothing that will impede our flight,” he cautioned them. “Each bring your own bedsack and put on all your warm clothes. Be quick. Time is our ally. We must not betray him with tarrying.”

Still old Rabbi Isaac stood, supported by his son, as if fixed to the floor. And Davide, our tutor, appeared dazed beside his weeping wife and as short of will as my Aunt Sofronia. But Monna Matilda had will and energy enough for all.

“Get on, you lot,” she ordered. “You heard Ser Daniele. Time is our ally. We must not betray him.” And to emphasize the point, she sent the rabbi flying out the door with a great shove. Then, turning back into the room, she headed for the table in a most resolute way and proceeded to wrap up the leftover cakes of matzoh in a cloth.

“We will carry our matzoh as we make our escape just like the Jews of old.” Then she gathered up her twins and took her leave.

Meanwhile, Papa had bade our servants to fetch our clothes and mattresses, for he wished us to remain with him.

Now, Papa inquired of the equerry how many horses the barge might accommodate, for he did not wish to abandon his animals.

“None, I am afraid,” was the answer. “The boatmen of the Mincio have little taste for nocturnal voyages. We could commandeer but one vessel to carry you to Governolo and that one too light to carry animals.” Then, seeing the distress on Mama’s face, the gentleman quickly added, “I am certain that when you reach the Po, there will be no shortage of comfortable barques to carry you on to Ferrara.”

Having thus smoothly disposed of the Jewish problem, he turned to take his leave. But something stopped him.

“About the animals . . .” He hesitated, no longer the patronizing flunkey but a man with fellow feeling. “I share your concern for them. Knowing my lord’s nature, I feel he would wish me to offer the hospitality of the Gonzaga stud to your horses. Yes, indeed he would. And believe me, Maestro Daniele, they will be cared for as if they were the Marchese’s own precious Barbary steeds.” They love horseflesh in that family.

Mama kept her composure during the equerry’s visit, but the minute the door closed behind him her lips began to quiver.