The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi (8 page)

Zaira’s performance with Davide and Dania not only forced those two into action, it also brought Monna Matilda back to life. As Zaira’s harangue rolled on, the old woman’s head slowly lifted from her breast. When the tutor and his wife left, she rose to her feet, somewhat shaky but a woman of spirit once again. Wearily but with deft, precise gestures, she rewrapped her head scarf and began to rummage in her
borsa
. At length, she drew forth a small flat package wrapped in a cloth. The afikomen!

Carefully, she broke the round wafer into four equal pieces. Then, with some creaking and cracking of her old bones, she went round the room placing each piece on a lintel or window ledge. We all watched, uncomprehending. But no one said a word. When she had finished the task, she turned to us, more her old self with every passing moment, and announced, “It will give the little one sustenance.”

This blatant show of superstition brought the shadow of a smile to Papa’s face. In Rabbi Isaac, it produced a deep scowl of disapproval. That worthy, who had not opened his mouth yea or nay through all of our travails since he made his blessing that morning on the boat, was jolted into speech by this misuse of the afikomen.

“It will give the little one no such thing, woman,” he began to remonstrate.

But Papa laid his hand on the old man’s arm. “She means no disrespect, Rabbi,” he explained. “She is praying in her own way.”

“But what she is doing is barbaric. It is witchcraft and heresy. The Talmud tells us, ‘No talismans, no charms.’”

“No talismans or charms, true,” Papa riposted, with a glint of his old spirit. “But it never says, ‘No matzoh,’ does it?”

As the afternoon rolled by, our
famiglia
was restoring itself. As if in tune with the change, Mama began to stir. We saw her foot move under the blankets, irritated no doubt by one of the colony of fleas that inhabited that ancient mattress. But she
had
moved.

Seeing Mama stir, Monna Matilda pulled her boys up from the floor with a quick yank and sent them off for fresh water. They must find it at any cost, she told them. She also found a moment for a reproachful look in the direction of Rov Isaac, as if to say, “What do you think of my talismans now?”

Just after that, Dania and Davide crept up the stairs and into the room for all the world like thieves or criminals. Their only crime: failure to find help. One of the midwives told Dania that she could not touch Jewish flesh for fear of warts which would never heal. The proof of this, she explained through a crack in her door, was the odor that emanated from Jewish bodies, which showed them to be contaminated.

The local physician was less fanciful and more practical. He simply informed Davide that he could not risk attending a Jewess. The temper of the town was such that he feared for his own and his family’s safety if he were known to consort with Jews. But as Davide and Dania were telling us their miserable tale, a boy arrived with a pot of unguents from that same doctor with instructions to rub the paste on Mama’s belly to ease her travail and bring it to a quicker conclusion. Zaira set to work at once to comply with his instructions — without any effect — and the vigil continued.

All through the afternoon Jehiel and I swatted flies with a will. But new cadres appeared as quickly as we demolished the old ones. Leaving Jehiel to that thankless task, I took up a position at the top of the bed to ward the beastly things off Mama’s face. I wanted to be there when she opened her eyes and saw her baby. I was pleased that she no longer suffered the periodic spasms that had racked her body the night before. I did not read jeopardy in the cessation of her birth contractions. To me, she had simply fallen into a peaceful sleep out of which she would arise at the appropriate moment and somehow produce a baby. My mind did not make a connection between the pains of labor and the birth of a child. My only anxiety was the fever of impatience I suffered as the long day wore on. I could not wait to see if I was to have a sister or brother.

Late in the day, I recall seeing our manager and his wife go off in search of food for our supper. And I have a very clear picture of Aunt Sofronia floating around the room wiping at the walls with her chemise — a futile effort. To cleanse that chamber for the birth according to custom was an impossible task. I honestly believe the walls had never been cleaned since the place was built; nor the mattress aired; nor the floor rushes changed.

Zaira set the clerk and his family the task of disposing of the old rushes. Even a bare floor, she said, would serve us better than those flea-bitten husks. But lifting them only exposed additional hordes of lice. Naked to the dim light, they jiggled up and down in a dizzy dance that made the tiles seem alive. Seeing this bizarre galliard, Cecilia, the clerk’s daughter, who had been pressed into this service with the utmost reluctance, promptly fainted, putting an end to
that
effort.

Has anyone ever explained why God made fleas? I know that every creature on earth is presumed to have a purpose. But what is the use of fleas except to make us itch and scratch? Judah is of the opinion that they do us a further ill. He theorizes that these fleas carry disease with them, a fanciful notion which no one takes seriously. For myself, I discount none of Judah’s opinions. Of all the clever men I have ever known, he is the most original.

I sigh. I sip. Not for the first time, I wonder if Judah has reached his Turkish haven; and why I am here in this palace among these strangers. Why am I hounding myself to set down this eccentric history? I say it is meant for your eyes when you reach your manhood. Will you ever read it? I wonder. Will you see things as I do?

I am remembering Mama, her curls loose and spread out on her pillow like a great dark halo. Monna Matilda sits at her right, wiping the beads of sweat from that sweet face. Somehow the old woman manages to keep her hold on a piece of jasperstone which she firmly believes will ease Mama’s birth pangs.

On the other side sits Papa. He could not be dissuaded away, even though the women insisted this was no place for a man. So there he sits, calm, quiet, impassive.

It was Jehiel who got Papa started talking about his childhood. The rest of us were too overcome by the gravity of Mama’s plight to attempt conversation. But his child’s mind was already moving past this crisis toward the life ahead of him.

“How is it in Ferrara, Papa?” he wanted to know. “Is it like Mantova? Will it be spring when we arrive? Does La Nonna have a dog?” His questions went on and on. Finally, Papa had to respond, if only to stop the chatter.

“Sad to say, Ferrara is
not
a beautiful city,” he explained. “Its streets are mean and its buildings old-fashioned. But Duke Ercole has grandiose plans for improving the city —”

“Is he a handsome duke? Like our Marchese Francesco?” Jehiel interrupted, ever concerned with the handsomeness of men and the beauty of women. “And does he ride a Barbary horse?”

“He does ride a horse,” Papa answered. “For he is a soldier, a great
condottiero
, like our Marchese Francesco. But the Estes do not care as passionately for horses as the Gonzagas. Duke Ercole is more interested in beautifying his city. He is even now building a new addition to Ferrara which will have the broadest streets in Europe. People have begun to call it the Herculanean Addition since Duke Ercole is named after the god Hercules. One of these days, Ferrara may be the most modern city of all.”

Jehiel was not interested in town planning or in any duke who was. He quickly switched his attention to a new subject: his grandmother and grandfather and aunts and uncles and cousins in Ferrara.

“Is La Nonna a very beautiful lady, Papa?” he asked.

Papa smiled broadly. “I wouldn’t exactly call your grandmother beautiful, Jehiel,” he answered with a smile. “Dignified, yes. Imposing, perhaps. But, much as I love my mother, I cannot call her beautiful.”

“Is she clever?” I asked, intrigued in spite of myself. “Does she read Latin?”

For some reason I could not understand, my question brought forth an even broader smile from Papa than Jehiel’s. “No, my dear.” Papa patted my hand gently. “I am sorry to say that your grandmother is not a great believer in scholarship for women.”

“She is a perfect Jewish matron, the soul of piety,” Monna Matilda muttered without looking at him.

“Indeed she is that,” Papa agreed in a somewhat wry tone.

“And the house,” I asked, “what is the house like?”

“It is big. A tall house,” Papa answered. “With four stories and many rooms. In fact, it is a palace.”

“A palace!” Jehiel’s eyes widened. “Does it have beautiful stables with pictures of horses on the walls?” He had once seen Marchese Francesco’s stables with a fresco on the wall of each stall and had never forgotten the sight.

“No pictures in your grandfather’s stable,” Papa answered. “Sorry.”

“But there
are
ponies, aren’t there, Papa?”

“There were ponies when your Aunt Sofronia and I were children,” Papa answered. “And I daresay there will be ponies again. But you must remember that this is your grandfather’s house. And La Nonna’s of course. They are the ones who decide things there, not like at Mantova where your mother and I —” He broke off, looked down at Mama, and was abruptly silent, putting an end to conversation for the afternoon. The day was dying and our hope with it.

Just then the manager and his wife came bounding up the stairs, breathless and red-faced but smiling. Tucked away in a back street, they had found a shopkeeper who either had never heard of Fra Bernardino’s interdiction or, like Pepino the boatman, loved Jewish gold more than he loved his eternal Christian soul. From that lapsed Christian they had gleaned a bountiful harvest — armfuls of fresh bread, sacks of cheese and two kegs of wine! If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can smell the yeasty fragrance of that bread even now. What a perfume!

Everyone smiled. Jehiel cheered. Zaira laid out her cloak on the worm-eaten board atop the trestles and prepared to divide up the bounty.

Suddenly, a powerful voice arrested her with a terse command. “Stop, woman!” It was Monna Matilda, back in full form. “Cease your preparations for this heathen feast!”

Cecilia began to cry, closely followed by Dania and, I must admit, me and Jehiel. Not a morsel of food had passed our lips for almost a full day. Were we now to be denied the very staff of life by this virago?

“Have you forgotten the Passover? The Lord’s prohibition against unleavened bread?” she berated us. Next, she would prevent us from drinking the wine because it had been handled by an uncircumcised person, and the cheese because the goats had slept next to pigs.

The first to speak out was Rov Isaac. “Woman . . .” he began. But the virago overwhelmed him with a bellow of “Godless priest!”

Just in time to save us all, a new opponent entered the lists: Zaira. Tearing off a piece of the loaf, she began to wave it in the air like a banner and shouted, even louder than the old woman, “This bread is as bitter to us as matzoh was to the Jews of Egypt.”

“Hear, hear!” we all shouted.

“Have we not been driven from our homes?” Zaira continued. “Are we not homeless? Behold this woman . . .” She pointed down at Mama. “Are not suffering and humiliation her lot?”

Monna Matilda lowered her head, in silent confirmation of that assertion.

“Well then,” Zaira concluded triumphantly, “this bread is
our
bread of affliction. And we
will
eat it!”

Without another word, she began to tear off pieces of the loaf and hand it around. When she reached Monna Matilda, everyone held his breath. Zaira held out the morsel with a deferential air. A long look passed between the two women.

Monna Matilda hesitated. But at last she stretched out her hand and took the bread from Zaira. Then, all of us together, as if we had rehearsed it, the company began to recite: “
Baruch ato adonai, elochenu melech holum
. . .” “Blessed be He, O Lord, our God, King of the Universe, Who hath given us matzoh . . .”

5

T
omorrow is the anniversary of Christ’s birthday in a manger. There was no room for His mother at the inn. Is it not fitting that I recall for you on the eve of that day the birth of my brother Gershom, to whom the world also denied its bounty?

Admittedly, we did have our room at The Ox, that one small, smoky, smelly, scabrous chamber. But, like the Christ, my brother came into this world poorer than the poorest peasant babe, without a drop of sweet oil to cleanse him or a soft cloth to swaddle him or a dram of honey to rub on his gums for his appetite’s sake.

By then, two nights and one day had passed since my mother felt the first stab of pain at Borgoforte, and the hours had bleached her face to a chalk white and smudged her eyes with smoky circles very like the eyes that Maestro Raffaello Santi gives the Christ children he places in the arms of his beautiful sad Madonnas. Pretty as those children seem at first glance, if you look at them carefully you cannot help but note the presentiment of death in their black-rimmed eyes. That is the aura I saw circling my mother’s eyes. But she acted out the charade of hope until the end for our sake.