Rachel’s Quandary

Fall 1600

Chapter 1. Encounter

Rachel kept her arms crossed in front of her to cover the badge, as if trying to stay warm. She didn’t have to pass by guards and through gates, but she resented having to wear the yellow marker. In Venice it was the crimson scarf—but the badge Jews had to wear here felt more humiliating.

Arriving at David’s bookshop, she pushed open the door making the bell jangle and was greeted by the sweet and musty scent of paper, vellum, and leather. The bound books and manuscripts sat in their places on the shelves, and a few lay open on the reading tables. Some men sat chatting on the dark wooden benches that lined the windows. David stood behind the counter talking to a customer, and she rushed past him into the back office where she spotted a stack of newly arrived manuscripts, covered with a cloth. Lifting it, she saw they were hand written. Every newly available Hebrew book had to be examined by the censor, a former Jew named Alessandro Scipione who worked for the Inquisition. Apostate monks made the best censors, since they knew which books and passages Christians found most offensive.

On her desk, she saw a notice for the Frankfurt book fair. David had an agent who brought in books from Antwerp, Lyon, Cologne, Basel, and Paris—where restrictions didn’t apply. But they had to be careful not to import titles on the Index of Prohibited Authors and Books. Some books were approved if offending passages were expurgated, while others were banned altogether, such as those by Martin Luther. But Petrarch’s sonnets, Boccaccio’s tales, Machiavelli’s political writings were also considered subversive. Rachel thought of the Venetian bookseller who had been arrested by the Inquisition for selling secret copies of books.

She heard footsteps and turned as David entered through the curtain that separated her office from the shop. The two of them had the same long, straight nose that stopped short of turning down, the same auburn colored hair—although his hair and beard were already turning gray.

“I have to run an errand, can you come out front? If you have any questions about cost or availability, just take the person’s name and I’ll see to it. And if anyone wants to know about those manuscripts,” he said, glancing at the pile in the corner, “don’t say a word!”

Rachel sighed. Even after two years he treated her as if she didn’t understand the risks. She followed him into the shop as he disappeared through the curtain.

A few moments later she heard the bell and found herself looking up into a man’s eyes.

“Good day, Signora,” he said, removing his hat. “I am Samuel Rodrigues and I’d like to speak to David de Basilea. Is he here?” He looked around and then back at her, his lips turning into a smile.

David had mentioned him, more than once, and now that he stood in front of her she remembered she’d seen him years earlier in Venice. She’d been struck by him then, the full mouth, wavy black hair. Yet then he’d been robust while now he looked haggard.

“Good day, Signore. My brother has gone out, but he’ll be back soon. I’ve heard him speak of you. You…”

“Are you David’s sister? I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I’ve been here for over two years now.”

“Two years…I’ve been away that long. No wonder. I live in Livorno but come here to see my uncle.”  He paused for a moment, putting his finger to his lips. “I think I met you once, long ago, in Venice.”

“Yes, you had come to speak with my father, Elia.

“That’s right—your brother wanted me to meet him and talk about diamonds. Wonderful man. I’ve actually just come from Venice and I’ve brought some letters,” he said, handing one to her.

Rachel gasped. “Thank you! How is he? How is my mother…and my brother?”

“They’re all fine,” he reassured.

Her cheeks grew hot, and she felt anxious both because this man stirred something in her and because she was eager to read the letter. She wanted to hear more about her family, but then he went on.

“I’ve come to find a book for my uncle.” He leaned closer. “He wants to read in the ancient language—but he doesn’t have a firm grasp of it. He wants to know if you have a Hebrew grammar.”

This man wasn’t Ashkenazic like Rachel and David, he was Sephardic: He was dressed in fine clothes, his coloring was dark, and he didn’t wear the badge. Rich Sephardic traders were often exempt from that humiliation. Also, he was clean shaven—and he’d removed his hat.

The bell sounded again; David strode in, and the two men clapped each other on the back. David nodded to Rachel, then headed with Samuel behind the partition. Rachel began moving among the customers—but her thoughts alternated between Samuel’s image and the letter.

After a while, the two men emerged; but before leaving, Rodrigues came over to her. “It was nice meeting you Signora. Until the next time.” He bowed and Rachel’s eyes followed him until he disappeared from view.

She retreated to her desk and opened the letter, her eyes darting through the page. She’d written to her father ages ago and had been waiting for his reply. He welcomed her suggestion to come visit—as long as David didn’t mind and she could find a secure way to travel. But he didn’t want her to spend her hard-earned money, if she could put it to better use. She wondered what he left out of the letter. He didn’t like to tell her his problems, yet she worried about him, and about her mother and younger brother Danit.

Rachel glanced around the small room, shelves with manuscripts ready to be bound, the pile in the corner, her desk with its ledgers stacked on three sides like a fortification. She got up and opened the door in the back that led to an alley and stepped outside. Before she came here, David told her she would often be out in the shop. But instead, he’d mostly relegated her to this back office.

He also said that Jews had more freedoms here than in Venice—that Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga allowed them to sell new goods, lend money at interest, and build houses of worship. And this much was true. But Mantua had its own evils, and Gonzaga was unpredictable, swayed by whomever had his ear.

A wave of anguish poured through her as she thought of that day last spring, when Judith Franchetta, a rabbi’s widow, was burned alive. The duke’s sister, Duchess Margherita had made it her mission to convert Jewish girls. And after she’d led the young Luina to the baptismal font, renamed her after herself—Sister Margherita— she had her locked in a convent where the poor girl went mad. The duchess coerced someone into pointing a finger at Franchetta, said she’d cast a spell. Of course, everyone knew Jews were capable of all kinds of diabolic activities.

Franchetta wasn’t the only woman to be executed for witchcraft in Mantua; the city was known for it. But she was the first Jewish woman in the entire peninsula to die this way. Rachel wondered which of their customers had been there to watch. She’d heard there were more than 10,000 there that day, a third of the population.

How she longed to leave.Even though the Venice ghetto was cramped, and inhabitants had to be locked in from dusk to dawn, now it seemed to offer safety and sanity. She thought of the festivals, parties, and music. At Purim, people crowded in wearing costumes and masks, no one worrying who was Christian, who was Jew. In the fall, on Simchat Torah, during the celebration of the cycle of Torah readings, Christians joined the congregations and lingered in the courtyard to eat and watch the dancing.

It was easy to remember the good times now that she was far away, and not so easy when she was there and everything reminded her of her husband Isaac, of blessed memory, even after so many years. Still, maybe she had lived with David and Eva long enough. With three growing children and another on the way, she was taking up space.

# # #

Later that afternoon, Rachel slipped away from the shop. She left early on Fridays to help David’s wife Eva prepare for Shabbos. But first she would stop by her cousin Serafina’s house to drop off a children’s book. Serafina and her husband were going to the palace for a concert so Rachel wouldn’t stay long. By now the sun had grown stronger, and she relaxed into the walk—there were few people on the streets, as it was after the midday meal when most stayed in to rest.

Rachel thanked HaShem that she had Serafina, her only other relative in Mantua besides David and his family. They had known each other in Venice, although they’d only grown close since they were both living here. Serafina had moved to Mantua years earlier to sing in the duke’s private choir, and later married Alfonso. But he didn’t like Jews and resented her friendship with Rachel. He didn’t know that Serafina’s grandmother was Jewish and converted to Christianity when she married a Venetian noble. And he didn’t even know Rachel and Serafina were related.

Soon the buildings became grander, their tall, wide gates like sentinels. The great door opened and a servant led Rachel through richly carpeted halls. Carved chairs lined the entryway, and the walls, covered with tapestries, told stories of hunts and balls. The high ceilings towered overhead, and cherubs frolicked in the painted clouds. Serafina appeared, gliding down the stairs, slender and graceful, blonde tendrils framing her face.

“Happy Birthday!” She burst out, laughing, her two children grabbing Rachel around her legs. She bent down to hug them.

“It was yesterday but thank you. I can’t believe you remembered!” She was 38 now. Rachel handed the book to the nursemaid and the children, jumping in excitement, followed her away while Serafina led Rachel upstairs to her private rooms.

On the large, canopied bed lay a teal blue dress. “For you,” said Serafina.

Rachel stared at it, speechless. It wasn’t the first time Serafina had given her things, but never a dress as beautiful as this.

“Thank you for this generous gift,” then added, “I can wear it for a special occasion.”

“You’ll wear it today.”

“I’ll try it on,” said Rachel, not wanting to hurt Serafina’s feelings. She didn’t like to stand out, afraid of drawing unwanted attention; there was the time a Christian man followed her to the shop.

“You’re coming with us to the concert!” Serafina announced. “Rossi is playing today, and I know you love him.”

Rachel adored Salamone Rossi, the most esteemed Jewish musician at the duke’s court. He was a hero; he’d played his compositions at religious services, even though some rabbis said it shouldn’t be allowed. Rachel had heard Christian music, and she’d heard the Jewish cantors who led the prayers. This was something else—Christian harmonies with Hebrew lyrics.

Rachel shook her head in disbelief.

“Alfonso has gotten you permission to attend. And you won’t have to wear the badge, either.”

Rachel dropped down onto the bed.

“Don’t sit on the dress!” laughed Serafina.

“But it’s Friday, I can’t go anywhere—I need to help Eva.”

“You’ll be back in plenty of time. I promise.”

Rachel looked again at the dress, a luminous silk.

“I really can’t. And it’s not only Eva—David will be upset.”

“He has no choice, and anyway, Alfonso has already sent a messenger. Eva has her servants. She doesn’t really need you, this one special day. We need to leave right away.”

The chance to go to the concert felt like a dream. She couldn’t refuse. David would tell Eva when he stopped at the house to get the boys before going to the scuola for services.