The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  If he calls on you for men and arms, promise whatever satisfies him — troops, barges, cannons, anything. But make sure these are delayed in their delivery, indefinitely. It may help to send ahead to his camp small tokens of your friendship, but in untraceable form. Those you choose to bear your gifts must swear to die rather than reveal the source. Above all, do not allow yourself to be recruited. In a similar predicament your father availed himself of the assistance of a trusted physician and the blood of a pig. Need I say more?

  Remember this. Stay above the fray no matter what means you must resort to. Strict neutrality is the rock on which the safety of our state rests. Stand firm on that rock.

  Your mother, whose love for you is the first thing in her life,

  (signed) Isabella d’Este da Gonzaga,

  Roma, October 28, 1526.

  Written in the hand of her secretary, Grazia dei Rossi.

  4

  “In these times, so trying to the soul, everyone needs to divert himself occasionally, do you not agree, Grazia?”

  Madonna Isabella’s question does not require an answer. Whenever she feels the chill breath of danger, she plans a party. It is second nature to her. It is also in her nature to explain away these occasions as acts of charity.

  “This city is in the grip of a languor, a choler. Our friends have need of tonic. We will have a fete. Next week. Invite all of our friends.”

  “And what shall we give as the reason for this fete?” I ask.

  The question displeases her. “Must there always be a reason?” she demands.

  “We could tell them that we want to gather up the latest intelligence on Commander Frundsberg and his army of German landsknechts,” I think to say, knowing this to be the true reason for the fete.

  From the moment she heard that Mantova might be threatened, Madonna Isabella took up the challenge as if she were still Marchesana there instead of mere Dowager. As I watch her marshaling her forces and planning her strategy, Madama reminds me of no one so much as the great warrior queens of legend. Mind you, she does not buckle on a sword. Instead, she wields a pen — in my hand. Nor does she mount a Barbary steed. Her gilded coach serves her purpose better. It carries her around Roma like a festooned battlewagon proclaiming her grandeur and her invincibility. And when it comes to fighting for her land and her family in hand-to-hand combat, she is as deft in the joust and as ruthless at the kill as any great champion, man or woman. Of course, being a woman, and the defender of a very small and vulnerable state, she is forced to mask her courage with cunning. Other captains do battle. She does parties.

  “Since you seem to think it necessary, why do not you find a pretext?” she prods me, then goes on without waiting for my answer. “Perhaps a celebration of the winter solstice . . . with the dancers all in white as snow maidens. . . . My honorable father, may his noble soul rest with the angels, had a way to make the most convincing snow. I do not doubt he passed on the secret to my brother, Duke Alfonso. See you ferret it out. And be quick . . .”

  Details do not concern her. They are my job. “And be certain you do not forget to invite the Venetian ambassador . . . and all the cardinals . . .” She pauses. “Why do I always have to do everything myself?”

  In fact, the winter solstice is a fine pretext. The dancers will be charming, all in white. And the gathering most distinguished, as always. All Madama’s friends from the Curia will be there. No one in Roma ever refuses her invitations. There will be too many cardinals to mention — even Farnese. Paolo Giovio, of course. He goes anywhere he is invited. The Venetian envoy, Domenico Venier (do not forget him; the Venetians are in the northern war theater up to their ears). And our good friend, the amorous ambassador Landriani of Milano.

  Ah, the wine that will be drunk and the geese consumed and the secrets exchanged and the lies that will be told before the evening is out. That is what passes as high life for the powerful. There is no honor among the great.

  Tonight as I sharpened my quill, I thought of my father, who could not believe that his prince would cast us out into the Mincio without a care if we lived or died. And I saw before me the face of my mother, Rachel dei Rossi, and the despair in her eyes when the dockmaster, cursing us for Jews, refused to let us disembark in the town of Borgoforte.

  I can still hear that rasping voice: “Here at Borgoforte we fear God and love Christ.” I can see that grinning, pockmarked face as clearly as if he were in this room with me. And the look on my mother’s face, contorted, terrified, when that pious Christian drove us back into the river to seek refuge at a more distant port.

  There was murder in Papa’s eyes but he contained it. In a dead calm voice he ordered our boatman to head for Governolo, a night’s journey away. Then he set about to comfort Mama.

  “There are Jews at Governolo. We will be safe there,” he reassured her. “They will take us in. Keep courage.”

  At first, Mama smiled back at him, pretending to a confidence she could not have felt. But as our forlorn craft inched its way along the banks of the Po, she smiled less and less. And for the last hours of the journey, silence commanded our party.

  True to his reputation, the Governolo dockmaster called Pepino was not too proud to soil his hands with Jewish gold. He allowed us to land at his dock. But our expectation of finding a community of helpful Jews in the town was quickly shattered. The torn locks and gaping windows of the Gallico banco stood mute testament to a hasty departure and the looting that followed it. On the outside wall was drawn a crude representation of a child held upside down in the air by a small bearded man in a pointed hat. In one hand, the bearded Jew held the child’s feet. In the other, he brandished a heavy scimitar. Under it, someone had written, “Simon of Trent was disemboweled by Jews. Remember him!” Fra Bernardino’s message had reached Governolo.

  For a time, we stood huddled together in front of the wreckage of Gallico’s banco, too stunned by the vastness of God’s indifference even to speak.

  Papa was the first to break the silence.

  “There is an inn in this town, not luxurious but habitable, called The Ox. We still stay there,” he announced. “Follow me.” Thank God for his fortitude. Everyone else had run out of hope.

  The Ox was a small inn opposite the quay, a place so mean that, as the innkeeper put it, he wouldn’t turn away a monkey with ducats enough to pay for his bed. That host must have been cousin to the Pepino who was not above soiling his hands with Jewish gold. His avaricious fingers scooped up Papa’s coins as if they might fly from his grasp; and he made certain to pack them away in a strongbox before he informed us that he had but one room to offer.

  “One room? But we are eighteen souls!” Papa cried.

  “Then you will have to take turns at sleeping,” the host replied with an unctuous smile. “The bed is large enough to accommodate four — two at each end — if they sleep still.”

  “But my wife . . .” Papa pointed helplessly at the litter.

  “It’s one bed or none for you,” the landlord replied, the smile never leaving his face. “But if my humble establishment is not fine enough . . .”

  Of course we took the room. As he said, it was either that or nothing. At least it had a roof, however leaky. And a bed, no matter it housed more fleas than I reckon ever resided within a single mattress.

  Only a Dante could do justice to the horror of that place. It was completely dilapidated and ruinous, the veranda black as soot, every room holed, fallen down, and shored up with timbers. We were all faint with hunger, not having eaten for twelve hours — and that only a morsel of the afikomen and a sip of wine. But one look at the table was enough to poison all appetite. It was worm-eaten inside and out and greasier than a butcher’s slab, the saltcellars held together with wires and wax, the goblets stemless, the jugs cracked. And the cloths! Purple wine stains and the greenish marks of spoiled soup covered those rags like giant buboes. Around the edges
of these islands of festering slop, vermin were dining daintily, undisturbed by any effort of the landlord to dislodge them. His eyes, so sharp to catch a glint of gold, were apparently blind to both dirt and pests.

  Poor as it was in every other respect, the place abounded in animal life. The first sight to greet us when we climbed the rickety stairs to our room was a huge, black rat. When Papa opened the door, this creature scurried out from under the bed as if to take stock of the new tenants, and continued to sit there on the rushes, completely unafraid, taking our measure.

  Aunt Sofronia screamed and went into a swoon. Papa cursed. Zaira, the most worldly of us all, began to flap her cape at the creature, shouting, “Vata, vata, vata!” at the top of her lungs. And, to be sure, Signore Topo paid her the respect of crawling back under the bed.

  A fitting testament to the hellishness of this place were the countless obscenities that spattered the walls, scrawled there by travelers such as ourselves.

  “This place stinks like a broken piss pot!” It did.

  “The lousiest inn in Lombardia!” It must have been.

  My favorite was a long poetic curse which almost ran off the wall: “God damn the bells of hell rung by this devil of a landlord. May he fall into a lake of shit with Christ and all His angels!”

  Once the twins had carried the litter upstairs and laid Mama down on the bed, they retired to a corner with their father, the shohet, and sat there cowering under his cloak. Monna Matilda settled meekly beside her husband and sons, still and gaunt. She had left Mantova a strong hulk of a woman with a will of iron. Two nights on that horror ship had transformed her into a vacant-eyed crone. Aunt Sofronia, always a slight, frail woman, seemed to have lost whatever little blood and guts she had. Without Mama to turn to, she was lost. A wraith.

  Zaira was the only one of our party with any spirit left. While the others sat frozen, she took off her cloak, rolled up the sleeves of her gamorra, and stepped into the breach. With a wag of her finger, she ordered Davide, our tutor, to go out and scour the town for a doctor or a midwife. When his wife, Dania, refused on his behalf — “Because the streets in this town are alive with danger” — Zaira gave that young woman a talking-to that would have singed the hide of an elephant.

  “You speak of danger!” she admonished the timid Dania. “What about this woman here?” pointing dramatically at my mother’s inert form. “What about her danger? Is she to be abandoned by those who owe her the most loyalty? Tell me, signora” — her voice fairly dripped with sarcasm when she pronounced the respectful title — “will you see her die here and no hand raised to save her?”

  A gasp went around the room at the word “die.” That possibility had not been spoken aloud, even though it was uppermost in everyone’s mind. Zaira not only spoke it, she proclaimed it, with her hands on her hips and great anger flashing in her eyes.

  “Tell me, signora” — once again, she flayed Dania with a contemptuous look — “when the Day of Judgment comes, how will you face the Lord to whom you pray so sweetly at every turn, knowing that you abandoned your patroness in her hour of need? This woman still lives. I pledge my all to help her but I am no midwife. I have no bag of remedies. Nothing but my hands and my willing heart. These I offer her without reserve. And I expect the same of you. And your husband. Now, be off with you and find a doctor! Go!” She pointed to the door with an imperious gesture. And Davide and Dania wrapped their cloaks around themselves and crept down the stairs, shamed as she meant them to be.

  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.