Her name caught Mary's eye, Dottoressa Lucia Costanza . Wasn't that the woman Homer had written to? Surely not! It couldn't possibly be their dottoressa, the distinguished woman who had written back such a courteous letter, expressing her welcome in almost perfect English, with only an occasional charming mistake.
Which way now? Should she cross the bridge into the sestiere of San Polo? No, she would leave that for another day. Instead she turned right in a flood of tourists, then left, then right again. Soon she was lost, but she didn't care. After all, she had sworn to follow her nose.
For the rest of the day she wandered without direction, photographing church after church, square after square, rejoicing in side streets where laundry was suspended high overhead, rosy sheets like canopies of heaven, dangling aprons with fluttering strings. When a pulley creaked, she was just in time to catch a hand reaching out to pin a white cloth on the line.
Homesickness was forgotten. Entranced, she drifted north, then west into the sestiere of Cannaregio. What was this church? It didn't matter. It was festooned with gesturing sculpture, frenzies of white marble against the sky. Push the button. She crossed bridges and found herself in dead ends, then fumbled her way into a broad street full of shoppers. There was a noisy murmur of talk and fragrant whiffs of bread, cigarettes, vanilla, chewing gum. Grapes and pears were arranged in front of a shop like works of art. So were samples of dry pasta in a window—green tagliatelle agli spinaci , black pasta al nero di seppia , brown pasta al cacao .
Heading north again she followed a long fondamenta beside the Rio de la Misericordia. By now it was late afternoon, and the tide was rising. Water slopped over the rim of the canal. Mary edged her way along the fondamenta , keeping close to the housefronts. When she came to another bridge she crossed it, and found herself in the Ghetto Nuovo, where the pavement was dry.
Yes, of course. This was it, the original ghetto. She had read about the history of the Jews in Venice. It was a long and cruel story. As members of a despised race they had been confined to this little island, an abandoned iron foundry called the Ghetto, and permitted out only at certain hours.
Mary wandered across the square to a wall covered with bronze reliefs, rugged images of cattle cars and crematories. Had Jews been herded into death camps from this city too? Appalled, she murmured it aloud, "Not here too? "
"Si, si," said a voice close behind her.
She turned to see a big man in an old-fashioned black hat. He had a full black beard, crisp and curling. "Anche qui," he said. "Here too."
Mary looked back at the cattle cars, and said simply, "How many? Quanti? "
The rabbi frowned, and said nothing for a moment. But he was only translating Italian numbers into English. "Two hundred," he said, and his scowl deepened as he mumbled to himself, "Quaranta sei." Then with a triumphant smile he put it all together. "Two hundred and forty!" Turning away he lifted his hat and added, "Six."
Feebly Mary said, "Grazie." She backed up and lifted her camera and took a picture of the cattle cars.
It was the last shot. The film buzzed backward. She put in new film. She was hungry and exhausted. She wandered across another bridge into the Ghetto Vecchio, took a few more pictures, and gave up. Oh, God, it was a long way back!
Beyond the Ghetto Vecchio the water began again. The tide had risen. There was nothing to do but wade. But the main shopping street was dry and full of people coming and going. At San Marcuola Mary boarded a downstream vaporetto and sank into a seat. At once she rummaged in her bag for her notebook and tried to make a list of everything she had seen, all the pictures she had taken.
It was no use. She didn't know where she had been because she had been following her nose, obeying every impulsive whim to go this way rather than that, attracted by the vista from
Which way now? Should she cross the bridge into the sestiere of San Polo? No, she would leave that for another day. Instead she turned right in a flood of tourists, then left, then right again. Soon she was lost, but she didn't care. After all, she had sworn to follow her nose.
For the rest of the day she wandered without direction, photographing church after church, square after square, rejoicing in side streets where laundry was suspended high overhead, rosy sheets like canopies of heaven, dangling aprons with fluttering strings. When a pulley creaked, she was just in time to catch a hand reaching out to pin a white cloth on the line.
Homesickness was forgotten. Entranced, she drifted north, then west into the sestiere of Cannaregio. What was this church? It didn't matter. It was festooned with gesturing sculpture, frenzies of white marble against the sky. Push the button. She crossed bridges and found herself in dead ends, then fumbled her way into a broad street full of shoppers. There was a noisy murmur of talk and fragrant whiffs of bread, cigarettes, vanilla, chewing gum. Grapes and pears were arranged in front of a shop like works of art. So were samples of dry pasta in a window—green tagliatelle agli spinaci , black pasta al nero di seppia , brown pasta al cacao .
Heading north again she followed a long fondamenta beside the Rio de la Misericordia. By now it was late afternoon, and the tide was rising. Water slopped over the rim of the canal. Mary edged her way along the fondamenta , keeping close to the housefronts. When she came to another bridge she crossed it, and found herself in the Ghetto Nuovo, where the pavement was dry.
Yes, of course. This was it, the original ghetto. She had read about the history of the Jews in Venice. It was a long and cruel story. As members of a despised race they had been confined to this little island, an abandoned iron foundry called the Ghetto, and permitted out only at certain hours.
Mary wandered across the square to a wall covered with bronze reliefs, rugged images of cattle cars and crematories. Had Jews been herded into death camps from this city too? Appalled, she murmured it aloud, "Not here too? "
"Si, si," said a voice close behind her.
She turned to see a big man in an old-fashioned black hat. He had a full black beard, crisp and curling. "Anche qui," he said. "Here too."
Mary looked back at the cattle cars, and said simply, "How many? Quanti? "
The rabbi frowned, and said nothing for a moment. But he was only translating Italian numbers into English. "Two hundred," he said, and his scowl deepened as he mumbled to himself, "Quaranta sei." Then with a triumphant smile he put it all together. "Two hundred and forty!" Turning away he lifted his hat and added, "Six."
Feebly Mary said, "Grazie." She backed up and lifted her camera and took a picture of the cattle cars.
It was the last shot. The film buzzed backward. She put in new film. She was hungry and exhausted. She wandered across another bridge into the Ghetto Vecchio, took a few more pictures, and gave up. Oh, God, it was a long way back!
Beyond the Ghetto Vecchio the water began again. The tide had risen. There was nothing to do but wade. But the main shopping street was dry and full of people coming and going. At San Marcuola Mary boarded a downstream vaporetto and sank into a seat. At once she rummaged in her bag for her notebook and tried to make a list of everything she had seen, all the pictures she had taken.
It was no use. She didn't know where she had been because she had been following her nose, obeying every impulsive whim to go this way rather than that, attracted by the vista from
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