Botticelli Blue Skies: An American in Florence

22. The Jewish Ghetto in Venice, Losses, and Other Thefts

When we reach the Jewish Ghetto by following the map, we turn somber. The square is small but contains the “skyscrapers of Italy,” buildings as high as nine stories, with some floors having ceilings as low as six feet. These buildings were created over the years as more and more Jews were packed into a tiny area. Five synagogues are hidden in the upper floors of these buildings. The small Jewish museum, in which are displays of sacred religious articles, tapestries, jewels, and prayer books, is for some unannounced reason (as often happens in Italy) closed. No announcement is made or excuses given. The door is merely locked. We pass a small Jewish grocery store, with matzos and Jewish wine in the window, and a Jewish gift shop, in front of which a guard stands, holding his weapon. This sight causes my heart to skip; it is more shocking here, somehow, than the sight of the guards at the synagogue in Florence. Venice, which up to now has promised only beauty, entertainment , and pleasure, reminds us by this armed presence that there is history to be remembered and present danger here, as well. On a single wall on one of the buildings in the square of Campo del Ghetto Nuova are seven bronze sculptures memorializing the Holocaust. We pause in 90 22 The Jewish Ghetto in Venice, Losses, and Other Thefts front of these for a long time, taking in the scenes of Jews pouring from the boxcars, of Jews being hanged, shot, and shoveled into mass graves. The Venetian sky turns dark as we move along and see engraved on a wall the names of Jews killed in World War I: gli ebrei veneziani caduti in guerra per la patria la communita con amore con orgoglio ricorda mcmxv—mcmxx (The venetian jews fallen in war for their country the community with love with pride remembers) 1915–1920 I am impelled, for some reason, to read aloud to Joe the list of their names, pronouncing them as best I can: Botticelli Blue Skies 91 Holocaust plaque in the Jewish Ghetto, Venice Aboaf, Umberto Ancona, Paolo Boralevi, Giorgio Foa, Davide Guido Grunwald, Beniamino Levi Bianchini, Angelo Levi Minzi, Guido Levi Morenos, Alberto Levis, Giuseppe Ernesto, Nacamvilli, Mario Navarro, Abramo Padoa, Aldo Pardo, Giorgio Polacco, Abramo Polacco, Sansone Sarfatti, Roberto Segre, Ippolito Soave, Amedeo Soave, Attilio Sonino, Oliviero Stecher, Bruno Todesco, Marko Vivante, Ferruccio Finzi, Ruggero. Too many share the same last names. Father and son? Brothers? In any case, it’s nearly impossible to imagine these losses. On an adjoining wall of the ghetto—carved on wooden planks and protected behind iron bars—are the names of Jews murdered in the Holocaust. A poem, on a bronze plaque, proclaims in Italian, with a translation in English beneath it: MEN, WOMEN, CHILDREN, MASSES FOR THE GAS CHAMBERS, ADVANCING TOWARD HORROR BENEATH THE WHIP OF THE EXECUTIONER, YOUR SAD HOLOCAUST IS ENGRAVED IN HISTORY Merrill Joan Gerber 92 AND NOTHING SHALL PURGE YOUR DEATHS FROM OUR MEMORIES FOR OUR MEMORIES ARE YOUR ONLY GRAVE. ANDRE TRONO—ANCIEN DES FORCES FRANCAISES COMBATTANTES After we leave the Jewish Ghetto, we pass a small church from whose open door the sweetest sounds issue forth. Joe leads me inside, where we see a choir of women singing motets. The notes of their song echo in the vaulted dome of the church and seem to shimmer like tiny birds above our heads. Joe and I sit in the dimness, letting the music enter our souls. Peace descends upon me. It feels to me like a visitation or a benediction. From whom or for what I do not ask. I simply receive it. My camera has taken so many sad photos, of the bronze Holocaust carvings, of the plaques memorializing the war dead, that I want to bring some lightness into my recording of our passage through Venice. We make our way back to the throngs of St. Mark’s, where two competing orchestras are playing across the square from each other. Standing in front of the famous Caffè Florian, we watch the great panoramic scene before us: the musicians in formal attire playing “O sole mio” and “Volare,” the thousands of tourists tempting the pigeons with handfuls of crackers and bread crusts in order to take a photo wild with the life of the square. There is more motion and color here than I have ever...