The Moneylender: A Novel of the Inner Life of Shakespeare's Shylock

By Sebastian Gerard

Since 16th century in England, when Shakespeare first conjured him, Shylock, the moneylender in The Merchant of Venice, has been a magnet for vilification of Jews by theatre audiences the world over. Little is known of this character, fashioned from and carrying forward the prevailing Elizabethan age antisemitic stereotype, who speaks only seventy-nine lines in the entire play.
The character Shylock reinforces the stigmatism and mistreatment of Jews as "Christ-killers" and greedy moneylenders so malevolent that one would demand a pound of debtor's flesh in payment.
Such is the dilemma for Jewish theater director David Adler-Sterne, commissioned to direct Merchant in San Diego, but who sees Shylock as much victim as villain. It is a dilemma of casting and direction that motivates him to visit Venice, and the Ghetto that likely would have been the residence of any actual16th-century Jewish moneylender in Venice.
Interspersed with Adler-Sterne's quest for inspiration from the atmospherics of the Ghetto is the story of real moneylender Shalukeh Mizrah in the late 1500s, who was brutalized and humiliated by Venetian Christians. Much of Shalukeh's story and the sources of his yearning for vengeance are recounted in a secret chronicle that he begins after his maltreatment by his debtors.
Shalukeh's manuscript, the biography of a Portuguese crypto-Jewish converso, has remained secreted in a Ghetto synagogue for over 500 years, but is fortuitously discovered during a renovation project just days before Adler-Sterne is to return to America, and a person who might have been the model or inspiration for Shakespeare's Shylock is tantalizingly revealed.
Shalukeh's Chronicle is a story of religious persecution, lies, deceit, deception, torture, murder, and revenge that extends from antiquity to the present day and has been transmitted in historical facts and by a stereotypical character and famous work of fiction. But all fiction has its origins in reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350928990

Sebastian Gerard

SEBASTIAN GERARD Gerard's first full-length work of fiction, For Goodness Sake, A Novel of the Afterlife of Suzie Wong, written as Sebastian Gerard, was published in Hong Kong in 2008 and he has scripted the story for production as a feature motion picture. In 2014 it was published in French by GOPE in France under the title A la Poursuite de Suzie Wong. A book of his aphorisms, Lifelines, writing as Sebastian Gerard, was published in May 2004. Stumbling Blocks & Stepping Stones, a Novel of Growing Up Catholic (2015) The Babo Gospels: Essays and Parables on Faith and Reason (2018). The River Dragon's Daughters, a novel of Four Women of the Yangtze was published in 2019. Forsaken a novel that deals with a terrorist attack and religious hypocrisy in a small town in upstate New York was published in 2020. His most recent publication is The Moneylender, a Novel of the Inner Life of Shakespeare's Shylock (2024). Gerard also writes nonfiction books under the name James A. Clapp. His first full-length work of fiction, For Goodness Sake, A Novel of the Afterlife of Suzie Wong, written as Sebastian Gerard, was published in Hong Kong in 2008 and he has scripted the story for production as a feature motion picture. In 2014 it was published in French by GOPE in France under the title A la Poursuite de Suzie Wong. A book of his aphorisms, Lifelines, writing as Sebastian Gerard, was published in May 2004. Stumbling Blocks & Stepping Stones, a Novel of Growing Up Catholic (2015) The Babo Gospels: Essays and Parables on Faith and Reason (2018). The River Dragon's Daughters, a novel of Four Women of the Yangtze was published in 2019. Forsaken a novel that deals with a terrorist attack and religious hypocrisy in a small town in upstate New York was published in 2020. His most recent publication is The Moneylender, a Novel of the Inner Life of Shakespeare's Shylock (2024). Dr. Clapp has taught on the faculty of the University of California and was appointed by the French Ministry of Education as a Visiting Professor at the University of Paris VII in 1989 and 1999, where he lectured on both film and American urbanism. He also taught for the Syracuse University Division of International Programs in Hong Kong in 1997 and was a guest lecturer at TongJi University, Shanghai that year. He has also delivered lectures at Peking and Tsinghua Universities and the Academy of Social Sciences in Beijing. In 2008 he was made an "Honorary Professor" of Beijing City University. Articles based on his lectures there have been published in Chinese. In the year 2000 he was the Fulbright Scholar at Lingnan University and the School of Creative Media at City University, in Hong Kong. From 1977 to 2003 he conducted annual summer travel-study courses in European, Asian, North African, and Middle Eastern cities. Dr. Clapp's work in media and journalism began in 1980 when as Ch

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BOOK ONE

I

ENCOUNTERS

Venice, 1569. Shalukeh estimated it would take better than an hour to get to the Ghetto. A sedan chair through some of the calles, at least at this early hour, maybe as far as the Grand Canal, might cut some time off, he considered, but it would be bumpier, especially over the bridges, so his only choice was a traghetto. The water is much softer, and two oarsmen would make for a steadier and faster transit. Fortunately, there was usually one or two right here on the Molo near the Ponte Di Paglia, close to where his tormentors let him out of the Palazzo Ducale.

Shalukeh felt he was ready to faint when the boat finally arrived where he leaned against the Calle Larga S. Marco bridge. Then the front oarsman refused to assist him alighting as he glared at the yellow insignia on the Jew’s cape. Fortunately, the other oarsman could see that Shalukeh was in considerable pain and lent him an arm on to his seat under the open felize.

The ducats, the gondolier demanded, thrusting out his oar-roughened palm.

Shalukeh was prepared with the amount. Half now, he said, dispensing the coins, the balance at the Ghetto gate bridge.

So be it, Jew, or forfeit what you have between your legs that remains.

Goy mamzerim! Shalukeh barely kept from shouting. No humiliation satisfies these bastards, he mumbled under his breath. But the words brought another surge of pain.

Shalukeh struggled to find a comfortable seated position as they passed under the Ponte Di Sospiri. He arranged the cushions as best he could to relieve the pressure under his thighs, noticing that some blood had seeped upon them. It made him more anxious to reach the Ghetto quickly and the attention of Dr. Rodriguez.

What route do you take? he asked the gondolier.

We will make haste to have our ducats and be rid of you, he answered.

I have paid you to know it, Shalukeh insisted.

First the Rio Di San Zulian, to the Rio della Fava, then the Canale Grande to Cannaregio, he replied after a moment, more to indicate his competence than to comply with the request. They would enter the canal near the Ponte Di Rialto, where Shalukeh often conducted his business.

Shalukeh did not bend his head to the left as they turned into the Grand Canal, but he could hear some of the laughter and shouts of the Carnevale revelers who had spent the entire night carousing and engaged in amorous escapades which they had yet to satisfy.

Hearing it only added to his pain and humiliation.

Eventually, in what seemed an eternity of agony to Shalukeh, they arrived at Ponte Ghetto Vecchio. Shalukeh stood with some effort and asked the rear gondolier for a hand up on to the quay.

First the owed ducats, the gondolier said.

First a hand up, or you shall neither have your ducats nor be rid of me, Shalukeh rebutted, knowing full well he could not fulfill the latter threat.

The oarsman leapt up onto the quay and extended his hand, roughly yanking Shalukeh upward. The Jew felt a sharp and ominous pain in his groin. Shalukeh felt that he might buckle and fall to his knees but refused to give them the satisfaction. Complete the fare now, Jew, the gondolier demanded, or have a morning bath in the canal.

Shalukeh dug into the pocket of his cloak, extracted the coins from a small purse and threw them to the floor of the boat. Stoop for them, then. You’re paid, he rasped in anger, adding a mumbled Portuguese imprecation.

As the traghetto turned in the canal Shalukeh heard the familiar Venetian response, the command to maternal incest.

Fortunately, the campo was nearly empty, with only a few vendors busy at assembling their stalls, and a servant filling her water jars from the central well. No notice was taken of him struggling to make his passage through the morning shadows. By the time he reached his door Shalukeh’s leggings were soaked with blood. His hands were now stained red, and he hesitated to touch the mezuzah. Pushing through the door he called out, Judah! Come quickly! and slumped into a chair.

Judah came stumbling down the narrow stairs in his sleeping ware, rubbing his eyes. Barauch haba, the servant greeted. His eyes widened, "Maestro, you are injured?"

"Indeed, the mamzerim have made their evil Christian amusements upon me. Send Maya immediately to fetch Dr. Rodriguez."

What shall she tell him? Judah asked.

Only that it is urgent, Shalukeh answered, "only that I am wounded. Send her now, out the side door, then assist me to my bed, and bring me clean towels and hot water."

Less than half an hour later Dr. Rodriguez was at Shalukeh’s bedside telling Judah to fetch more hot water when he noticed the bloody towels on the floor before he even examined his patient. When he did lift the towel over his loins Shalukeh paid special attention to the physician’s expression, but Rodriguez gave only a slight grimace. Rodriguez wet a cloth in the hot water, to which he had added some alcohol, and gently swabbed away some of the dried blood that obscured his examination of the wound. But he said nothing yet. Shalukeh winced.

So? Shalukeh asked, unable to contain his impatience.

They have mutilated you, my friend. Or I should likely say that it was performed by a barber-surgeon, and perhaps in the manner that is sometimes—at least as I have had told to me, and even read of it—applied to prepubescent boys with angelic singing voices. I cannot be certain of it, but I know that there can be no repair. I suspect it was a barber because they have cauterized you. Was the pain unbearable, my friend? They scalded you to block the pain, as I can see, he said, examining the redness of his skin from abdomen to his feet. We will need a salve to ease your discomfort, but the surface of the dermis will fall off in a few days. The physician’s face was a visage of compassion.

"They forced a draft upon me first, and then pushed me into the scalding tub. I do not know if I cried out as I think I might have lost my consciousness for some time. When I awoke, they were laughing, wine besotted, and well amused by their cruelty. One even said, ‘Ah, the castrato awakens, give us a sample of your falsetto, Jew boy, a canto from your Torah.’ I will remember him; he was the fat one. I will surely remember him."

They could easily have killed you, my friend, Rodriguez said, now it is most necessary to guard against any infection. You must change the dressings I will apply with frequency and keep the wound scrupulously clean.

For the first time since his humiliation Shalukeh felt he might break into tears. Thus far his rage, his imaginings of vengeance, had held such emotions in abeyance. He struggled to maintain his anger. Those fucking Christians! They could not baptize me, but they unmanned me, and took my body for my soul. They did not have the mercy to finish me but wish to protract my suffering. They have given me cause and I will make the best vengeance of it.

But then his face saddened, and he could not check the gasp that came up in his throat. I have many years in which I still have manly desires, doctor. And now I am …

Rodriguez interjected: I wish not to give you false hopes, my friend, but all might not be lost. I have read of such things in medical accounts of those they call eunuchs, such as those guardians of the Turkish Sultan’s seraglio, and inside the forbidden city of Cathay—that the sex act can yet be performed.

How can that be?

I have been informed that those who voluntarily submit to removal only of the testes are sometimes able to become sufficiently rigid and able to achieve completion, although conception cannot be a consequence. Of course, this is of no matter to those who undergo or elect complete emasculation, and most must retain with them a small tube of ivory or silver to eliminate their bladders.

Yet I elected nothing; that is the shame of it.

I do understand. I only wish to give what ease to that part of your suffering as a physician might. And, even so, there can be no guarantee. Indeed, I wish I did not have to know such things, but that is a crime they choose for us, that our kind might be vanquished.

I curse them sufficiently for their abuse of me, Shalukeh hissed, but I cannot depend upon its completion by a god of indifference who too much forsakes our kind.

Beware, my friend. You have enemies enough. Seek the rabbi, as I am minister to your body.

I think not. I will hear neither of the wisdom nor comfort of forgiveness that will likely be his counsel.

Dr. Rodriguez reiterated his instructions to forestall infection and said he would return the following day to inspect the wound and change the dressing. He would also provide Maya with some dietary instructions and leave Judah medicaments for relief of pain.

Shalukeh rested for the remainder of the morning, dozing fitfully. After taking some challah and broth in the afternoon he called for Judah. "Bring me sheets of Bomberg carta, quill and ink pot," he instructed his servant. After a time of thought, he began writing, in Portuguese:

Venetia, 1569, 5329. I, born Natan Abravanel, of now deceased parents, Avram and Ruth, expelled to Kerala, India from the Alfama of Lisboa, where I lived as a Christian named Luis Suarez, am now called Shalukeh Mizrah, a Jew of the Ghetto Vecchio of Venice and lender of monies and performer of other services to be disclosed herein, take up this pen to give an account of such misdemeanors and humiliations of the goyim of this estate upon my people and person and the retributions they have warranted.

He paused and reread his words, then recharged his quill and continued to write.

Venice, Summer 2019. The morning light glanced off the mirrored surface of the lagoon in David Adler-Sterne’s sleeper compartment as he packed his suitcase to the slight rocking of the slowing train. It was 8:28 AM and he had slept well in spite of the anticipation. He stuffed the last of the baguette and cheese into his backpack but would leave the half bottle of rosé. As the train screeched to a halt in Venice’s Santa Lucia Ferrovia he was already at the door ready to alight.

In less than a minute he was standing outside the doors of the station dialing his mobile phone.

Leanne?

David? Where are you?

Venice. I just arrived.

Are you okay, honey? You sound strange.

I think I’m okay. But I think I might have Stendhal syndrome.

Stendhal syndrome? What are you talking about?

You know that disorder that some people get when they encounter something breathtakingly beautiful, like a magnificent painting or sculpture. They become light-headed and feel they might faint. That’s how I feel right now. You won’t believe what I’m looking at.

You can be overly romantic, David. Or did you eat some bad food on the train?

No. Have a look at this, he said, selecting the FaceTime application on his phone and turning it around to show her the view.

Can you see that?

The view that the phone camera could hardly do justice was a riot of activity and beauty. The Grand Canal flowed right in front of the train station and all manner of watercraft paraded silently in front of the classical Doric porch beneath the oxidized dome of the church of St. Simone Piccolo across the canal amidst other buildings of bygone ages. Immediately in front of the station were docks for vaporetti, the quaint water buses that ply the Grand Canal, and as David panned the camera to his left, the lovely Ponte degli Scalzi spanning the canal was painted with morning sunlight.

Lucky you, David, he could hear her in the phone.

It’s like I have walked through some kind of time portal. I wish you were here to feel it with me, he said.

You and me both, she responded, but right now my mom is not well enough to look after herself. I keep thinking of those romantic movies set in Venice. Watch out for those Italian beauties.

No Italian beauties for me. I’m a man on a mission: looking for a Jewish moneylender of long ago. I’m gonna … wait, hold on a second.

An old man with a weathered face and wearing what looked like a seaman’s cap with a white top was hefting David’s suitcase.

Excuse me, David said to him.

The old man looked up with a smile. "Io sono il facchino," the old man said.

Excuse me, what? David repeated.

I am your porter, Sigñore David, the old man said, almost unaccented except for the Daveed, which he had picked up from the luggage tag. We go to your hotel now. Where? Near San Marco, or Academia?

David? He heard Leanne in his phone.

I’ll call you later, Leanne. Just gotta deal with a little something here. He switched off his phone and shoved it into his pocket.

"You need albergo? The old man asked. I know good one in Dursodoro, or maybe you prefer to be on Lido? I get you special price."

Look, I don’t need a … what did you call yourself?

"Facchino, name Laurenzo."

Right. Look, Laurenzo, I don’t need a your assistance since I already have a room booked in a hotel. And I know it’s nearby because I checked it out on the map. It’s right down that way, David said, pointing to his left.

The old man took off his cap, exposing a tight mat of close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. In Lista di Spagna? he said, looking at David as though he was an idiot.

Yes, Hotel Bellini, David answered.

You will have no sleep. Lista is a street with much noise all the night, shops open late and restaurants. I will find a better hotel for you, the old man said, lifting up David’s suitcase.

No, you won’t, David replied. I have a reason to be right where I am booked.

Why? You don’t like sleep?

No, I want to be near the Ghetto.

Ah, Geto, the old man said, pronouncing it with the soft G, the Venetian way. "You are Ebreo?"

As it happens, I am, David replied, checking for any clue of reaction.

"Bene, we take your suitcase to Hotel Bellini."

My suitcase has wheels as you can see. I’ll just roll it down there.

The old man shook his head. "Sigñore Daveed, the Lista di Spagna is also called the street of broken wheels. Credimi, it cost less for me to carry, than to have fixed. He hefted the suitcase. Andiamo?"

David wondered whether there might be a little bit of the character he was searching for in this persistent facchino. "Okay, andiamo, let’s go."

As they headed into the street the old man reached into his vest and extracted a card. "I am also a tour guide to Venezia, Sigñore Daveed. I don’t go to Geto because pilgrims speak Ebrei language. I know Inglese, Francia and Deutsch. I can show you San Marco, Academia, Rialto, Giudecca, Lido, Arsenale, for good price."

Okay, okay, David interrupted, but not before I know the cost to save my wheels.

Checked into his room on the third floor of the Hotel Bellini, David looked out his window that faced the street. It seemed reasonably quiet; some shops were opening, placing samples and displays in the street—T-shirts, hats, paintings and intarsia of Venetian scenes, little gondolas that played Italian music, and Carnivale masks—to attract tourists that were probably still at breakfast. The view out the side window of his room offered a more intimate view; perhaps not more than a meter away was the window of an apartment building, close enough for him to accept an espresso and a breakfast roll were it to be offered. But the mother, who seemed to take no notice of him at all, remained busy at what appeared to be her chastisement in a strident Venetian dialect of the young boy at the table. David smiled, mumbled tighter than the tables in a New York restaurant, lowered the shade and resumed emptying his suitcase.

When David finished unpacking, he sat down on the edge of the bed and opened his notebook in which he had pasted various passages from The Merchant of Venice to which he had attached marginalia and other notations. He opened to the passage of Act 1, Scene 3, lines he had read many times before, but now for the first time in the city that Shakespeare imagined them to have been uttered.

Shylock: Signior Antonio, many a time and oft

In the Rialto you have rated me

About my moneys and my usances.

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug (For suff ’rance is the badge of all our tribe). You call me misbeliever, cutthroat dog, And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine,

And all for use of that which is mine own.

Well then, it now appears you need my help.

Go to, then. You come to me and you say Shylock, we would have moneys—you say so, You, that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur

Over your threshold. Moneys is your suit.

What should I say to you? Should I not say Hath a dog money? Is it possible a cur can lend three thousand ducats? Or

Shall I bend low, and in a bondman’s key,

With bated breath and whisp’ring humbleness, Say this: Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last; You spurned me such a day; another time You called me ‘dog’; and for these courtesies I’ll lend you thus much moneys?

As if on cue a dog let out a few barks in the street below and David smiled. He would phone Rinaldi after a cappuccino in the breakfast room.

That same morning, at Universita Ca Foscari, Dr. Carlo Rinaldi, Professor of History of the Middle Ages, opened the calendar on his computer, noting that, in addition to a couple of student consultations for the day, David Adler-Sterne, the theater director from America would be arriving in Venice today. He might have to reschedule some of the student appointments, he thought, as he opened his email application to find Sterne’s original communication. To be on the safe side, he printed it out.

March 23, 2019

Dear Dr. Rinaldi:

Only minutes ago, I finished reading your captivating book, Bloody Ducats: Jews, Moneylending and the Ghetto which, although inspired to write you after the first chapter, I resolved to finish before doing so. As you will see, my purpose goes beyond well-deserved praise and admiration for your research and analysis.

First, permit me to introduce myself. My name is David Adler-Sterne and I am a theater director from New York City where I graduated from Columbia University. I will not distract you here with further details of my curriculum vita (in the PDF attached), to get directly to the point of my contacting you.

I am currently in San Diego, California, attached to the Old Globe Theater, where I will in a matter of months be casting and directing its production of The Merchant of Venice. I know that you will not be surprised that this play is controversial, which is why it has not been produced for many years in this community despite the excellent reputation of this theater. Moreover, you would know better than anyone that much of this controversy revolves around the character of Shylock, which you know, as you have written, can and has been played since the time of his creation ranging from villain to victim, but mostly as a personality with considerable range of wickedness.

This role has yet to be cast, and I am seeking some sort of inspiration or perspective and how to do that beyond the reading of the play and commentaries. So, it might sound a little bizarre to some—but hopefully not to you, sir—that I decided I might get an angle by coming to the very place that Shylock, fictional that he might be, lived and conducted his business. I might gain nothing of the experience other than a better feel for the general atmospherics of the play that might add something novel to the production.

I hope that you will be in Venice and have the time during my visit (I arrive on June 13, and stay to at least three weeks) to converse with me on this subject and address some questions that were raised by my reading of your book. I would appreciate the opportunity to allow me to expend some of my ducats to host you to some of the fine vino and cuisine of the Veneto. What, I wonder, would have transpired had there ever been such a dinner between Shakespeare and Shylock?

I look forward to your response. Please use my email, as I will be back and forth between New York and San Diego.

Thank you.

Yours sincerely,

David Adler-Sterne

[phone]

[e-mail]

Rinaldi checked his reply email to make sure that he had both his office landline and his mobile numbers.

II

GHETTO NUOVO

I hope you don’t mind eating kosher for lunch, Rinaldi said, as they were seated at a table at the restaurant Gam Gam, in the Calle del Forno, just off the Canale Canareggio. You will find a blending of Jewish cuisine with the traditional local fare to be interesting and tasty."

I’m ready for a deviation from my usual pastrami on a Kaiser roll, David said, accepting a menu from the waitress. I will leave the wine selection to you.

"Good. I prefer almost any of the vini di vicino, the regional varietals, Rinaldi said, flipping open the wine list. Let’s see if they have a bottle of that Monte Brécale Muscato Veneto I had here last time.

Rinaldi selected the Tagliatelle al Salmone, Sterne the Pappardelle con Funghi, but they ended up sharing their plates. Refilling their glasses with the Muscato, David suggested that Carlo take the front end of their discourse—the Shylock side, as he referred to it—by placing the origin of the Ghetto in his historical context, the latter’s specialty, and he would take the Shakespeare side.

That’s going to be another bottle, at least, Carlo said with a summoning gesture to the waiter. Of course, I’m not going to begin with Abraham in the Babylonian captivity since there is neither sufficient time or enough wine, and I’m sure you are familiar with much of that, and even a few centuries after the Roman destruction of the Jewish state in the first century of the Christian Era can be skipped over. It’s really when we get into the Middle Ages, by which time Christians—mainly the Roman Catholic Church here—are pretty much running the show. By this time, they have fully appropriated that First Century narrative, especially by what I like to call the ‘de-Jewification of Jesus,’ and indicted those Jews who didn’t join the new faith as his murderers. They sourced the new religion on the Old Testament, but when it suited their ends, they employed Jews primarily as scapegoats. Not much different than what the Romans did to the early Christians.

David remarked, "So that Converso thing goes all the way back to the First Century?"

And all the way up to your boy Shylock.

Actually, David put in, there are these evangelistic Christian groups in America that are big supporters of Israel because they hope to convert the Jews there to Christianity before what they call ‘The Rapture.’

They’re not going to let go of it, right up to the end. But we must not let the craziness distract us from the more relevant aspects of the story. We need to consider that the Diaspora spread Jewish communities throughout western and eastern Europe, to Africa and the Middle East, and along the Indian subcontinent to as far away as China. So, let’s get out in the streets, walk off some of this lunch, and I’ll go over the history of this place, some of which I’m sure you already know but might get some nuance to hear it in the neighborhood where Shylock would’ve lived and breathed.

In the narrow calle, Rinaldi pointed out its narrowness and that it was almost always in shadow because it was formed by what rose to be the tallest residential structures in all of Venice. Here were the highest densities in the city, and it is that social compression that started in 1516 when Jews abroad in the city and environs were given only ten days to relocate here. The windows on the island facing the surrounding canals were bricked up, entrances were gated, and rules were posted as to what the Jews must wear when they were out in the city during the day.

They entered a wider pedestrian street along which was a Jewish bakery from which issued tantalizing aromas of pastries and challah bread. Farther along was a shop with a small blue neon Star of David selling a variety of souvenirs, mementos, books and maps. A group of schoolchildren came along, their teacher pointing out the height of the buildings. As they came to a small piazza, they encountered a large family entering a tall doorway into a building. "Ecco, Carlo said, looks like a family arriving at the Spanish scuole for the bar mitzva of that sort of nervous, nicely dressed young man."

Not a very distinctive building, David commented.

Actually, that is very much the point of it.

I’m not sure what you mean by that.

Well, let me back up the timeline a little bit, Carlo said as they walked over a small wooden bridge that leads into the Campo Ghetto Nuovo. Just stop me anytime if you have a question or need an espresso or gelato.

I’m already regretting I didn’t go to school in Italy.

"Bene, Carlo smiled. So, Venice itself began as sort of a ghetto, albeit a relatively voluntary one. The people of the Veneto founded this unique city by pounding millions of larch piles into the mud flats of the lagoon to escape the Gothic marauders picking the bones of the Roman Empire in the 5th Century. The ‘barbarian’ hordes lacked boat-building skills, and the stratagem succeeded; Venice was never invaded until Napoleon's troops took it in 1797.

"By the time we hear of Jews in Venice it was well on its way to becoming a maritime power, a bridge between the bazaars of the eastern and western hemispheres. According to a census in 1152, approximately 1,300 Jews were reported to be living in Venice. Their numbers were further increased after the Venetian capture of Constantinople in 1204 in which Venice took possession of several islands in the Levant where Jews were numerous. The beginning of the 13th Century saw the arrival of many German Jews seeking refuge from persecutions in the north and drawn by the commercial opportunities of the thriving seaport. The principal settlement for Jews at this time was not the city proper, but the Giudecca, a long island facing San Marco, which is reputed to have taken its name from its resident Jews. The expulsion of Jews from Spain in 1492 and Portugal in 1497 brought an influx of Western Jews and ‘Marranos.’"

"Wait. Marranos?" David interrupted.

Yeah, a term of abuse that the Spaniards called Christianized Jews. It’s another word for pigs. Spanish Christians never trusted converted Jews, always suspecting them of still practicing Judaism in secret, so they were energetic in going after them, especially during the Inquisition.

Nice insult for people who are supposed to avoid pork. Sorry, please continue.

Carlo nodded. "Well, at least in the Ghetto Jews could openly practice their faith again. Still, the residence of the Jews in Venice was tenuous at best. There were repeated charges and calls for their expulsion. Some Jews were taxed on their business transactions. All were made to wear a yellow circle badge on their clothing, which was later changed to a yellow hat, and by 1500, a red hat. Christian preachers fulminated against them, occasioning the intervention of the Doge to protect them. Still, their situation remained precarious before the establishment of the Ghetto; three Jews were burned at the stake in 1480, another stoned to death in 1506.

"Mounting ill feeling towards the Jews and the degree of ‘freedom’ that they enjoyed in the city increased pressures for some ‘solution,’ partly as protection for the Jews themselves, but also to retain the advantage their heavy tributes gave to the economy of the city. Segregation was chosen over expulsion, and the site of the new foundry--hence Ghetto Nuovo, where we are now--was chosen over the Giudecca. On April 1, 1516, proclamations were issued commanding all Jews to relocate here within ten days. This area, surrounded by canals, was patrolled by authorities in gondolas that the Jews had to pay for.

Seven hundred Jews, mostly German and Italian, moved into this space, a campo measuring roughly 120 meters by 90 meters, and it had only a single well. In 1541 Levantine Jews were moved into the adjoining Ghetto Vecchio, which is not really older. The Ghetto Novissimo, a much smaller area added in 1633, was populated mostly by Western Jews. At its peak population, the entire Ghetto may have contained as many as five-thousand Jews forced to live at such high density that building regulations were relaxed to allow them to build the tallest residential structures in the city, some reaching seven stories.

Carlo pointed upward at some buildings that were tall enough to require the addition of buttresses between some of their middle and upper stories. Not a lot of sunlight seems to get in here for those flower boxes, David said.

The Jews of the Ghetto quickly set about creating social institutions and reviving cherished traditions. The building of the first synagogue, the German School, began in 1528, and by 1534 ‘universities,’ small autonomous entities, each with its own administration, rabbi, and synagogue, were formed. Religious schools, among them the famous one where Leon da Modena gave lessons, were established, as well as a society for the ransom of Jews who were taken captive from Turkish ships and enslaved in Malta. In fact, the fates of Sephardic Jews often shifted with the vicissitudes of Venice's trade relations, competition, and wars in the Levant. But several near decisions to expel the Jews from Venice were aborted on the logic that losing Jewish trading skills would be more detrimental to Venetian commerce.

Isn't it when profit trumps prejudice, David commented wryly.

"Yes, but owing to shared language and commercial integration, there was also intercourse between Venetians and Jews at almost every social level. Many Christians attended sermons at religious services; Jews served as intermediates in trade and commerce, particularly the famed Solomon Ashkenazi. Jewish craftsmen were allowed to work in factories and at the Arsenale where it was reputed a galleon was built each day, and they also hired Christians to work in trading vessels that Jews owned. Christians attended salons, such as that of the poetess Sara Copia Sullam, who came to be regarded as one of the most illustrious writers of her time. Jewish physicians attended Christian sick, for which they were granted exit from the Ghetto after curfew hours. And, of course, as they were required to do, Jewish moneylenders loaned money to the rich and poor, and even the state."

Arriving in front of a gelato vendor cart, Carlo and David paused to take some refreshment. Moving on they stopped for a moment to enjoy the small cups of rich ice cream while leaning against one of the well tops in the center of the campo.

Imagine this place during the daylight hours when it teemed with activity. Rinaldi gestured the full three hundred and sixty degrees. There would be women and servants right here at this well getting water for the day and exchanging news and gossip.

David wrapped his knuckles on the metal top of the now sealed well. By the looks of those canals the water cannot have been very healthy for that number of residents, David commented.

Carlo laughed. God, no, not canal water. That would’ve killed them. No, these wells were cisterns that turned rain runoff into potable water through a filtration system that involved an impermeable clay base, then filters of sand, brick and stone. See those paving stones with the holes in them just over there, they collected the rain.

"A good reason, I suppose, to keep the campo clean," David commented.

"Indeed, Venice’s pigeons have always made that a problem. But that’s another story. In the morning trumpets sounded to signal the hours of ceremony; in the synagogues—there were five, Levantine, Spanish, Italian, and two Ashkenazic—called schools, or schole. Jewish émigrés from various points of the diasporic compass worshiped in their various rites, often with the interested attendance of priests and learned Venetians. The language of the Ghetto was a patois of German, Spanish, and Italian elements laid over with Jewish expressions. In many respects it was a small town where everyone knew everyone's business, with the unity of a common heritage and common circumstances."

That ‘compression’ of the population density that you mentioned earlier? As a theatrical director it interests me how to stage that without losing a sense of what its effects were, David commented.

Well, it can’t have been physically comfortable, of course, but it was a characteristic of most Jewish communities that were established in the medieval world, sometimes in the most remote places, that produced considerable social benefit. These communities were held together by a force that was a permutation of God, faith and tradition. But this ghetto community was also a compression of the experience in many other places and ways which the Jews of the diaspora acquired as a result of their history of exclusion. For nearly three hundred years this place was a nightly prison patrolled by police in gondolas, paid for by taxes levied on the ghetto residents who slept as many as eight persons to a room. During the day Jews could circulate freely throughout the city, pursuing the limited number of trades they were permitted, like shoemakers, tailors, and hawkers among the poorest, moneylenders and shipwrights, the wealthiest. Still, they were compelled to wear the yellow circle insignia on their clothing, forced to pay heavy tributes while being denied the most elementary rights conferred on other Venetians. They could own no real estate and could undertake few respected professions or arts. The best that could be said of their treatment was that they did so free of violence and purges, as frequently occurred in other cities, in a collaborative relationship with the Venetians who were rarely openly hostile.

That makes the Ghetto sound almost like a positive institution, David said.

Your production would misrepresent history if it left such an impression, Carlo countered. Just because Christians came to this place for some of the products and services, the salons and music and such, should not be misconstrued. Consider that there were places right in your home city of New York, like the jazz clubs in Negro Harlem that attracted white people, but exclusion and prejudice persisted elsewhere. Still here were the constant accusations and threats from ecclesiastical authorities of expulsion or more severe restrictions. Any displays of wealth by Jews aroused the enmity or suspicions of many Venetians. The curfews, clothing regulations, limits on their employment and mobility, heavy taxes, and their crowded ghetto subject to fires, plagues, and epidemics, were ever-present reminders of their inferior and precarious position.

David at first made no reply. He just nodded his head as though sifting through the puzzling incongruity, tapping his knuckles on the metal well covering and producing a deep, dull, timpanos response. Carlo allowed him to ruminate.

You know, David finally said, stopping his drumming, I should probably dig into my own personal history to put that in perspective. I had relatives that I lost in the Shoah.

From where? Carlo asked.

Vienna. My great uncle’s family. Great Uncle Ezra Sterne, my grandfather’s elder brother, was first chair cellist with the Weiner Symphoniker. He also composed music for string quartets that he played in and gave lessons to advanced cello students. His wife, my Great Aunt Sarah, was a professor of nursing at the Allgemeines Krankenhaus, the University Hospital.

You have a distinguished family background, Carlo remarked.

Yeah, not that it did them any good. It all went up in smoke in Auschwitz, literally, as far as we know. There were also their children, my Aunt Frida and Uncle Franz. Only Franz made it out, and he eventually settled in Israel. Those Germanic sounding given names were a result of my great uncle’s affection for German music, language, and culture, something that my grandfather did not share, which is why he emigrated to England in 1937, and then to the US after the war. Ezra had this belief that somehow the culture, that their respected occupations and social positions would protect them. He would identify himself as an ‘Austrian, and a Jew,’ not as ‘a Jew, and an Austrian.’ The brothers argued about distinction to the point it broke their relationship.

Jews, we like to argue.

Should I continue with this? Maybe it’s just a distraction.

No, it’s an apt distinction. Continue, please.

"Well, I’ll try to get to the point. When the anschluss came in 1938, it took less than a few days before my great aunt was fired from the hospital. My great uncle wasn’t fired, but that didn’t matter because later that week a contingent of neighbors—they had an apartment right on the Ringtrasse—came by to haul them out on the street for some humiliation and in the process a couple of young boys, one of them a neighbor that my great aunt had often nursed through his asthma attacks, smashed Ezra’s cello to splinters. They knew a lot of these people that they thought were friends. David hesitated. Anyway, that’s my point. They were thrown out of their building and their next address was Auschwitz-Birkenau."

As happened to about three hundred residents of this Ghetto in World II, Carlo said, but we will speak more of that later. The Jews here of four centuries ago had somewhat of a similar tenuous relationship with the Venetians. But moneylenders like Shakespeare’s Shylock often got entangled financially with them with loans not only to Venetian businessmen, but to the Republic as well. This is where the subject of usury comes into play. See underneath that colonnade over there, that’s where there were a couple of Jewish banks. Originally, Jewish moneylenders were allowed to open banks only on the mainland across the lagoon at Mestre; but, in 1366, they received permission from Venice to make small loans to the poor at interest rates varying between ten and twenty percent.

Looks like the bank has been closed for quite a while, David remarked. The ATM's have taken over.

"They have. But don't try to get a loan from an ATM. Anyway, the Christian church had a longstanding prohibitive posture towards the lending of money at interest, culminating in the Third Council of 1179, which threatened the refusal of a Christian burial to moneylenders. Loans at any rate of interest were regarded as usurious. Thus, the circumstances under which Jews were forced to undertake--and acquired considerable skill at--the handling of money and other financial transactions amounted to a virtual formula for their subsequent condemnation, persecution, and exploitation. Long prohibited from many other occupations in Europe, having been driven from agriculture, not allowed to possess land as freehold property or to join guilds, their prospects for earning a livelihood had been severely reduced. As a result, by the late medieval period they had become the unofficial founders of Europe's banking system.

In Venice the moneylending role of the Jews was perhaps the chief reason for their ability to remain in the city. Strictly regulated by the state, it was, in fact, difficult for them to lend money at usurious rates. Permitted rates fluctuated, but generally ranged between four and twelve percent. Initially their principal function was to make loans to the poor, although as they became more established, loans were made to commercial interests and the Republic.

David smiled. If life serves you lemons, make …

"Limoncello, a fine Italian liqueur," Carlo said, finishing David's adage.

"In the present-day highly mortgaged and over-credited society, usury appears a quaint term, but in 16th Century Italy lending money at interest was considered un-Christian. Indeed, the Christian proscription of this financial transaction is likely related to the ethical teachings of Judaism in Exodus 22:25, which forbade profit on the loan of money. Ironically, moneylending was one of the few occupations permitted the Jews in Venice. So, Venetian Jews were often forced into an activity which all but insured their being scorned and negatively characterized. This is not to imply that there were no Christian moneylenders; there were more of them than there were Jewish moneylenders. A further irony is that Italian moneylenders may have been responsible for the fact that there were few Jews in Elizabethan England. Because in England