Welcome, dear visitor, to this sacred place where the whispers of history linger like shadows on the polished stones of time. Wrapped in the earth's embrace, a tapestry of moss-kissed tombs cradles the ethereal remains of a bygone earthly life, whose memory echoes in the stillness of this peaceful ground. Here, among tombstones that stand as guardians of stories never forgotten, rests the memory of my earthly life.
Now that you have come here, before my grave, I am grateful that you have taken the time to listen to my story.
In life I was known as Simon Lustro, a member of Padua's vibrant Jewish community in the heart of the 17th century. Our life was not easy, because from the dawn of the 1600s we were confined within the walls of the Padua ghetto.
Despite the restrictions, the Venetian Republic, which had established the ghetto and restrictive laws, realised the potential benefits of our presence, especially in the wool industry. In spite of everything, our community managed to prosper by remaining united and fighting against the horror of segregation and hatred.
Together we were able to draw strength from all that senseless evil. Our soul as a people emerged from the abyss of hatred, animated by a deep faith and a rooted sense of identity, leading us to grow into a reality so solid as to evoke fear. Our economic and commercial strength led to tensions between Christian traders and us Jews, as we were perceived as formidable competitors. And we were indeed.
However, many people struggled to recognise our virtues, and instead of seeking harmony they continued to pursue the path of hatred. In fact, many had deeply rooted superstitions and ignorance, which made them prone to believe any false rumour that we were their enemies. And when perception takes over from reality, a weak mind surrenders to a distorted narrative. Evil. Liar.
So it was in August 1684, when quite suddenly the tranquillity of our lives was shattered. A false rumour had spread like wildfire through the streets of Padua accusing us of collaborating with the Turks during the siege of Budapest. The rumours, which began to run like rats through the city's alleys, even went so far as to recount alleged atrocities against Christians. Atrocities that, if anything, we had suffered, but had certainly never committed.
But the truth, that truth, was of no interest to anyone. Within hours, the city exploded into tumultuous chaos, with us Jews as the target of their hatred.
For six terrifying days, all of us members of the Jewish community found ourselves under siege within the confines of the ghetto. A wave of violence struck men, women and children indiscriminately. Fear gripped our hearts as the violence and persecution increased.
But in the midst of the darkness, hope appeared in the form of a letter written by Brother Marco d'Aviano, denying rumours of our involvement in the Buda conflicts. His words brought comfort and calmed the turbulent storm that had engulfed our lives.
In 1683 I had bought the premises of the old midrash from the German school. It was a place of spiritual significance and a meeting point for the Jewish community. Little did I know that it would witness the tumultuous events of the riots. Yet, even in the face of despair and anguish, we found moments of unity and strength within these sacred walls.
At that time, the Turkish advance towards Europe had reached its peak, culminating in the siege of Vienna. Fortunately, the combined forces of the Christian League, including the Venetian army led by Francesco Morosini, managed to break the siege and liberate Vienna. In 1684, the allied forces laid siege to Buda, arousing the emotional involvement of the Serenissima.
Despite the lies swirling in the mouths and minds of fools, I am convinced that that battle was also won thanks to the indirect contribution of our community. Because to all that hatred and segregation, we Jews of Padua have always responded by singing the praises of life and prosperity. Spiritual, cultural and economic prosperity. It was therefore also - and above all - thanks to us and our wisdom that the Republic of Venice was ready to react, defending its borders and its identity.
Shema Cuzzeri, dedicated to me a moving poem composed on the occasion of 'Purim di Buda'. Purim, a Jewish holiday, commemorates the failed massacre of the Jews in Persia. In our Italian communities, the word 'Purim' resonates with the memory of dangerous situations that were resolved without loss of life. Our Purim in Buda became a testimony of our resilience and survival in the face of adversity.
A testimony that has served, over the centuries, to give us strength to resist and survive, and will continue to do so whenever we are forced, again, to face together the monsters generated by the sleep of reason.
Now, as my spirit rests here, beneath the soil of the Jewish cemetery in Padua, I urge you to remember the struggles we have faced as a community throughout history, realising that despite it all, the resilience of the Jewish people has continued to shine, lighting the way to survival and prosperity through a path of faith.
May my story serve as a testimony to the strength of our religion. A religion in which each individual is at once a whole people, a bearer of God's teachings through obedience to laws and the sharing of doubt, on a path of unity and sharing.
May my words be an inspiration to you to remember to always seek truth and understanding in the face of ignorance, hatred and prejudice, so that none of us will ever again be victim or executioner, but brother and witness to the mystery of death... and life.