Turn to Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  He paused. His face betrayed a niggling doubt. “That is don’t worry unless you’re a woman and you’re pregnant. The risk of severe birth defects in the child is real.” He thought some more. “And, of course, if you’re an adult male, there’s a remote chance of sterility. But aside from those complications, there’s really little to worry about.”

  Lucio exploded. “Sterilità? Porca Mad . . . ! How will I give my mamma nipotini?” And just like that, Vicky was forgotten, and he heaped his invective onto Veronica once again.

  Locanda had heard enough. He nudged the doctor to one side and urged everyone to calm down. “It’s not certain that it’s rubella,” he said, much to the dismay of the young doctor. “My trusted friend Dottor Gherardi will settle all this in a couple of days. Wednesday at the latest. In the meantime, calmatevi per dio. Act like adults.”

  Cowed by the rebuke, the guests grumbled among themselves as Peruzzi and Pellegrini took their leave. When asked by Lucio why they were free to come and go, they’d both assured him they’d already had rubella. I asked Bernie as discreetly as I could if the police had the authority to quarantine us. He wasn’t sure.

  “I’m sure there are public heath statutes we could research,” he said. “But that would involve going to a library in Florence. Or consulting a lawyer. And the police could keep us here for the investigation anyway, I suppose. Let’s just enjoy the hospitality as the doctor said.”

  “I told you why I wanted out of this place, Bernie. Do you think I can just relax and pretend I didn’t see what I saw?”

  “Come on, El. He said it was his father’s stuff. You can’t expect everyone to share your values.”

  “I studied history at Barnard. Ten thousand Italian Jews were deported by the fascists and Nazis. Ten thousand, Bernie. You should be as outraged as I am.”

  He nodded. “Of course. But we have no choice at the moment. We’re not condoning Locanda’s politics. We’re trapped here with the others.”

  I huffed. “Says you.”

  “Il pranzo è servito,” announced Locanda.

  Slowly, reluctantly, everyone wandered inside for the midday meal. Our host stood fast at the doorway, then addressed Bernie and me.

  “I will have Achille take your bags back to your rooms,” he said, almost as an apology.

  “Put me in Veronica’s old room on the top floor,” I said coldly. “She can have mine.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The table had been set for nine places. Veronica was absent, having requested her meal be served in my—scratch that —her room. She was milking this German measles thing for all it was worth. The others, still shaken, had already taken their seats. But there were still three empty chairs: one on Locanda’s right and two at the end of the table. The pair of chairs in left field were for Bernie and me, I was sure. The empty place next to the host was earmarked for Mariangela, his fourteen-year-old niece.

  We slipped into our seats, Locanda eying us as we did. Then the final guest entered the room. The girl, escorted by a watchful Teresa, shuffled to her spot next to her uncle without a word.

  “Grazie, Teresa,” said Locanda in a low voice. “You may have your meal in the kitchen. Berenice is expecting you.”

  “I want Teresa to stay,” said the girl.

  “That’s not possible,” answered Locanda, and the poor woman withdrew. Mariangela craned her neck to watch her go. Then she rose from her seat.

  “Where are you going, Mariangela?”

  “To the kitchen,” she said. “I want to be with Teresa.”

  “Siediti e non fare la sciocca. You’ll eat with us.”

  The girl bowed her head and retook her seat. I lost my appetite.

  The first course was the minestra. Berenice had prepared a tortellini in brodo, which she doled out herself. At least she served Mariangela, cooing over her and petting her hair. The girl submitted to the fawning without a word. The rest of us passed the tureen around the table and helped ourselves. No one bothered to comfort us. Locanda’s ill humor, coupled with Peruzzi’s quarantine, had sucked the spirit out of our mealtime conversation. Gone were the repartee and bonhomie that had characterized our previous meals, replaced by a clinking of spoons against bowls and disjointed, uninspired banalities.

  “Ottimi,” said Franco with no real conviction as he chewed his tortellini.

  “Davvero,” concurred Tato.

  “I heard the weather might cool down,” added Bernie.

  “Is there any salt?” asked Vicky.

  “One doesn’t add salt to Berenice’s cooking,” said Locanda a mite more sharply than the beauty was probably used to.

  Not even pretending to show interest in her food, Mariangela sat motionless, eyes cast down toward her lap where she’d folded her hands. She looked miserable, poor thing, and I wanted to talk to her, listen to her sorrows, comfort her in some way. The indifference of her uncle’s welcome was a cruel offering. No wonder she wanted Teresa.

  I’d had enough.

  “Mariangela, my name is Ellie,” I said in English across the table. Everyone fell silent. Even the spoons ceased their mirthless tune. “I’ve been admiring your dress. It’s quite pretty.”

  She was still wearing the simple blue sailor dress, so my compliment surely struck her as odd. In fact, what I really wanted to say to her was how sorry I was for her terrible loss. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and hug her and give her the barest minimum of compassion her uncaring uncle should have provided. That we were all seated at the dining table and hadn’t been fittingly introduced—or at all—prevented me from offering proper condolences at that moment. So I complimented her on her dress instead.

  “My frock?” she asked, lifting her gaze for a moment to see who’d spoken. Her English was perfect, with a prim little British finishing school accent. She thanked me then returned to the silent contemplation of her hands.

  Locanda glared at me, clearly trying to communicate his displeasure with me. Too bad, I thought. He couldn’t exactly send me away given the quarantine.

  “I saw you have a camera case,” I said to Mariangela. “Do you enjoy photography?”

  More awkward silence from the others, and another disapproving look from Locanda. But the girl was intrigued.

  “Yes,” she said. “My father gave me a camera last year. I’ve been learning about film speed and exposures.”

  “My father gave me my camera, as well.”

  She seemed to be debating whether to proceed and ask a question. Finally she did. “What kind of camera?”

  “A Leica M3. I got it for my eighteenth birthday. How about you?”

  “An M3? That’s a wonderful camera. Last year my father gave me a Braun Paxette. Nothing like yours. It’s secondhand but in excellent repair.”

  “I’d love to see your Braun later if you don’t mind. I’d be happy to show you mine. I have a new lens I’ve been wanting to try out, but I haven’t had much of a chance yet.”

  “I’d love that,” she said before catching her uncle’s eye.

  “I have some Kodachrome, too. I’d be happy to give you some if you’re interested.”

  Her face lit up, surely for the first time since she’d received news of her father’s death.

  “I’ve never used Kodachrome before,” she said. “It’s very expensive.”

  “Mariangela has schoolwork to do,” said Locanda, interrupting us. “And her father’s funeral to prepare.”

  When the meal ended, I took advantage of Locanda’s absence to approach the girl. I expressed my deepest sympathies and told her how sorry I was not to have met her father. She put on a brave face—no tears—and thanked me again. She seemed to want a break from the mourning, as she leaned in close and whispered that she’d really love to see my camera if I didn’t mind.

  “Are you free this afternoon?” I asked. “We can go for a walk through the grounds and take some photos.”

  Mariangela glanced over her shoulder toward the doorway and, seeing no uncles in the vici
nity, turned back to me and nodded. “Four o’clock at the Diana statue.”

  The perils of sharing a bathroom with others should be obvious. Having to wait one’s turn when it’s least convenient to do so. And discovering exactly how much or little zeal your friends apply to their personal hygiene or, indeed, to the fixtures they use and leave behind for others to clean. And let’s not even think about the hair.

  I was emerging from the WC on the third floor, when Giuliana, looking dead serious and even more paranoid, found me. She steered me to my new room down the corridor and shut the door behind us.

  “Are you going to tell me this time?” I asked once we were seated on the bed. “Or is this going to be more of your mysterious suggestions that you’ll deny later on?”

  “You must understand, Ellie, I’m in a difficult position. If I want to finish my laurea, I have to be careful. And what I’m going to tell you about Bondinelli is una bomba.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You know I told you about his war record?” she began. “That he was with the partisans? Well, that’s true. But there’s more to it than that. I know for a fact that he was a member of the fascist party throughout the thirties. He joined the Corpo Truppe Volontarie, the Dio lo Vuole division.”

  “What’s that?”

  Giuliana pursed her lips impatiently. “The Camicie Nere. The worst of the fascists, willing to fight republicanism and socialism and communism in the service of Il Duce. Despicable beasts. Bondinelli even fought in Spain on the side of the Nationalists.”

  I thought of the photographs in Locanda’s study and wondered if Bondinelli might have been in one or two of them. He was the son-in-law of the man who’d tacked them up on the wall, after all. I hadn’t looked too closely at the men in the pictures, but then again I wasn’t sure I’d be able to identify young Alberto Bondinelli anyway. Not only hadn’t I met the man, I’d only ever seen one photograph of him, the small black-and-white picture Franco had shown me. All I knew was that he was quite tall, about six-five, had a prominent set of teeth, and wore a dyed beard that called to mind Lenin. Not much to go on. Still, I thought, a second examination of the Black Shirt photos in the study might be worth the effort. I wondered if Locanda would object.

  “A lot of people were fascists back then, weren’t they?” I asked Giuliana. “Even our host was in the Air Force.”

  “The Camicie Nere were different,” she said with a sneer. “You had to be a particular type of stronzo to join the Black Shirts.”

  I asked Giuliana about her sources. I was a reporter, after all.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I’m only trying to understand how he could have been a fascist—a Black Shirt—one day, then the next, he was a partisan fighting the Nazis.”

  Giuliana shook her head slowly and told me I was naïve.

  “He was a fascist,” she said. “If he joined the partisans it was to spy on them, don’t you see? To betray them.”

  I must have looked incredulous when, in fact, I was horrified, because Giuliana asked if I wanted proof of her accusation.

  “Of course I do. But what proof do you have?”

  “A witness,” she said. “A member of my own family. And just the other day I found newspaper clippings in the library. Articles and opinions written by Bondinelli for the university paper in the twenties, the Goliardia Fascista.”

  “Locanda told me he’d worked at a student newspaper at the university as well. I wonder if it was the same one.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. He’s just another oppressor like all the rest. And a decadent borghese living off the sweat of the working classes.”

  “And they were friends back then,” I mused. “But who is this witness? Can I meet him?”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Just one question,” I said. “This all happened twenty years ago. Longer, too. Why are you telling me this? What do you expect me to do about it now?”

  She considered her answer carefully before responding. “You’ll think this spiteful of me, but I want his reputation ruined. Not ruined, I misspoke. I want the truth about him to be known by all. Especially in the academic community.”

  “I still don’t see how I can help you with that.”

  “The proceedings of the symposium are going to be published. Since you are the daughter of the man in whose honor the symposium was held, you can make sure Franco expunges Bondinelli’s name from the record.”

  “You won’t mind if Franco takes the credit? It would surely fall to him if Bondinelli’s name is removed.”

  Before she could answer, a knock came at the door. I asked who was there, and Bernie called from the other side. Giuliana reached out and grabbed my arm before I could get up to open the door.

  “Franco Sannino is DC,” she said. “A Fanfani DC man, but he’s no anti-Semite fascist like Fanfani was during the Ventennio. And he didn’t betray any Italian Jews. At least not that I know.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Once again, Bernie’s timing was perfect. Giuliana still wasn’t ready to trust him. Or perhaps one shared confidence was all she could permit herself. The result, at any rate, was the girl slipping away with a vague suggestion that we should talk again.

  “What was that about?” asked Bernie after she’d gone.

  “Just talking about this quarantine,” I lied. Perhaps I’d tell him the truth later on, but Giuliana had asked me, albeit tacitly, to keep her information to myself. “It’s terrible news for Veronica.”

  “Could be worse.”

  “How?”

  Bernie shrugged. “She could be pregnant.” A significant pause ensued. “She’s not, of course. But that would be worse, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  “And what about the rest of us?” I asked.

  “Are you pregnant, El?”

  “Of course not. And I remind you that I’ve already had German measles. I was referring to being locked up here for several days more.”

  “And I thought you were lying about having had German measles.”

  “Why would I lie about that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. To get out of this place.”

  His words gave me pause. I sat for a moment recalling something I’d seen in Locanda’s desk.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  I set my jaw and frowned. “Do you know what GUF is?”

  “Goof? As in a mistake?”

  “No. GUF. In Italian. G-U-F. I found it on a pin of some kind in Locanda’s desk.”

  “Jesus, El, were you snooping around again in his study?”

  “Do I really need to answer that?” I asked. “There was an old enamel pin with the letters GUF and a fleur-de-lis. Come on, UNIVAC. Any ideas? Something French perhaps?”

  Bernie shook his head. “No, don’t be fooled by the fleur-de-lis. It’s also a symbol of Florence. I suspect GUF was a collection of fascist student groups, The G and U might stand for Gruppi Universitari. And the F must be for Florence. Or maybe . . . fascisti.”

  “I see. Then Locanda was more of a fascist than he wanted me to believe.”

  “A couple of generations of Italians were brought up that way, El. It’s hardly surprising that he was one of them.”

  “What about Bondinelli?” I asked.

  “I thought his history was different. He was a partisan in the war, wasn’t he?”

  Giuliana’s parting shot had left me thinking. She clearly had an ax to grind against her late professor. I wondered when exactly she’d come into possession of the information. Surely recently, otherwise she would have raised some kind of alarm earlier. Or would she have? Perhaps she felt proximity to him might provide an advantage, whether for revenge or blackmail or something more nefarious still. I caught myself. This was my first real suspicion that Bondinelli’s drowning might have been something other than an accident.

  I shook the thought from my mind. Giuliana was a zealot to be sure, but capable of murder? I didn’t see it. For one thing, w
hy would she share her damning information with me? That could only sow doubt in my mind. Why not just keep her mouth shut? She’d said she wanted the truth about Bondinelli’s past to be known, but that was hardly reason enough to jeopardize your perfect crime.

  No, I thought, blackening Bondinelli’s name seemed as far as she wanted to go. It all felt petty to me. Or at least futile. I understood, of course, the passion that drove her to desire such an outcome, to punish someone she felt was a monster, but the stakes were so small. In the grand scheme of things, what difference did it make if Alberto Bondinelli’s name graced the cover of a collection of scholarly papers that no one would read? I couldn’t say, but it mattered to her. I wanted to ask her about it again. And to meet her so-called witness.

  “How do you develop Kodachrome?” asked Mariangela as she wound the film I’d given her into her Paxette.

  “You don’t,” I said. “It’s not like Tri-X or even Ektachrome. Prints are one thing, transparencies are another. You need professional developers for Kodachrome.”

  “What’s so great about it anyway?”

  “I’m no expert, but I know it stores well. Preserves colors. And many professionals swear by the look. But they’re transparencies. Not prints. It’s fairly subjective, I suppose. Ektachrome can shoot a lot faster, if you’re working with low light.”

  Camera loaded and ready, Mariangela crouched and focused on something in the scrub flora at the edge of the wood. She clicked three quick frames, rose to her full height, and told me she’d captured a small lizard. I congratulated her and said we’d get the roll developed right away.

  “What about the quarantine?” she asked. “And the funeral? My uncle says we should do it Thursday or Friday.”