I was stunned. So persuasive was his case, so unassailable his reasoning, that I found myself reluctantly agreeing with the equity of his judgment. What I couldn’t accept, however, was the burden he’d placed on his fourteen-year-old daughter’s head. He’d admitted in his farewell that he’d worshipped her mother, even when she loved another. He’d given his poor Mariangela knowledge that she’d perhaps have been better off not knowing. Through the most boneheaded oversight, her father had revealed Marco Bianchi’s true name and address to a senior officer of the OVRA by filling out the photographer’s envelope right there at the table in the café.
Your mother and Gabriele had left the café moments earlier, leaving your grandfather and me alone. It was then the photographer asked if we wanted prints of the picture he’asked, peeling back th;ed taken. He asked for our addresses, and I wrote them out myself on the three different envelopes. One for me, one for your mother, and one for Gabriele Levi. And with that envelope, I signed his death warrant.
Bondinelli took pains to explain that his betrayal, though unintentional, was nevertheless unforgivable.
The punishment for informers was—and should be—death. And so it will be. It was only when Signorina Pincherle came to me with her suspicions that I’d betrayed her cousin that I realized what I had done. She showed me the photograph, told me her cousin shouldn’t have had it since he’d died that very same day. She said he’d been betrayed by someone close to him, and my heart sank when I came to the only conclusion possible. I was that person close to him. Through my own stupidity and carelessness, I was responsible for his death. I accept my punishment now.
Bondinelli went on to urge his daughter to honor his memory as a man who served his country and his God, even if he’d failed and paid the price for his negligence with his life.
Far better men than I have died on the gallows or tied to the potence. I go not as a coward, but as a guilty man who accepts his condemnation and asks only for the mercy of God to absolve his sins. I have tried to be a good Christian, a good husband to your mother, and a good father to you, Mariangela. If I have fallen short, the Almighty will take custody of my soul and dispose of it as He deems fit.
He finished his letter with an admonition that his daughter follow the teachings of the Church, study assiduously, and obey Teresa and her uncle, Massimiliano, to whom he conferred her care.
I have not been an affectionate father. But know that I have loved you more completely, more perfectly because of the spirit of almighty God that saved me from perdition. My faith inspires and justifies this, my final act, and I pray you use my conviction to understand the glory of God. Addio, figlia mia. Che il Signore sia con te.
“You got this from Veronica?” I asked.
He clicked his tongue. “La spagnola. She got it from Veronica. Together they decided to suppress the note, as you said, to hide the suicide.”
“They didn’t destroy it?”
His face twisted into one of those rubbery expressions as he shrugged—just as Mariangela had done—to convey his bewilderment. He said he had no idea why they hadn’t simply burned the letter.
“Have you shown it to his daughter?” I asked, and he nodded.
“What else could we do? It was his will. And her right to see it.”
I attended Alberto Bondinelli’s funeral at the Chiesa della Madonna della Tosse, officiated by his confessor and old friend, Padre Fabrizio. All my fellow rubella survivors were there, with the exception of Giuliana. She must not have been willing to accept Bondinelli’s self-execution as adequate punishment for his crimes.
It was a restrained reunion. We all did our best to be polite, exchanged addresses, and later paid our respects to Bondinelli graveside at the Cimitero di Trespiano. Then Bernie and I fled to a hotel halfway up the hill to San Miniato above the Oltrarno. We took two rooms and spent a weekend eating and drinking ourselves into a contented stupor. He flew back to New York on Monday and I carried on with the two weeks left in my Italian holiday. returned one last time to Bel Soggiorno the day before I was to leave for Portofino. Achille met me at the door and showed me to the salone, the lovely room where I’d enjoyed so many laughs and witnessed even more strife. I’d gained and lost friends there. I knew I’d never see any of them again, even if we’d promised to do so. That was probably for the best. Did I really need another fat lip, the result of an awkward pass from Franco Sannino? Or another love-song serenade, begun then abandoned, dedicated to me by Lucio Bevilacqua? No, I could live the balance of my life without Giuliana’s intensity and Tato’s cow eyes. And Veronica? Well, she could pile mattresses on top of each other at her own place.
But I did want to see one person. I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to Mariangela. She greeted me with a big hug, and we cried on each other’s shoulders. Our reunion was more emotional than I’d expected. She’d told me once that her father was more like a teacher or a priest to her. Yet now that she’d read his execution note, she knew more about his past, his failures, and his courage. I believed her opinion had changed. No, he was never going to win father of the year. And she wasn’t about to break into a tearful rendition of O Mein Papa at his memory, but I could sense a burgeoning awe in her eyes. Her father, who’d always appeared to her as a square, somewhat homely man who would never understand what was so great about the Beatles, had actually been a remarkable individual of great passion, intellect, and spirituality. We talked about his goodness, his selfless dedication, and his large teeth. She laughed, then wept, even as she marveled at how any teeth could be too large for such a tall man.
I had a couple of gifts for her. First, I gave her the photos I’d had developed at the cartoleria in Piazza dei Cimatori. The pictures weren’t great on the whole, but two or three of them—the ones she’d taken with my long lens, had come out surprisingly well. Better than anything I’d managed. And so I presented her with my 135mm Elmar lens. Her eyes grew nearly as large as anything she might have magnified with the lens and she threw her arms around me in a bear hug.
“Do me one favor, Ellie,” she said.
“Anything.”
She handed me her BOAC bag. “Take this.”
I opened it and found the two 45s inside. “Please Please Me” and “She Loves You.”
“This is too much,” I said. “These are your favorites.”
“I can buy them again in England. What I’d like you to do is make sure America discovers the Beatles. I simply don’t understand why they’re not a sensation there. Please do that for me.”
“I promise,” I said. “I’ll make the Beatles the most popular group ever in the US.”
It was time to say goodbye. With great care, I retrieved one last gift from my purse and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked, peeling back the brown paper to reveal a red flower in a small vase.
“It’s a poppy. I hoped you might place it on your father’s grave.”
“But why?”
I put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her tight to my side. “I thought it would be fitting for him to rest in the shadow of the flower. The flower of the partisan . . . morto per la libertà.”
A taxi was waiting outside. And so was my favorite Tuscan cat. The brown-striped tabby was squatting on the pebbled drive near the cab. He perked up when I emerged from the house and trotted over to meet me. He’d come to say goodbye. Or addio. I reached down and scratched him behind the ear, and he purred.
“Goodbye, Antonio,” I said.
He rubbed his neck against my fingers, savoring the caresses, until he’d had enough. Reeling around, he swiped at my hand with his sharp claws, drawing a faint trickle of blood. Then he darted away into the shrubs, never to be seen by me again.
Pressing a handkerchief to my scratches, I climbed into the car and looked up one last time at Bel Soggiorno. I decided to take with me the pleasant memories and try to forget the ugly. But that plan was thwarted before the driver had even shifted into gear. There in a window on
the second floor, peering through the curtains, stood Massimiliano Locanda. His cold, blue eyes gazed down at me from his expressionless face. Then I saw the figure behind him, seemingly undulating like a ghost thanks to the gossamer curtains waving in the breeze. It was Vicky Hodges. She’d come home to roost with Max and Ermenegildo.
As the taxi pulled away, tires crunching over the gravel drive, I reflected on Bondinelli’s last act in life. A gift to an old woman. Alms for the poor. To my thinking, he had disproved Lucio’s cynical tale of the wretched soul who feigns piety in his last moments on earth. Alberto Bondinelli’s life bore witness to a true miracle of conversion. A journey from spiritual despair to salvation. Despite his doubts and sins and crimes against humanity, he’d ended up living the life of a saint. Cruising down Via Boccaccio in the back of a taxi, I smiled to myself, scratched hand and all, happy to have shared a name with such a man.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve made a lifelong study of languages, Italian front and center, and know from experience that there is no substitute for a native speaker’s eye and ear when it comes to editing words, phrases, and references that are not your mother tongue. For that reason, I relied on some wonderful friends for feedback on the Italian usage in this book.
Tante grazie to Ilaria Verdi and Francesca Romana Riggio who did most of the heavy lifting on the Italian, reviewing and analyzing every word I used. This book would have been much poorer without their expertise and generous help. The multi-talented writer/translator Gabriel Valjan also took a fine-toothed comb to the Italian textual and cultural references, weeding out inaccuracies and urging restraint when I strayed fuori pista. Two dear Florentine friends, Morgan Fiumi and Elettra Fiumi, shared their upbringing, experience, and intimate knowledge of their native city with me. I am deeply indebted to them, as I am to former colleague and fast friend Professor Stefano Albertini Mussini, director of New York University’s Casa Italiana Zerilli-Marimò, who advised me on language, history, politics, and universities.
The first beta reader I approached for this book is a remarkable friend I’ve never met in person, Fred Glienna. We’ve maintained a correspondence for some time now, and I knew I could not write another book without knowing his objections before publication. He roots out historical errors for fun, and he challenges me on every detail.
As always, sincere thanks to my editor, Dan Mayer, who has shepherded all seven Ellie Stone books to publication, and to my agent, Bill Reiss for his support and advice.
I’m thankful to my family beta readers, Jennifer Ziskin, Bill Ziskin, Joe Ziskin, Dave Ziskin, and Mary Beth Ziskin, as well as to my medical experts, Dr. Kunda and Dr. Hilbert.
Finally, to my pillow and my crutch—my one and only—for everything.
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