For most of my career, I’ve woven themes of painting and art into my novels. This time, though, I wanted to write about another form of art: music. Not only did I want to write about how a musician experiences the world, but I also wanted to explore a more mystical element—how we as human beings are able to communicate without the use of words. Although much of The Garden of Letters centers around the use of hidden codes by the Italian Resistance during World War II, it also explores how we as people communicate with only our eyes and our body language, making us capable of telling a story without uttering a single word.
As with all of my novels, many of the secondary characters in this book are based on true-life historical figures. During my first research trip to Verona, I was taken to the city’s synagogue by my wonderful translator and guide, Katia Galvetto. It was there that I noticed the commemorative plaque for the Jewish schoolteacher turned partisan Rita Rosani, who led a small squad that fought numerous battles against the Germans. Although an exhaustive search by Ms. Galvetto turned up little information about Rita Rosani, I wanted my readers to learn about her courage and her heroic death at the age of twenty-four on the Monte Comune in September 1944, a year after she appears in my novel.
Brigitte Lowenthal, Berto Zampieri, and Darno Maffini were also historic figures, all active in the Veronese Resistance. With the help of Katia Galvetto, I was able to meet Professor Vittore Bocchetta, now a spry ninety-year-old, who worked alongside Zampieri and Maffini in the Veronese Resistance. The novel came alive after that meeting with Professor Bocchetta and the amazing research done by Ms. Galvetto. I later learned that Brigitte Lowenthal married Berto Zampieri after the war. Brigitte’s family, however, took cyanide pills, taking their own lives rather than being sent to a concentration camp.
The story of the character Lena’s death, how she was first blinded and then shot in front of her parents’ apartment, was inspired by the torture and murder of the real-life partisan Irma Bandiera, whom I read about in Leon Weckstein’s book 200,000 Heroes, about the Italian Partisans and the American OSS in World War II. The book is filled with many fascinating stories about brave Italian citizens and American soldiers who fought against the Germans during the war, and I’m indebted to the book for my research about this exciting time period.
I also am extremely grateful to several other people who helped me along the way. Many Italian friends went above and beyond to help ensure that the book is historically accurate and also reflects a realistic portrait of wartime Italy. Rita Annunziata of Bellagio, Italy, who my young children still call “Nona,” provided me with essential information on the life of a doctor in Italy during World War II. Michela Cocchi graciously met me in Bologna and translated an exhibition on the writer Laura Orvieto, giving me an invaluable lens on life of a young girl during Fascist Italy and its eventual descent into war. A special thanks to Emanuela Negri and Raffaele Coluccino at the Verona Music Conservatory for helping me understand the musical instruction for a young cello student during the war, Deborah Venditti for her knowledge on the Teatro Bibiena, and Elena Gatz and Lucia Roditi Formeron for illuminating stories about the Veronese Jewish community.
I also owe a great deal to Costanza Bertolotti, who was able to illuminate the experience of the Mantova Resistance and other details that made the book richer as a whole. The warmth and general support by Count Gherardo Scapinelii Di Legugigno, who shared many stories of his family’s life during the war and also graciously introduced me to several helpful contacts, most notably Vanna and Marina Magrini and the Venetian Patrician Family, Zorzi, and the particular assistance by N. H. Pieralvise Zorzi, who shared with me many of his own family’s photographs and stories that shed light on the Italian Resistance. And a special and heartfelt thanks to Giovanni Pelizzato who is now the proud owner of his grandfather’s bookstore, La Toletta, in Venice, and who, after sharing stories of his grandfather’s involvement with the Italian Resistance, in particular, how books were used to send codes and store pistols, was the inspiration for Luca in this novel.
Vivienne Courtney was instrumental in sharing her early experiences as a young cello student, and Stewart Wallace provided helpful information on musical composition. Tina Josinksy shared helpful anecdotes of her childhood in Italy during the war. Thanks to Stephen Gordon and Howard Fox for their musical expertise and assistance in devising/inventing several of the musical codes within the book and my father, Paul Richman, who also assisted with musical questions. I am also grateful to Charles Goldstein, Countess Enrica Rocca, James Mondex, and his staff at Mondex Corporation, for their knowledge and contacts of art stolen by the Nazis for the initial research for the book.
Thank you to Antony Currie for his dutiful and careful editing, which has followed me with each book; and Nikki Koklanaris, for your medical expertise, all-around editorial feedback, and helpful contacts: Doctors Alice Cootauco and Judith Rossiter. For helping me with my research, I thank Maryelizabeth Koepele. I also would like to thank those who were kind enough to read earlier drafts of the novel, including Marvin Gordon, my friend and fellow author Martin Fletcher, Robbin Klein, Victoria Leventhal, Jardine Libaire, Tina Spitz and my parents, Ellen and Paul Richman. Your thoughtful comments were always welcome and instructive. And also a special thanks to Melanie Lawless, who offered a welcome place for my children when I was knee-deep in finishing the book.
Stephen Gordon, sweetest of all husbands, saint of all saints, and husband and father extraordinaire, who reads every draft and is happy to serve as a sounding board when I need clarity, none of my books would be possible without you. Sally Wofford-Girand, my wonderful and supportive agent, I thank you once again. You have helped bring my books to a worldwide audience of passionate readers, and I’m incredibly grateful for your early support since I was just over twenty-five years of age. To Sam Fox, a special thank-you for finding the title for this novel. Finally, a special thanks to my editor, Kate Seaver, and the rest of the staff at Berkley/Penguin, who have always worked with me to create the best book possible.
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
The book moves between several time periods, weaving together Angelo’s and Elodie’s pasts, as well as their present together. How does this enrich the storytelling?
A major theme of the novel is how we communicate without words, most notably through the power of music. How else do the characters communicate nonverbally?
How do Elodie’s feelings about music change throughout the book? How does this reflect her shifting worldview?
Elodie’s father tells her that “you sense what’s hidden beneath the music.” How does this foreshadow her work for the Resistance movement? How else is foreshadowing used in the novel?
Elodie often says that her extremely precise memory is “the Venetian in me.” Do you think it’s possible to inherit traits from your ethnicity?
Lena seems more alive after attending the Resistance meetings, and later on, Elodie observes the same in her mother as she aids in the fighting. Why does this happen?
Do you think that Elodie, on some unconscious level, purposefully leaves the Wolf’s code out of the cadenza during her concert at the Bibiena? Or is she truly lost in the music? How might the events that follow have changed if she had performed the code?
As the Germans enter Verona, average citizens step up to fight: “‘Tell us what to do!’ one of the women shouts. She is not a staffetta, but a matron eager to be useful.” Would you have joined the Resistance if you lived in wartime Italy?
The account of the Wolf’s ransacked apartment—“The silk panels were slashed and cut open. The strings of the grand piano had been severed and brutally pulled out like weeds”—is disturbing, despite its describing only objects. Why? What do you think ultimately became of the Wolf and his wife? Could they have survived?
The first line of the book reads “Her rucksack contains her life reduced to small pieces.” Later on, Dalia produces a box filled with small
trinkets that she replaces with Angelo’s letters. What would represent your “life reduced to small pieces?” What objects do you consider sacred?
Why does Angelo gravitate toward things that need extra care? Considering his history with Dalia and Nasai, has he always done so?
Valentina can find beauty and value in items that others see only as trash. What are the parallels between her and Venice itself, a city where “beauty and decay seemed to coexist?”
Why does Dalia paper the room with Angelo’s letters? Why does Angelo leave them intact “like an ancient tomb”? And why does Elodie add to them? What does the “garden of letters” represent to each of them?
The characters often refer to passages from The Little Prince: “It’s only with the heart one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” What is the significance of these passages? How does it apply to Elodie’s life in Verona, and later on, in Portofino?
If you enjoyed THE GARDEN OF LETTERS, don’t miss
THE LOST WIFE
Alyson Richman’s rapturous novel of first love in a time of war
Read on for a special preview.
He dressed deliberately for the occasion, his suit pressed and his shoes shined. While shaving, he turned each cheek carefully to the mirror to ensure he hadn’t missed a single whisker. Earlier that afternoon, he had even bought a lemon-scented pomade to smooth his few remaining curls.
He had only one grandson, one grandchild for that matter, and had been looking forward to this wedding for months now. And although he had met the bride only a few times, he liked her from the first. She was bright and charming, quick to laugh, and possessed a certain old-world elegance. He hadn’t realized what a rare quality that was until he sat there now staring at her, his grandson clasping her hand.
Even now, as he walked into the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner, he felt as though, seeing the young girl, he had been swept back into another time. He watched as some of the other guests unconsciously touched their throats because the girl’s neck, stretching out from her velvet dress, was so beautiful and long that she looked like she had been cut out from a Klimt painting. Her hair was swept up into a loose chignon, and two little jeweled butterflies with sparkling antennae rested right above her left ear, giving the appearance that these winged creatures had just landed on her red hair.
His grandson had inherited his dark, unruly curls. A study in contrast to his bride-to-be, he fidgeted nervously, while she seemed to glide into the room. He looked like he would be more comfortable with a book between his hands than holding a flute of champagne. But there was an ease that flowed between them, a balance that made them appear perfectly suited for each other. Both of them were smart, highly educated second-generation Americans. Their voices lacked even the faintest traces of the accents that had laced their grandparents’ English. The New York Times wedding announcement that Sunday morning would read:
Eleanor Tanz married Jason Baum last night at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan. The rabbi Stephen Schwartz officiated. The bride, 26, graduated from Amherst College and is currently employed in the decorative arts department of Christie’s, the auction house. The bride’s father, Dr. Jeremy Tanz, is an oncologist at Memorial Sloan-Kettering hospital in Manhattan. Her mother, Elisa Tanz, works as an occupational therapist with the New York City public schools. The groom, 28, a graduate of Brown University and Yale Law School, is currently an associate at Cahill Gordon & Reindel LLP. His father, Benjamin Baum, was until recently an attorney at Cravath, Swaine & Moore LLP in New York City. The groom’s mother, Rebekkah Baum, is a retired schoolteacher. The couple was introduced by mutual friends.
At the head table, the lone living grandparent from each side was introduced to each other for the first time. Again, the groom’s grandfather felt himself being swept away by the image of the woman before him. She was decades older then her granddaughter, but there was something familiar about her. He felt it immediately, from the moment he first saw her eyes.
“I know you from somewhere,” he finally managed to say, although he felt as though he were now speaking to a ghost, not a woman he had just met. His body was responding in some visceral manner that he didn’t quite understand. He regretted drinking that second glass of wine. His stomach was turning over on itself. He could hardly breathe.
“You must be mistaken,” she said politely. She did not want to appear rude, but she, too, had been looking forward to her granddaughter’s wedding for months and didn’t want to be distracted from the evening’s festivities. As she saw the girl navigating the crowd, the many cheeks turning to her to be kissed and the envelopes being pressed into her and Jason’s hands, she had to pinch herself to make sure that she really was still alive to witness it all.
But this old man next to her would not give up.
“I definitely think I know you from somewhere,” he repeated.
She turned and now showed her face even more clearly to him. The feathered skin. Her silver hair. Her ice-blue eyes.
But it was the shadow of something dark blue beneath the transparent material of her sleeve that caused shivers to run through his old veins.
“Your sleeve . . .” His finger was shaking as it reached to touch the silk.
Her face twitched as he touched her wrist, her discomfort registering over her face.
“Your sleeve, may I?” He knew he was being rude.
She looked straight at him.
“May I see your arm?” he said again. “Please.” This time his voice sounded almost desperate.
She was now staring at him, her eyes now locked to his. As if in a trance, she pushed up her sleeve. There on her forearm, next to a small brown birthmark, were six tattooed numbers.
“Do you remember me now?” he asked, trembling.
She looked at him again, as if giving weight and bone to a ghost.
“Lenka, it’s me,” he said. “Josef. Your husband.”
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