The Sunflower Girl

by Rosanna Chiofalo

Anabella’s pulse beat even faster at this last thought. Her head was throbbing as she felt a headache coming on. She ran, hoping she could tire herself enough to distract her from the overwhelming anger she felt. When she thought she could run no farther, she stopped and dropped to her knees. Her chest was heaving hard. She closed her eyes and waited for her heartbeat to slow down. It was peaceful out here as it usually was. Anabella opened her eyes. An ocean of white roses greeted her.

  She hadn’t realized she’d run all the way to Mamma’s favorite rose garden. Ever since she was little, Anabella had known this garden was off-limits to her and everyone else who worked at the nursery. It was Mamma’s private garden. Anabella had always thought her mother loved it so much because it was the first garden she had planted when she moved to Pienza. But she was surprised to learn when she grew older that her mother had never harvested the roses from this garden and sold them.

  One time when Anabella was seven, she had pulled one of the white roses and tucked it behind her ear as she’d seen Chiara often do. But instead of Mamma’s white roses, Chiara would take one of the colored roses. While Anabella had her pick of any of the multicolored roses on the farm, for some reason the white ones intrigued her the most. Perhaps because they were forbidden. What harm could one do? There were so many anyway.

  An hour later, when Anabella returned home after playing outside, she had forgotten about the rose tucked behind her ear. When her mother saw it, she asked Anabella where she had found the rose. Anabella smiled and said, “From your favorite garden, Mamma. Doesn’t it look nice?”

  Her mother bent over and pulled the rose out from behind Anabella’s ear.

  “Do you remember I told you a long time ago that these roses were never to be touched? They are sacred.”

  Though her mother had not screamed, Anabella could tell she was upset with her. Tears filled her eyes as she said in a tiny voice, “I’m sorry, Mamma. I just wanted to see what they were like. I’ve never held one of the white roses in my hand before.”

  “Well, now that you have and your curiosity has been satisfied, you can forget about them. I will not punish you this time, but if I find out you pulled more roses from my garden, you will be punished, Anabella. Do you understand?”

  Anabella had nodded, and while she’d wanted to ask her mother what sacred meant, she’d been too afraid. Eventually, when she had learned the meaning of the word, she often pondered why her mother had described her white roses as sacred. Did she just mean they were special to her?

  Anabella walked over to Mamma’s garden, which was enclosed by a white picket fence. Each year when the garden grew larger than the previous year, her mother would extend the fence. Anabella paused before entering. There were so many white roses that they seemed to form one massive white cloud. None of the other gardens contained solely one color. She couldn’t see now why the white roses had held so much allure for her when she was a little girl. They seemed boring and lacking in splendor, unlike the colored roses. No wonder her mother loved the white roses so much. She was a woman who never deviated from her simple tastes and routines, just like the plain shirtwaist dresses she still wore and the simple bun she always pulled her hair into and how on certain days of the week they always ate the same meal. Mondays was pasta e fagioli and some meat dish, which surprisingly did vary from week to week. Tuesdays they ate whatever leftovers they had from the previous day. Wednesdays was pollo alla cacciatore. Thursdays was some pasta dish, and Fridays was a fish dish. The weekends were the only days when Mamma cooked a different dish from week to week. She often saved her more elaborate dishes, such as risotto or manicotti, for the weekends.

  As Anabella stepped into the garden, tears slid down her face. She would never see Dante again—all because of her mother’s selfishness. She would never leave home or this rose farm. Her life would continue to be the same monotonous routine that her mother’s life had become. She would probably start wearing the same clothes decade after decade and keep the precise daily schedule her mother had kept all these years. And of course, she would have nothing more to do with her life than tend to the roses.

  Anabella looked at the white roses and, for the first time in her life, she didn’t think they were beautiful. Even the more colorful roses and her favorite—yellow roses—she now saw in an ugly light. This rose farm that had once been paradise to her and the roses that had even been like her playmates when she was a lonely little girl were now nothing more than her prison—a prison her mother never wanted to free her from.

  Before Anabella knew what she was doing, she was pulling her mother’s beloved white roses free from their bushes, throwing them to the ground, and stomping on them. She ignored the thorns that scratched her hands and arms. When she was done, none of the roses remained on the bushes. Anabella’s anger finally abated. But instead of feeling better, a deep sadness took hold. Her mother would be devastated when she saw the garden. Anabella had never hurt her mother, but already today she had done so several times. First, when she acknowledged that she’d been seeing Dante behind her mother’s back. Then, when she admitted she wanted to get married someday. And now she had destroyed something her mother loved so much.

  Slowly, she stood up and made her way back to the house. Her thoughts drifted to Dante. She would never see him again, and she would never see how his last painting of her had come out. Who knew? Maybe Dante would destroy his paintings and drawings of her, just as she had destroyed her mother’s garden. For why would he want a reminder of what he couldn’t have? At least she had no physical reminders of Dante. But how would she ever erase the wonderful memories of their time together?

  CHAPTER 20

  Maria Rossi

  Florence, 1943

  As Maria turned off from the Piazza del Duomo onto a quiet alleyway, she was startled by the sound of the bells clanging from the Campanile. Naturally, because of where she was headed, she was especially jumpy. Then again, most Florentines were uneasy these days. Quickening her steps, she soon was at FAF’s office at the abandoned church. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure no one had followed her, she parked her bicycle and then hurried to the back of the church and down its basement stairs. She actually felt safer whenever she descended to the underground office. If only she could remain underground until the war was over.

  As Maria stepped into FAF’s office, she was surprised at its transformation into a makeshift dance hall. She marveled at the decorations. Though upon closer inspection, one could see they were a bit tattered, they still gave a festive air to the room. Streams of ribbons in the colors of the Italian flag hung from the ceiling. Plastic flowers were placed in small vases on the two folding tables that were lined up against the walls. The folding chairs that normally filled the space of the room for when FAF had their meetings had been placed instead on either side of the folding tables. There weren’t many refreshments, which wasn’t surprising with the rationing. Someone had made taralli. There was also an unopened box of panettone on the table. Maria noticed that many of the men had brought a bottle of wine or liquor.

  Maria had arrived ten minutes late, thinking most of the members would have already arrived at the dance. But she saw half of the members weren’t there yet. It was now half past seven, and though a few stragglers were still arriving, Franco had yet to show up. She began wondering if perhaps he wouldn’t be here tonight, but surely he would have told her—unless it had slipped his mind that she was going. No. He didn’t seem like the absentminded type.

  As the clock ticked closer to eight, she began worrying. What if something had happened to him? What if he’d been captured again? She crossed her arms and slowly paced the room. No one seemed to notice her. People were quickly pairing up and walking toward the dance floor.

  For a moment, one could almost forget that the world was at war. It was just another ordinary Saturday night, when young men and women were enjoying one another’s company. Maria might have been able to forget if just for the duration of the dance, but Franco�
�s absence only reminded her of the realities they now lived with.

  She was completely lost in thought and had not noticed someone was standing next to her right until she heard, “Vino?”

  Franco held out a small glass of wine. Maria caught her breath, not only because she was relieved to see he was all right, but also because he looked incredibly handsome. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. The navy suit he wore made him look distinguished. He was the only man present wearing a suit. Everyone else just wore button-down shirts and trousers. A few had worn ties, but that was it. It then dawned on Maria that Franco had gone out of his way to look his best for her.

  “Or maybe you’d like something stronger? Whiskey?” Franco smiled, looking amused.

  Maria then realized she had never answered his first question. Her cheeks burned, but she cleared her throat and did her best to appear relaxed.

  “No, wine is fine. Grazie. I was just distracted.” She took the glass of wine from Franco and turned her face slightly away as she took a sip. How could she have said she was distracted? No doubt he’d noticed she had been staring at him.

  “You look beautiful, Maria.” Franco’s gaze traveled the length of Maria’s body.

  She had borrowed a dress from Enza. It was a deep midnight blue with cap sleeves. The bodice was ruched and fitted, and the skirt hit slightly above her knee. Maria was a good two inches taller than Enza, so whereas the dress would’ve fallen below her sister-in-law’s knee, on her it rode higher. Franco had noticed this as well since his eyes lingered on her legs. Though she had several dresses she could’ve worn, she had wanted to wear something she’d never worn before. And with the war going on, she couldn’t ask Papà for money just to buy a new dress. They didn’t know when they might need to tap into the money they were saving.

  “Thank you, Franco. You look handsome. I like your suit.”

  He smiled. “Grazie. I suppose I overdressed, but I thought why not?” He took a sip of wine, clearing his throat before saying, “So you said you were distracted earlier. Is everything all right?”

  Maria nodded. “I’m fine.” She smiled to reassure him, but didn’t meet his gaze.

  “Tell me. Please.” Franco reached out and placed his hand on her arm.

  “It’s nothing, really. I just tend to get anxious sometimes before there’s any cause to do so.”

  “Are you nervous about being here?”

  “No.” She walked over to the table and took a tarallo, nibbling on it. “These are very good. You should have one.”

  “Please, Maria, don’t change the subject. Why were you feeling anxious?”

  Maria sighed. He wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

  “I was just a little worried when I saw you weren’t here. I thought perhaps you had been captured again.”

  Franco’s face grew somber. “I’m sorry if I worried you, Maria. And I’m sorry I was late. I was detained by a phone call. That’s why I didn’t arrive earlier.”

  “It’s all right. You don’t owe me an explanation. It’s just, with what we’re doing, it’s only natural that I would be concerned.”

  “Of course. Thank you for your concern. That means a lot to me.” He reached out and pushed a strand of hair that had escaped from Maria’s bun. She had worn her hair in a low bun. When she’d looked at herself in the mirror earlier that evening, she had decided to take the ivory silk flower that was pinned on her dress and tuck it into the side of her bun. Maria looked into Franco’s eyes. Her heart stopped as he stared back at her. Part of her wanted to look away, but she didn’t. She parted her lips slightly and tilted her head to the side, smiling at Franco.

  “Have you danced yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then, let’s go. We’ve already wasted an hour—all my fault of course for arriving late.”

  “Well, you weren’t the only latecomer. The dancing only started about half an hour ago, so you didn’t miss much.”

  “Good! Andiamo!”

  Franco grabbed her hand and rushed to the dance floor. A song with an upbeat tempo was playing. Maria did her best to keep up with Franco, but she didn’t have to worry. He expertly led her through the movements and twirled her several times. They laughed after each twirl, and every time their eyes met, she felt waves ripple through her stomach.

  After dancing to four songs in a row, they took a break. Franco held her hand as they made their way to the refreshments table. Maria noticed the other members were looking at them and smiling.

  “I think after all that dancing you need a shot of whiskey. Will you join me?”

  Maria hesitated, but then thought why not. She nodded.

  “Ready? Uno, due, tre!” Franco clinked her glass before quickly downing the whiskey.

  Maria did the same, doing her best not to scrunch up her face. Though the whiskey tasted horrible, the warming sensation she felt as it went down her throat made her feel relaxed.

  “It’s nice that you have this dance every week.”

  “It is. But I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to do this. I’d like to as long as we can because it helps keep morale up. But things are getting more intense.” Franco’s attention seemed to drift elsewhere.

  Maria waited until he was ready to resume the conversation. She realized her bun was coming undone.

  “Will you excuse me, Franco? I need to fix my hair.”

  “Of course. But you might want to just leave it loose. It’ll get messed up again after I twirl you some more on the dance floor.” He smirked and winked.

  “I think I have had enough dancing for one night.” Maria did her best to keep her face serious, but Franco shook his head, knowing she was teasing him.

  As she made her way to the restroom, she noticed a few of the couples were sitting on the steps that led to the main floor of the church. They were locked in embraces and kissing. Maria quickly walked past them and went into the bathroom. While she knew it was a party, it felt wrong to be kissing, and maybe even drinking and dancing, in a church. Though they were in the basement, which didn’t have any religious ornaments, and though the church was no longer actively being used, she couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. But she also couldn’t deny how good it had felt to forget about the war for a few hours and lose herself in dancing. It had felt good to pretend that everything was fine and normal.

  She took out the pins holding her bun in place and shook out her hair. Franco’s words came back to her about leaving her hair loose. She always kept her hair up in a bun or pulled back in a long braid. Most of the other women present at the dance wore their hair on the short side as was now the style, or like her, they kept it pulled back. Franco had dared to stand out by wearing a suit. So why shouldn’t she. Her hair reached to the middle of her back. She brought it forward and draped it over her shoulders. The bun she had worn it in had done little to relax her curls. She took a few shorter tendrils that framed her face and wrapped her index finger around them, increasing the curl. Then she took the silk rose that had been in her bun and tucked it into the front of her dress, creating a little cleavage. She smiled at herself in the mirror.

  Her eyes scanned the room as she walked back out to the dance floor until she saw Franco in a heated exchange with one of the other men. She slowly walked toward them until she was close enough to eavesdrop without making it obvious she was doing so.

  “We cannot wait any longer, Franco. We must act now or we’ll regret it.”

  “I refuse to discuss this any more. We can’t just rush into this decision.”

  “You are making a mistake.”

  “So be it, if it is. But how do you know that it won’t be a mistake to go ahead sooner than we’d planned?” Franco shook his head, disgust plainly evident in his features. He noticed Maria standing nearby. Turning to the man, he said, “We’ll discuss this more later.”

  He walked over to Maria. “I see you took my advice with your hair. I didn’t realize you had curly hair.”

  “I always wear i
t up.”

  “You should wear it this way more. Are you ready for another dance?”

  A waltz was playing. Maria had only danced the waltz with her father and brother when they had attended relatives’ weddings. Though she had been courted by other young men in her village when she was a teenager and in her early twenties, she had never gone to a dance hall with them.

  Without waiting for her response, Franco took Maria’s hand and led her to the dance floor. The closeness of their bodies in this dance made Maria catch her breath as she let her eyes meet Franco’s and he smiled. She returned his smile, but then looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the music and dance. Her thoughts drifted to those other young men who had courted her when she was younger. They had all been polite and handsome enough, but she hadn’t had the interest to continue seeing any of them beyond more than a couple of dates. She didn’t know why, and sometimes it troubled her that she could be so difficult. For many of her friends had married the first men they dated. Now, as she danced with Franco, excitement coursed through her, and she felt almost giddy. She’d never felt this way before. Who knew? Maybe if she had had the chance to dance with the other young men who had courted her and to be in such close proximity to them, she might’ve felt the same sensations. But deep down she knew that wasn’t true. Hadn’t Mamma always told her when she was growing up that she would know without a doubt when she had found the right man? Mamma had told her she would feel it in her body. Perhaps this was what Mamma meant—feeling her stomach flutter, her pulse race, and the elation that she was experiencing right now.

  When things hadn’t worked out with those other men and as she got older, Maria had just accepted that marriage wasn’t in the cards for her. And she’d been all right with that. She loved living with her family and enjoyed their companionship. She didn’t need to be married to feel fulfilled.

  “Maria, how about we get some fresh air out in the yard?” Franco’s voice purred close to her ear, sending a shiver down her neck and throughout her body.