“Don’t worry. I’ll be back. Just go to sleep,” Maria whispered to Anabella before placing a pacifier in her mouth and kissing her on the forehead.
She hurried over to her bedroom and retrieved the revolver she kept under her pillow every night. Before Maria left the room, she went over to the window and crouched down. Lifting slightly one of the blinds with her index finger, she peered through. Sweat beads immediately dotted her forehead as she saw the backs of two German soldiers in the sunflower garden. Their assault rifles were pointed in front of them. One was talking in Italian, but she could not hear precisely what he was saying.
Maria ran down the stairs and stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind her. Her eyes immediately squinted, not accustomed to the bright light after the dim interior of her house. She crouched down and moved along the side of the house to the sunflower garden where the soldiers and no doubt Franco were. How had the soldiers known to come looking for Franco here? Or was it just a lucky coincidence that they had stumbled upon him as he was leaving the house? But no, they had entered the house. She remembered Franco’s shattered eyeglasses on the floor in the foyer and the open door. He would never be so careless as to leave the door open and unlocked with Maria and Anabella sleeping upstairs. The soldiers had entered her house—once again. Anger began to course through her as she thought about how they’d violated her home a second time.
When she reached the back of the house, she almost passed out when she saw the sight before her. Franco, Gaetano, and Vito were standing with their arms raised above their heads. A deep gash oozed blood from Franco’s forehead, and both of his eyes were bruised and swollen almost completely shut. Gaetano’s and Vito’s faces had also been roughed up. Gaetano’s shirt was ripped open, and a crude Jewish star had been carved out on his chest. She then remembered Gaetano was Jewish.
Now both of the soldiers were taking turns speaking to the men in Italian. Maria strained to hear what they were saying, but she was still too far away. From their harsh tone, it sounded as if they were rebuking the men.
Maria aimed her revolver. Her hand was shaking so badly. She steadied it with her other hand, but just as she was about to pull the trigger, the two soldiers opened fire with their machine guns.
An anguished moan escaped from Maria’s lips, but the gunfire muffled it. Her heart felt as if it was being torn from her chest as she watched Franco’s body being riddled with bullets. Blood splattered everywhere and on the petals of the sunflowers that surrounded the men.
For a moment, it looked as if Franco’s eyes met hers, but she knew there was no way he’d seen her, especially since his eyes had been almost completely shut from the beatings he had suffered at the soldiers’ hands. Even after Franco’s body and those of Gaetano and Vito fell to the ground, the soldiers continued shooting.
Maria stood up, slowly making her way to the soldiers. She was merely five feet away from them when she shot one soldier in the back of his head. The second soldier was still firing his machine gun, but when he saw his comrade collapse, he quickly turned around. There wasn’t enough time for him to dodge the bullet from Maria’s gun. The bullet hit him in the arm, causing him to drop his rifle. She walked up closer and shot him again, this time in the chest. Then she shot one final bullet in his head. She was tempted to continue firing her gun at them, just the way they had done to Franco and the others, but sense took hold, making her realize there might be other soldiers coming soon and she’d need the ammunition.
Going over to Franco, Maria knelt by his side. His body was heavy as she pulled him into her lap and wrapped her arms around him.
“I’m here, Franco. I’m here.” She placed her hand against his heart as he’d done to her during the night. “I’ll always be here, and you’ll always be here in my heart and in Anabella’s heart.” She picked up his limp hand and pressed it to her heart.
She then let out the scream that had wanted to escape when she’d seen the bullets ripping open the body of her husband. If any of the few neighbors who had managed to not perish in the warehouse fire heard her, no one came out. How Maria wanted to take the revolver and end her life right there. And there was no question in her mind that she would have if it weren’t for Anabella. Maria suddenly remembered that she’d hidden Anabella in the armoire. Fear seized her once more. They needed to leave before the soldiers’ bodies were discovered and the Germans began searching homes to find out who had killed them. But she couldn’t leave Franco’s body in the open like this.
She stood up and placed her hands under Franco’s shoulders, dragging him back to the other side of the house. Laying him gently on the ground, she went over to the small shed her father had built, where his gardening tools were kept. She took out a shovel and began digging a hole.
As she dug, she prayed Anabella had fallen asleep and was still all right in the armoire. She had to work quickly. Every so often, she whispered to Franco.
“I love you so much, my dear, sweet husband. You brought so much happiness to me. You will always be my husband and the only man I will ever love. Do not worry about Anabella. I promise you, Franco, I will keep her safe, and I know you will be looking out for us in heaven now.”
Before placing him in the hole she had dug, she wanted to cover his body. Running into the house, she pulled the linen cloth from the dining room table, knocking over the vase of silk white roses Franco had once bought for her.
This way you’ll always have white roses even when they’re not in season.
She winced as she remembered his words. Draping the tablecloth over her arm, she went to the kitchen sink and wet a dish towel. Hurrying back outside, she knelt down beside Franco and placed her arm beneath his head as she wiped the blood from his face. She then smoothed his hair back. It was now time to wrap him in the tablecloth. She struggled to shift the tablecloth beneath Franco. Once she did, she carefully rolled his body in the fabric until he was completely shrouded in it. Before lowering him into the ground, she pulled down just enough of the tablecloth to reveal his face.
“Ti voglio bene, mio amore. I love you, my love.”
Maria kissed his lips and then took one last look at her husband’s face before covering it once more. As she lowered his body into the ground, sobs escaped her throat. Working as quickly as she could, she covered the hole with dirt. Her muscles ached, but she dared not rest for even a second.
As soon as she was done, she ran over to the wagon Papà used in his gardening and wheeled it over Franco’s resting place, hoping it would be enough to conceal that the ground had been dug up recently.
Picking up the revolver from the ground, she kept it in her hand as she made her way back into her house, constantly glancing over her shoulder to make sure no other soldiers were coming.
Maria closed the door behind her, but when she went to lock it, she noticed the lock had been broken. She’d almost forgotten the soldiers had entered the home. How had she not heard them breaking in while she slept? She pushed the dining room table up against the door and then ran upstairs to her father’s bedroom.
Opening the armoire, she pulled out the picnic basket holding Anabella. Maria breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Anabella was sleeping.
“Grazie, Dio.” She thanked God repeatedly as she quickly packed a few clothes for her and Anabella in a suitcase. The last items she packed were framed photographs—one of her and Franco on their wedding day and one of Franco holding Anabella.
Once outside, Maria went to the back of the house. She looked over to Franco’s resting place. It did not seem real that her husband, who had made love to her only hours before and slept beside her in their bed, was now in the ground. She ripped her gaze away, pushing aside the tears that threatened to consume her again, and walked over to her father’s Fiat. The car hadn’t been used in months. She didn’t know yet where she was going. All she knew was that she needed to leave Florence. It was truly no longer safe for her and Anabella.
Driving away from the property, Ma
ria tried not to look at the garden, but her eyes inevitably traveled to the sunflowers. Images of Franco, Gaetano, and Vito being executed flashed through her mind. Gaetano and Vito. Their bodies still lay out in the open.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t bury you, Gaetano and Vito. Please forgive me.”
Except for the blood that had been sprayed on the sunflowers, they looked like they did every day, standing tall as they reached for the sun and swaying to and fro in the gentle breeze. But for Maria, they no longer appeared the same—even the ones that had managed not to be splattered with blood. Gone was the idyllic sunflower garden of her childhood when she and Michele would run through the field and hide behind the tall stems. Gone was the haven she had run to when she was a teenager and a woman in her twenties, seeking to be alone. Even the memories of first discovering Franco hidden in the garden and making love to him for the first time among the sunflowers were erased. Where once she had seen beauty in the flowers, now all she saw was death. As she drove through the Tuscan countryside, the numerous sunflower fields she passed only served to further torment Maria and remind her that where beauty lay, evil could also reside.
CHAPTER 30
Signora Ferraro
Pienza, 1974
Signora Ferraro was sitting on the ground in the rose field, making small wreaths of roses. It was mid-June, and the rose gardens were all in bloom. She worked quickly, intertwining the stems of the roses with one another. One wreath contained yellow roses and the other peach roses. She made sure to keep Valeria and Mariella in her sight at all times. But the girls were too absorbed in their game of smelling a rose and then plucking it from its stem and offering it to the other to wander very far. Every so often one of them would come up to Signora Ferraro and offer a flower to her and say, “Rosa.” Or sometimes, they would say, “Nonna, smell.”
She couldn’t believe the girls were now three years old. They seemed to be growing faster than Anabella had. Signora Ferraro picked up the wreath containing the yellow roses and stood up, walking over to Valeria.
“Stai ferma, Valeria.” Signora Ferraro knew it was useless asking the toddler to remain still for more than a few seconds, not that it really mattered. She had removed the thorns from the roses’ stems so she didn’t have to worry they would prick the girls. When Valeria saw the wreath, she smiled and reached up for it.
“Isn’t it pretty, Valeria? I will place it on your head so you can be a princess. Nonna’s princess.”
Valeria gave a little hop of excitement as Signora Ferraro placed the wreath on her head. She had chosen the yellow flowers to complement Valeria’s chocolate-brown hair, which matched Anabella’s hair. Like Anabella, Valeria had soft curls flowing throughout her mane. There were times Signora Ferraro mistakenly called her “Anabella.” Valeria looked very much like Signora Ferraro’s daughter when she was her age, but she also looked like Franco. Sometimes, Signora Ferraro swore it was Franco’s eyes staring back at her instead of Valeria’s. It gave her comfort to feel as if Franco and Anabella were still with her.
“Mariella!” Valeria pointed to her twin sister.
“Si. Here is Mariella’s wreath.”
Mariella looked as if she was about to cry when she saw Valeria had been crowned with a wreath and she hadn’t. But as soon as Signora Ferraro brought over Mariella’s wreath, her eyes lit up. The peach flowers in Mariella’s wreath stood out beautifully against her honey-golden-brown hair. She took after Signora Ferraro, and it hadn’t escaped Signora Ferraro’s notice that Anabella and Dante had given her the name Mariella, which was a derivative of Maria. Dante had never admitted they had named Mariella after her, but she knew from the way he’d made a point of introducing her as a baby to her.
“Valeria was born first,” he had said when he first visited Signora Ferraro with the newborns. “And this is Mariella. She has your hair color.” He had smiled as he handed the babies, one at a time, to Signora Ferraro to hold.
She’d been so shocked that he had come to her house, and with the babies no less, that she’d remained speechless. When he had handed Valeria over, she’d immediately reached for the baby. Tears had sprung from her eyes as she was brought back to the day she’d first held Anabella in her arms, and a proud Franco had stood by her side. How strange—and wonderful at the same time—that she was holding a baby again. And there were two babies! When she had given Valeria back to Dante and had held Mariella, she had felt a sharp stab of guilt. Though she’d been touched that they had named Mariella after her, Signora Ferraro had also felt she didn’t deserve such an honor. Not after the way she’d treated both Anabella and Dante. And still, her son-in-law had brought his children to meet their grandmother and with no apparent animosity.
When Signora Ferraro had opened her door and had seen Dante standing there with the babies, her face had flushed profusely as she remembered the last time she’d seen him, when she had turned him and Anabella away after they’d announced they were going to Florence together. And she hadn’t spoken to Anabella since the day Anabella had returned and shared her news that she was expecting—the same day they’d had that horrible argument.
Now three years had gone by, and neither Signora Ferraro nor Anabella had reached out to the other. Yes, Anabella had inherited her stubbornness—the same stubborn pride Signora Ferraro had exhibited as a young woman when she refused to give up her work in the Resistance. But Signora Ferraro’s stubborn refusal to reach out to her daughter was no longer due to anger. She had stopped being angry a long time ago that Anabella had abandoned her and chosen Dante over her. No, it was shame that kept her from reaching out to her daughter as she replayed over and over in her mind the horrible words both she and Anabella had said to each other the last time they were together. Besides, she knew Anabella wanted nothing more to do with her. There had been times over the course of the past three years when Dante had left the twins with Signora Ferraro, and she’d seen Anabella was in the car. Dante always parked the car at the farm’s entrance. On these occasions, Anabella wore a large straw hat that concealed her features. If it hadn’t been for her beautiful, long curls that hung over her shoulders, Signora Ferraro would have had no idea that it was her daughter hiding from her in the car.
While their estrangement pained Signora Ferraro considerably and she’d thought of picking up the phone and ending it, she felt paralyzed whenever she thought about following through. She didn’t know why. So instead, she’d poured her love and energy into her granddaughters. Though she’d wanted to push them away out of fear of losing them one day, too, she simply couldn’t. That day when Dante first handed them to her, it was as if her body were separate from her mind as she reached forward to hold her grandchildren. And she couldn’t get enough of them. Dante brought them once a week. In the beginning, he stayed, but when he saw Signora Ferraro was more than capable of handling the twins on her own, he began to leave them unattended.
“Papà!” Valeria squealed as she pointed to the driveway that led to the farm. Soon she and Mariella were running toward their father.
Dante parked the car and got out. He waved to Signora Ferraro and then bent down, taking the girls into his arms as they crashed into him. Every time he came to pick up the girls, Signora Ferraro felt a pang of disappointment that her time with them would soon be over. A few months ago, she had begun asking Dante to have his midday meal with her. Sometimes he did, but other times he didn’t, saying that Anabella had cooked and was waiting for them. She hoped he could stay today.
“How were my girls today, Signora Ferraro?”
“Perfect angels as always.” She walked over and patted the curls on both of their heads. They looked at her, smiles beaming on their faces. Oh, how they made her happy. “Can you stay today to eat?”
Dante’s face clouded over for a moment before he said, “I’m sorry. I can’t. I need to go home and pack for my trip to Florence tomorrow. I’ve been so busy painting this week that I haven’t gotten anything ready. I’m going to be gone for two weeks
this time since I’ll have two exhibits back-to-back.”
“That long?” Signora Ferraro sounded concerned.
“I’m afraid so. I hate leaving Anabella alone with the girls for that long. Lord knows they can be a handful, can’t you?” He squatted down and tickled the girls, much to their delight.
He stood up once more. “I wanted to ask you, Signora Ferraro, if you would consider checking in on Anabella while I’m gone?”
“Me?” She couldn’t keep the incredulous tone from her voice. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dante. Have you spoken to Anabella about this?”
He shook his head. “I wanted to see how you felt about it first.” Dante paused, looking off to the sprawling fields of roses behind Signora Ferraro. “This might not be my place, Signora Ferraro, but I must say something. This needs to stop—you and Anabella not speaking to each other. It’s crazy! We are all family and should be together, especially when Anabella and I live only ten minutes away. You know she wanted to be near you when we decided we were moving back to Pienza.”
Signora Ferraro lowered her head as she looked at the ground. “I never asked her to come live near me,” she said in a very soft voice.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound accusatory. I was just trying to let you know that she wanted you in her life, and I know she still does.”
“Has she said that?” Signora Ferraro kept her gaze on the ground.
“No, but I know my wife. She misses you. Anabella always asks me how you are whenever the girls and I return home. And I know you miss her too just by the way you cook her favorite dishes whenever I eat here and always make sure to make enough for me to take back to Anabella.”
The Sunflower Girl Page 27