A shiver ran through me. If Rico didn’t return, his family business—the one his father built and loved—would be owned and operated by the government.
“We must go,” I said softly. “At once.”
He shook his head. “No. My home is with you. Here, in Italy.”
But I could see the future. His soft heart would never recover if he didn’t try to help.
“Family is first. You told me this much. We will go. You will work in the shop until your father is healthy.”
He took a deep breath and then let it out, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his decision. “You are right. I must go.” He looked me straight in the eyes. “Alone.”
I rose like a shot. “I am your wife. I will go with mein Ehemann.”
“East Germany is not a place for a holiday!” He had never spoken so firmly, and I blinked quickly to keep back tears. He softened his voice. “You will return to your papà’s house in Trespiano.” He stroked my cheek. “I love you, Poppy. I will always love you. But I must go home. And so must you. Once my father is well, I will return, this time as your husband, not your suitor. Your papà will not stop us.”
Though he tried to sound positive, his eyes were shrouded with grief. I wanted to help ease his pain. But I was too selfish.
“No. I cannot live without you.”
“You will never be without me,” he whispered, and he kissed my forehead. “When I return, I will build you a grand house. We will have children. They will have your eyes. They will live in freedom.” He cupped my face. “And on your eightieth birthday, we will walk the steps of the Ravello Cathedral, I promise you.”
That evening, I found his old leather satchel. From our closet shelf, I removed the jars of coins we’d been saving, surprised at how heavy they’d become. In a few years, we might be able to purchase that small home we’d dreamed of. But that wish seemed so far off now.
I was placing the jars in his satchel when Rico entered the room. “No,” he said. He opened the first jar, pocketing just enough to get him through his journey, and handed it back to me. “You will need the money for your train ticket to Firenze.”
Terror gripped me. How would I be greeted when I returned home? Rosa would be my ally of course. But my father hated me. My mother would make my life miserable. Even so, going home would be easy compared to what my Rico would be facing.
When he left the room, I removed enough money from the jars to pay for my train ticket and some essentials from the market. The rest I dropped into an envelope, along with a note.
Come back safely, my love. Until then, please know that I love you, that I pray for you, that I long for you, every second of every hour of every day.
I swiped the tears from my cheeks. For as certain as I tried to sound, I was terrified for him. I taped my luckiest coin to the note, the one I’d found on the steps of the Ravello Cathedral. I’ll see you very soon. And remember, we will be together at the cathedral on my eightieth birthday.
We shared our last sunset on the rooftop, sipping wine until the saffron sky faded to black. The next morning, I helped him finish packing. Already I felt empty, vacant. My eyes pooled as I wrapped bread and ham in waxed paper for his long journey ahead. Would he be imprisoned when he eventually arrived home? Would he be beaten by the guards?
His plan was to travel by train to the border of Italy. From there, he would rely on his bicycle, or the generosity of passersby to give him a lift. When he arrived in West Berlin, he would use his return train ticket, the one he had purchased almost two years before and never intended to use, to take him back into East Germany, the prison that was once his home.
The guards would interrogate him at the border, harass him, and demand to know where he’d been. Of course in the end they would allow him to return to the insular world of East Germany. “Their mission is to keep people inside,” he explained, “not turn them away.”
Because who in their right mind would choose to return to the East?
“I will contact you once I am safely back in Radebeul.”
“You will have letters waiting when you arrive,” I promised.
“Wait until you receive my first letter.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “Then you can write to me every day of the week.”
“But why must I wait?”
“The authorities open and censor the mail—sometimes they destroy it altogether. If they intercept a letter from you, they will know I have tried to escape. They will make me pay for this when I try to reenter.”
I shuddered, trying not to think of my husband being beaten by East German guards.
He took a small knife from his pocket and stood on a chair. Above our bedroom door, he carved a simple sentence.
We chose love.
PF & EK
We stood back and read the words. I fell into his arms, wishing I could die there.
I could have begged him to stay. He would have, I know this with my entire heart. But as he once told me, no person should have to choose between blood and water.
For the first time in my life, I was alone. My train left at four, giving me time to pack up the tiny apartment. But I couldn’t muster the energy. I wandered aimlessly around the simple flat, as if I’d been hollowed out, as if the very soul had been shucked from my chest.
I’d promised Rico I would return to Trespiano, but the thought of the cold stone farmhouse, my papà’s temper, made me weary. It’s possible I would be forgiven in time. But my parents’ forgiveness would come with a price. I would be expected to leave, to go to America with Rosa and marry Ignacio. And that was unthinkable. I was already married, bound for life, to a man I loved with my entire soul.
The hours passed. I didn’t pack—I couldn’t. I decided to wait one more day before returning home. I felt a little less alone in our sweet apartment, where Rico’s shirt still hung in the closet, where his toothbrush stood next to mine in a cup beside the sink, where I could sleep beneath the same tattered quilt we had shared.
Another day passed. Then a third. The trip back home loomed before me like a smoke-filled forest, one I’d soon have to enter. Dread set in. Then strength. By the end of the week, I’d made a decision. I would not return to the farm. I would not, could not, leave this little place above the bakery, the only place that had ever truly felt like home.
But Rico thought I was returning to Trespiano. And I’d agreed to wait until he was safely home before writing to him. He would be sending letters to Papà’s address. I wrote to Rosa and asked her to forward the letters from Rico that would surely come.
Within a week, I’d taken on a second job. In the mornings I made bread in the bakery downstairs, and now, in the evenings, I worked in the kitchen of a pizzeria a short walk away. Two paychecks, however meager, would provide enough money to scrape by.
Each day, I prayed for Rico’s safety, begged God to keep him healthy, to give him strength and courage. A month passed. Every morning, after my shift at the bakery, I hurried to the post office, my silly heart thrumming with hope that I might find a letter, forwarded from home. Instead, I found letters from Rosa, page after page, pouring out her heart to me, telling of the chasm she sensed between her and Alberto. She was convinced she didn’t deserve him, that he would one day leave her. She would wake at night crying, terrified Alberto would abandon her. And when she turned to him for comfort, he did not know how to give it. He called her silly, which only made her feel worse. She shared her fears with Mamma, who assured her that things would be fine as soon as she was with child. And then, at the end of each heartbreaking letter, she would add, Still nothing from Rico.
I sensed a change in my sister, a bitter obsession brewing. She had turned inward, consumed by her inability to make Alberto love her.
In my darkest hours, I wondered if love even existed. Was it possible we were both doomed to an agony of the heart, a longing to recapture something that was never ours to begin with?
In the dreary month of February, despair set in. I felt no sun
shine. Laughter was a foreign sound. I spent my few hours of free time writing letters, begging Rico to return. Letters I knew I could not send. I filled pages, pouring out all my misery, admitting to him that I wasn’t as brave as I’d pretended to be. Nor as selfless. I needed him. It didn’t matter that his family did, too. I needed him more.
Each day was a monotonous grind, twenty-four hours of nothingness. I washed dishes at the pizzeria until midnight, and rose at four to bake bread downstairs at Piacenti’s Bakery. Exhaustion set in. From two in the afternoon until six, I lay on the bed in our tiny room, staring at the words Rico had carved above the door, desperate for sleep. But the bright sunshine stalked me. The four walls that once held laughter and passion became an oven, stealing my slumber. Sounds from the street paraded through the open windows—girls gossiping in front of the bakery, a woman’s pealing laughter. Sounds of a person I once was.
My lips were cracked. My mouth tasted like cardboard. I couldn’t keep anything down, not even water. One day, after hearing me vomit in the bathroom, my boss at the pizzeria sent me home early. It was nine o’clock, the streets already dark. In my mind, bad men were stalking me. Shadows that I was certain were wolves lurked in doorways. Faster. I had to move faster. But my feet were weighted in concrete. I could barely move. I made it to our building before collapsing in the stairwell.
I lay on the hard wooden stairs, my breathing ragged, trying to garner the strength to climb six more steps.
That’s when I heard it—the creak at the top of the stairs. A door opened. Not any door, our door! I lifted my head. I blinked several times, trying to make sense of the face I saw before me. For the first time in two months, my heart rose. And then everything turned black.
Chapter 38
Emilia
Day Eight—Poppy’s Birthday
Ravello
Sounds of running water wake me. The hotel room is still cloaked in darkness, but beneath the bathroom door, light seeps. Poppy is already up. Her day has arrived.
Last night Lucy and I bombarded her with questions. Who was on the staircase? Was it Rico? Did he come back for her? But she’d gone silent, as if the lonely memory had left her spent.
I grab my glasses and my phone. At least I know his last name now. I type Krause Autoreparatur, Radebeul into my phone’s search bar. Damn. Not one entry. Next I try Erich Krause. Over three hundred thousand links appear.
“What are you doing?” Lucy asks, her voice groggy. She flips on the bedside lamp and curls onto her side.
“Trying to find Rico.” I hold out my phone. “Check out all these entries. Most of them are written in German. I’ll start with the marriage licenses and death certificates, so we can rule those out.”
“That’ll take forever.” She gently peels the phone from my hand and sets it on the table. “How about we let fate take over from here, and give Poppy her day?”
I’m taken aback by my cousin’s sensitivity. Just a week ago, she was ready to bolt, to run back to the States and forget about Poppy’s dream. But she’s different now, more generous, no longer bitter. Whether or not she believes the curse is lifted, I can’t say. But I do know she has hope. And that makes all the difference.
“May fate be kind to Poppy,” I say.
“I have a good feeling,” Lucy says, with a sparkle in her eye.
I turn away. When did my cousin start believing in miracles?
And when did I stop?
The morning air is cool, and puffy clouds at the horizon shed a lavender haze over the town. People mill about in the piazza, some clutching newspapers and coffee cups, others with maps and umbrellas. Poppy leads the way to the cathedral. Her gait is still slow, but she’s peppier than I’ve seen her in days. I linger behind, carrying our raincoats, and marvel at her. She’s dressed in a white frock. It’s yellowed and wrinkled, and two sizes too big for her, but she’s belted it with a strip of red leather. Around her neck she’s donned a bright purple scarf and her turquoise beads. As always, an array of bangles garnishes her arm.
“It’s a pretty morning for your birthday,” I say, trying to ignore the menacing clouds gathering over the sea.
She looks back at me. “I knew it would be. I’ve waited fifty-nine years to celebrate eighty. I even wore my wedding dress.”
“That’s your wedding dress?” I trot up beside her and study the aged white linen more closely. “The one Rico bought you?”
“No. The one from George Clooney.” Laugh lines crease her cheeks, then quickly fade. She’s stopped now, and gazing at a pink stucco building with a faded sign beneath an awning that reads Piacenti’s Bakery.
“That’s where you worked,” Lucy says.
But Poppy’s not looking at the first-floor bakery. Her head is raised, focused on the light in the second-floor window.
“Your old apartment,” I say, peering up at it.
“Rico’s, too.” She stares up at the building as if it’s her lost love himself. Finally, she crosses herself and continues toward her destination.
Morning mass has just let out, and a half dozen people amble down the Ravello Cathedral’s concrete stairs. Poppy studies each face, her hand at her throat. When the last person descends, she plants a foot on the first step. She peers up at the dozen remaining steps in front of her. It may as well be Mount Everest.
Lucy and I scamper to her side, but she waves us off. She straightens her shoulders and grabs hold of the concrete parapet. It takes her six minutes to reach the top, but she does it, with grace. She’s holding her chest when I come up beside her.
“Brava,” I say, and kiss her cheek.
“Rico may be watching. I wouldn’t want him to think I couldn’t climb a single flight of stairs.”
I gaze out at the piazza below. But of course Rico isn’t watching.
The first hour is hope filled. I open the door to the cathedral and Poppy steps inside. She does a quick perusal of the church’s interior, in case Rico forgot that they were to meet on the steps. When she doesn’t find him inside, she laughs.
“It’s only eight o’clock. The man always loved his sleep.”
Above us, the church bells clang nine times. All traces of the sun have vanished, and mist falls from the sky like holy water. Poppy stands beneath the eaves at the cathedral’s entrance, surveying the piazza like a queen overlooking her kingdom. But this queen is searching for one person, and one person only. And he’s nowhere to be found.
She remains undeterred throughout the damp morning. She loiters on the stair steps in her yellow slicker, ducking inside the cathedral only once, to “powder her nose.” I take off my sweater and create a cushion for her on the top step, insisting she sit. Why hadn’t I thought to bring a chair, or even a pillow? She’s reluctant, but finally she agrees. It takes both Lucy and me to lower her onto the step, and I briefly worry that we won’t get her back up. Though she doesn’t complain, I see her grimace. I hear the rattling in her chest. She’s not well.
Behind us, the cathedral door opens. A white-haired man with a long, thin nose steps out of the church, wearing a clerical collar. He stops when he sees Lucy and Poppy and me, perched on the top step like a trio of pigeons.
“Father,” Lucy says. “Would you please take our picture?”
“I’d be happy to.”
I hand my phone to the priest, who tells us his name is Father Benedetto, while Lucy helps Poppy to her feet.
“Bei sorrisi!” Father Benedetto says. “Beautiful smiles!”
He hands me the phone. While I check out the picture, I notice Poppy inching closer to the priest. She studies his face, peering closely at his nose. Her hand flies to her throat.
“You,” she says. “You married my husband and me. Fifty-nine years ago, right here at Ravello Cathedral. My husband was German. Surely you remember.”
His lips tighten and he shakes his head. “No, signora. I have been the priest in Ravello only forty years.”
“But …” Poppy’s voice drifts off.
H
e turns and makes his way down the wet steps.
“It must have been a different priest,” I say, rubbing her back.
By the time the bells chime twelve times, the clouds are spitting rain and my stomach is growling. “How about we break for lunch?” I suggest.
“There is no room for food. My stomach is packed with butterflies. I’m about to see Rico.”
“C’mon. Let’s stretch your legs.”
Poppy won’t hear of it. “You girls go ahead. I wouldn’t want to miss Rico.”
“He’ll wait for you,” Lucy says.
“Yes, but why make him? He’s waited much too long already.”
Chapter 39
Poppy
1961
Ravello, Amalfi Coast
The room was out of focus, and a wet washcloth bathed my forehead. Where was I? I had a vague memory of lying in the stairwell. I tried to sit up, but a firm hand was holding me down.
“Lie still,” a voice from far away called to me.
I was too weak to fight. I closed my eyes and drifted off again. In my dream, Rosa was calling to me. “Open your mouth.”
Suddenly, something hot seared my lip. I flinched and opened my eyes.
Rosa sat beside me on the edge of the sofa, a steaming bowl in her hand. She lifted a spoon to my lips. “Eat,” she demanded.
The weak broth tasted of salt and burned my throat as it made its way to my stomach.
“Another,” she said.
I ate, obedient, until the bowl was empty. Then she held a cup to my lips and made me drink water. When I’d swallowed twice, I found my voice.
“What are you doing here?” My words were hoarse.
She set the cup down on the table. “A letter arrived last week.” She removed an envelope from her pocket. “From Germany.”
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