I let out a cry of relief. “Thank God. You came all this way. Grazie, Rosa.” I reached for the letter, but she held it from my grasp.
“Lie still. I will read it.”
My dearest Poppy,
I pray that you are reading this letter, and that you are well and safe in your parents’ home. Perhaps you’ve read other letters I’ve sent. Perhaps not. As I warned, mail from East Germany is likely to be intercepted or even confiscated altogether.
I am home now, though it feels nothing like it should, or once did. My heart is in Ravello, in our tiny flat above the bakery. My home is wherever you are.
I had hoped that upon my return, I would find my father much improved. I hoped I could say good-bye, once again, and make my way back to you, my love.
Sadly, this is not the case. My mother, who was always fragile, has aged two decades. She cannot finish a sentence without breaking into tears. She is so thin I fear her bones will snap. She refuses to venture beyond the house. She will not leave my father’s side.
Johanna is the only strength in our family, but she alone cannot keep our family business intact. Her husband is useless. Johanna must go to town each day, where food is scarce and lines are so long it can take hours to receive a loaf of bread. Yesterday, she was able to get a tiny can of mango juice. It came all the way from Cuba, one of our Communist trading partners. A sip of that sweet nectar was a bit of heaven in this place I call hell.
I have rolled up my sleeves, and already a dozen cars are waiting to be repaired. I lie beneath them, changing oil, exchanging fan belts. With my head inside the hood, I daydream of you, my beautiful wife. The image of your face is what gets me through these endless days of darkness.
I have thought of nothing else since I left, and I have come to the conclusion, you must go to America.
I gasped, and Rosa stroked my cheek. “Listen to him,” she said. “Rico is right. He wants what is best for you. We all do.”
“No,” I said. “I will never leave Italy. Not until mein Ehemann returns.”
A flicker of alarm lit Rosa’s face. “Please, Paolina, do not be foolish. I know it hurts, but he is not coming back, la mia sorella testarda.”
I looked away. Finally, she returned to the letter.
The place where I grew up, the beautiful town of Radebeul, has grown dark and cold. Armed guards keep watch at the borders between East and West twenty-four hours a day, making it increasingly dangerous to escape. But the truth is, amore mio, I cannot leave. Each day, it feels as if the door to freedom is closing for me. I am my family’s only hope for maintaining ownership of our father’s business, of eking out a meager existence that is just a notch above starvation. And worse, I believe it would kill my mother now if I were to disappear again.
Once, you spoke of coming here, so we would be together. I forbade it then, and I forbid it even more today. I live in a prison. I would never allow you to enter such madness.
So go, please, mio unico amore. Go to America, land of the free, and blossom. I want you to marry again. Yes, take the man’s hand—your brother-in-law’s uncle—if he pleases you. It will bring me peace, knowing that you are safe and happy and cared for, that I have not ruined your life with my silly dream. But know, please, always, that I love you, and I will continue to love you until my last breath.
One day, we will meet again. I get through each day, dreaming of your eightieth birthday, our fifty-ninth anniversary, and the joy of holding you again at the Ravello Cathedral. Until then, I will guard you—your memory, our love.
Eternally yours,
Rico
I took the letter from Rosa and reread every word three times. “He is gone,” I murmured. Panic rose, stealing my breath. I tried to sit up. “My husband is not coming for me.”
Rosa held my hand. “Husband? Wife? Why are you using these words?”
I explained the private ceremony at the Ravello Cathedral, the mysterious young priest who blessed our marriage. “We are married,” I said. “And I miss him so much.”
Rosa’s face clouded with tears. “I had to bid good-bye to my Alberto four weeks ago. On the twelfth of January, he and Bruno finally left for America.”
I took her hand, shamed by my selfishness. My poor sister was without her love, too, and all I could think about was myself. “Oh, Rosa, I am so sorry. You are in pain as well.”
She nodded and dabbed a handkerchief at her nose.
“I understand how you are feeling,” I told her. “I realize the power of love now, how it is all-consuming, how you swear you will die if you cannot hold Alberto in your arms. Just like me, without your husband, you feel like a leaf, fluttering in the wind with no direction.”
“Sì. That is right.” She looked down at her hands. “I only wish my Alberto felt this same way.”
“Of course he does. What do you hear from him? Are he and Bruno happy in their new home? Alberto must be so anxious for you to arrive. He sends you letters, yes?”
Tears filled her eyes. “One. One single letter from my husband, while Bruno has sent a half dozen to Mamma. He tells Mamma of the pub next to the store, the modern American women he meets. Surely Alberto is meeting these same women.”
“Rosa, stop. He loves you very much.”
But as I spoke the words, I knew in my heart this was not true. Now that I knew love, I recognized its absence. Never had I witnessed Alberto gazing at my sister with tender eyes. I’d never once seen him brush a stray hair from her face, or knead the back of her neck, or stroke her cheek with his thumb. And at night in the attic, on the other side of the partition, I never once heard the sounds of love that Rico and I found impossible to silence.
“He still wants me to come to America as quickly as possible. He still wants to start a family. I must get there before he changes his mind.”
“He will not change his mind,” I said. “You have much to look forward to.”
She smiled, but her face was etched with anxiety. I quickly calculated how long she and Alberto had been married. Seventeen months. And still, no baby.
“Papà says in six more months we will have saved enough to purchase our tickets.”
As she spoke, smells from the bakery drifted up through the vent, as they often did. Sweat broke through my skin. I swallowed back a wave of nausea. “But, Rosa, I told you, I will never marry Ignacio. You must understand. I will not leave without Rico.”
My eyes landed on the letter. “I must write to him. I must tell him I will wait for him. Surely his father will get better.”
“Lie back,” she said, and she kissed my forehead. “Tomorrow you will write to Rico. Tonight, you must sleep.”
I woke the next morning, alone on the sofa, a tattered blanket covering me. I struggled to rise, my limbs stiff and cramped. The pink of dawn painted the room, like the inside of a seashell. What time was it? The bakery. The bakery! I had to get downstairs to the bakery.
I managed to crawl from beneath the blanket. I stood still, one hand on the sofa, waiting until my legs felt trustworthy. I crossed the room, barefoot, grabbing hold of the walls as I made my way to the bathroom. As I passed our bedroom, I saw my sleeping sister. My heart cried out and I put a hand over my mouth. The small bed where Rico and I slept, the coral-colored quilt beneath which we alone mingled, the one that still smelled of him, no longer felt sacred.
I turned to the bathroom and filled the tub, the rush of the water drowning my tears. I cursed my selfishness. Rosa traveled all the way here to bring news from Rico. Surely she deserved to sleep in the bed. I only wished I’d had one last moment to press my face into the frayed patchwork, to breathe in the scent of my husband’s skin, before saying good-bye.
I was standing in the tub, drying myself, when Rosa entered. She took one look at me and let out a strangled cry. She backed up a step, as if I were a hideous creature she was frightened of.
My sister and I had shared a bedroom for all of my life. We didn’t knock before entering a room. We didn’t hide our bodies
from each other. But so much had changed in the past year. I was no longer a girl. I clutched the flimsy towel, trying to cover my nakedness.
She took one tentative step closer to me, then another. With one swift pull, she yanked the towel from my clutches.
“No!” she cried.
I cringed with embarrassment, lowering my eyes. Surely I looked too thin—“skeletal,” my full-figured sister might say.
“Incinta,” she said, her mouth agape.
The hairs on my arms rose.
She took me by the shoulders and pointed me toward the mirror. “My god, Paolina, you are pregnant.”
Chapter 40
Emilia
Lucy and I wrap our arms around Aunt Poppy, trying to shield her from the painful memories. The pregnancy didn’t end well. Uncle Dolphie told me.
“I worried Rosa might resent my pregnancy,” Poppy says. “But she never appeared to. Not once.”
“She was pregnant, too, right?” Lucy says. “That took the sting out of it.”
“She was not yet aware. But yes. Once she knew she was going to be a mother, my sister seemed … reborn.”
“And more sure of Nonno’s love?” I ask.
“Yes. Parenthood bonded them.”
Two pregnant sisters, but only one with her parents’ support, and a husband, and, eventually, a healthy child. I gaze past the square, beyond the pretty little town of Ravello. The terraced hillsides host pergolas of chestnut poles draped with grapevines. An idyllic scene that looks—and feels—forlorn on this misty day. What was it like, living in this magical village while your heart was being torn from your chest? Did she find comfort, listening to the purr of the gulf, gazing out at the frothy Tyrrhenian Sea beyond? Or did the infinite horizon fill her with despair? How long did she stay? Did she continue working at Piacenti’s Bakery, living in the upstairs flat? The flat …
I rise. “I’ll be back.”
I dart across the piazza, my idea gaining momentum. What if Poppy could step inside her old apartment, revisit the place she and Rico once shared? Might it comfort her?
The rich aroma of bread and fresh coffee intensifies as I near the old bakery. Up close, I can see that the pretty stucco building is in need of a coat of paint. The door opens, and a tall Italian man steps out, casually dressed in a black Henley shirt and a relaxed knit beanie. With a novel in one hand and a to-go cup in the other, he holds the door with his elbow. An elderly woman shuffles in.
“Grazie, Nico,” she says. “You will be taking your grandfather to mass Sunday?”
He grins. “We would not miss it, Signora Cappello.”
“You are a good boy.” She pats his cheek as she passes.
His eyes are still smiling when he spots me. “Please,” he says, his elbow remaining on the door.
“Grazie,” I say. “But I’m not going in.”
He steps out and the door swings shut behind him. “Okay, but do not wait too long. Signor Piacenti makes the best espresso in all of Ravello, and he just informed me he is closing his bakery at the end of the year.” He gazes into the cloudy shop window. “If I had nine lives, I would take over this lease.”
“You’re a baker?” I ask.
“I can open a tin of biscotti.”
I laugh. “That’s a start.”
“No,” he continues, “I have a different plan for this place.”
“It looks like you’ve got your opportunity.”
He gives me a wan smile. “It must remain a dream. You see, I am un avvocato.”
I scowl. “You are an avocado?”
He tips his head back and laughs, a rich, full-throated melody that warms me. I bat my head, immediately recognizing my mistake.
“You’re a lawyer,” I say. “Sorry. That’s not a word I use often in Brooklyn.”
“Yes, my adorable American friend, I am an attorney. Just like my father, and his father. But if you prefer to think of me as a Mexican fruit, you may.”
I laugh. “Okay. Avocado it is.”
We stand, facing each other, smiling. Moments pass before I realize I’m staring at this perfect stranger—emphasis on perfect—while I’m supposed to be on a mission. “Oh, well, I better go.”
“Please, join me for a pastry.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” I hold out my hand. “Good luck to you, Avocado.”
He grips my hand and gives me the most genuine smile, one that reaches all the way to his dark eyes. “And to you, American girl. Until we meet again, ciao.”
I look back only once as I make my way toward the back courtyard. He’s still watching me, with that beautiful smile on his face. I lift a hand and grin, then turn away, another step closer to the woman I want to be.
I round the corner and arrive at a shaded courtyard crowded with potted plants and wandering vines and a perfectly proportioned lemon tree. A shiver runs through me as I climb the staircase to the second floor, imagining my aunt, collapsed on these very same stairs, fifty-nine years ago.
I reach the apartment door, take a deep breath, and knock. Immediately, doubts surface. Am I being rude, asking this favor? Does my aunt even want to see this place again?
Before I have time to turn away, the door opens and a pretty twentysomething woman appears. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
“Posso aiutarLa?” she asks, leaning to look behind me. Can I help you?
“Sì,” I say. “I’m sorry to be so bold, but my aunt lived in this apartment years ago. We’re leaving Italy tomorrow. I wondered if perhaps you’d allow her to take a quick tour. It would mean a lot to her.”
The woman fidgets with her necklace, and I count at least four rings on her long fingers. “Uh, now is not a good time.”
“I understand. I just had to ask. You see, this is her last trip to Italy.”
“I am sorry. It is my boyfriend’s place, not mine. He is not here, and it is not up to me to allow it.”
“Of course.”
I return to the steps of the cathedral. I don’t tell Poppy about my attempt to arrange a tour of the apartment. The last thing she needs is another disappointment.
It’s midafternoon, but the gunmetal sky makes it feel later, colder, lonelier. I sit beside my aunt, holding her chilled hand. She coughs, a deep, chest-rattling cough. She should be in bed. This isn’t good for her.
Below, Lucy sits on a bench in the square, using my phone to talk to Sofie. The wind stirs and I tuck the purple scarf around Poppy’s neck.
“How about you take a break? I’ll walk you back to the hotel, then come right back to watch for Ri—”
“Absolutely not,” she says, her face set in granite.
“Let’s step into the cathedral,” I say. “Just for a minute.”
This time, she acquiesces.
I hold open the massive wooden door, assailed by the smell of damp concrete and candle wax. It’s not much warmer in the drafty interior of the church than it was outside. Poppy crosses herself with holy water and pauses a moment to catch her breath.
She grips my arm and leads me toward the far side of the cream-colored cathedral, stopping when we reach a statue mounted on the wall. The Blessed Virgin smiles down at us. Poppy clings to the wooden kneeler and slowly drops to her knees. While she prays, I light a candle.
Moments later, she crosses herself and I help her to her feet. She turns toward the nave, looking from one side of the aisle to the other. The cavernous cathedral is empty except for one woman near the front, kneeling in a side pew.
I turn to leave, but Poppy freezes. I follow her gaze. Beside the kneeling woman, almost hidden in the shadows, sits a wheelchair, its back to us. I make out the black collar of an overcoat and the back of someone’s head, covered with a spattering of gray fuzz.
“Rico?” Poppy whispers, at once a question and a call and a plea. The hairs on my arms rise.
She charges forward at a snail’s pace, grabbing hold of each pew as she moves down the aisle, closer to the man, closer to her dream.
My heart quickens. Please, God, I pray.
She moves with urgency, as quickly as her diseased body will carry her. Finally, she’s only feet from his chair.
“Rico?” she croaks. The man doesn’t move. “Is … is it you, Rico?”
The woman pivots in the pew. She smiles kindly. “Mio padre,” she whispers. “Salvatore.”
But Poppy doesn’t trust her. She grips the metal handle and makes her way around to the other side of the wheelchair. She peers down at the man. Her face falls and her hand goes to her mouth. “Mi dispiace,” she says, her voice hoarse. “So sorry.”
I don’t look at Poppy as we walk back down the aisle. It’s a journey for her, one she’s waited nearly six decades for. And it’s coming to a bitter end.
It’s six o’clock and the piazza lights flicker on. Our raincoats are soaked, and Poppy’s voice is raspy.
“You are thinking there was no Rico.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
“We know Rico was real,” Lucy says. “But for whatever reason, he can’t be here today.”
Poppy looks from Lucy to me, and back again. “You think he never loved me? That he forgot about me?”
I do believe there was a Rico. And it’s entirely possible he loved my aunt fifty-nine years ago. But he may not even be alive anymore. Or maybe his love wasn’t as powerful, as lifelong and unwavering as hers. But I don’t voice my doubts. Instead, I wrap my arm around her shoulders, hoping to cushion the blow.
“For nearly sixty years,” Poppy continues, her raspy voice surprisingly forceful now, “I have held fast to the belief that I was loved. This is what got me through the darkness.” She turns her head and gazes up at the cathedral, as if it were an angel. “And now, when the curtains of my life are closing, I don’t have to stop believing, not if I don’t want to.”
It’s nine o’clock and darkness has fallen over the Piazza del Duomo. In the distance, thunder cracks. Lucy and I stand under our umbrellas at the foot of the stairs, looking up at Aunt Poppy. She’s huddled in the same spot on the steps, a hotel blanket on her lap. We’ve covered her in a cape of plastic to keep her dry. To anyone passing by, she’d be thought a homeless woman.
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