The Principessa's dark eyes were hooded. 'There is danger every where. Even in Rome.'
'But Luigi thinks that Umbria will become a battlefield.'
'Then let it be so. I, for one, refuse to be driven from my home.'
'But don't you care about your well-being?' Charlotte-Anne argued incredulously. 'Or about living? Must you be so stubborn and selfish?'
'Stop being so melodramatic,' the Principessa said irritably. 'If you want to leave and return to Rome, then you're welcome to do so.'
And Charlotte-Anne thought: I would, if only I could. But I promised Luigi that I would see to it that his parents are safe and taken care of. How can I do that if I return to Rome?
So she stayed on for several more days, and before she knew it, the days became weeks. Then she began to feel unwell. At first, when she missed her period, she didn't pay much attention to it. It had happened often enough before. Then each morning, and anytime she smelled food, she began to feel nauseated.
Suddenly she was afraid for more than herself and Luigi's parents.
Even before she went to see the doctor, she knew she was pregnant once again.
As the date of her delivery drew nearer, so did the war, but Charlotte-Anne stayed on at the Palazzo di Cristallo. A promise was a promise, and Luigi, misguided though he might have been politically, was her husband. She could not let him down. If his parents refused to leave, then she had no choice but to stay with them.
Umbria became a cauldron of speculation. Rumors about the Americans abounded. People said that they were advancing; others that they had been driven back into the sea. Still others whispered that they were committing atrocities.
Charlotte-Anne didn't listen to any of it. She knew the Americans weren't monsters. But she was fearful for her unborn child. Ever since her first stillborn child, she had never carried a child full term. Day after day, she prayed that she would be able to this time. Now that the world had gone mad, and there was so much death, she wanted more than ever to bring a little joy, a new life into the world.
Each day which passed without the feared miscarriage seemed a miracle.
Months passed, and her body grew swollen. She found it increasingly difficult to walk around. When eight months had passed, she wept silently for joy.
In her ninth month, the Allies had beaten the retreating Germans and Italians to within ten miles south of the palazzo.
Once again, Charlotte-Anne pleaded with Marcella, who steadfastly reiterated, 'This is my home. I will not leave.'
Now when the wind blew from the south, it brought along with it the reverberation of artillery barrages. The night sky began to look like it did back home on the Fourth of July. Then they became aware of the retreating wounded Germans and Italians.
And finally, the Allies were but two miles away.
It was then that Charlotte-Anne formulated the plan. She knew little of military strategy, but she knew two things: the hill upon which the Palazzo di Cristallo had been built, and the hill on which the convent was located, were two of the highest points in the entire region. The Germans and the Allies would each surely try to gain control of them, for whoever was king of these hills could control the surrounding countryside with ease.
She smuggled off one last letter to her mother, informing her that she was now in her eighth and a half month of pregnancy, and then she saw to it that a storm cellar was dug in the middle of the vineyards, much like the ones they used to have in Texas in case of tornadoes.
If worst came to worst, and she and the di Fontanesis found themselves in the middle of a battlefield, they would be able to hide out there in relative safety.
The shelter was barely completed before she was grateful for her foresight.
17
She wasn't sure how long it had been since they fled the palazzo. It seemed days at least since they had hidden out in the vineyard.
There was hardly room for the three of them, and they could barely stretch out all at once. All they had with them was some candles for light, which they used frugally. Above them, the hastily contrived trapdoor was a piece of thick wood, camouflaged by a huge grapevine which they had pulled over it. The little food they had managed to take with them had run out quickly and now they were hungry, thirsty and tired. Their nerves were on edge. Charlotte-Anne feared that at any moment they would reach the breaking point, lose control, and turn on each other.
The dark pit of the shelter stank from the bucket they used in the corner and from their own sweat. The battle above seemed to last forever. All they ever heard was the constant roar and echo of artillery barrages, the muffled rat-a-tat-tat chatter of machine guns, the whines of stray bullets. Too often, shells landed nearby, causing tremors in the pit, and stones and earth would come loose and slide down the wall.
Charlotte-Anne was certain they were going to be buried alive.
'Our home!' the Princess Marcella di Fontanesi wept over and over. 'All our treasures. Everything we own is going to be destroyed! Generations of - '
'Hush,' Prince Antonio di Fontanesi, the father of Charlotte-Anne's husband, hissed at his wife. 'At least we are alive.'
'Not for long,' his wife whined. 'You wait and see. We'll all be dead. When Luigi comes back, it'll be to bury us. If he ever finds us down here, that is. We would have been safer staying in the palazzo!'
Charlotte-Anne felt the first pain at the height of the bombing. Several times, she started to tell them, but each time she waited for it to subside. Finally, there was no way she could deny it.
'I'm going to have the baby,' she said.
'What? Now?' The Principessa Marcella's voice was a hiss in the darkness. 'Here? We have no food to eat, and we've run out of water to drink . . . '
Charlotte-Anne struggled to spread out more comfortably. 'I can't do anything about it,' she said apologetically. 'I know the timing's bad. Please, you must help me.'
'You are Luigi's wife. Of course we'll help you,' Prince Antonio said. 'Won't we, Marcella?'
'If only the battle would let up,' the Principessa wailed. The carefully modulated, cultured tones of her voice had deserted her, and she sounded like any frightened, whining fishwife. 'How can we help? We can barely see what we're doing? There is only one candle left. And this place is so filthy:
Charlotte-Anne reached out and touched her mother-in- law's arm. 'But it's safe, at least for the time being.'
Another mortar round landed close by, and the ground shook crazily. Simultaneously, a million hailstones rained down on the trapdoor.
Principessa Marcella let out a shriek. 'It's the end!' she screamed. 'The end!'
'Quiet,' her husband hissed. 'We must remain calm.'
'Calm!' his wife cried. 'How do you propose I stay calm?'
'We must. We have a baby to deliver.'
The Principessa began to laugh hysterically. 'If it weren't for her, and her precious baby, we wouldn't be in this fix. I'm leaving! I'm getting out of this trap. You two can stay here till kingdom comes, for all I care.' Her voice took on a mocking tone. 'Ironic, isn't it? Her countrymen have invaded Italy. It's because of them that - '
The sound of the Prince's hand was like a gunshot against his wife's cheek. She let out a shriek and quieted down. Then she began to whimper softly.
About six hours later, as the battle reached its zenith, the angry cries of the baby filled the pit.
'It's a girl,' the Prince said with soft pride. 'The house of the di Fontanesis has another princess.'
Principessa Marcella laughed. Her voice was shrill. 'Another princess! That's just what we need, you old fool, isn't it? Luigi's away in battle, killed for all we know. Who's to carry on our name? It's a son our house needs, not another daughter.'
Despite her exhaustion, Charlotte-Anne heard the Principessa's hysteria and was afraid that the Prince would once again strike his wife. Instead his voice trembled with dignified control. 'Be quiet, Marcella. Can't you, for once, count your blessings?'
Charlotte-Anne's ey
es filled with tears. She had forced herself to hold on, to endure the ordeal for the child's sake. But now the darkness, the filth, the Principessa's hysteria and cruelty, her own unutterable exhaustion, it all became more than she could bear. The Prince held the child and she let herself slip into dark unconsciousness.
She had no idea how long she slept, but the baby's cries awoke her.
'I have to feed her,' Charlotte-Anne murmured.
Carefully, the Prince handed her the child.
'Hello, little daughter,' Charlotte-Anne whispered, her voice full of love.
'What are we going to name her?' the Prince asked.
'I don't know,' Charlotte-Anne answered. 'We'll wait for Luigi.' She was too exhausted to say more, so instead she uncovered her breasts and turned to the child. She laid her near her left breast, where the baby instantly found the nipple and began sucking purposefully. Then fear gripped Charlotte-Anne's heart. The baby suckled, but she wasn't getting any milk. Quickly, she moved the child to her other breast, but it, too, was dry.
A cold terror filled her. It was no use, she thought. She had no milk to give the child.
She stroked her baby gently. The infant sucked madly, then began to cry again. Charlotte-Anne's voice was a frightened whisper. 'I don't have any milk.'
Principessa Marcella let out a groan of exasperation. 'See? What did I tell you? These modern American girls cannot do even that. I told you, didn't I? Why couldn't Luigi marry some nice Italian - '
'Shut up, Marcella,' the Prince roared. 'For once, will you just shut up!'
A wild kind of triumph crackled in the Principessa's voice, even above the miserable cries of the child. 'But how's the baby going to eat? Eh? You tell me! I suppose we just walk into the kitchen and heat it some milk - '
'Please!' Charlotte-Anne begged, her voice surprisingly strong. 'Stop it. You're only frightening the baby.'
Outside, the artillery barrage was coming closer, but there was a sudden silence in the pit. Even the baby was quiet, apparently exhausted. But it wasn't long before she began to wail again with hunger.
'Hush, hush, little baby, don't you cry,' Charlotte-Anne sang in English, feeling not only fear, but shame for failing in her most basic duty as a mother. The singing did little to quiet the child, and finally Charlotte-Anne wept in misery.
Eventually, the infant fell into a fitful sleep, as did Charlotte-Anne, but it didn't last long. The baby soon woke again from the pain of her hunger. The crying went on for hours, and there was nothing any of them could do.
Charlotte-Anne knew her baby would die.
Finally, she could stand it no more. She kissed the baby's soft cheek and whispered, 'I'm going to fetch you some food, Miss No-Name.'
'You cannot leave,' the Prince gasped, unbelievingly. 'Not while the battle is raging all around us. Besides, you are too weak.'
'Then who will get milk for the baby?' Charlotte-Anne asked quietly, painfully pushing herself up.
The Prince was silent. For once, even the Principessa did not speak.
'Momma will be back soon,' Charlotte-Anne told the baby. She kissed her and then reluctantly handed her over to the Prince. 'Take good care of her.'
'I will,' the Prince said solemnly.
Carefully, Charlotte-Anne rose, lifted the trapdoor lid, and peered out. It was night, but flashes of hellish artillery lit the sky, and the sounds of shelling were like thunder. She took a deep breath.
'We'll pray for you,' the Prince said in a shaky voice.
Charlotte-Anne looked down at her in-laws. In the flashes of shell-bursts and flares, their eyes gleamed up at her, wide and frightened. Then, without hesitating further, she slowly climbed out of the shelter, struggling for the strength to mount each step of the ladder. At the top, she let the trapdoor slam shut and collapsed. Her nose was filled with the stink of cordite and fire; she was surrounded by the stifling air of hell.
Slowly, torturously, she began to crawl on her belly.
Each movement was agonizing, but she imagined she thought she still heard her baby's cries and crawled on.
Before she managed to get fifty yards, she heard the chatter of a nearby machine gun. Two bullets slammed into her arm and her side. She rolled over on her back and looked up at the fireworks sky, feeling nothing so much as surprise. She tried to get up, but she could not move. She was confused, because rather than feeling pain, she couldn't feel her body at all.
Before she slipped into unconsciousness, she began to pray. Not for herself, but for her newborn child, who she feared would starve before the next day was through.
18
The three old crones dressed in tattered black moved slowly through the carnage. Black oily plumes of smoke billowed from various spots around the field. The whole scene seemed like a dreamscape. The intense blue of the cloudless sky, the spires of the tall cypresses, the heat from the fires all around which made everything shimmer, the destroyed weapons, the men lying silent or moaning, the blood- splattered corpses of those who had died or those who would shortly die - it was all unreal and thus, somehow, more bearable.
'It is over,' the first of the hunched-over old women whispered in a dry, brittle voice. 'All that is left now are the dead.'
'And the dying,' amended the second woman, clutching her ragged shawl with arthritic claws. Her sharp, pinpoint eyes moved down to the body lying face-down at her feet. It was one of the Italian men. She could tell from the uniform.
With her foot she nudged the stiff body so that it rolled over. The bloody face looked up at her with unseeing eyes.
'Do you recognize him?' hissed the third woman.
She shook her head and gazed all around her. The smell of death was strong in her ancient nostrils. She made a quick sign of the cross. She was an old woman, and death was no stranger to her. She herself had cheated death on at least three occasions. Hadn't she watched the other villagers starve to death? Hadn't she seen relatives and friends lined up against the village wall, shot to death by the firing squads? Hadn't she received letter after letter informing her that her grandchildren and her children were dead? All that was left now were the very old and the very young. And not even many of those.
She heard one of the other old women let out a sharp cry of delight as she spotted the glint of gold on the finger of a blood-encrusted hand. She shook her head, her lips working slackly on toothless gums. Nothing was new, not life, not death. There was simply more death now. But hadn't she predicted this? Hadn't she alone dared hiss aloud her hatred for the fascist pigs?
She continued to work her gums as she skirted the deep bomb craters and picked her way through the destroyed, dismembered bodies. Then she saw it. 'Quick, quick,' she called out, motioning for the others to come.
They hurried over and looked down. 'It is the Principessa,' the first woman hissed. 'In death all are equal!'
'No, she is not dead,' whispered the second. 'See? She still breathes.' She made a swift sign of the cross.
'Principessa indeed,' hissed the third. 'It is the Americana. She married him for the title only. I spit upon her!' She sprayed spittle onto the inert body. 'Even death is too good for her.'
'Do not speak so of the dying,' said the first, placing a dry, wrinkled hand on her arm. 'Come. We must see if there are any men we know lying here.'
'I spit upon you,' the third one hissed again.
'Wait,' the first said sharply. 'Listen!'
They all cocked their ears as they caught the muffled, high-pitched cry.
'It is a child,' said the first.
'No, it is just a soldier crying out,' said the second. 'In death even the men sound like the children.'
'Or it is the wind,' added the third.
The black apparitions slid slowly out of her line of vision as Charlotte-Anne came to once again. Without moving her head she glanced around, her gaze confused. The white clouds were receding. In their place, she could see a vast blueness all around her. She was under water, staring up at the surface. The black appa
ritions had been people gazing down into the pool in which she lay quietly, like a fish afraid to move and draw attention to itself. She thought she recognized the strange smell which had eluded her earlier and which now seemed more pronounced than ever. She had smelled it once before, many years ago, when she'd been rushed to the emergency room with an appendicitis attack. There had been a highway accident somewhere that night, and she had smelled that same metallic, overpowering scent then.
It was the smell of death.
Death? She stared up at the blue sky. No, she couldn't be dead, she thought fuzzily. Not in this curved, beautiful, watery universe, where her entire being felt so pleasantly numb and good.
Slowly, ever so slowly she turned her head sideways and caught sight of a shattered arm. She frowned to herself. For a moment she couldn't comprehend the sight. Then she felt a dreamy fear growing within her, and it all came back to her in a flash.
The shell-shocking bombs, the whines of the bullets.
The earthquakes that shook the ground beneath her.
The strangely painless numbing of her body as fiery pain after fiery pain had flashed through it.
The quivers as things lodged within her.
The quick, powerful roar as her life blood rushed to meet the wounds, seeking escape from her body.
The geysers of blood, thick and red, solid streams at the bottoms flowing outward like ruby showers of rich, warm raindrops.
Her mind reeled now with the memory, and fear possessed her. Her heart pumped more madly, though she fought weakly to slow it down. She tried to calm her breathing, take more shallow breaths. After a moment her pulse slowed as she felt herself slipping away once again into unconsciousness.
She was dying. The revelation was sudden. Oh, but how beautiful it was, now that she thought about it . . . The strength seeping out of her, the whirling sensation, like being spun into an ever-quickening vortex. The dimming of everything around her and then the sudden, blinding white light, brighter than a thousand suns. How easy it had been to give herself up to that beguiling, dazzling light!
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