I followed Giorgio to the door and leaned out after him. “I want to help you. I envy you out there, where you can make a difference. You’ve got to keep in touch.” He nodded then, as if he meant it. That was more than six months ago.
All that day, I agonized about my early-morning encounter with Klaus. I caught sight of him a couple of times; once, our eyes met quickly but he looked away. At lunchtime, I stayed in town, wandered into the general store, and saw a pair of tiny blue socks. I bought them and left them on his desk with a note: To send to your son.
A few days later, while I was working, Panzer the German shepherd wandered into the classroom and dropped to the floor at my feet with a grunt—just in time for Klaus to pass by the door.
“Panzer, come!” He glanced at me. “Sorry, fraulein.”
“No, I love dogs; really I do.” I tried to smile. “Did you and Otto bring him from Germany with you?”
“Ja. He crossed the Alps with us. Otto is also from Frankfurt. Where I live with Mathilde—”
“Was he your dog? Yours and Mathilde’s?”
“Ja, he is ours.”
An awkward silence hung over us. “Tell me, when was your son born?”
“He was born the same month we moved into this school.” He sat down in front of me, his blue eyes looking directly into mine. “This is why I am fighting here, for his future.”
I reached out quickly to touch his shoulder. Then, as if it were a hot stove, I pulled my hand back.
Over time I learned that he had graduated from engineering school in Frankfurt, married Mathilde shortly thereafter, and then was sent to fight in Russia.
“My neighbor died there, in the Russian campaign,” I offered one day. “Italy and Germany were fighting together then.”
He shook his head, looked away, then back at me. “There is too much death, everywhere,” he said. Klaus told me what he had endured, fighting on the Russian front: the cold, the snow, the hunger. “Every time I saw a body, I thought of the man’s poor mother,” he said slowly.
I thought immediately of Giorgio, but I knew better than to tell him about my absent brother. Klaus was a construction officer, so I knew he wasn’t directly involved in searching for runaway soldiers, but I didn’t want to take any chances. Would he turn someone in? Were all the Nazis on the lookout all the time?
One afternoon, I had begged Rosa to make a blackberry pie. “Only if you pick them,” she had retorted. Coming back with a full basket, I pushed my bicycle through the thick gravel on the walk when I heard male voices coming from the villa’s side terrace. Leaning my bicycle against a hedge, I peered around the corner and saw, with his back to me, Klaus gesturing to another officer. Klaus in our very own garden. I ran to the downstairs pantry for a basket and a pair of pruning shears.
“Giovanna!”
I lifted my head from the yellow rosebushes bordering the terrace, trying to look casual. “Good evening, Klaus.” I shot a glance at the other officer.
“What are you doing here?”
“This is our villa. I live with my family upstairs, in the back.”
He left his friend and walked across the grass to his side of the hedge. “It is beautiful, this garden, this place, even in war to have so many flowers. I am here to dine with some of my fellow officers.” He stood awkwardly for a moment, glanced back at his friend, shifted his weight from one boot to the other. “I wonder,” he said, his voice lowered a notch, “maybe we could take a short walk after dinner? You could show me the property.” He added quickly, “It will still be light.”
“Yes…I think I could do that.” I looked up toward the window of my parents’ quarters. “Okay, I’ll meet you, right here, at nine o’clock.”
I plucked the last rose for a bouquet. As I turned to walk back, I could hear the other officer say something that I couldn’t make out; then he laughed, a kind of rough, mocking guffaw. There was no answer from Klaus.
Rosa set down a steaming platter of rosticciana, grilled pork ribs, with garlic and rosemary. We ate more pork than we used to. Meat was scarce, almost unavailable, but our family could occasionally get leftover supplies by trading our produce with the German soldiers. Our own garden still provided herbs and some vegetables.
The radio had been on all afternoon, so I braced myself for another political argument.
Mother drew herself up in her chair and put down her fork. “They say the Allies are poised to liberate Rome any day now. It’s about time.”
I looked at Father. Mother had been rooting for the Allies since the Italian campaign had begun. She was afraid the Germans would ruin Italy’s treasures, cause too much death and destruction, and she wanted them stopped as soon as possible.
“Well, the Germans have just concentrated their defense farther up this way, that’s all,” he said.
Mother blanched. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”
I jumped as Papa slapped his hand sharply on the table. “Natala, damn it, I don’t like the Nazis any more than you do. But they are in power here. Like it or not, we have to play by the rules.”
I knew where this was going, where it always went. I agreed with Mother, and so did most of the people I knew and liked. But Papa had a point. The Nazis were in charge.
“What, their rules? Enemy rules?” She held her ground.
“Yes. We had no right to turn against our Axis partner in this war,” he went on, “no right to make a separate peace with the Allies. What if the Germans win? Where will we be then?”
“They won’t win; they can’t,” she said, and she pressed her lips tightly together.
“Natala, be realistic. You have no idea how strong the Nazis are. And if they do prevail, what will happen to Giorgio, to the other deserters? We have to think of our own future in this thing.”
“I just can’t wait for it all to be over. I want the Allies to liberate us too, the sooner the better.”
Suddenly I had a hard time swallowing my bite of meat. I hated this conflict night after night. I didn’t blame Giorgio for deserting, for refusing to fight with the Germans, but I also knew Father had our family’s best interests at heart. We all wanted Italy’s traditions to endure, to triumph. Perhaps Klaus was not so foreign, so strange. He was fighting for his own country, wasn’t he? At least he wasn’t a deserter. I toyed with the radicchio on my plate, my appetite dulled by the knot of anticipation growing in my stomach.
At nine o’clock sharp, I stepped tentatively into the shadows at the edge of the terrace. The cicadas vibrating in the air seemed to whip my heart into a faster beat. I took a deep breath and looked around. Klaus was sitting alone on a wrought-iron chair, a cigar poised lightly between his right thumb and forefinger. He saw me and stood up, ground the cigar neatly under his boot, and walked toward me. His voice was gentle.
“So. You came, signorina.”
“I told you I would.” I turned and began walking down the garden path that led away from the house. Klaus kept up with me, his boots grinding noisily in the gravel. I felt self-conscious next to this near stranger, this alien figure in green khakis. I glanced over at him and was moved by his soft, clean-shaven cheek. He was young. I wasn’t used to pale eyelashes like his, the way they glowed in the low light.
We kept walking in silence, our arms bumping against each other now and then, through the rose beds, around the fountain. I fought down an urge to hook my fingers into his brown leather belt, to rest my hand at the small of his back. We headed down a path that led to the tennis court.
“These pink roses are my favorites,” I said, and as I did, he stopped.
He put a hand on my arm and then suddenly took me by the shoulders. “How did you crush my photograph?” It was not so much a question as a demand. His hands were strong, pressing my arms to my sides so hard it felt as if he might shake me. I drew a sharp breath. I looked into his face. “The truth is, I took it home the night before. It was so lovely that I just wanted to look at it. Then I fell asleep. I guess it…” My voice traile
d off, and I began to tremble. I drew back, but a hot curl of desire cut through my abdomen. I looked away.
His voice changed, softened. “You are bothering my dreams,” he said. “I want to know the smell of your hair.” He pulled me hard to his chest and leaned his head down next to mine. His breath was labored in my ear. My arms pushed against him, but the sound of his breathing relaxed the fear inside of me. I held still. We stood there for a long time as the darkness thickened, breathing in rhythm, listening to the pulsing of the cicadas, then to a tawny owl hooting in the nearby wood. Neither of us dared to move.
“Giovanna, is that you?” Footsteps crunched the gravel from the direction of the tennis court, and we quickly pulled apart. “What are you doing out here—who…?”
“Papa!” My hand flew to my face.
Father stood on the path, a cigarette glowing in his hand.
Klaus stepped forward. “Good evening. You are Signor Bellini?” He made a quick bow of his head. “I am Lieutenant Klaus Eisenmann. I am dining with some officers here tonight. Your daughter offered me to take a short tour. It is lovely. Indeed.”
Father looked at Klaus, then at me. He drew himself up to his full height and looked squarely back at the soldier. “Yes, very well. But my daughter did not have my permission to give tours of the gardens this evening.” He fixed Klaus in a stare. “Giovanna, return to your room. Now.”
My heart pounding, I drew my shawl tightly around my shoulders and turned on my heels. Not daring to look back, I walked quickly toward the house.
Back in my room, I studied myself in the mirror. My long dark hair had become loose from its ribbon at the back of my neck; my cheeks were flushed. I looked different, like someone I didn’t quite recognize. My body buzzed as I thought about what had just happened. But I braced myself for what I knew was coming next. There was a knock at the door. “Open up, Giovanna.” Father came in wearily and closed it behind him.
I took in Father’s face, but I couldn’t tell whether or not he had seen Klaus and me embracing.
“Do you know this man?”
“Yes, he works at Santa Maria during the day. I see him there often. I was surprised to find him in our garden, so I offered to show him around.”
“I tell you, piccola, these are dangerous men. They are no longer our partners. They are in command here. They were very angry about our making peace with the Allies and declaring war on Germany. They are the enemy, Giovanna.”
“Well, you just said at dinner that we have to play by the rules. If you think Giorgio should be fighting for them, maybe I should be nice to them.” I turned my back defiantly, pulled off the loose ribbon, and began brushing my hair.
“Giovanna, look at me.”
I turned to face him. His jaw was tense and his eyes darkened.
“They are strong. They will take advantage of a pretty young girl like you. Stay away from the German soldiers from now on; do you hear? Both at the school and here at home.”
I turned back to the mirror. “If you like, Papa. I will.” Saying what I knew not to be true made me feel lonely—and made Father seem smaller than he was.
I lay in bed, a light sheet over me, listening to the sounds of the night. They are strong; they will take advantage….When would he begin to see that I could be strong? He could see me only as a weak little daughter, his “piccola.” He could see strength only in my brother. I closed my eyes. I remembered a late-summer day, walking with Giorgio, when I was eleven, he thirteen. We had run into each other on the way home late one morning. I had been out gathering blackberries, a basket on my arm and a pair of gloves in my pocket to protect my hands against the thorns. Giorgio had been playing soccer with his friends. We fell into step beside each other and turned to cut through a neighbor’s vineyard. Looking down the straight row, the long tendrils with their green leaves weighed down with ripening fruit, we could see something just ahead in the grass between the rows. It was a heap of something brown or gray—a large bird. As we approached, the bird reared its head and stared at us wide-eyed.
“It’s a hawk,” I shouted, beginning to run toward it, “an injured hawk. I think it’s got a broken wing.” The bird limped away from me, dragging one large mottled brown wing through the stony earth, the other flapping futilely.
Giorgio caught up with me, and we stood there, staring down at the bird. It stared back with an unblinking yellow eye. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late for lunch,” he said.
“We can’t leave it like this. It’s in pain. It’s tired.”
“What do you think you’re going to do? You can’t touch it.”
“Yes, I can,” I said. “Help me. Here. I’ll hold down the good wing, and you pick up the bird.”
Giorgio flinched and backed away. “Are you crazy? That thing looks fierce.”
“Please, Giorgio. I know someone who can heal it: old Maurizio the taxidermist. I know he has fixed birds’ wings before. We’ll take it there. He doesn’t live far.” I put on my gardening gloves and approached the bird carefully from behind.
“I can’t believe you’re going to touch it,” my brother said.
I bent down and inserted my hand under its wing. The bird began to flap wildly, sending feathers and dust in every direction. It scared me.
“Come on, Giovanna. Let’s get out of here.”
“Just a minute. Let me try again.” This time I grabbed the body fast with both hands and lifted the bird, pinning its wings to my sides with my elbows. The hawk arched its neck, biting at me with its sharp beak, but I moved a gloved index finger into its beak, calming and focusing the bird. “Just carry my basket,” I said. “I know the way to Maurizio’s house.”
We walked slowly down the vineyard row to the end. The bird was strangely subdued, its eyes staring straight ahead. After ten minutes or so of walking, we emerged from a grove of walnut trees and saw the taxidermist’s house in front of us. The yard was strewn with old pieces of wood, scattered with feathers and bones. The carcass of a long-eared rabbit was thrown up against the stucco wall.
“Maurizio! Are you here?”
We heard rustling inside; the door opened. The taxidermist was unshaven, his gray hair nearly shoulder-length. His clothes were stained and ill fitting. “What have we here?” he asked slowly. His voice was warm. He gingerly took the hawk from my arms, holding it much as I had, examining its wings. “Well, I guess you’ve lost half your wind power, old fella,” he said.
“Can you fix his wing?” I asked him.
“I expect so,” he said. “Seen this before. Couple of months, he’ll be good as new.”
Later that night, over dinner, I told the story eagerly to our parents.
Mother shook her head, clearly mystified by such a strange encounter. “You must be careful,” she said to me. “They could be carrying parasites or foreign germs.”
“Good for you, Giorgio,” Father had said absentmindedly. “It’s not easy to handle a wild creature like that.” Giorgio said nothing.
“But, Papa, I’m the one who picked it up. I’m the one who wanted to save it.”
He smiled. “Yes, piccola. I’m sure you were important. You probably helped give Giorgio enough courage to act.”
“But no!” I was bursting with desperation and righteousness. “It was me, Papa. Giorgio was too scared to touch the bird.” I shot my brother a defiant look.
“Well, I expect we’ll hear from Maurizio when it’s ready to fly, won’t we? Now, Giorgio, I’m thinking you’re ready to go for a turkey shoot with me this fall. Would you like that?”
My eyes filled with tears. I looked at Giorgio, who would not look back at me. My parents went on eating, mopping up their pasta sauce with slices of bread. It was clear to me that, as a girl, I simply couldn’t measure up to my brother in Papa’s eyes. Mother said nothing, seemed to notice nothing. This was a battle I would have to take on myself.
I didn’t blame Giorgio, not really. I knew he needed Father’s respect as much as I did. I drifted back to t
he rough feel of Klaus’s jacket against my cheek, the scent of roses, the ominous sound of the owl that hooted overhead. They are the enemy, I thought, as a vision of Mathilde rocking her baby pulled me gently into sleep.
Chapter Four
I was in the back of the cafeteria, washing the cotton smocks the children wore over their clothes at school, when Klaus passed through the kitchen and came up behind me. I was fully aware he was there, but I said nothing. When I finally turned around to look, he smiled, giving me a conspiratorial wink. Meeting his eyes made my face go hot, so I looked down at his belt, to the holster that hung from it. I had never seen a gun so close. I reached out and lightly fingered its handle. He covered my finger with his hand and held it there. I shuddered, a little afraid.
“I haven’t seen you since our walk in the garden,” he said in a low voice.
“Why do you wear a gun inside, in the school?” I asked.
He looked surprised, as if he’d never thought about it. “Well, I guess I just need to be ready for anything.”
“But nothing in here ever calls for guns, does it?”
“You are right about that.” He looked down at me steadily. A chill flashed down my back, and I felt my face flush.
“Have you ever killed someone?”
“What kind of question is this?” He squinted at me skeptically. “You do not really want to know.”
“Yes, I do, Klaus. I want to know what it’s like.”
“Well, I did, yes, in Russia. More than once.”
“You told me the other day that the German army was much superior to the Italians. Why is that?”
“Come, Giovanna. Please do not talk of these things.”
“No, tell me. What was wrong with the Italians?”
He bent down and whispered in my ear, “I like Italians. You most of all.”
I shivered and raised my face to look at him. “I’m not supposed to like Germans.”
“But you do?” He cradled my face in both his hands.
The Golden Hour - Margaret Wurtele Page 4