The Golden Hour - Margaret Wurtele

by The Golden Hour (epub)

  I was covering my eyes at this point. “I don’t think I want to hear the rest.”

  “What were we thinking? It was Marco, I’m happy to say, who knelt down, took careful aim, and fired. He missed the squirrel, but the bullet was low. It shattered the window of the top-floor apartment, ricocheted off a lead mirror frame on the wall, and then fell onto a valuable porcelain urn on the sideboard, breaking it into pieces. The worst of it is that these people were friends of my parents. They had to reimburse them for the full value of the urn, and Marco and I had to work it off.”

  “What about school?”

  “We had weeks of detention, and we were never allowed to participate in target practice or use the guns again.” He smiled. “Not perfect for military students, but…” He wrinkled his brow, and a look of sadness passed over his face. “Then all hell broke loose.”

  I reached out and pulled him on top of me. “Those days are over, Mario. It won’t be long now until life goes back the way it was before. This madness will pass, and we can lead our lives the way we want to. I just know it.”

  It was Papa who brought things to a head. Easter Sunday dawned bright and cloudless. The three of us went to mass together, and I emerged from church rosy and cheerful, inhaling the intoxicating perfume of peach trees in full bloom as we took our time walking home and admired the perfect spring day. The table downstairs was set for the holiday dinner, and just before sitting down, Father offered us each a glass of chilled prosecco. “Here’s to you, my dear, and to you, piccola,” he said as he raised his glass and clinked with each of us in turn. “Salute. Buona Pasqua.”

  I grinned, and perhaps it was the look of happiness and hope on my face that reminded him of the question of my future. “The Spinola boy has been given a leave before the spring offensive begins. The father has decided they will take a few days together and come down here to check out some of the opportunities he’s found. So I’ve invited them to spend the day at Villa Farfalla, have dinner with us. What do you say? Would you like to meet him?” Papa’s smile was warm, a hint of teasing glinting from his toasty brown eyes.

  I tightened the grip on my glass. “Not really.”

  “Why on earth not? I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice young man. You’ve been without male companionship—it’s time, piccola. You’re getting to that age.”

  He’s remembering Klaus, I thought, and I turned my back, moving to the window away from him. I stood there, staring out at the garden. It’s now or never. “The truth is, Papa, I already have someone in my life.”

  “You do? Well, that’s a surprise.”

  I approached him warily, as if facing an unknown animal in the wild. “He went to school with Giorgio. You know his father, actually.”

  “Well, now, who could that be?” He looked at Mother and beamed. “Natala, did you know about this?”

  Mother shook her head. Her expression was impassive, but her eyes shone with curiosity and trepidation in equal measure.

  “How can we not have been aware of this?” He spread his arms in a wide gesture of embrace. “We’d love to meet him, piccola.”

  “You already have.”

  “We have? Someone I already know? A friend of Giorgio’s?” He shrugged his shoulders and sent Mother a quizzical look.

  “It’s Mario, Father. Mario Rava.” I smiled, willing the news to come as a pleasant surprise.

  He stood stock-still, as if letting the words slowly penetrate the thick casings around his brain. “Mario Rava? You are in love with the young man who came to Giorgio’s birthday dinner?” He stared back at me for confirmation. “But he’s Jewish, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is.” I waited a beat. “We want to get married, Papa.” I worked to keep my lips from trembling.

  “Well, that’s ridiculous.” He turned his back and gave a dismissive gesture with his arm. “You barely know the man. You have nothing in common.”

  “Barely know him! I nursed him back to health from a serious injury. I found him a place to hide.” I shot Mother a pleading look. “I’ve been helping supply him for almost nine months. We spend hours together every day!”

  His eyes were wide, wild. “Why haven’t you told us this before?”

  “Actually, I think I did mention that I was helping to hide someone, someone Jewish. And what do you mean, ‘nothing in common’? He went to the same military school you and Giorgio did. Our families are very similar, actually. They have a summer place like ours. He loves the country. You seemed to like him the other night.”

  “Well, sure, he’s a nice enough fellow, but I had no idea you were…that you wanted to marry him, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Enrico, calm down. Let’s try to discuss this without getting emotional.” Mother put an arm on his shoulder, but he brushed it off.

  “Let me handle this, Natala.”

  I felt my knees threaten to give way, but I stood my ground. I aimed my heart at his, at the old Papa, my friend, my first love. “You want me to be happy, don’t you?”

  “But you wouldn’t be happy married to him.”

  “Why not? I love him.” My throat was tightening so that only a too-thin stream of air could get through.

  “Well, it’s a completely different tradition. They don’t share the same history, the same values. Giovanna, it’s Easter today! What about holidays?”

  At that, Mother spoke up. “He has a point, dear.”

  I swallowed hard, forcing down the barrier in my throat. “We’ve talked a lot about values. I would say they are very much the same in both of us. We both value honesty, hard work, helping the community, country life. He would have fought like hell in this war if he weren’t at such personal risk—he was fighting in Giorgio’s brigade for a while.”

  I began walking back and forth, talking as steadily and rationally as I could. “And what do you mean, history? He’s lived in the same country I have, watched these two decades unfold in exactly the same way.”

  “But his people, the ghettos, the exile. I don’t want some Zionist son-in-law. This is crazy! It’s out of the question. End of subject.”

  “Papa, his ‘people’ are Italian. We are his people. Mario is Italian first, just as his father is. Believe it or not, his father was a member of the Fascist party for years, just like you.”

  At each step, I expected that my answers would calm and reassure him, but instead, he got more and more agitated. As I watched his face, I began to see what looked like fear. “But look what’s happening to them in this war. Why would I want my only daughter to join a group that’s being persecuted and hunted and sent off to God knows where? I want you here, Giovanna—here with us, safe and sound.”

  “But, Father, after all the Nazis have done to us, I would think you’d be as outraged as I am.”

  “Give me a little credit, will you?”

  “Okay, but,” I said, “the Jews are innocent parties, aren’t they? When the war is over, the Germans will be gone, and this won’t be an issue.”

  “Giovanna, don’t be naive. They’re just…different enough that I don’t want you marrying one of them. These are my grandchildren you’re talking about—my heirs, my progeny, my family.” He looked at Mother and threw his hands in the air in an exasperated plea. “Jewish? I won’t allow it.”

  “Well, if you want to know, according to religious law, it’s the mother who determines who’s Jewish. So, no, your grandchildren would not technically be Jewish. You’re just afraid of what people will think, what they’ll say, right?”

  He looked at me, his face unmoving. His eyes had hardened into cold bronze. He looked as rigid as the fence he wanted to put around me.

  I felt a wave of new confidence born of righteousness, and I pushed back. “You’d be embarrassed, wouldn’t you? You want your daughter to marry someone better than you. Better than you think you are.” I felt a sudden impulse to match his cruelty. “You want me to take you up a rung on the social ladder. Well, I’ve got news for you. You are where you are because o
f Mother anyway.”

  Mother had been standing there listening quietly, but at that she interjected, “Giovanna, please!”

  “Keep out of this, Mother. This is between me and Papa right now.” I turned back to him. “It’s because of your own insecurity that you need this. I don’t know how to tell you this, but Mario is a better man than you are in just about every way that counts.”

  I was suddenly aware of pain in my palms where my clenched fists drove the nails in deep. My chest heaved, and sweat oozed at my hairline. My eardrums throbbed. We stood there locked in a mutual stare. All the goodwill had drained out of him. He looked at once ruthless and full of doubt.

  “How dare you say those words to me? My own daughter? How dare you even think that some holed-up Jewish fugitive is a better man than your father? What kind of blood is running in your veins?” He barked out a kind of sarcastic laugh. “My sweet little daughter is rotting away before my very eyes. It’s green, putrid blood, it is.” He shook his head and wrinkled his nose. “I can smell it.”

  His words stung, and hot tears blurred my eyes. He was desperate now. He didn’t want to be where he was, but he had worked his way in too far to back out.

  “Does that give you a feel for where I stand on your wedding plans, signorina? You can tell your little Jewish friend to forget it, because your father doesn’t approve. Have you got that? Does not approve.”

  Giorgio’s words echoed in my ears: Remember. This is your life, Vanna—your life, not Papa’s. The tension in my body dissolved and flowed out in hot tears, but in spite of the pain, I saw in an instant that I was free. I didn’t need him or his permission to lead the life I wanted to lead. Mario was not his to give or take away. Nor was I. Oddly enough, I had won.

  I stood tall, willing my breath to slow down, and wiped the tears from my cheeks with the palms of my hands. My lips quivered. “If that is how you feel, then I don’t care to live here anymore. I will be gone by nightfall.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  In a frenzy of righteous energy, I managed to transfer the contents of my dresser into a large duffel bag and stow it in a corner of the lower floor for later retrieval. As I closed the front door behind me, the day was bright but dull, as if I were seeing it through a gray plate of glass: flat and inaccessible. The fragrance of the spring flowers made me queasy. All the grit and resolve I had felt in my confrontation with Papa had begun to dissipate. What had I done? I had nowhere to live and no money. I had thrown off the protection of my parents, and Giorgio was unreachable. I had done all this for Mario’s sake, but now I even questioned that. Did I really love him that much or was Papa right?

  I found myself an hour later not at the tower about to throw myself into Mario’s arms, but standing on the marchesa’s doorstep, hugging myself tightly with crossed arms as I waited for someone to come to the door.

  Balbina, the marchesa’s diminutive maid, read my anxiety instantly. “Oh, Signorina Bellini—come in, come in,” she said. “The marchesa is with the family in the dining room. Won’t you follow me?”

  “No, please,” I said. “Don’t disturb them. I’ll just wait here until they have finished.” She disappeared, and I perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair, relieved to be sitting down, happy for some time alone.

  It was no more than a couple of minutes before I heard brisk footsteps across the tiled floor of the next room. The marchesa rounded the corner, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

  I rose to my feet in a reflexive impulse to be polite, but there must have been something in my posture that gave me away. She threw down the napkin and moved toward me with open arms. “Oh, my dear, what ever is the matter? This is not a holiday face, is it?”

  At that, I burst into tears. “I…I’m sorry to interrupt your celebration. I’m just so afraid. My father—”

  “What’s happened to your father? Do you need a doctor? I’ll see what—”

  “No, no. It’s not that—it’s me. We had a terrible fight, and I—”

  “A fight? What kind of a fight?” She was holding me, rubbing my back, and I had a sudden sense of how dainty she was. I had to bend down, reaching my neck forward to lean my head on her shoulder. I felt huge and babyish at the same time.

  “Please, won’t you go back to your dinner? I’ll be fine. I’ll just wait here until you are finished.”

  “No—I won’t hear of it. You’re welcome to come with me, sit with us.”

  I knew I could not face Leonardo and their two daughters. I shook my head, wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “Please go to them. I just can’t see anyone just now.” I turned my back to her.

  “Giovanna, go into the library and wait for me there. Let me tell them. I’ll see you in a minute.”

  In the library I settled heavily into one of the familiar armchairs where we had had so many satisfying conversations over the long winter months.

  Leaning into the soft cushion, I breathed in the faint odor of mildewed books and stroked the frayed roses on the end of the chair’s arm. I began to gather myself, reining in the pain and the sorrow. Just being in this place, where I had been treated with such respect, had a calming effect. I could feel the fear subsiding, and in its place, moral indignation began to simmer.

  By the time the marchesa returned, all traces of hysteria were gone.

  “Now, my dear. Tell me what’s happened. I’m all ears.” She set down a small cup of espresso on the table next to her and handed me a delicate, gold-rimmed porcelain plate with a dessert fork balanced on its edge. It held a slice of the traditional dove-shaped Easter panettone. “Won’t you help us celebrate, just a little?”

  I sat up straight and took the plate. “I guess I am pretty hungry. Thank you.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes as I wolfed down the sweet, spongy confection, scraping up the last of it by pressing the back of the fork against the surface of the plate.

  “I feel better now.” I smiled at her. “You are so kind to take me in, today of all days.”

  “Now tell me what’s happened, what kind of fight you had with your father.”

  I leaned forward and told her about Giorgio’s visit home, about the birthday dinner and how well it had seemed to go.

  “I’m amazed!” She laughed. “You took him home with you for dinner? You mean he was gone from here for several hours and we didn’t even know it?”

  I nodded. “I thought Papa liked him. It was all so friendly. He even knows Mario’s father.”

  The marchesa nodded. “Leonardo and I have worked with banks in Turin as well.” Her forehead creased in a slight frown. “So what went wrong?”

  I told her about Papa’s threat to bring the Spinola boy to Lucca to meet me. “So I guess it just seemed to be the right moment to tell him about Mario and me.”

  The marchesa winced and clucked her tongue. “I didn’t think this would happen quite so soon.”

  “He seemed to like Mario at the birthday party, so I hoped—”

  “But then, once he knew you were a couple, he focused solely on his being Jewish?”

  “Right.” I could feel the anxiety rising again. “It was so strange, because he seemed almost afraid—as if he were threatened in some way. He was afraid for me, I guess, afraid of my having to live the life of an outsider. He said Mario was foreign, different….” I paused, going back over our encounter in my mind. As I relived our confrontation, indignation burned in me again. Being here at Villa Falconieri completely eliminated any doubts that had begun to fester in all the turmoil.

  “How did your mother react?” The marchesa kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her, as if settling in for a long talk.

  “I don’t really know. She agreed with him that we would have problems, like holidays and things, but…she’s not really threatened in the same way he is.”

  “Did she come to your defense at all?”

  “At first, maybe…no, not really. In fact, now that I think of it, she came to his.”


  “To his?”

  “I was so angry, I told him any social standing he has is all due to Mother’s family anyway.”

  The marchesa looked down and shook her head. “That was below the belt, I’m afraid.”

  “But he can be so rude and unfeeling. He doesn’t care anything for my happiness. He just wants to control my life from beginning to end to suit him and his own ambitions.” I was crying again now, my eyes and nose beginning to run. “It isn’t fair to Mario.” I curled in a ball and buried my head in the chair’s upholstered pillow, embarrassed to look at her.

  The marchesa sat still, saying nothing, and let me cry. She neither protested nor tried to comfort me.

  “I told them I was leaving. I don’t need them; I don’t want to go home ever again.”

  There was still no reaction. Her lack of response made me suddenly self-conscious. “You must think I’m overreacting.”

  She shrugged. “Quite the contrary. I give you a lot of credit for facing him down. I’ve seen your father angry, and I’m not sure, if I were his daughter, that I could have done it.”

  “You have? When?”

  “It was five years or so ago. As Germany was becoming more aggressive, Leonardo and I began to have serious doubts about the Fascist party. The party had been financing public works for farmers, and Leonardo and I had been taking advantage of it.

  “Your parents still lived in the city most of the year, but it was your father who convinced us to help him put together the consorzio agrario in this area.

  “We were fully aware that these projects were propaganda tools as much as anything, but we needed the roads, the drains and dams, the wells and the subsidies too much to look a gift horse in the mouth. Leonardo turned out to be a skillful lobbyist and got to know a number of people who represented the best of Mussolini’s regime. There was an attractive professor of geology, I remember, and some engineers and other technical experts who were also more enthusiastic for the work than for Fascist ideology. It was great, and we received a great deal of money in subsidies. Nothing to sneeze at.”