You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

“Then I was frightened just of you—not of what might lie ahead or what I was leaving.”

  “Were you really frightened of me? Why?”

  “I didn’t want to be a disappointment, after all you really wanted to marry Camilla not me.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “You are?”

  “Of course!” Astounded, John turned her to him. “I love you, Ninnie, don’t you know that?!” Embarrassed to admit she didn’t Jane shook her head. “You’re a fine wife, Giovanna.” And wishing to lighten the moment John added, “And I am very grateful that you forced me to marry you.” That made her giggle.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes you did!”

  Standing close together they watched America begin to fade.

  22

  Who was it who said, “See Naples and die”? Die from sheer relief of having arrived? Or succumb to disappointment? This overly romanticized harbor reminded Jane of a Breugel lithograph she had seen at the library, its insane chaos generated by a crazed multitude utterly convinced they were sane, here overlaid and abetted by that Italian frenzy indigenous to a port city in the south. Jane had no time to see if her first impressions of Naples could be modified for John hustled family and baggage onto the first train headed north.

  Rumania, that mysterious land of somber fables, superstition and roaming wolves, in reality—though dark and somewhat brooding—left such fears undisturbed, except for one’s exasperation at its lack of modernity. Its culture might be colorful at times even theatrically romanticized but for a woman fresh from industrial America with three children and a busy husband to care for Jane could happily have done without ancient trappings in exchange for a bathroom that worked, and a toilet that flushed. No longer a European, who immured in antiquity respected without reservation the old, Jane had become an American who once dissatisfied thought it only natural to fix whatever didn’t work, making it better. In future years she would always travel with her private supply of handy tools and toilet paper.

  Children being adaptable if their basic foundation remains intact, the boys took Rumania in their stride. Though everything and everyone was strange to them they coped—or seemed to. At least the two youngest being of an age still judgeless were content. Michael who had the tendency to discipline his feelings in order to assuage the possible guilt felt by his elders, having learned to perfect this trait through coping with the deaths of his friends—used it—fooling his parents into believing that he was not overly homesick, which he was. If anyone had thought to ask him, penetrated that perfect shield of subterfuge that only children seem to have the ultimate talent for, Michael would have sobbed out his longing for Hannah, uncles, iceman, even shaggy Molly and Highland Park. Nearly eight is not a good age to feel deserted. Though no age ever fits imposed loneliness, after three and before ten can be the worst. With years left, time given to recuperate, such hurts can be erased. That Michael had used up all the time allotted him, no one could know.

  Within weeks John knew his assigned task was hopeless. After such a devastating war it was still much too early to consider building a factory let alone find enough able-bodied men left alive to work it. Leaving his family behind until new decisions could be made, John left Bucharest to consult with the men in charge of Ford’s European operations in Manchester.

  Jane was relieved to stay behind and wait. All the boys were just getting over heavy colds—Michael, his having settled in his chest, was still coughing, a winter crossing of the English Channel would certainly have been unwise.

  She first thought it was the wind rattling the leaded windowpanes that must have awakened her, for she heard it as she woke. She felt uneasy.

  “Mama …” The cry faint—its fear raw—Jane hurried down the corridor to the children’s room. His head lolling over the side of the bed, Michael vomited, began to cry.

  “Shhh, Michelino, it’s alright—you can come into Mama’s bed.” Wrapping him in blankets carrying him close, she felt the raging heat from his body burn through into hers.

  “My throat hurts,” he whimpered trying to be brave then gagging, buried his face against her. As though something was blocking his windpipe, Michael was having trouble breathing.

  “Michelino, here, try to drink—even if just a few drops.” He tried—but it hurt too much. She sponged him down, changed him, lifted him to help his labored breathing—fought the consuming fever with the fury of mounting desperation.

  He is too small to have to suffer like this. Like a frenzied bat, her thoughts flew about searching for direction. Could she leave him, run downstairs, wake somebody? No, they were the only tenants in this new apartment building—there was no one to wake—ask for help. A telephone! If only they had a telephone! She could call … but who? They had no friends yet, knew no one, they were still strangers in a foreign land. She didn’t even know the language.

  Fighting for air, Michael began to thrash—she patted, kneaded his back—it seemed to help—it calmed him a little.

  The American embassy! Yes! They would understand—know a doctor—they would help—but it’s the middle of the night—they are closed! Antonia! What did Antonia’s father say that time when one of Teresa’s sisters had the croup? Steam! Boil water for steam!

  Jane ran to the small kitchen put pots of water on to boil then returned. Michael looked so small, so lost in that vast expanse of rumpled sheets. When she placed his head near the steam rising up from the pots on the floor—it helped him a little but only for a short while—as the night dragged on Michael’s struggle to breathe intensified.

  I can’t leave him—maybe if I wrap him up and carry him outside to find somebody? No—it’s freezing! It’s winter, nobody is out, and where could I go? …

  Against her Michael whimpered. Suddenly the sound of a horse’s hooves on cobblestone penetrated—running to the window she flung it open—called down to a coal merchant who was passing, “DOCTOR! Get Doctoré! I need Doctor! Help, please!”

  Startled he looked up—touched his cap and switched his horse to go faster.

  Thank God! Jane’s heart sang, Thank you, God! He understood! Now a doctor will come!

  Taking Michael back into her arms she waited. She sang him songs of bluebell fields and golden sun where goats played their bells amongst mountain crags, rocked him, cleared the catarrh as best she could, kept him awake fearing that if he slept he might not wake. In that small room of impending tragedy, death hovered, watching her.

  The night wore on—child and mother waited. He for an end, she for rescue. Sometime before dawn, Jane began to pray. Surely God would not forsake a child so much in need of him. A little boy so good—who possessed such magic all his own. Not wanting to prejudice her plea she begged forgiveness for her terrible sin of rejection, implored God to listen. Michael’s labored breath feathered.

  Daylight and Death arrived together—Jane felt its irrevocable silence and knew her child was dead.

  Slowly she released the small body from her arms—laid it back onto the bed. John should have kissed him good-bye—Michael would have liked that. As though the task that awaited her needed more time in order to perform it, she stood looking down—focusing on nothing. Then, she prepared him, washed him, combed his hair, arranged his limbs, wrapped fresh sheets around him to keep him warm, oblivious as to why this should be so important to her, drew the curtains against the day, lay down beside her shrouded child and wept.

  The doctor signed the death certificate, wrote Diphtheria in the space provided—pronounced the living children free from harm, handed the address of a reliable undertaker who understood English to the mother whose calm demeanor he judged cold and definitely unaffected by a tragedy that would have destroyed a warm and loving one.

  Having found the building that housed the Central Telephone Exchange, she waited on one of the many benches while they routed her long-distance call, trying to
think of how she would say it, tell John.

  The morning of his return, John rushed to meet her at the mortuary. There was a body to be assigned its fate a decision to be made. In a taper-lit anteroom—its odor of intrusive formaldehyde a dour reminder of where they were and why, they faced each other as though they had never met. Having convinced herself all was her fault Jane stood before him, helpless. Reaching out John pulled her into his arms. They held each other arresting time, until she whispered, “They say we must decide.”

  “No coffin! I won’t have my son put in a box! It’s cold and dark—it frightens him—he told me … he …” and John broke—sobs draining his body he leaned against the doorframe of the undertaker’s—abject misery incarnate. To bury one’s child in foreign soil to which one might never return—was too wrenching a leave-taking even in death. Jane had learned this long ago from when Henrietta had left her Gloria behind, and so cremation, that procedure so often condemned by true believers, became their only solution.

  For his Baptism of Fire Jane dressed him in the new suit he would have worn on the first day of school. On his return Michael resided in a delicately hammered tin urn in which he would travel the world. For the rest of her life Jane kept it with her, as duty and love combined.

  Though he must have been affected if only by the absence, young John behaved as if nothing had changed. Billy, confused, searched for his brother—until he came home in his urn—after that Billy knowing that Michael was no longer lost went about being a little boy who had learned what death could do. John hid his sorrow in his work, the panacea of his life.

  Where one might expect a bereaved mother to become timid, overprotective of those of her children remaining—Jane did not. As though challenging God, daring him to continue his destruction of those she loved, Jane fought him, vowed never again would she give him another chance to make it up to her. To be free was no longer simply a physical necessity—she now demanded of life an unconditional pardon of the soul. As though she had voiced Smite me if you can—I dare you, Jane challenged God’s very existence.

  Expected next in Denmark, John first moved his family to the home of his parents—outside of Turin. John’s father, a proud man, accorded dominion over a prolific family—though rarely seen except at mealtimes, he ruled with an assured nonchalance often present in Italian men who believe there is no reason to exert their limitless authority until such time something of real import occurs to warrant it. His wife also a Piemontese and therefore just as respectful of class and those sought-after advantages connected with it—ran the villa, which was never referred to as a “house,” the servants and anyone else within her radius of patrician interest. Celestina’s pretty sister, Gina, having married well, now a fussing mother of four, divided her time between overseeing peasant nursemaids and cutting flowers for the decorating of side tables. Expending energy on anything else being far too exhausting she conserved it, this contributed to her being bored—and being boring.

  In this aura of strict gentility, amidst planned flower beds, tended gravel paths that fanned out from a villa that was just weatherworn enough to make it ancestrally attractive, Jane felt like an interloper discovered in the wrong garden.

  As always she blamed herself, assuming the negative that it must be she—who having little talent for being a guest made the situation uncomfortable for herself not they for her. She was aware she was being treated with as much kindness as a grieving mother could expect, yet as her grief was anger not gentle tears—how could they understand her? She was such a private person that even well-intentioned commiseration being Italian and therefore overly effusive, disturbed.

  As families will, Jane was accepted as the wife of the son who though he had chosen to turn his back on the country of his birth, had made them proud by his achievements. She had added to that assessment by having produced sons. To conform, cause no rift within time-honored custom, she dressed as expected, wore funereal black. Being Jane, whose sense of fashion was acute, this was no great acquiescence on her part, black was an elegant color and it suited her.

  Head to toe in mourning—every inch the acceptable Italian matron—her bobbed hair that shocked, her only individuality, Jane moved about her husband’s boyhood home as if she belonged.

  With language no obstacle, the boys made friends, enjoyed the freedom of a small town where they were looked upon as foreigners, a rich man’s sons and therefore special.

  Proud of his new position as the eldest son, young John blossomed—less withdrawn, he became approachable. It was during this time of personal transition that the exposure to papist Catholicism established its lasting beachhead on his character. The Bible became his favorite reading matter, daily prayer and regular churchgoing a part of who he would become. Billy too liked the smell of incense, the tinkle of bells that came between solemn parts but really he looked forward to Sunday churchgoing because afterwards everyone got to eat cake.

  John came home for Christmas, just in time to explain to a very disappointed Billy—that no, Santa Claus had not forgotten him, had only handed on his duties to a funny-looking old crone who also could fly over rooftops—but because she used a broom that was much slower than a whole bunch of reindeer—he would have to wait for presents until she arrived on the Day of the Three Kings, which young John immediately declared was Epiphany and proceeded to give a dissertation on its religious origin. Then and there Billy decided that although Italy was okay, for a real Hanukah-Christmas, America was much much better. He did question his new grandmother why she hadn’t put out the menorah—but when she scolded him saying that it was “a Jew thing” and that these terrible people had killed the Son of God—nailed him to a cross, left him to die a slow and terrible death of unspeakable agony, frightened, Billy ran from the room and never mentioned anything connected with Hannah ever again. It was his way of protecting her, from what Billy wasn’t sure—only that he felt he had to.

  The family being in collective mourning the arrival of the New Year hardly created a stir. Jane wondered who had danced on the icy pond, had Ebbely returned as promised—tripped his light fantastic with his favorite Tall Lady, had Hannah resurrected the gingerbread house for Zoltan and Agnes’s little Natasha, who had placed the three kings into their correct procession now that Michael was gone? Then, she sat down to write her sad news to those she missed so far away.

  Michael’s ashes often drew Jane’s thoughts to speculating on where he was. As God did not exist as benign harvester of souls—where was Michael’s? what had become of his? She did not believe the grit of incinerated bone that had once been her child contained still his essence—yet something made her keep them by her as though afraid if she forsook them, he would be lost even more than the death that had erased him. She didn’t like this unintentioned returning—this interruptive revisiting of death that she seemed to have no control over.

  For John, the little urn represented a son—no longer earthbound for loving and he had come to terms with it. But then he was not the one who had heard the sound of that last strangled effort to survive—that would haunt Jane for the remainder of her life—perhaps even beyond that insidious threshold.

  Grieving her way—no one was aware that she was. The inhabitants of the villa were quick to accord her courage—yet reserved their communal opinion as to Jane’s capacity for motherhood. As their concept of this most revered state of womanhood equated with that of the Virgin Mary, Jane came up lacking. She knew it—sensed their polite disapproval and ignoring it, allowed them their opinion.

  Having found a small sewing room set up for household repairs, as she had done often, Jane took refuge in her skill. An old but serviceable sewing machine offered her its sanctuary and she took it like a drowning man a buoyant life ring. In her new world at the top of the house—repairing the villa’s linens, sewing for its inhabitants, Jane became herself again and healed, at least sufficient for existence. As her hair grew and she allowed it—so
did her assimilation. The daily rhythm of structured routine created function and with it a casual contentment she did not wholly understand.

  After Gina mentioned that Camilla now lived in Turin, Jane wrote her suggesting a teatime rendezvous.

  They met in one of those high-class British-type tearooms that Italians seem to have such affection for—that suited this city. Once the capital of Italy, Turin exuded that pompous nobility often found in displaced monarchs who wear their crown convinced it still belongs to them.

  Camilla’s welcoming smile struggled to emerge from behind rouged lips in a fleshy face framed by pin curls and a baby blue felt adorned with an overly large cabbage rose. Although the thickness of her body cried for concealment—she wore what flat-chested fashion decreed and looked ridiculous thinking herself beautiful. Her life had become a parody—and her looks suited it. Jane in her perfectly tailored navy blue linen, feeling a little as though she was about to interview a new cook, sipped her coffee—and wondered what to say. Poking the straw in her lemonade as though it were a plunger—Camilla lifted eyes ringed by sad shadows surveyed her childhood friend as though she were a stranger.

  “Two sons—you say?”

  “Yes, and you?” Jane wondered why she had wanted so to meet Camilla again.

  “Five—all girls—of course Mario is very disappointed. So important for a man to have a son. Especially if he owns a successful business.” Sighing, Camilla poked the lemon slice in her glass.

  “And your parents—your brothers and sisters—all well, I hope?” Jane asked remembering.

  “Mama died—a growth they said in her female parts—Papa remarried soon after. A widow who had her eyes on him. Remember my eldest sister? The one who wanted to be a nun like poor Teresa? Well, she was made pregnant at a fiesta—so she had to be married off Papa said. But the rest of us, we all got married correctly in a church—some are happy—some are not. Some died from the influenza. Of the boys, Stephano, the eldest, ran away to sea. We don’t know what happened to him. Franco, the youngest became a Dominican—goes around preaching poverty—Mama before she died was very upset. She kept saying, ‘If God had wanted only poverty he would not have sanctioned the lifestyle of the Holy Father and the riches of the Vatican.’ It shocked me to hear this—but when I brought this up in the confessional I was absolved of ‘censure’—so I said my beads and then I felt relieved. Yet, I often wonder if Mama’s affliction wasn’t visited upon her as punishment.” Jane swallowed her coffee to drown the smile lurking to emerge. “Like Papa, my husband has a woman. He goes there twice a week—sometimes more. It is expected—and I don’t mind—I have enough to do—I have a big house to run—one has to watch the maids like a fox!” Snatching a cream puff off a passing tray Camilla stuffed it into her mouth.