With trembling hands, I opened the folder and took out the pages nestled inside. The first was a letter.
My dearest daughter,
I clasped my hand over my mouth.
I write this to you in English because you will grow up in America. I was called to be your mother.
I have no family anymore and your father is gone. But surely now you want to know my name. My dearest girl, my name is Malva Stella. Stella means “star” in Italian. I was born in a little village in Italy where the mountains are very high, they almost touch the sky. It’s called Montevino. Not many people live there, and we all know each other. Up on the hill there is a castle and there are four churches at the four corners of the village, to protect it.
I cannot explain in English all the beauty of this place. I wish I can take you back there. I also wish I can go, but it is not possible. I love you very much, and I wanted to be with you forever, but I can’t.
We are all on this earth, under the sky, and we must make the best of what we have. Sometimes families bring you love, sometimes pain, but most often they give you both. Now that you know that I am your mother, you must know that I kept a house for you, Casa delle Lucciole. Our family lived there for a long time, and now the house is yours. I hope you will love it as much as I do. I hope that one day you’ll go home.
Ti voglio bene. I love you.
Your mother in heart,
Malva
I read the last word, and suddenly the tears I was holding back overwhelmed me, and I found myself sobbing. This couldn’t be a joke. It felt too real. I cried because I was angry that my parents had kept this from me, and I cried for Malva and the years we didn’t have together. What had happened to her?
I was barely aware of a hesitant hand on my shoulder, and of Mr. Baird’s voice coming from far away. “Marissa? Tell Jack I’m very sorry, but he needs to wait a little more… Yes, I know. But they’ll have to wait.” A pause, and then: “Callie? Are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes. This is from my biological mom, apparently,” I managed to say. I handed the letter over to him. The far-left corner was wet with tears.
“She sounds very loving,” he said, after reading. “I’m so sorry.”
“She doesn’t say why? Why she had to leave me?”
“There’s more,” he said, and gestured to the open folder and the box. I dried my tears and looked at the other papers. They were all formal documents; I handed them to Mr. Baird. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all. Let me see. It’s all copies of stuff – in Italian, with an English translation. This is… Oh. It’s the deeds of a house. The house talked about in the letter, presumably.”
I was too shocked by everything to register that. All I could think about was the woman who had written the letter… my birth mom.
“Here. It says you need to make everything official with a local lawyer’s in your mother’s… Oh.” He looked up to me.
“It’s okay. I suppose ‘mother’ is the only word I have to call her by, at the moment.”
Mr. Baird nodded. “The lawyer’s in… Montevino. Yes, that’s the name of the place. The law firm is called Studio Tava. They’ve been entrusted with making it all legal. They’ll probably have you sign some papers; feel free to call me before you sign anything, of course.”
“Sign? Papers?” I said.
“Yes. That’s what it says.”
“But that means I’d be going there.”
“Well… I suppose that was taken for granted. That you’d go to this… Montevino… place, and sort it all out.”
Suddenly, I felt very hot. “I think I’m going to faint.”
“No, no. None of that, please. Here, have some water.” He handed me a glass from somewhere. “I’ll open the window. Do you want me to call someone?” He seemed panic-stricken, and for some absurd reason, I found it funny.
“I have a few things to think about, I guess!” I sipped from the cup and almost spluttered as the water risked going down the wrong way.
“To say the least,” Mr. Baird replied. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just lost it a bit.”
“Please… drink some more.” He let himself fall into his leather chair.
I obeyed, and then, a sudden thought hitting me, I looked up. “I might still have a family. I mean, I thought there was nobody left but me.”
The wish I’d made earlier at the Windmill: Not to be alone in the world. Could it be…?
“Callie. As you can imagine, with the job I do, I’ve heard a few stories. And I just would like to give you a piece of advice, if I may?”
I waited.
Mr. Baird’s eyes met mine, and for the first time I saw a hard expression on his face. It was the expression of a man who’d seen a lot, and lost quite a few illusions. “Don’t have too many expectations. Circumstances might be different from what you imagine. I would say, if you can, don’t have any expectations at all.”
“I’ll try.”
Go tell that to my heart.
Malva Stella. Her name rang like a bell in my mind. A couple of times I even whispered it under my breath. Malva, my birth mom.
I was kneeling on the floor in my apartment, the noisy street buzzing outside, going through the documents again, trying to work out what they said, trying to digest everything that had happened.
I’d read the letter from my birth mom a million times now. It was the moment to open the box. Time stood still as I lifted the lid – its contents were covered in a linen cloth. An aroma of forgotten things – compact powder, mold and old books, together with a gossamer scent of dried flowers – filled my nostrils. It was the fragrance of memories. Lost voices whispered in my ear.
Reverently, I laid my hands on the heavy, hand-woven linen cloth that covered the box’s contents. In the center were two initials, embroidered in burgundy thread: ES. I took it off slowly, gently, and folded it on my lap, my eyes drawn to the contents of the box: a notebook with a dove-gray leather cover, a tiny black ribbon peeping through the pages, to mark the place, and a pouch made from the same linen as the cloth. I lifted the notebook: it was heavy, and thick, and smelled of old paper. There was a beautiful inscription on the first page. Flowery, cursive letters: Elisa.
Elisa – maybe that was why there was an ‘E’ embroidered on the cloth? I thumbed through pages covered in the same neat, small script, and then the notebook fell open to an inserted photograph of a dark-haired young woman with glasses, and a man with his arm around her waist; they stood beside bicycles, leaning against a stone wall.
“Elisa,” I whispered.
Inside the pouch was a set of keys – one big, one small, bound together by a metal ring. Attached to them was a label encased in plastic, written in old-fashioned sepia: Casa delle Lucciole… Firefly House. I translated it in my mind. Well, Fireflies’ House, literally, but Firefly was a more accurate translation.
The keys to the house that my mother had left to me.
It was real.
I could feel it, it was real. I held the keys tight against my chest; maybe, if I tried hard enough, I would see the house in my mind’s eye, I would see my mother waiting for me…
I jumped up and almost grabbed the framed photograph of my parents –the only people who had been loving parents to me – which I kept on a shelf by the couch so that I could see it at night in the light of passing cars.
Adoptive parents.
It was still so, so hard to believe.
Nearly all our belongings had been lost in the fire, but the photograph I had in my hands now had been protected from the flames by its silver frame. It was slightly browned on one corner, but otherwise intact. I’d carried it with me everywhere, pinned on the wall beside or behind my bed in the different homes I’d lived in, tucked under the pillow in strange beds I’d slept in as the nobody’s child I’d been. That photo had been my anchor.
The three of us, my parents and I, were on a day out along the San Antonio River Walk; I must have been ar
ound three at the time. Little did I know I only had seven short years left with them. That was the time before – an impossible era of love, peace and calm, almost forgotten but not quite, floating on the horizon of all my memories.
On the left was my dad, holding me up. He was smiling at the camera, squinting into the sun. He wore a football jersey, and it was clear he was in the early stages of balding. On his shoulder, I clutched an ice-cream cone covered in sprinkles, most of which were around my mouth. My mom, on the right, was turned toward me, caught in the act of trying to clean my face. She was smiling too, a big straw hat dipped over her head. She had short, plump fingers, and I thought I remembered the feeling of them, soft on my skin – or maybe it was just my imagination. Whenever I saw her smile, her scent came back to me – a scent I couldn’t quite identify, I couldn’t describe with words. I closed my eyes briefly and ran my fingers over the photograph, as if I could touch them again that way.
I’d looked at the picture so many times, I knew all its intricacies. But this time it was different. Did it make sense to still think I looked like them? Everyone always said I had my father’s tall frame, my mom’s dark hair. Her smile… How could they believe that keeping the truth from me for so long was a good idea?
They didn’t know they would die young, of course – a spark in a faulty plug, a tiny, unexpected event that had led us to disaster – but they’d left no official record of my adoption, no trail I could follow. How was the adoption done? An informal agreement? Maybe my parents and Malva had known each other before I was adopted. Maybe they were friends, and they had organized the whole thing between them, which was why there was no record of it. Had my biological mother not left that letter, I would never have known…
I placed the photograph back on the shelf.
It suddenly seemed inevitable that I should go to Montevino and find out the truth for myself. My heart told me there was no other way. I needed to discover who I really was; I needed to follow this strange thread, wherever it led me, otherwise, I would never know.
Happy birthday, Callie.
3
“Would you like something to drink?” the flight attendant offered, waking me from a light, fitful sleep.
My eyes fluttered and it took me a moment to process what she’d asked, and where I was. “Oh. Yes, thanks. Coffee, please. Black.”
I wrapped my fingers around the cup and looked out the plane window. The ocean below was impossibly far, the blue expanse broken by little white licks of waves. It seemed to go on forever.
It was my first time on a plane, my first time out of Texas. Just like the sea below, my time in the air seemed to go on forever too. I rested the hot cup on the tray, slipped my jacket on, and tucked one leg under me as comfortably as I could. Sip after sip, the caffeine jolted me out of sleep.
Everything was about to change. Soon I would have answers, at last. I would find people who could tell me who I was, where I came from. But I had to remember Mr. Baird’s words of warning. If those people had given me up, they must have had a reason, I said to myself, and as soon as I’d formulated the thought, I was sorry I had. I could be so cruel with myself.
Nevertheless, even I, with all the layers of cynicism I’d wrapped around my heart, couldn’t help but hope. Malva Stella and my father were out there somewhere. Maybe I had a sister, or a brother. Or both. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. Like those noisy Italian families that filled the Windmill Café when they came to celebrate birthdays and engagements and baptisms.
Lost in thought, I grabbed my backpack from underneath the seat, careful not to spill my coffee, and took hold of the notebook I’d found in the box. I hadn’t had time to look at it properly, but now I opened it gently, taking care of the yellowed, dried-up pages, and began to read.
Montevino, June 12, 1939
Caro Diario,
I think this is how you are supposed to start diary entries, aren’t you? So, caro Diario, happy birthday to me! Because, yes, yesterday I turned eighteen! And you, little notebook of mine, are one of the presents I received. I adore you. How thoughtful of Zia Costanza to take in more laundry work so that she could buy me a birthday gift. I am beyond grateful. I got so many presents – two pairs of stockings and a handkerchief from my parents, and my little brother Pietro, bless, gave me a bouquet of wildflowers. And finally, I said goodbye to the convent and I’m back home in Montevino, with my family.
We had a big party last night, with the tables outside and a big spread of biscuits, bread, cheese, peaches, grapes, cake, as much as my parents could afford, and lashings of wine, of course. My family knows how to celebrate! Our neighbors and friends came, and a couple of them brought a fisarmonica…
Fisarmonica? I had no idea what the word meant. I’d brought my small dictionary with me, thankfully. Fisarmonica… accordion.
…and a clarinet or two, and we danced until late. Mamma always says it’s good my birthday falls in the summer, so we have more food and a long, warm night to celebrate. Even Pietro and his friends were allowed a drink! One of the fisarmonica boys kept his glass beside them as he played, but our old dog Nero helped himself, and then he was walking all wonky and made everybody laugh before falling asleep with his head on Zia Costanza’s lap – you know Zia Costanza is not keen on dancing.
Father is in a wheelchair – oh, it’ll take me ages to tell you all about the family! – because of an accident on his tractor, but he plays the clarinet, so he’s kept busy during parties. He’s not one to brood and curse fate, anyway; he has a cheerful nature and always sees the best in all situations. Mamma, instead, takes everything seriously. I can see why; her life hasn’t been easy, and it still isn’t.
Anyway, I must spare a word for the boys. Yes, the young men who came to my birthday. Carlo Caporale, of course, was there. He is from the wealthiest family around here, after the Conte’s, obviously, and he’s the only young man in the village to own a car. He smokes expensive cigarettes and he’s always dressed like he is about to go for a stroll in Turin with the best in society. He’s not a bad guy. Just really pretentious. And since he’s the most eligible bachelor in Montevino and beyond, I really don’t see why he’s so stubborn where I am concerned. He’d come to see me when I was in Montevino for the weekend, much to my parents’ hope, but no: he’s simply not my type.
And Leo came.
My best friend since we were children. I know it’s strange that a girl has a boy for her best friend, but that’s how it is for us. I hadn’t seen him for a while, and I was a bit taken aback, I must admit. I looked at this tall, strong man and I almost didn’t recognize him. Only then I realized how many times I’d listened out for our signal – the three owl hoots he’d make with his cupped hands to call me out of the house to go and play – and missed it when the night was silent. Perhaps we were too old for all that now…
When we first met, he was a scrawny, filthy little boy – his mother unconcerned about him after his father left without looking back. He’d spend every evening at our house after a day of backbreaking work on his parents’ farm, no time to go to school. It was my Zia Costanza who taught him to read and write, and I helped too. We had a few dances, but they don’t really count because we’re like brother and sister. So there. Nothing going on at all. Boys don’t interest me anyway, I have other plans for my life and none of them include marriage.
I had the best party I could have wished for. The best dance I had was with my mamma. She whispered in my ear: “my clever, clever girl”, and that brought tears to my eyes. Maybe my tears sent a message to the sky, because it started raining! We all ran inside and continued the party in the warm and dry of the cow shed, where we spend our winter nights. It hadn’t rained for a while, and the women of the village had gathered around the sacred image of the Christ, the one painted in the Via Cavour. In that image, there are clouds around the cross; so we pray to it for rain. Rain is all important around here: if it’s too dry, we starve. If there is hail, we starve. Life isn’t easy. But it’s my
home. And never before did I feel so surrounded by love than last night with my family and my home all around me. I’m like the new walnut tree my little brother planted in our garden: small, but with its roots sunk deep, deep into our soil.
I looked up from the diary, dazed. The description of Elisa’s birthday had floored me. How different it’d been from my slice of cake with a lonely candle on it. I pictured Elisa’s family and friends gathered outside, the music playing, people dancing, and Elisa’s mamma whispering words of love in her ear: my clever, clever girl.
I’d never felt like that, never. I was always cut off, moved around, unable to take root at all.
But who was this girl? Was she a Stella, maybe? Why did my biological mother give me her diary?
Staying at the convent was a necessary evil. It was the only way to keep studying after elementary school, and I was lucky that my parents agreed to it. Most young people here, both boys and girls, don’t go further than a few years of school. Many don’t know how to read or write. Girls get married straight away or go work in the rice fields down the plains, into service, or in a factory. I always wanted more. I always wanted to know more, do more, even if it meant leaving my family and friends behind and becoming an outsider. You see, the girls who go and stay at the convent are upper-class girls who are being groomed for marriage to men as wealthy as themselves. I was the only one who did it because I wanted to go to university.
Suor Fulvia, the Mother Superior, made it clear to me that my being there was only to keep a good relationship with the bishop, who had championed my cause to continue my studies. The bishop, in turn, had done it because of his long-standing friendship with our Montevino priest, Don Giuseppe. But Suor Fulvia didn’t see the point of filling my head with knowledge I would have no chance to use, and with ambitions that would just work against me. It would be better for me to find a man from my village and settle down.
The Italian Villa: An emotional and absolutely gripping WW2 historical romance Page 3