The Italian Villa: An emotional and absolutely gripping WW2 historical romance

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  “I’m so sorry I worried you last night.”

  “Not at all, you were with Tommaso, you were safe,” Adriana said.

  That sounded nice.

  “You’ll have a coffee then,” Nonna Tina offered. No, she didn’t offer – she told me.

  “Oh, no, thanks. I’ve had a few this morning.”

  “Sure, how do you take it?”

  I could feel my heart racing overtime already, but armed with yet another espresso, Nonna Tina beckoned me through to the back. “Come, come, let’s have a seat and a chat,” she said. I followed her to a little courtyard, where a few tables sat, surrounded by potted geranium plants. From the enclosed courtyard, I could see a square of blue sky and a little corner of mountain. A sweet breeze was blowing, sweeping the courtyard; it smelled of pine trees.

  “Drink, drink! It’s good for you.”

  “Thank you.” I stretched my mouth into a smile.

  “You met Tommaso. Good girl.” Nonna Tina had a vivacious, mischievous look in her eyes, like a little girl in an elderly lady’s body. Her hands were wrinkled and weathered; hands used to work, I thought. “Tell me all. What took you here, so far away?”

  “Long story.” I’d said that quite a few times by now. “To sum it all up, Malva Stella was my mother.”

  “Malva? Oh… She was a lovely woman. So sweet, and yet… willful. I never knew she had a baby. But both your mother and Flora went to America for a while, suddenly, and nobody knew why. Your grandparents were sick and died not long after. When they came back, both Malva and Flora looked like they’d been through the mill… like the life had gone out of them. Flora was only a young girl, you know, sixteen or so.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes, I remember it well. Malva in particular was in bad shape, but then she’d always been sickly. She died soon after too, and Flora was left alone at such a young age.” Just like me.

  I bit my lip to contain the emotion I felt for these people I hardly knew.

  “I’m so sorry, my dear. It’s a sad story. But the women in your family are made of strong stuff. You know they pass on their second name, Stella? None of them take the name of their father. So, you would be Call-ee Stella.” She pronounced it the Italian way. “Strange, isn’t it? I don’t know how their men accept it; they are so stubborn around here. Heads made of the same stone as the mountains!” she laughed. “But the Stella women have their way. They always do. Well, almost always. I don’t think they had their way when they left you.”

  I looked down. “Do you know anything about… you know… the whole thing? My birth, my adoption?”

  “No, I’m sorry. But something tells me Malva wouldn’t have wanted to leave you. I am sure.”

  “But she did. And Flora could have looked for me.”

  I was overwhelmed, and it probably showed, because Nonna Tina placed her hand on mine for a moment. It was cool and fresh. I noticed a little bit of flour on one of her fingers. “There might be many reasons for her choice.”

  “Maybe. But I’d like to know what her choice actually was. And I don’t understand why Flora is so… negative.”

  “Flora is like that with everyone. Something broke her, and nobody except her knows what it is. But she’s only a part of your story. Because your story doesn’t start and end with her.” Nonna Tina’s eyes looked so wise, so knowing. I was comforted, at least a bit. “Tommaso is such a nice boy, isn’t he? I’ve known him since he came up to my knee! Also, my sister has an orchard up there on the hill, so she keeps an eye on him.”

  I smiled inwardly, thinking of the nonna-web that kept track of everything happening.

  “We’re distant cousins,” Adriana called out. “Like most people in Montevino.”

  “Anyway. He just didn’t have an easy life, you know,” Nonna Tina continued. “Tommaso’s father, Raffaele Carpentieri, died young. He was a brilliant man, but he had no common sense. Strange, because the men of his family have always been very grounded, you know, the salt of the earth. But Raffaele wanted more than his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, and anyone in Montevino way back ever had. He inherited the vineyards on the side of the hill, just down from the castle. He took on a solid, small business from his father and began expanding. But he went too fast and got into debt, and that’s when Antonio Caporale came in.”

  Adriana made a snorting sound. I could tell this Caporale wasn’t very popular… Wait a minute, I’d heard that name before. Carlo Caporale was the name of guy who was after Elisa! Maybe the two men were related?

  “Signor Caporale pretended to be their best friend, their savior. He offered to have the vineyards put into his name for a while, so the banks couldn’t seize them to pay off Raffaele’s debts. Raffaele believed his offer of help was genuine. Or maybe he just wanted to believe, I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He certainly didn’t have much choice. As I could have predicted, knowing Caporale, when the time came he refused to give the vineyards back. Raffaele lost everything, all but a handful of vines, and the stress of it all almost killed him. Almost. It was the drink that did it. One night, he got so drunk he drove off the road. They found him the next day.”

  “It was a huge shock for Tommaso,” Adriana intervened. “He adored his father. They were so close.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. I certainly knew how he must have felt.

  “Tommaso took charge of what vines were left and does his best with them. There are just enough for one man to take care of. He barely makes any wine from them, so he rounds off by looking after the castle. He’s actually a painter, did you know?”

  “Oh, wow, no.” But that explained the paintings on the walls, and the funny little cartoon he’d made for me.

  “Even when he was small, he always had crayons with him, can you believe it?” Nonna Tina continued. “This toddler walking around with a drawing pad under his arm and crayons in his pocket, like a mini-painter!”

  I laughed at the thought.

  “Yes. You know what he did? His mum used to clean up at the castle. She took him with her while she worked. Well, he drew on the silk wallpaper in one of the sitting rooms. Wallpaper that was almost two centuries old!” She laughed.

  I gasped. “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes. Alice… his mamma… was mortified. He meant no harm, he said he wanted the wall to look nicer! It’s still there. Visitors never notice that there’s a little blue boat drawn in a corner…” She laughed some more.

  “He’s so talented. Self-taught,” Adriana said. “He couldn’t go to art school in Turin, of course. He wanted to take care of what was left of the vineyard. For his mother too.”

  All this information only made me like Tommaso more. “So generous,” I responded. “That’s what I call being there for your family.”

  “Oh, yes. He’s certainly done that. He has his pick of the girls, you know? With his looks,” Nonna Tina said. “More coffee?”

  “Please, no. I mean, no, thanks.” I said nothing about Tommaso’s looks, but secretly agreed with Nonna. “So, he plays the field?” I asked with some apprehension.

  She shook her head. “No, dear! Just the opposite. He’s very shy.”

  “He was so nice to me. But then…”

  Nonna Tina raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

  “He grew cold suddenly. I was surprised.”

  “Tommaso was… well, he was badly burnt. He’ll tell you himself, maybe.”

  There was an ache in my chest, half sad, half tender. I wanted to see him. I’d never felt such a strong desire to make someone better. I was left almost breathless.

  Nonna Tina sat quietly, not looking at me, but I had a sense that she was aware of me, aware that something inside me had shifted.

  “Are you coming to the chocolate fair?” I said finally, trying to change subject.

  “Oh, yes! I never miss a chance to dance!” Nonna Tina said cheerily.

  “I’ll be there too. With my cranky husband who refuses to dance. You?” Adriana said.
>
  “I will be coming, but…”

  “But?” Nonna Tina said.

  “I don’t have anything to wear! I know, it sounds ridiculous. But I only have jeans and T-shirts, and a couple of casual skirts.”

  “It’s not a dressy affair. Don’t worry! Jeans and a T-shirt would… Oh” – she had caught sight of the disappointment on my face – “I see! You feel like dressing up a little!” She smiled.

  “It’s not very like me, but, yes.” I laughed. “Usually, people have to force me into a dress!”

  “That’s easily sorted, dear. Look in the closets. In Firefly House, I mean. I think there are clothes there.”

  “Seriously? Whose clothes?” I wasn’t sure that I liked the idea of wearing musty clothing from an ancient closet… and would they not be horrendously out of fashion? Would I end up looking, like, eighty years old?

  “They belong to the Stella women. Flora’s taken good care of them. Have a look, if you’re not sure. And I can assure you, you won’t look like an eighty-year-old.”

  What? How did she…? But I didn’t have time to ask questions, because Nonna Tina spoke again.

  “You know what you need, cara?”

  Please, not another coffee. “What, Nonna?”

  “Some fresh pasta.”

  Twist my arm, I thought.

  She took me inside and busied herself at the counter. “There. Let me make you a parcel. Compliments of the house,” she said, and wrapped some floury tagliatelle in brown paper. “Three minutes in boiling water. No more, or they’ll overcook,” she said, and made it sound like the apocalypse. “Oil and salt. Maybe parmesan. Nothing more. You’ll thank me.”

  “I thank you already. Grazie, Nonna Tina,” I said, and on impulse, I gave her a hug. “Ciao, Adriana!”

  “Ciao, tesoro! Come back soon!” Adriana called, and I was touched. Yes, my own aunt was being less than agreeable, but I felt that Montevino was beginning to open its heart to me.

  6

  When I stepped back into Firefly House, carrying my pasta parcel, I felt a shift around me. Something was different. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it was. Was it a scent in the air, the hue of the light, who knows? It was like my arrival had somehow changed the atmosphere.

  I laid my precious parcel on the kitchen counter and silently made my way upstairs into the master bedroom. What Nonna Tina had said about clothes kept in the house had made me curious, so I headed up to the master bedroom and opened one of the heavy antique closets. It was empty. Maybe Flora had cleared everything away? I tried the chest of drawers, but I found only old, yellowed papers and bed linen, tidily folded and smelling of lavender.

  There were still two bedrooms I hadn’t explored yet; one was square, small and white. The other was housed in the tower, perfectly round and papered in powder pink. It was the smallest room, and the only one with a single bed. A semi-circular light-wood closet sat against the wall; I opened that too – and jumped out of my skin because a black-haired woman was looking at me from the side. And then I laughed at myself: the inside of the closet door had a mirror on it, so I’d jumped at my own reflection! Beyond the mirror was a rack of clothes, pressed together tightly to make room for all of them. It seemed Nonna Tina was right. Which Stella woman had these belonged to? Maybe… Malva? Could these be my mom’s dresses?

  Underneath the clothes was a box marked with the initials ‘PC’. Not recognizing them, I turned my attention back to the rails. Each article of clothing was encased in plastic to preserve it from dust and mold. I took out one that was clearly vintage: sleeveless, made of cream-colored silk, complete with a long, flowing skirt. It was beautiful, very Downton Abbey, and completely not my style; but something compelled me to try it on. I ran my hand down the lovely, soft fabric, and held it up in front of me. The dress reached my ankles. A little thrill ran through me – was I not supposed to dislike dressing up? And dresses in general? But this felt different.

  I took off my clothes and sneakers and slipped it on. It fitted me perfectly, except for being a little tight round the shoulders and hips. Whoever had owned this dress must have been slightly smaller than me, but it was definitely my size. I twirled before the mirror, like a little girl trying on a fancy dress – still in socks. I took off the socks, too, and wearing that dress in bare feet, in that old house full of memories, was so surreal. I felt I’d jumped back through time.

  I hoped Flora wouldn’t mind me wearing it this evening. I would wear it just this once… She couldn’t be mad about this one time, surely? I just couldn’t bring myself to take it off.

  Looking deeper into the closet, I noticed there were a few pairs of shoes as well. I raced to try them on, but sadly none of them fitted me, so I resigned myself to wear my own black flats. I would most certainly be overdressed, but I didn’t care. I’d probably already been labelled as the crazy American girl.

  There was still a little bit to wait before evening fell, so I got changed back into my own clothes, laid the lovely cream dress on the bed, ready to slip on tonight, and headed downstairs to the living room. The couches looked soft and comfy; the fireplace was crying out to be brought to life. I ran outside and picked up some wood and kindling from Tommaso’s shed, then kneeled in front of the fireplace. No problem at all. I would have the fire going in no time.

  Forty minutes later, I was sweating, I had soot on my hands and, I was pretty sure, on my face, and some little baby flames were beginning to get going. Who would have thought that lighting a fire took so much skill?

  “Well, fire: zero - Callie: one!” I said aloud. I washed my ash-stained hands, fetched the diary and settled down to read.

  September 2, 1939

  Caro Diario,

  Something incredible has happened!

  This morning Pietro came to Leone’s, to tell me that the Conte wanted to see me urgently. I didn’t tell anyone; I knew it was wiser to keep it to myself.

  It could be that he was to send me on errands, like he sometimes did, but the formality and secrecy of having Pietro collect me made me wonder if there was something more.

  I changed into my Sunday dress, brushed my hair carefully, curled it at the ends, and wore the ruby-red earrings. Inside the castle, almost shaking, I felt so out of place among all those precious things. The Conte sat in his study, a grand room with silk wallpaper and velvet-covered chairs. I remembered standing there at Christmas and on Patron Saint’s Day when I was a child: he would give us a small parcel with oranges and a little chocolate. We hardly ever eat oranges, since they are exotic and expensive, but chocolate! That’s always a feast.

  The Conte is good to us, in his own brusque way. He saved our family from falling apart after Papa’s accident. When Papa eventually pulled through after weeks of hovering between life and death, the immense relief that he was alive overshadowed the shock that he could no longer feel his legs. But without Father to work the farm, and my brother still a child, we were destitute. We sold the house to pay for the hospital; we lost everything.

  The Conte offered to help, but Mamma refused at first. Although she never said so openly, I’m sure it wasn’t just pride keeping her from accepting; it was contempt. She always had a strange attitude toward him, but Zia Costanza pressed her, reminding her that if we didn’t accept his help, I would have to go into service, and my brother would most likely have to emigrate like many other men did.

  Mamma was silent the day we moved into the Casa delle Lucciole –

  Firefly House! So that was how such a poor family ended up in this house. I couldn’t believe I was in the same place Elisa had lived in, that I walked the same rooms she had walked…

  – so different from the humble homes in the village. Now she looks after this place as if her life depends on it. Pietro has left school at eleven, like most children do around here, and he helps her. The Conte often said to Mamma to leave the small farm attached to the house, to let the laborers do the work and just look after her home and family. But she won’t hear o
f it. She never charges the people she helps as a midwife either, though they give her something anyway – eggs, apples, chestnuts, even a chicken or a rabbit, sometimes. Mamma does her work on the fields and orchards surrounding the house to help support us and to repay the Conte for his generosity. This way she feels she’s paying rent, and we’re free, or freer, of obligation.

  But why has the Conte done all this for us, and why did Mamma accept it with such reluctance? Tongues wag, and a possible reason has come to my ears, but I don’t know if it’s true, and I can’t ask Mamma. They say that my grandmother, Mamma’s mother, was more than just a nurse to the Conte’s wife, sick with tuberculosis; she was also the Conte’s lover, forever hidden and forbidden, even after the poor Contessa died, because the difference in class and status was too enormous to be overcome. Their love remained a secret and was never given the seal of marriage. Or so they say. Mamma, born not long after the Contessa died, has never uttered a word about it. It’s a family secret, and quite a sensational one. Imagine! If it’s true, I am the young Contessa! But I never think about that. I have other plans.

  “Elisa. Please, sit down,” the Conte said as I entered. I wasn’t used to being addressed so respectfully by him; the last time we’d spoken properly, I’d been a child. Not that long ago, I suppose. Now he spoke to me like he was speaking to a signorina.

  “I’m told you want to go to Turin. To university.”

  I gasped and searched for an answer, my mind suddenly blank. “Yes,” I managed.

  “Your grandmother would have liked to have been a doctor. She told me. And she could certainly give Dottor Quirico a run for his money.”

  I said nothing. What was the point in complaining that I couldn’t go?

  He chuckled softly. “When you were little, you used to be chatty, you know? Now it’s like talking to that,” he said, indicating a small marble statue in the corner.