For a moment, I swayed. My heart longed for him, but my duty and dreams were within reach and I couldn’t let them go. “I can’t be a wife and mother on a farm. Most women don’t even get a choice. I’m not the woman you need.”
“How do you know what I need or who I need? Don’t I get to decide that for myself? Who says I want a farmhand?” He was almost cross now, and his anger rubbed off on me.
And so, I wrenched it out of me, the thorn in my heart, what I knew had been happening and couldn’t stop.
“What about Agnese?”
Agnese, the sweet, blonde daughter of Martino Fossano from Camosso, the next village up the mountain. Her father is a friend of my papa, to add insult to injury. Gossip from both villages agreed that Leo and Agnese were meant for each other. They’d danced together at last year’s fair, I’d noticed.
“Agnese is… nice. Many say she would be the perfect wife for me. But there is only one thing wrong with that.”
My voice came out in a whisper, so afraid was I of his answer. “What?”
“My heart is taken already. By you.”
I touched my neck where Tommaso had touched me, and relived the moment when we were dancing, with his hands around my waist… Oh God! Had I really called him Leo? The embarrassment. Oh, well. He didn’t know who Leo was. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to dream a little.
8
I opened my eyes in the golden light of a spring morning, too comfortable to move. I never usually slept late, but since I’d arrived in Italy it was like I’d been in a trance. Maybe it was the mountain air.
I had barely begun to switch my brain on, and was still in the kitchen, sipping coffee from a mug, when the doorbell rang. I put down my mug and went to answer the door.
Tommaso was outside, legs planted on the ground like a tall tree, with an ax at his side. He was wearing a checkered shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and jeans. His dark skin was flushed and there was sweat glistening at his temples. Despite the hardened lumberjack look, though, there was a smile in his eyes.
I glanced at his side. What in the world is he doing with that ax?
“Do you know the expression ‘ax murderer’?” I said, crossing my arms.
He laughed. “No. I know about cutting off a tree damaged by the storm, so it won’t fall on people, though.”
“Want to come in? Without the ax?”
“Actually, I wanted to invite you for lunch. I’ll just have a quick shower…”
“…while Morella sets the table.” I laughed. “That’d be great, I have some pasta from Nonna Tina.”
“And I have homemade pesto. Made with basil from my herb garden.”
“You have a herb garden?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Of course. To be fair, most people grow stuff around here. And you’ll try some red wine from my vineyards?”
“Honey, cakes, wine… an aromatic garden… Is there anything you don’t produce yourself?”
He laughed and lowered his eyes. How a man could look bashful while carrying an ax was beyond me, but somehow Tommaso managed to do it, with that strange mixture of self-assurance and shyness he seemed to have.
I continued, “Anyway, I only drink white wine.”
Tommaso’s eyes danced. “My Barolo will make you change your mind. I promise.”
“What’s Barolo?”
“Deep, lush, supple red wine. You’ll be amazed. Promise. Come,” he said, and turned away into the late summer morning. The crickets’ song had just begun, and the temperature was beginning to rise.
“Supple? How can a wine be supple?” I asked, throwing my jacket on and following him outside. The sky was white but blue lurked at the horizon.
He said honestly, “It’s a sommelier term. You’ll see.”
“Sommelier? Now you’re just showing off with your big words!” I teased him, and I was rewarded with a laugh. “Anyway, it’s lunchtime!”
“Just a small glass. It’s good for you.”
“I woke up like, an hour ago.”
“The breakfast of champions!” he joked. “I’ll give you a sip, just to try, and line your stomach first.”
“I count on it. I’ll grab Nonna’s pasta and come over.”
“Deal.”
When Morella saw me, she jumped up and nearly flattened me, making puppy noises that sounded out of place in such a giant body. That enormous, scary-looking dog was really a pup at heart. I held her paws and put my nose to her nose, cooing, “Good girl!”
Tommaso grinned as he watched us, then wandered in the direction of the kitchen. In moments he was back. “And here’s what I was telling you about,” Tommaso said, a wine bottle in his hand.
The bottle’s glass was a deep green color. There was no label circling it. “The wine you make?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Here, try.” He was already pouring me a glass.
Tommaso was right. It was delicious, even to someone like me who didn’t have a clue about wine. I pointed to one of his paintings. “That’s Montevino, isn’t it? The other side of the hill.”
“Yes. The vineyards that belonged to my family. The ones that Caporale stole. More wine?”
“Yes, please.”
He filled my glass to the brim, and I laughed. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s impossible to drink too much of this.”
“If you were to get drunk, you could just ride Morella back to the house.”
We both burst into laughter.
Our eyes met; I felt my cheeks flush. I was about to tell him about my meeting with Nonna Tina when there was a low jingling outside – the sound of keys finding a lock – and the door opened.
A striking woman stood in the doorway. She had natural blonde hair that defied the idea that all Italians are dark; she was dainty and petite in high-heeled shoes and a simple, short skirt. She was stunning, with the innocent, clean-faced look of an angel, but my first thought was how on earth she had managed to walk on the dirt paths around the castle in those high heels. The moment she saw me, her smiling face altered.
“Federica?” Tommaso said.
“Tommaso. I’m so sorry.” Her eyes stayed on me briefly, but she ignored me and moved toward Tommaso, her heels clicking on the floorboards. “I… Your mamma said you were away for work in Milan… I thought…”
Tommaso went to block her from coming in any further. His arms were crossed. “I was in Milan. I came back a few days ago. And I’ve asked you not to go and see my mamma. And not to let yourself into my house.”
She sighed. “I wouldn’t have used the keys had I known you were here.”
“No. You shouldn’t have. Let’s not drag this out. What do you need?”
“I see you have company.”
Tommaso’s voice grew firmer. “Federica. Why are you here?”
She sighed again. “I’m sorry. Only… I need Gioele’s nursery folder. I forgot it.”
I tried to make myself look busy as Tommaso opened a drawer in the tiny kitchen and fished out a bright red folder. His movements were quick, tense, different from the deliberate, relaxed body language he had had before. He handed it to the woman, then took a few steps back, as if she was infectious or something. “Well, there it is.”
“Oh. You swept the place.”
“Yes,” he said, unapologetically.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I won’t bother you again.” Her face was suddenly tired, underneath all the make-up. “Next time I need something, I’ll come when you’re working.”
“You won’t come at all.”
“Okay,” she said curtly, and I could see she was annoyed. “By the way, Gioele is good. He’s learned to write his name.”
Tommaso’s face was stormy now. “Federica…” he warned her.
“Okay. Okay. You’re busy now.”
This was too uncomfortable. “No, no, not at all. Don’t mind me,” I said, rising from the chair. “I’m going.”
Tommaso’s fa
ce fell, but if this girl Federica was in any way satisfied with having interrupted what was going to be our lunch, she didn’t show it. “You don’t need to go,” she said.
“Don’t go,” Tommaso blurted out, and he seemed surprised at his own force.
Federica looked at him, and an emotion I couldn’t decipher passed over her features.
My gaze moved from one to the other. “Thanks, but maybe it’s better if I let you finish the conversation alone,” I said, and the blonde woman stepped aside to let me pass, Morella at my heels. Strange, I thought. Morella hadn’t even got up when Federica arrived.
Walking toward Firefly House on the soft grass, I realized my hands were shaking a little. I had a lump in my throat. We’d been having such a good time, Tommaso and I, and I’d felt… happy. It was as simple as that. But seeing him and Federica together had told me more about them than I wanted to know. Yes, Tommaso had been clear with her, about not letting herself in, not coming back at all.
But.
But I could feel the ties between them. Funny how love, sometimes, looks a lot like hate.
I was unnerved, and though I didn’t want to admit it, disappointed. I made myself a quick lunch, and dived straight into Elisa’s diary, with the plan to lose myself for a little, and then to go and see Flora.
9
January 19, 1940
Caro Diario,
I haven’t written much, I know. Sorry, Diary. But I’ve been so busy. I’m in class all day and I study all night. Turin has swallowed me whole. Leo was right, I can’t go back to Montevino as often as I’d like. I can’t even sleep as often as I’d like. Sometimes, dawn comes and I’m still studying.
Today the usual group bothered me again. The men on my course – or should I say boys - who think a woman’s place is in the house, not in the university. They do childish things, like stealing my pen and hiding my books when I go for a cup of coffee. Having a woman on the course doesn’t sit well with some people.
Sadly, it’s not just these boys who believe I should not be here; some of the teachers too, it seems. There’s Professor Coppi, who routinely acts like I’m not there. When he asks questions, he scours the room with his eyes, which grow vacant as they pass over me, focusing again when they fix on the student next to me. Once, he deliberately asked me a question about a subject far more advanced than all we’d been studying, and made a big show of my ignorance when I couldn’t answer. Of course, he didn’t put the same question to anyone else, so as not to embarrass his clever fellow men.
Some other professors speak to me patiently, as if I were a child, or somehow dim. Or fragile; like in our first autopsy, when the lecturer made sure I stood near the door, in case I needed to leave quickly, my womanly senses being overwhelmed by the gore. A fellow student ran out; one fainted cold on the floor and had to be revived with smelling salts. But this “little fragile woman” didn’t run and didn’t faint; they should have given the place by the door to someone else.
There’s this one professor, though, Professor Bacher, who seems to believe in me. He treats me with respect. He’s so short-sighted he can’t see a hand from his nose, but he has the reputation of being the best cardiologist in Italy. Thank goodness for him. Thank you, Lord, for little mercies, like Zia Costanza says. And now, back to my books.
Buonanotte, Diario,
Elisa
March 14, 1940
Caro Diario!
Finally, I made it home!
The atmosphere has changed in Montevino. Those Blackshirts, Mussolini’s henchmen, are everywhere now. They watch everyone closely, more closely than they used to. It’s disquieting. Part of me thinks I should be careful about what I write in this diary, but part of me thinks, what nonsense! Who would read these pages? It’s not like they search homes to look for dissenters. And I’m not a dissenter. I don’t like them, don’t get me wrong; Mussolini seems to me full of hot air and pretenses, with those stupid faces and gestures he makes, like he wants to give the impression he owns the world, and instead looks like a clown. But there’s no way I’m rocking the boat or speaking out. No way. I must finish my course. Politics can sort itself. It usually works that way – governments come and go, and we little people get on with our lives.
Papa disagrees, though. He’s developed a keen hatred of the Blackshirts.
I was home on the weekend, and I saw the Conte had people over for dinner, men in uniform and their wives. I was in Papa’s workshop in one of the outbuildings chatting to my parents. The Conte looked like someone who was walking on thorns; I could tell he wasn’t exactly happy to be entertaining these people in the castle. He was showing them the grounds, the women’s heels sinking into the grass, the men affecting military stances, looking around like generals on a campaign. A thin, tall man seemed to be the leader – I suppose I would have recognized him had I read the newspaper more, because he seemed to be someone high up in the ranks. They passed by Papa’s workshop, but the Conte steered them away. I was thankful. Papa is just not one for holding his tongue.
“That lot!” Papa grumbled.
Mamma was sweeping the floor. Is there ever a time when she is idle? Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen her sitting down during the day, except when she sews or mends.
“Shhh, Luigi, please,” she urged him. To no use, of course. Papa is a sensible person, usually, but he believes that a man should be able to speak his mind in his own home. Which would be right, if we didn’t live under a dictatorship. Because we all know that this is what it is.
“Don’t shush me, Maria,” Papa said crossly. “They’re bullies. Bullies in black shirts and fancy boots. And if we don’t do what they say, we get thrown in prison. I cannot believe we all have to hold their party cards!”
“Without a card, we don’t get the rations,” Mamma reminded him. “And now, hush, please…”
“I don’t care about that! I’d rather starve. But if they put me in prison, who will provide for the family? I’m just happy I’m too old to go to the front. At least I don’t have to fight on their behalf. And not because I’m a coward! Because what they fight for is wrong. It’s wrong!”
“It’s not. They’re defending us, Papa. They want Italy to be self-sufficient, to be powerful! To have an empire!”
Silence fell. My brother’s voice had uttered these words. He’d appeared, standing in the doorway. None of us could believe it was Pietro, little Pietro, who had spoken. He’s not even fourteen, the age that is still deciding whether to remain a child or become a man.
“Defending us from who? We need defending from them, if anything!” Papa replied when he found his voice again.
I heard my mamma whisper another helpless, “Hush, please.”
Pietro ignored Papa’s outburst, saying instead, “Soon I’ll get my cartolina. I’ll be called to the front and I’ll be able to do my duty for my country…”
I had to stop reading and ponder the meaning of the word cartolina. It meant “postcard”, but it had to be a call to the army. My heart sank as I read those words. What was going to happen to Elisa’s little brother? These must have been such terrible times.
And still, Elisa’s diary was full of life and hope and strength. I hoped with all my heart that the whole family would survive the war. I glanced up from the diary, needing a moment to process it all. I looked around the cozy, sweet tower bedroom. Funny how, in the space of just two days, Firefly House had gone from feeling spooky to feeling like my own. I sighed and immersed myself in the diary once again.
My heart sank; my brother, in the army? But he was just a child! Had he gone to someone in the village, one of the Blackshirts, and found a way to lie about his age? I searched his face, and he looked away. I resolved to ask Papa later, and Leo.
Leo and I had never talked about the war…
“They enrol children now?” Papa tried a laugh, but it didn’t really work.
“Oh, Gesù!” Mamma looked up to the sky and murmured a quick prayer.
Papa glowere
d at Pietro. “And why do you think fighting is the best way to do your duty? Our duty is to work the best we can, to look after our homes and villages, not to go killing people. Our country was doing very well before the war began.”
“Luigi, please be quiet,” Mamma pleaded. “Someone might hear you.”
Papa snorted, but suddenly, voices outside startled us. I thought they’d passed by!
“And what do we have here?” the thin, tall man said aloud, stepping into the workshop.
“My tenants,” the Conte said curtly. He had followed the man into the workshop and now stood beside him. “But let’s not delay, I did order dinner for seven on the dot,” he added. I knew he was trying to draw the man away from us.
“It’s… it’s amazing to meet you,” my brother stammered. He performed the fascist salute, and I could feel my stomach knotting. I didn’t dare look at Papa.
“And you. What are you doing for the country, young man?” The guy had assumed a radio broadcasting tone that would have been ridiculous had it not been so tragically real.
“I hope to receive my cartolina soon,” answered my sweet, idealistic, thoroughly deluded little brother.
The Blackshirt looked him over. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen.” I wasn’t looking at them, but I could feel my parents pale. I must have paled myself, because I knew what the man was going to say next.
“Still young, but I’m sure something can be done about that, don’t you think?” He caught the eye of a third man who had been standing silently beside the Conte. Two women had also arrived, and were whispering to one another in the doorway.
“Of course. Young and strong, that’s how the army needs them!”
The Italian Villa: An emotional and absolutely gripping WW2 historical romance Page 12