He was wide awake when the first sack came tumbling through the open window.
It nearly landed on the head of a sleeping woman. She startled awake and cried out in the darkness: “Now they’re trying to kill us! Trying to crush our heads while we sleep!”
A second sack dropped into the room and something rolled out, rumbling across the floor.
“Who’s throwing things at us? Why are they doing this?”
Lorenzo climbed onto the bench and peered out of the high window. He saw two shadowy figures crouched below, one of them about to swing yet a third sack up and over the high sill into the room.
“Hey, you!” Lorenzo called out. “What are you doing?”
One of the figures looked up. The moon was full and under its stark illumination, he saw the face of an elderly woman dressed all in black. She placed a finger to her lips in a plea for silence, then she and her companion scurried from the building and slipped away into the darkness.
“Apples!” a woman called out in delight. “There are apples here!”
Someone lit a candle, and by its meager glow they saw the bounty that had spilled from the sacks. Loaves of bread. Wedges of cheese wrapped in newspapers. A cloth bag of boiled potatoes.
“First feed the children!” a woman pleaded. “The children!”
But people were already scooping up the food, desperate for some small scrap before it all vanished. Apples disappeared into pockets. Two women clawed at each other, fighting for a packet of cheese. A man crammed a potato into his mouth, greedily devouring it before anyone could snatch it from him.
Marco dove into the melee and emerged a moment later clutching half a loaf of bread, all he could salvage for their family. They huddled together guarding their treasure as Marco tore the bread into five pieces and handed a portion to each. It was tough as leather, at least a day old, but to Lorenzo it was as welcome as the tenderest of cakes. He savored each bite, eyes closed in pleasure as he let the morsels dissolve into yeasty sweetness on his tongue. He thought of all the other bread he’d eaten in his life and how thoughtlessly he’d chewed it without really tasting, because bread was like air, something you took for granted, the unsung staple at every meal.
As he licked the last crumbs from his fingers, he noticed that his father had not touched his own portion, but was merely staring down at the bread in his hands.
“Papa, eat,” Lorenzo said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“How can you not be hungry? You haven’t eaten in two days!”
“I don’t want it.” His father held out the bread to Lorenzo. “Here. It’s for you and Pia and Marco.”
“Don’t be crazy, Papa,” said Marco. “You need to eat.”
Bruno shook his head. “This is my fault, it’s all my fault. I should have listened to you, Marco, and to Professor Balboni. We should have left Italy months ago. Stubborn old fool, that’s what I am!” The bread fell to the floor and he dropped his face in his hands. He rocked forward, body shuddering with sobs. Never before had Lorenzo seen him cry. Could this broken man really be his father, who always insisted he knew what was best for the family? Who stubbornly kept the luthier shop open for business six days a week, even as the clientele dwindled away? What fortitude it must have taken for Bruno to hide his doubts these five years, to bear the full burden of every decision, good or bad. And this is where his choices had led them. Lorenzo was so shocked by the sight of his father crumbling that he didn’t know what to say or do.
But Mama did. She wrapped her generous arms around her husband and pulled his face against her shoulder. “No, no, Bruno, this is not your fault,” she murmured. “I couldn’t abandon Papa. I didn’t want to leave, either, so it’s my fault, too. We made the choice together.”
“And now we suffer together.”
“It won’t be forever. And really, how terrible could it be in the camp? I’m not afraid to work, and I know you aren’t. You have always worked so hard. What’s important is that we’re together, isn’t that right?” She stroked back the thinning wisps of his hair and kissed the top of his head. “Isn’t it?”
Lorenzo could not remember the last time he’d seen his parents kiss or embrace. At home they always seemed like separate planets moving in their own orbits, circling close but never touching. He could not imagine them ever burning for each other, the way he burned for Laura, but here they were, clinging like lovers. Did he ever really know his parents?
“Papa, please eat,” Pia begged, and she placed the chunk of bread in Bruno’s hand.
Bruno stared at it, as if he’d never seen bread before and did not know what to do with it. When he did begin to eat, it was without apparent pleasure, as if consuming it was a duty, and he did it only to please his family.
“There, now.” His wife smiled. “Everything will be fine.”
“Yes.” Bruno took a deep breath and sat up straight, the family patriarch back in control. “Everything will be fine.”
—
At dawn on the third day, the doors burst open.
Lorenzo lurched awake to the sound of boots thudding across the floor. He scrambled to his feet as uniformed men fanned into the room. They wore the insignia of the fascist Guardia Nazionale Republiccana.
Over the screams of terrified children, a voice boomed out: “Attention! Silence!” The officer did not step over the threshold but addressed them from the doorway, as if the air in the room was foul and he had no wish to pollute his lungs.
Pia slipped her hand into Lorenzo’s. She was shaking.
“Article Seven of the Carta di Verona has classified you as enemy aliens,” the officer announced. “Under police order number five, issued December first, you will be transported to an internment camp. The ministry has generously exempted those who are gravely ill or elderly, but you have all been deemed able-bodied and eligible for transport.”
“Then Grandpapa is safe?” Pia said. “They won’t take him from the nursing home?”
“Shhh.” Lorenzo gave her hand a warning squeeze. Don’t draw their attention.
“The train is waiting for you,” said the officer. “After you board, you are each allowed to write one letter. I suggest you tell your friends and neighbors that you are well, and they should not be concerned. I assure you, your letters will be delivered. Now it’s time to gather your belongings. Bring only what you can carry to the station.”
“You see?” Eloisa whispered to Bruno. “They’re even allowing us to send letters. And Papa can stay in his nursing home. I will write to him, so he won’t worry about us. And you must write to Professor Balboni. Tell him that he frightened us for nothing and everything is fine.”
With so many families, so many young children among them, their procession to the train station was a slow one. They moved in a shuffling line past familiar shopwindows and over the same footbridge that Lorenzo had crossed countless times before. Bystanders gathered to watch in eerie silence, as if viewing a parade of ghosts. Among the faces of the spectators, he spotted the neighbor girl Isabella. She raised her arm to wave to him, but her father grabbed her wrist and yanked it down. As Lorenzo passed, the man would not look him in the eye, but stared down at the cobblestones, as if merely meeting his gaze would doom him as well.
The silent parade crossed the piazza, where, on any other day, they would hear laughter and chatter, women calling out to their children. But today there was only the sound of shuffling feet, so many feet, moving in a weary column. Those who witnessed the passing did not dare to speak out in protest.
In that silence, the lone voice that suddenly called out was all the more startling.
“Lorenzo, here! I am here!”
At first all he saw was the glint of sunlight on blond hair, and the parting of the crowd as she pushed forward, pleading: “Let me through! I need to get through!”
Then all at once there she was, her arms flung around him, her lips on his. She tasted of salt and tears.
“I love you,” said Lorenz
o. “Wait for me.”
“I promise. And you must promise to come back to me.”
“You, girl!” a guard barked. “Move away!”
Laura was wrenched from Lorenzo’s arms, and he stumbled back into the moving herd, which carried him forward, ever forward.
“Promise me!” he heard her call out.
He turned, desperate for one last glimpse of her, but her face was already lost in the crowd. All he saw was one pale hand raised in farewell.
—
“They’re blind, all of them,” said Marco. “They cover their eyes and refuse to see what’s happening.”
As their parents and sister dozed beside them, lulled to sleep by the hypnotic clacks of the train, the brothers spoke softly to each other.
“Those letters home, they mean nothing. They let us write them to keep us calm. To distract us.” He looked at Lorenzo. “You wrote to Laura, didn’t you?”
“Are you saying my letter won’t be delivered?”
“Oh, she’ll probably get it. But why, do you think?”
“I don’t know what you’re really asking.”
Marco snorted. “Because you’re as blind as everyone else, little brother! You float through life on a cloud, dreaming only of your music, believing that oh yes, all will turn out for the best! You’ll marry Laura Balboni and have perfect children and spend your lives happily ever after, playing beautiful music.”
“At least I won’t be bitter and angry, like you.”
“You know why I’m bitter? Because I see the truth. Your letter will be delivered. So will Pia’s and Mama’s.” He glanced at their sleeping parents, who had curled up against each other, arms entwined. “Did you see the nonsense Mama wrote? Our train has comfortable third-class seats. They promise that our accommodations at the camp will be equally acceptable. As if we’re headed to some resort on Como! Our friends and neighbors will believe that all’s well, that we’re sitting like tourists on the train, so they won’t worry. Just like Papa refuses to worry. All his life he’s worked with his hands and he won’t believe what he can’t see and touch. He lacks the imagination to consider the worst. And that’s why nobody ever fights back, because we all want to believe the best. Because it’s too frightening to imagine the possibilities.” He looked at Lorenzo. “Have you noticed which direction this train is taking us?”
“How can I tell? They’ve kept all the window shades down.”
“Because they don’t want us to see where we’re going. But even through the shades, you can see on which side the sun is shining.”
“They told us we’re going to the internment camp in Fossoli. That’s where they send everyone.”
“That’s what they say. But look at the light, Lorenzo. See which side of the train it’s shining on? We’re not headed to Fossoli.” Grimly, Marco stared straight ahead and said, softly: “This train is going north.”
14
Rob is furious with me. I hear it in the slam of the front door and his agitated footsteps as he storms into the kitchen.
“Why did you cancel your appointment with Dr. Rose?” he demands.
I don’t turn to look at him, but continue chopping carrots and potatoes for dinner. Roast chicken is on the menu tonight, rubbed with olive oil and lemon, seasoned with rosemary and sea salt. It will be a meal just for the two of us because Lily is still staying with Val. It is far too quiet with her gone, and the house does not feel right. It feels as if I’ve slipped into some sad parallel universe, and the real house with the real me exists somewhere else. A house where we are all happy again, where my daughter loves me and my husband is not standing in the kitchen, glaring.
“I wasn’t in the mood to see her,” I tell him.
“Not in the mood? Do you know how hard it was for her to fit you into her schedule on such short notice?”
“The psychiatrist was your idea, not mine.”
He gives a frustrated laugh. “Yeah, she predicted you’d be resistant. She said denial is part of your problem.”
Calmly I set down the knife and turn to face this parallel-universe version of Rob. Unlike my calm, starched-shirt husband, the man I see now is flushed and agitated and his tie hangs askew. “You’ve been to see her? You two are already discussing me?”
“Of course we are! I’m at wit’s end. I needed to talk to someone.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That you’re so obsessed with that damn piece of music, you won’t address the real problem. That you’ve withdrawn from Lily. And you’ve withdrawn from me.”
“If someone stabbed you in the leg, you’d withdraw, too.”
“I know you think Lily’s the problem, but Dr. Rose spent three hours observing her. She saw a perfectly normal and charming three-year-old. There was no violent behavior, no sign of pathology whatsoever.”
I stare at him, stunned by what I’ve just heard. “You brought my daughter to see a psychiatrist, and you didn’t bother to tell me?”
“You think this has been easy for Lily? She spends more time at Val’s than she does here and she’s confused. Meanwhile, you’re calling Rome every day. I saw the phone bills. That poor shopkeeper probably wonders why the crazy lady won’t leave him alone!”
The word crazy hits me like a slap. It’s the first time he’s said it to my face, but I know he’s been thinking it all along. I’m his crazy wife, the daughter of another crazy woman.
“Oh God, Julia. I’m sorry.” He sighs and says, quietly: “Please. Go see Dr. Rose.”
“What difference would it make? It sounds like you two have already diagnosed me in absentia.”
“She’s a good psychiatrist. She’s easy to talk to, and I think she really cares about her patients. Lily liked her right away. I think you will, too.”
I turn back to the cutting board and pick up the knife. Begin slicing carrots again, slowly and deliberately. Even as he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, I continue slicing, my blade thudding against wood.
“I’m doing this for us,” he whispers and kisses the back of my neck. The heat of his breath makes me shudder, as if a stranger is groping me. Not the husband I adored, not the man I’ve loved for more than a decade. “It’s because I love you both. You and Lily. My two best girls in the world.”
—
After Rob falls asleep that night, I climb out of bed and creep downstairs to his computer, where I search online for Dr. Diana Rose. Rob is right; I have been so obsessed with hunting down the origins of Incendio that I haven’t paid attention to what is going on in my own home. I need to know more about this woman who has already diagnosed me as resistant and in denial. She has skillfully worked her way into my family, charming my daughter, impressing my husband, yet I know nothing about her.
Google turns up dozens of hits for “Dr. Diana Rose, Boston.” Her professional website lists her specialty (psychiatry), practice information (downtown Boston address, multiple hospital affiliations), and education (Boston University and Harvard Medical School). But it’s the photo that rivets my attention.
While Rob was singing her praises, he neglected to tell me that Dr. Rose is a stunningly beautiful brunette.
I click on the next Google link. It’s a news item from Worcester, Massachusetts, about a court case where Dr. Rose was the expert witness. She testified that Mrs. Lisa Verdon was a danger to her own children. Because of that testimony, the court awarded custody to their father.
Fear ties a knot in my stomach.
I click on the next link. It’s a different court case, and I see the words competency hearing. Dr. Rose, testifying for the state of Massachusetts, recommended involuntary commitment of a Mr. Lester Heist because he was a danger to himself.
In the next dozen Web pages I visit, I spot that word again and again. Competency. This is Dr. Rose’s expertise. She determines if patients are a danger to themselves or others. If they should be shut away in institutions the way my mother was.
I exit Google and stare at
the computer screen, where I notice a new photo is displayed as wallpaper. When did Rob change it? Only a week ago, there was an image of all three of us, posing in our back garden. Now there is a photo of only Lily, her hair a bright halo in the sunshine. I feel as if I’ve been erased from our family, and if I look down, I’ll find my arms are fading to invisibility. How long before there’s a different woman’s face on this screen? A doe-eyed brunette who thinks my daughter is sweet and charming and perfectly normal?
—
Dr. Diana Rose is as attractive in person as she is in her Web page photograph. Her fifth-floor office has large windows that overlook the Charles River, but the view is obscured by sheer window shades. Those covered windows make me feel claustrophobic, as if I’m shut away in a white box with white furniture, and if I don’t say the right things, if I can’t prove I’m sane, this woman will have me sealed in here forever.
Her first questions are innocuous enough. Where was I born, where did I grow up, how is my general state of health? She has green eyes and flawless skin and her eggshell silk blouse is just sheer enough to reveal the outline of her bra. I wonder if my husband noticed those same details at his sessions on this same couch where I’m sitting. Her voice is soothing as honey, and she’s good at making it seem that she really cares about my well-being, but I think she’s a thief. She’s stolen my daughter’s affection and my husband’s loyalty. When I tell her I’m a professional musician with a degree from New England Conservatory, I think I see her lip curl up in disdain. Does she think musicians aren’t true professionals? Her diplomas and certificates and awards are framed and displayed all over her wall, documentary proof that she’s superior to any mere musician.
“So you think it all started when you played that piece of music, Incendio,” she says. “Tell me more about the music. You said you found it in Rome.”
“In an antiques store,” I say.
“What made you buy it?”
“I collect music. I’m always on the hunt for something I’ve never heard before. Something unique and beautiful.”
Playing With Fire Page 12