There were indeed children who had received nothing. Maria was one of them. She stared down at the table. Her hand was in her mouth. She was chewing her fingers.
‘Who has not received a parcel?’ asked one of the sisters. Half a dozen hands were raised. ‘We have parcels which have lost their labels,’ she continued. ‘Some did not survive the long journey very well. Would those of you who have not received a parcel come to the front, please?’
Unlabelled packages were handed out until every girl in the refectory had something before her. The excitement fizzed like electricity. Eager fingers were poised.
Once the nuns had told us not to damage the boxes and paper and to keep the string, consent was given that we could open our parcels.
Mine contained a blue cardigan with glass buttons. It was too small for me as I had grown. It also contained more socks, an embroidered handkerchief made by my mother, four very stale fig biscuits made by my aunt and a letter from all of them written by my father. He had sketched a cat and a chicken at the bottom.
I cannot describe the exhilaration and excitement I felt at being able to read their words. They were well. They missed me. Everything at home was all right. The cat had given birth to five kittens. They had plenty of eggs.
I read the letter again and again, feeling so full of joy that I thought I would burst, but when I looked up, Maria was sitting there quietly, prodding at the contents of her parcel.
‘It’s not from my mother,’ she said. ‘She didn’t send this.’
‘How do you know? Maybe they didn’t give you the right parcel.’
Maria shook her head. ‘All of us who didn’t get a parcel with a label got the same thing,’ she said, pointing down the line at another grave-faced girl.
It transpired that each of the overlooked children had been given some kind of garment, plus a slightly shrivelled apple. Nobody believed that this homogenised array of gifts was from their own parents. The consensus was that their parents were dead and the nuns had concocted a lie to comfort them.
From that moment Maria became consumed with a melancholy so deep that she never wanted to play. She would sit in silence and, despite the sisters’ encouragement, barely touched her meals. I tried to make her feel better by giving her one of my biscuits and my blue cardigan. She didn’t eat the biscuit and just sat quietly fiddling with the glass buttons.
When it rained, the convent walls ran with brownish water and buckets were placed appropriately to catch the streams from the leaking roof. My precious letter, which I had vowed to keep forever, suffered from the pervasive damp. Within a couple of weeks, my father’s words dissolved into an illegible grey blur. Eventually, all that was discernible was the shape of the cat.
Receiving communication from my parents was a mixed blessing. Although I had confirmation that they were alive and well, my every thought became consumed with the wish to be reunited with them and to be home, where everything was comfortable and familiar. It was the same for the rest of the girls.
The sisters reminded us frequently that the reason we had been entrusted into their care was that our parents loved us. They told us the story of Joseph, whose father loved him more than anyone else on earth; and the story of Abraham who loved his son Isaac so much that he was prepared to sacrifice him to God. Although this story troubled me and I struggled to understand the metaphor, I knew that the sisters cared for us deeply and the story was meant as a comfort.
I preferred the tale of Noah’s Ark, which Sorella Maddalena liked to recount.
‘God asked Noah to save all the animals,’ she said, ‘so he built an enormous ark on which they would be safe. This convent is like your ark. You are all here to be safe and out of harm’s way whilst the deluge of war rages. When the war is over and the dove of peace returns you will all be taken home safely.’
The thought of God sending birds as signs intrigued me. I looked outside whenever I could, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dove which would signify that peace had returned - but apart from countless crows and sparrows, I saw only the occasional wood pigeon.
*
The winter could not last forever and thankfully as February gave way to March, the wintry winds subsided, the days lengthened and the sun began to dry out the sodden building. At last windows could be opened.
Despite the lack of adequate food, I grew. I had been aware of my sleeves becoming shorter, which did not trouble me too much, but I had also been painfully conscious of my boots becoming tighter. I had taken to wearing them without socks, which caused chilblains and blisters. Concerned by my hobbling and aware that I was not the only one who had outgrown my clothes, the sisters organised clothing exchanges.
I was allocated an itchy green skirt with a stain on the front and a burn on the hem, and a stiff brown jumper which smelled of damp.
I would have been most unhappy had it not been for the fact that I was also given a pair of shiny red leather shoes which were almost new and fitted as though they had been made for me. They were not the rustic, hard-soled boots I was used to. They were beautiful things, crafted from soft, pliant leather. I buffed them every day with my mother’s handkerchief.
April burst forth with warm sunshine, and although I still could not see or hear any doves, the rattle of wood-peckers and the cooing of cuckoos in woodlands surrounding the convent filled the air. There was a newfound cheerfulness and relief that we were no longer battling the wind and the wet. Those of us who had colds were in the minority as opposed to the majority.
The sisters took us out along steep mountain paths and through the pinewoods to collect early forest fruits and to pull wild garlic from the ground. We each carried a stick, which we were told to beat on the ground before we ventured into any shrubbery or overgrowth to scare away vipers.
I did ask myself why anybody would choose to live in such a wild place, with its cold weather, its poor soil and its poisonous snakes. It didn’t surprise me that so few people did live there. We trekked many miles from the convent, but we never saw a single habitation apart from an occasional tumbledown shack in which the nuns said goat-herders sheltered during summer nights.
Although I thanked God repeatedly for having sent the boar, I began to find my conversations with Him irritatingly one-sided. I could appreciate the fact that His attention had to be shared amongst many people, but I reasoned that most of us must be asking for the same thing. We all wanted the war to end so that we could go home. I questioned whether He was listening at all and how, if He was so loving and dedicated to His children on earth, He had allowed a war to happen in the first place. I began to wonder whether the arrival of the boar had simply been a fortunate coincidence.
I voiced my doubts to Sorella Maddalena, who told me to be patient, to keep my faith strong and to continue praying. Her answer did not satisfy me, but I did as she said.
That morning at Lauds as I knelt I clasped my hands tightly and concentrated with all my might on one single thought. End the war. End the war. Please God, God please. End the war. Let me go home. I repeated the prayer over and over, focusing on each supplication with such fervour that the words seemed to burst out of my heart. By the time I had finished, I was exhausted.
‘Are you listening to me, Father?’ I whispered, but there was no reply.
As we left the chapel and crossed the courtyard, I looked for signs. I desperately wanted to see a white dove, like Noah, but only swallows sliced past.
‘Sorella Maddalena, what sort of bird signs does God send? Is it only doves, because I have only seen swallows,’ I asked in exasperation.
‘No, my dear, it’s not only doves. Signs can take many forms - and perhaps those swallows are signs. They come here every spring. This is their home where they raise their young. Maybe they are a symbol of your return home.’
Sorella Maddalena was right. Three weeks later we received news that the war was over and we could go home.
Chapter 5
It was several weeks before transport could be organis
ed to take us back home. Roads and bridges had been damaged or destroyed and fuel was in scarce supply. By the time provisions were made, I had been away almost eight months.
The scene in the piazza could not have been more different from when I had left. There was cheering, waving and jubilation as children were reunited with their mothers and in some cases even their fathers, for many men had returned from the war.
My mother and my aunt were waiting amongst the crowd in the piazza. I ran towards them faster than I had ever run. They did not recognise immediately as I was taller, thinner and my hair had grown past my waist.
They sandwiched me between them, kissing me, stroking my hair and squeezing me hard.
I showed them my beautiful red shoes and apologised for the fact that I had not been able to wear the cardigan they had sent as it had been too small. They assured me that they didn’t mind at all.
‘I can read now,’ I said. ‘And write. I read your letter all by myself!’
They clucked and fussed as we made our way home, hand-in-hand. I told them about the sisters, the other children and the choir. I did not tell them about the insufferable cold or the hunger, although it was clear to them that during my time away I had not been well nourished.
As we neared Paradiso, I saw my father. He was sitting on a kitchen chair on the verge, waiting for me. He waved and called my name and I hurtled towards him. His face was wet with tears. I was so overjoyed to see him that I clung on too hard and hurt him. During the time I had been away his general movement had improved, but he was still plagued with frequent, paralysing back spasms.
The winter had been harsh in Pieve Santa Clara, I learned. Fog had lain thick over the fields for months, and rationing had become so severe that food was sparse even for those with access to a garden. There had been weeks, it transpired, when my parents and my aunt had been forced to eat the vile ration bread.
Food on the black market had doubled, trebled and then quadrupled in price. Meat was only marginally less expensive than gold. People had taken to queuing all night to be first in line when the local shop opened, but often there was nothing at all to buy.
I heard stories of peace celebrations in towns and cities, where people had thrown parties in the streets, climbed statues and jumped into fountains, but this did not seem to apply to Pieve Santa Clara. There was relief that the war was over and a fragile sense of hope that normality would return, but nobody could be sure what form that normality would take. People were exhausted. The end of war did not mean the end of rationing and most families, including my own, had been left incomplete.
When I went to Ernesto’s room I found that everything was still in its place. His clothes were folded neatly in his chest of drawers and the bed was made. His ten tin soldiers were still lined up on his bedside table. The only difference was a blur of black, sooty blooms on the ceiling, left by the smoke of the oiled rags.
Zia Mina carried on with her day-to-day chores and still tended her garden, but there was a profound sadness about her and an emptiness in her eyes. I had not been there to witness the months of her deepest despair, but I learned that she had spent countless days shut in her room, so immobilised with grief that she had barely been able to leave her bed. My mother and Ada Pozzetti had kept a vigil around my aunt in the weeks that followed Ernesto’s death for they were afraid she would try to end her own life.
My delight at being reunited with Rita was immense. We hugged and skipped around one another, squealing. Rita said she had missed me so much she did not know how she had survived. She had kept my rag dolly with her the entire time I was away.
Both our dollies were battered and shabby now, but like us, they had survived the war.
Rita said that after I had left, dozens of German soldiers had swarmed into the village. They searched all the houses again and again, and were very angry that the children had been evacuated. A few days later the Allied bombings had begun with force. Although mercifully, Pieve Santa Clara was never hit, the attacks sent hundreds more German soldiers running for cover in the village.
I was a little jealous when Rita told me that throughout the incursions she and her mother had lodged with my parents and my aunt. At the time I did not understand the fear they must have felt as they cowered in the cellar night after night in the pitch black, praying that they would see the morning. My time at the convent, which had sometimes seemed so difficult, had been a holiday in comparison with Rita’s experience.
I had spent my time surrounded by children, but Rita had seen nobody of her own age for many months, apart from Miracolino, a feral boy who lived by the canal. Miracolino was no playmate. He was wild and savage. Ernesto had chased him away many times when he had caught him trying to sneak into Zia Mina’s garden to steal cherries or peaches from the trees.
With Ernesto gone, there was nobody on guard and during my time away Miracolino had started venturing into the garden. My aunt had caught him eating her radishes, but she had not been angry. She told him that if he was hungry, which inevitably he was, she would give him what she could.
From that day on Miracolino would often be seen standing immobile in the yard, waiting for my aunt to notice him. He seemed to function only at two speeds, either motionless or running at full pelt. He was unable to formulate sentences any longer than three or four disjointed words. He had a wild, blank stare and never closed his mouth for very long. He would roll his tongue between his lips and wipe the dripping saliva against his shoulder. Sometimes he would bite his tongue until it bled. Although she fed him, my aunt would not allow Miracolino into her house for he carried with him fleas, lice and nits. Miracolino was always scratching.
I had shooed him away, but my aunt scolded me and told me not to be hostile.
‘But he’s got fleas and lice, Zia Mina!’ I protested. My head itched just at the thought.
‘Nobody is obliging you to get close enough to catch them,’ my aunt replied tersely. ‘I have told him he can come and see me if he wants. That little boy needs helping. You cannot imagine the conditions in which he lives. It’s not his fault he has lice, or that his clothes are dirty.’
‘Why doesn’t his Mamma wash his clothes?’
‘Because she can barely look after herself and she is raising three children all alone.’
Miracolino’s mother could be spotted from time to time wandering along the road towards the village. She was bone-thin and usually inappropriately dressed for the climate. I had seen her in summer, bundled into a coat so enormous that it seemed to be swallowing her, yet I had seen her out in the cold dressed in shirtsleeves, scratching at the scabs which covered her arms. Her speech was slurred and sometimes she would yelp or burst out laughing for no reason. Most of her teeth were missing.
She had never been married, but had managed to produce at least three children: an older girl, who never ventured far from the house and would run away making a whooping noise if anyone approached her; Miracolino, and a baby which had appeared at some point during the war. There were rumours that there had been more, fathered by an unknown assortment of drunks and vagrants. Speculation and lascivious gossip abounded. My aunt said that the men who took advantage of her were feckless. I didn’t know what feckless meant, but I knew it was not a desirable quality.
One day Miracolino’s mother had come to Paradiso and tried to sell my mother a bag of festering rags. She cradled and bounced the tattered bundle in one arm as though it was a baby. Hooked over her other arm was an actual baby. It was a pale, limp, semi-naked little thing.
My mother had refused the rags, but given Miracolino’s mother a piece of clean blanket in which to wrap her infant and sent her on her way with a jar of soup.
The name Miracolino, meaning little miracle, had come about when he was only a few months old. Nobody could be entirely sure of the name his mother had given him at birth - perhaps even she had forgotten - but the circumstances surrounding his re-naming were common knowledge in the village.
The infant Mirac
olino had been entrusted to his older sister. She was affectionate towards him, but she was a simple and absent-minded girl who had a compulsion to hang things from trees. She would wander up and down the path by the canal, picking up whatever she could find; thus the trees which surrounded the shack in which she lived were adorned with pieces of sacking, tin cans, bottle tops and all manner of rubbish.
Whilst Miracolino was in her care she had been distracted by something and had placed him on the ground, but the baby had rolled down the bank and into the canal.
The sister had run to their closest neighbour to raise the alarm, but the woman had been unable to understand her. Later that day, Miracolino was found almost a kilometre downstream.
A farmer had heard a strange noise coming from the water. When he had gone to investigate he found the baby boy wedged in a forked branch, blue with cold, but alive and inexplicably unscathed. It may have been his ability to remain totally still which saved his life, for if he had struggled he would most certainly have fallen back into the water and drowned. As it was, he had travelled all that way downstream and survived. Perhaps it was this experience which had taught him that in order to be safe, immobility was the best option. Whichever it was, his survival had been nothing short of miraculous and from that day everybody referred to him as Miracolino, the little miracle.
The incident had left him with a fear of water, as might be expected. This also applied to the act of washing in it, but Miracolino continued to live beside the canal which had nearly taken his life and fished its waters, always standing at a safe distance on the bank.
Zia Mina said that without the fish his family would have nothing to eat. His mother would boil whatever he caught in a little tin pot over an open fire, adding leaves to flavour the broth. My aunt gave Miracolino vegetables whenever she could. She said that fish broth and leaves was a dismal diet for a growing boy. One day she had given him two potatoes. He had eaten one raw right in front of her, biting his way through it as though it was an apple.
Paradiso: Utterly gripping and emotional historical fiction (The Paradiso Novels Book 1) Page 6
