Rosa was there, washing dishes in the sink, her back straight, her demeanor as forbidding as a tomb. She did not turn around to greet them.
Aldo did his best to paper over the awkwardness, directing the younger girls to fetch a fresh tablecloth, and then bowls and spoons and glasses.
“There’s still some soup, I think, and Rosa baked the bread yesterday—didn’t you, Rosa? Ah, well . . . she’s busy. I’ll see what there is, and I’ll fetch you some wine, and while I’m doing that the children can tell Nina who they are, although don’t worry about keeping them straight just yet, my dear.”
The children had been hovering at the door, but with this invitation they hurried inside and gathered around Nico, and the youngest boy—he had to be Carlo—sat on his brother’s knee with the ease of a child who knew he was loved.
“I’ll tell you who everyone is. I’m Carlo, and these are my sisters Agnese and Angela, and even though they look almost the same, Agnese is the older one by a year. Then there’s Paolo and Matteo—he’s the one who’s trying to grow a mustache, even though I think it looks like a feather got caught under his nose. And Rosa is the grumpy one who is mad at Nico. She’s nearly always mad at one of us, so you shouldn’t be too worried.”
“Carlo,” Nico warned.
“Perhaps you might tell us a little about Nina?” Aldo asked, his tone uncertain but hopeful.
“I will tell you, Papà, I promise. But we’re both tired, Nina especially. I hope you don’t mind if we rest for a while. It was a long walk from Venice.”
“From Venice, then? I—yes. Of course. We can wait.”
They ate in silence, and though Nico seemed perfectly at ease with his brother hanging off him, the dog curled up at his feet, and his sister washing the dishes with such vigor it was a miracle she hadn’t smashed the lot, Nina could barely swallow her soup.
She’d expected his family to be surprised, certainly, and even disappointed over his decision, but his sister was reacting as if Nina had made Nico the accessory to a crime, her hostility so palpable that the air in the room was buzzing. And if Carlo was right, his eldest sister was a woman who took more comfort in anger than she did in happiness.
“She’s very pretty,” Carlo whispered into his brother’s ear just then, and naturally he waited for a moment when the silence around them was absolute. “I like her hair. It looks like it’s made out of springs.”
“They’re called ringlets, and yes, she is very pretty, but you mustn’t talk about Nina as if she isn’t here. It’s not polite.”
“What should I say?”
“You might ask her about Venice.”
“What is Venice like, Nina?” Carlo asked readily.
“Haven’t you been? No? Well, it’s very beautiful, and instead of streets there are canals—”
“I know that. Everyone knows that.”
“Of course. Well, did you know that instead of having mules like Bello, people move their things around on handcarts? And some very grand people have houses with a space for boats at the bottom, right where the cellar would be in an ordinary house.”
“Was your house like that?”
“No. Mine was, ah”—and then, remembering just in time—“I lived in a house with other students. It was too small for that.”
“When did you and my brother get married?”
“Carlo, that’s enough. Didn’t you hear me tell Papà that we were tired? We’re going to have a rest now, and then I’ll tell you the whole story at supper. Now off you go, all of you, and get started on your chores.”
Nico stood, shooing the children away, and then gathered up their empty bowls. These he took to Rosa at the sink, and though it felt wrong to watch, Nina couldn’t look away. He kissed his sister’s temple, and whispered something in her ear, and whatever he said must have eased her spirits, or helped to temper her anger, for she bowed her head, and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, and even gave him a fleeting smile. But she did not look around to acknowledge Nina.
After collecting their bags, Nico guided her through a door at the far corner of the kitchen. A few steps beyond was a dark and quiet room—“The parlor, but we never go in there,” he told her. Now he took her hand and led her up a short flight of stairs to a landing, then up a second, narrower run of steps to a corridor with two doors on either side.
“This is Papà’s room, and opposite it is the girls’ room, then next to it the boys’ room, and this is my room. Our room, now.”
It wasn’t so different from the bedroom they’d occupied at his aunt’s house. It had the same wooden floor, plain furniture, and whitewashed walls. The bed was covered by an immaculate white counterpane, a crucifix hanging on the wall above, a faded rag rug ready to warm chilly feet; next to the bed, in lieu of a nightstand, was a simple stool. On the far wall was a wooden peg rack hung with Nico’s shirts and trousers, and there was a dresser, too, its top covered by a stack of books and a leather case left open to reveal a man’s shaving things. In front of the window was a wooden chair, angled to allow its occupant a view of the bottle-green slopes of the mountains.
Nico set down their bags and crossed the room to open the window and close the shutters. “There. Now it’s dark enough to sleep.”
He hung up his coat, shrugged off his braces, and sat on the bed to unlace his boots. Pulling back the counterpane, he folded it neatly at the end of the bed, and did the same again for the blankets and top sheet. Then he lay down and patted the narrow space next to him.
“Take off your coat and shoes and lie down. You’re safe next to me—you know that. Although”—and here he grinned—“your ears may protest. My brothers tell me I snore.”
It was silly to protest, and she certainly didn’t want to see him sleeping on the floor again. So she did as he suggested and lay down on her side, but the bed was so narrow it was impossible to maintain any distance, and his body was so distractingly warm against her back that she wasn’t certain she’d be able to sleep. Yet the rhythm of his steady breaths was comforting, and the room was pleasantly dim and quiet, and she resolved to simply close her eyes for a moment. Only for a minute or two, and then she’d sit by the window and let herself think of home and her parents.
When she woke, the room had grown so dark she could scarcely see, and she was cold despite the blanket that Nico, rising, must have draped over her. She listened, tuning her ears to the unfamiliar sounds of her new home: children’s voices, the far-off lowing of oxen, the tinny sound of a radio, the clang of pots and pans.
Sitting up, she put on her shoes and, as there was no mirror, she smoothed down her hair, straightened her clothes, and ventured back to the kitchen.
Rosa was at the range, stirring away at something in a huge iron pot. She must have heard Nina come down the stairs, but she didn’t turn, didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge her in any way. Nico and his father were just outside—their voices seemed close enough to touch—and rather than test her courage with a confrontation, Nina walked past Rosa to the courtyard, her feet following the seam between two rows of tiles as if it were a tightrope.
As she’d hoped, Aldo and Nico were there, sitting on the stools under the olive tree, the dog at their feet.
“I’m sorry I slept for so long.”
“You were tired,” Aldo replied. He stood, offering her his stool, and the dog, who had been fast asleep a second before, jumped to her feet and looked up at both men adoringly.
“What is her name?” Nina asked.
“Selva,” Nico answered. “She’s my father’s dog but she prefers me.”
“True enough,” Aldo said. “She pays me no mind when he’s around.”
“I was just telling my father the story of how we met,” Nico said easily.
She nodded, suddenly nervous. If only they’d agreed upon a story that wasn’t quite so romantic.
“Your family didn’t object to your leaving?”
“I told you, Papà—Nina has no family. That’s why I was so certain
she had to come with me. With the way things are? In my place you’d have done the same.”
No family. No family. She’d agreed upon the fiction, but to hear it said so baldly, as if it were the truth . . .
“I expect so,” Aldo admitted, “but your sister. Well. The shock has upset her.”
“I know. And I will speak to her. I will explain.”
“You know she had hoped you’d return to the seminary one day. You know she’d have preferred you never left at all—”
“Yes,” Nico interrupted, his voice rising, “but after Marco was killed there was no choice. I had to come home. And I was happy to do it. You know I was.”
“I do. And Rosa’s sure to come around before long. You know she’s never loved surprises. Remember how she reacted when Marco and Luca enlisted?”
“She’s still angry about that. Never mind that they got themselves killed not a month later.”
“Nico. Enough. Why don’t you visit Father Bernardi? There’s still time before supper.”
“Very well. What do you think, Nina? You aren’t too tired?”
“No, not at all,” she said, and let him pull her to her feet. “It will be nice to see him again.”
“You know him?” Aldo asked. “But I thought—”
Only then did she realize her mistake. “I’m sorry. I meant to say that I was looking forward to meeting him.”
“Of course. Well, off you go now, and don’t let Nico and Father get so caught up in talking that they forget the time. Supper will be your first proper meal in your new home—you don’t want to be late.”
Chapter 7
Nico took her arm as they walked away, and even after they turned onto the road he didn’t let go. Perhaps he, too, needed a bit of comfort after their awkward homecoming and her mortifying mistake in admitting a prior acquaintance with Father Bernardi.
“I can’t believe I was so stupid just now.”
But Nico was unconcerned. “My father barely noticed. Don’t trouble yourself over it.”
The rectory where Father Bernardi lived, only a few meters distant from the church, was a modest stuccoed building, its window baskets brimming with leggy geraniums. The priest opened the door himself when they knocked, beckoning them into a cozy entranceway that smelled of furniture polish, incense, and the faintest whiff of strong coffee.
He led them into his study, past his desk stacked high with papers and books, to a sitting area at the far end of the room. With Nico’s help he cleared yet more books off the furniture and, after some ineffectual plumping of the upholstery, directed them to sit on the settee.
“I have a little coffee left. I’ll just ask dear Signora Vendramin to prepare it for us.”
“That’s all right, Father,” Nico said. “We can’t stay for long—supper is almost ready. Maybe another day.”
“Very well,” the priest said, and made himself comfortable in his chair. “How are you both? How was the journey?”
“Long,” Nina said, and though she was glad to see her father’s friend again, she didn’t have the energy, or the spirit, to indulge in conversational niceties. “When I saw you in Venice last year, did you know?”
“Of your father’s wish that I hide you? Not then. Not until last month, when he wrote to me and asked if I would find a safe place for you to see out the war.”
“Why only me? Why not him and my mother, too?”
“I asked him—more than once I asked—but he was worried that a move of any kind would be too disruptive for your mother. Too upsetting.”
“He didn’t seem very concerned about upsetting me,” Nina grumbled.
“Only because he knew you were strong enough to bear it,” Father Bernardi countered, his tone reassuring rather than reproving. “And you can. You’re among friends here.”
“I don’t know anything about living on a farm. I don’t know how to cook, or clean, or do anything useful.”
“You’ll learn. Niccolò will help you.”
At this Nico nodded. “I know my sister wasn’t very friendly when we arrived earlier. I’m sorry about that.”
“It feels wrong to deceive her and your father.”
“Father Bernardi and I did consider telling them. We did. But it’s imperative that we keep your true identity a secret.”
“Don’t you trust them?” she asked, suddenly nervous.
“We do,” Father Bernardi answered. “Neither of them would ever betray you. The greater problem is the difficulty of keeping such a secret when there are young children about. They listen to everything, you know, and Carlo is still in school, and as you’ve seen he is a talkative little fellow. It would only take one slip, one careless word overheard at supper, to doom us all. It also doesn’t help that his teacher is the worst sort of fascist mouthpiece.”
“I agree,” Nico said. “Far better that only the three of us know the truth.”
He and Father Bernardi were so matter-of-fact about it. As if it was an everyday thing to offer her shelter. As if it wasn’t something that could lead to their imprisonment or worse.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, turning to Nico. “My father is friends with Father Bernardi—not you. Yet you’re risking so much for me. For a stranger.”
“What kind of man would I be if I didn’t offer to help you? And you were only a stranger before I met you.”
“Most men would look away.”
“I can’t account for their decisions. I can only do what I know to be right. And I do believe we’ll be successful. Mezzo Ciel is a quiet place. No one will come looking for you here.”
“You are safe here,” Father Bernardi insisted. “But I do have something to ask of you, something rather difficult. I’m afraid you will have to attend Mass while you’re here.”
Of course. She should have known to expect such a thing. Even the kindest Gentiles believed they were doing Jews a favor when they impelled them to embrace Christianity. “Are you saying I have to convert?” she asked, her throat tight with horror.
His shocked expression was encouragingly genuine. “Goodness, no. No—I would never ask such a thing of you. You need only attend and make a show of following along. Your thoughts and beliefs are yours to own. As the Lord is my witness, I swear this to you.”
She believed him. She did. So why did she have to fight off tears?
“We ought to be getting back,” Nico said, and if he’d noticed that she was struggling, he didn’t embarrass her by mentioning it. “We won’t win over my sister by being late for supper.”
“Of course, of course. I’ll see you both on Sunday.”
Only then did Nina think to ask Father Bernardi one last question. “If you hear anything of my parents?”
“I shall let you know straightaway. That I promise.”
They were back at the farm a few minutes later, but rather than beckon them inside for dinner, Aldo—still sitting under the olive tree—told them that supper wasn’t quite ready.
“You might as well show Nina around,” he suggested.
“I would like that,” she said, and it wasn’t only because she wanted to put off returning to the kitchen and Rosa’s arctic company as long as possible. She genuinely was curious to see more of the place where she’d be staying until she returned home to her parents.
“Has your family always lived here?” she asked as they walked away.
“As far as I know. My grandfather’s grandfather built the house. The one it replaced was much smaller.”
“More like your zia Elisa’s?”
“Yes. I’ve always thought my ancestor must have come into some money. That’s why this house is so large, and why some of the details are so fine.”
“What’s on the top floor? More bedrooms?”
He shook his head. “That’s the granary. The stairs to it go up the outside of the house—you’ll see in a minute. And here are the stables. We’ve the pair of milk cows over there, and the oxen next to them. We’ve a few dozen chickens, too. Foreve
r underfoot during the day, but they go back to their coop at dusk.”
They stopped by another pen, this one empty, and she looked at him questioningly.
“My father took the pig over to my uncle’s farm last week. We’ll fatten it up alongside the other pigs, and when it’s time to butcher them my father and brothers will go.”
“But not you?”
“No. I’m too softhearted. I can’t even wring the chickens’ necks for Rosa, and the sight of blood makes me dizzy.”
She giggled at the thought of it. “A grown man like you?”
“I know, I know. Laugh all you like. I pay for it, though—when they’re off dealing with the pig I have to run the farm on my own.” He turned to her, frowning, as if something had just occurred to him. “Nearly everything is cooked in lard. Will you be all right?”
She nodded uneasily, remembering her father’s insistence that she do her best to fit in. That she eat whatever was put in front of her. If lard was so important to their diet, there was no way she could refuse it. Not without ensuring that Rosa’s initial dislike would transform into outright antipathy. “I’ll survive,” she promised. “Although I’m not sure I could eat a pork chop.”
“No fear of that. Most of the meat you’ll see comes from the chickens, and even then it will only be a mouthful or two.”
They walked past a sleeping Bello in his stall, his ears twitching with every snore, and Nico stooped to scratch the head of a passing cat.
“This fellow is tame enough, but keep your distance from the others. They’re all more than half-wild.”
They walked under the hayloft, which was so low that Niccolò had to duck his head, and then out the back of the stables and around to the rear of the house. There the granary stairs he’d mentioned ran steeply up to the top floor; a meter or so beyond them was a back door and, angled into the ground next to it, a pair of cellar doors.
Our Darkest Night Page 6
