“You mustn’t dwell on—”
“The Englishman warned me that it would be easy. So easy to kill a man like that. But he also told me it would be the hardest thing I would ever do.”
“Was he right?”
“He was. Oh, God, he was right. All that blood, Nina. How will I ever wash it away?”
Chapter 15
5 January 1944
Growing up in the heart of Venice, hemmed in at every side by Gentiles, Nina had been aware of her neighbors’ traditions, but only in the most general way. She’d known of Christmas and Easter and their lesser holidays, but she’d never taken part in the celebrations, nor had she ever needed to pretend she was familiar with them.
She had thought she might hang back from the preparations for Epiphany. Remain at the margin of things, and so avoid drawing attention to her otherness. But it was hard to stay aloof when the children were so excited they could talk of nothing but the great bonfire in the piazza, the once-a-year treat of Rosa’s pinza cake, and the possibility of sweets and even a toy in the stockings they would leave out for la Befana that night.
Carlo was still young enough to believe in the old woman who’d been too busy with her chores to help the wise men search for the Christ child, and who now left out gifts for children on the night before Epiphany. “But only if you are good,” he earnestly explained to anyone who would listen. “Did she ever give you lumps of coal?” he now asked Nina.
“No,” she answered honestly enough. “I was always a good girl.”
“How big was your stocking? Ours are so small,” he grumbled. “We should pin up Nico’s socks instead.”
Nina pretended to consider the suggestion. “I suppose we could, but what if la Befana were to see your brother’s big socks and decide you were too greedy? Then it would be nothing but coal for you.”
“I promise there will be nothing but coal if you don’t get out of my way,” Rosa warned him. “How am I supposed to make the pinza della Befana with you underfoot? Off you go—and you girls, too. I don’t want to see you inside again until suppertime.”
Nina had seen similar cakes for sale in bakeries and markets, but had never thought to wonder how they were made. Rosa’s version began with a pot of cooked polenta, to which she added flour and sugar and an eye-watering amount of grappa. This she turned out onto the table before kneading in raisins, currants, dried figs, chopped apples, and fennel seeds.
“How do you remember how much to add of everything?” Nina asked.
“Practice, I suppose. I started helping Mamma to make it when I was even younger than Carlo is now. After she died, I worried I wouldn’t get it right. But I just got to work and it turned out. Even Papà said it was as good as hers.”
While they were talking, Rosa had shaped the dough into a low, round loaf. Rather than put it in a baking dish or tin, she instead set about wrapping it in layer upon layer of fresh cabbage leaves. Once it was covered to her satisfaction, she carried it to the hearth, where she’d been tending a low fire since the morning, and pushed the embers one way and another until she’d cleared a small space on the brick-lined floor. Then she set down the wrapped dough and covered it with the embers she’d displaced.
“There. That’s one thing out of the way.”
They fetched the children in for supper not long after, but Carlo was too excited to eat anything, and twice he came close to spilling his soup because of his fidgeting, and finally Nico picked up his brother and carried him outside until the pinza cake was ready.
When Rosa brought it to the table at last, the cake didn’t seem terribly appetizing, for the cabbage leaves were charred and dry and smelled terribly sulfurous, but then she whisked away the last of the wrapping to reveal an appetizingly golden exterior.
Everyone was given a thin slice, with seconds for Carlo, and then Rosa set an even smaller piece aside for la Befana, along with a glass of vin brulè.
“Not too much,” she told Carlo, “since she gets something at every house she visits. She won’t have much of an appetite by the time she comes to us.”
Soon Rosa declared it bedtime for all the children, even Matteo and Paolo, and though Carlo once again protested and cast longing looks at his empty stocking, his sister was unmovable. They waited until the children had settled upstairs, Aldo and Nico each sipping at a second glass of vin brulè, and then the work of filling the stockings began.
Making the gifts over the preceding weeks had involved no small amount of deception. Nina had knitted socks for the older boys and men, working in tufts of roving to make them especially cozy, while Rosa had crocheted lace collars for the girls. For Carlo there was also a finely carved wooden airplane, hardly bigger than Nina’s outstretched hand, that she’d seen Aldo working on in spare moments for more than a month.
As showily as a magician, Nico produced bars of cellophane-wrapped nougat, one for each child, followed by three gifts wrapped in plain paper.
“You might as well open them now,” he said, smiling shyly. There was a comb for his father, a bar of fine soap for Rosa, and a little jar of jasmine-scented hand cream for Nina.
“I was in Bassano last month, and the pharmacy on the Piazza Libertà was like Aladdin’s cave. I didn’t have any eggs with me,” he added, “but they agreed to accept a few lire.”
The next morning the children were up at dawn, and their delight as they emptied their stockings and discovered their modest gifts would, Nina decided, long remain one of her happiest memories. Carlo was less enthusiastic when he was told to put down his toy airplane and ready himself for Mass, but Nico calmed him with promises of Pippo bomber chases in the courtyard afterward.
That evening they lingered over the table after supper was done, too full to even think about sampling the pinza cake again, and the girls took turns singing for everyone, and Nico entertained Carlo with a lengthy and dramatic account of la Befana’s visit from the Magi so long ago.
And then it was time to walk into the village for the lighting of the riel, the enormous bonfire that would act as a beacon for la Befana when she returned. They arrived just as everyone was gathering in the piazza, and though the pile of brush and firewood was indeed impressive, it was not, as Carlo had insisted earlier, quite as tall as the campanile.
He now ran off with his schoolmates, promising yet again to be good, and of course he would stay well away from the bonfire, and yes, yes, he would stay in the piazza and come willingly when he was called. Aldo, too, went to join his friends, though only to stand outside the osteria.
To begin the festivities, Father Bernardi offered a blessing, but his voice was swallowed up by the noise of the crowd. A trio of men came forward, torches in hand, and everyone in the piazza held their breath until the flames caught, flickering weakly at first, then growing in strength before they swept to the top of the bonfire.
Around them people were laughing and cheering, and Rosa and the girls were singing about the arrival of la Befana, but Nico was unmoved, unsmiling, his manner as alert and restless as Selva when she was set to guard the house.
“What is it?” Nina asked.
“I’m looking for Carlo. I don’t want to lose him in the crowd.”
But it was more than that, for Carlo was easy to find—he had only just run past them, and the bonfire itself was well contained.
Only then did she notice them. Four German soldiers at the corner of the piazza, just outside the carabinieri station. They were laughing, at ease, their rifles slung over their shoulders. They didn’t seem to care that everyone in the village was breaking the curfew.
She took Nico’s arm in hers, pulling him closer, and then stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “There is nothing to fear tonight. They’re only watching and trying to forget about the war. Just as we are doing.”
“I know. I know. Father Bernardi told me not long ago that he’d been speaking with the local head of the Guardia. The man’s like a sieve. If the Germans had any idea how much he gossips they’d never t
ell him a thing.”
“And?” she prompted.
“The men who disappeared have been recorded as deserters. That’s what Father found out.”
“See? Now we really don’t have to worry.”
He nodded, but his unease was still palpable. “It’s only that . . .”
Carlo came roaring up, his eyes wild with excitement. “Did you see? The wind is sending the smoke to the east! We’ll have good luck this year!” Then he was off again, darting through the crowd, and Nico smiled and hugged her a little closer, and Nina tried to remember if the smoke was meant to go to the east or to the west. Perhaps Carlo was mistaken and the year ahead would be a bad one.
Just then the wind picked up, casting a cinder in Agnese’s eye, and though it was easily rubbed away, Rosa’s patience was at an end. She sent the older boys in search of their father and Carlo, and when the latter was returned, his sooty face streaked with tears, Nico was the one to comfort him.
“The bonfire will be nothing but ashes before you know it. And surely you want a little piece of cake before bed? Maybe some chestnuts, too?”
Soon they were home, and the kitchen was warm and bright, and the delight in the children’s faces was infectious, and the vin brulè that Rosa now ladled out, together with more slices of pinza cake, was the perfect cure for a case of the worries.
“It isn’t so very late,” Nico pointed out, “and I’m still hungry. Do you think we might roast some chestnuts?”
“As if I can say no with all of you staring at me,” Rosa pretended to grumble. Nico scored the chestnuts with his pocketknife, Rosa stirred up the embers in the hearth, and Matteo and Paolo took turns holding and shaking the long-handled pan. When the entire room was filled with the tantalizing scent of roasted chestnuts, the pan was emptied onto the table and the work of peeling began, with everyone exclaiming over burned fingers and the occasional withered surprise. No one was faster at it than Aldo, but then, as he explained, he’d had more than fifty years to practice.
They said good night soon after, and it was a joy to settle in bed, the lamp faintly aglow, the sheets warm from the hot brick Rosa had given them to take upstairs. Nico still turned his back while she changed, and she still shut her eyes while he did the same, but it felt natural to lie close to each other, their feet tangled together, and talk of their day in tender, affectionate whispers.
Earlier, as they’d laughed over the chestnuts, he had seemed happy enough; but now, without the gaze of the others upon him, his mask of contentment fell away.
“Whenever I close my eyes, I see that night,” he whispered. She knew without asking which night he meant. “I see the blood on your face. The look in your eyes. How can you ever forgive me? If we had been caught—”
“We weren’t. Those men were the enemy. They were set on raping me and Rosa, and that was the least of it. If Meier had opened our bedroom door and found the people hiding there, he and his friend would have killed us all. And what if Zwerger had learned of it?”
“If there had been any other way . . .”
She touched his face, her fingertips tracing the arches of his brows, letting them linger on the lines of worry at the corners of his eyes.
“The day I left Venice was one of the worst days of my life,” she whispered. “I had to say goodbye to my mother and father, to my home, to everything that was familiar and comfortable and safe. It was truly awful—and yet one part of it was good. The part when I met you.”
“If only—”
“Hush. This is the life we have. This is all we have, and I don’t want to waste a single moment on doubts. No more ‘if onlys.’ I am glad I met you. I am glad to be here. And if my life were to end tomorrow, I would still think myself the most fortunate of women.”
He pressed a soft kiss to her brow. “You honor me.”
“I only speak the truth. I never thought I would meet a man as kind and decent as my father, but you are. I know it, and I think my father knew it, too. And that is why he sent me away with you.”
Chapter 16
22 January 1944
It was Saturday, cleaning day, but with Carlo and the girls in bed with bad colds it had fallen to Nina and Rosa to deal with the house. Nico had come up to help with the mattresses, but the rest of the upstairs cleaning—sweeping, scrubbing, dusting, and changing the bedsheets—Nina had done on her own.
She hadn’t minded, for the children had kept her company while she cleaned their rooms, and after four months of practice she was able to sweep and wash the floors as quickly and neatly as Agnese and Angela. Even the bedsheets took her no time at all to change, excepting the delay as she persuaded Carlo to vacate his bed for a few short minutes.
“It’s soooooo cold,” he moaned, even though she’d wrapped him in his blanket and put him in his brothers’ big bed.
“I’ll be done before you know it, and then I’ll bring you a hot brick for your feet. That will warm you all over.”
“Why can’t I sleep in your bed?”
“Because it needs to be changed as well. Now stop complaining and let me finish.”
As soon as Carlo was settled again, the promised brick at his toes and his precious toy airplane in his hands, she went down the hall to finish her and Nico’s room. She’d washed the floors earlier but, contrary to Rosa’s advice, had neglected to first do the dusting. Not that it mattered, for the room looked just as clean as it had the Saturday before.
The only surface that needed attention was the top of the dresser. She wiped down the case that held Nico’s shaving things, the wooden back of his hairbrush, and their shared collection of books. His selection, she decided, perfectly embodied his character. There was a Bible; a gilt-edged book of devotions; a guide to modern farming and animal husbandry, its pages dog-eared and marked with penciled annotations; and a beautiful edition of the Divine Comedy, with scraps of paper peeking out where he had marked his favorite passages.
“I have more,” Nico said from the doorway. “Books, that is. The rest are packed away.”
“Why only these four?”
He now came to stand behind her. “When I returned home, I thought I would build a bookshelf. I couldn’t imagine living without all my books near me. But I’m so tired at night, I hardly ever read.”
She nodded. “I know what you mean. I used to be such a bookworm, but now . . .” She arranged the books neatly on the dresser, his shaving case propping them up at one end and Pietro, the toy rabbit she had brought from home, at the other.
“Perhaps we might read to one another in the evening,” he suggested. “Instead of listening to the radio.”
“I would love that.”
“My father and Rosa would, too. She’s the one who ought to have gone away to school. More brains than the rest of us put together.” Nico reached past Nina to stroke the worn velvet of Pietro’s ear. “Where did he come from?”
“My rucksack. I’d pulled it out from under the bed, so I might sweep the floor there, and Angela peeked inside and found Pietro. She was worried he might be lonely, hidden away under the bed, so I put him out on the dresser. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not. He looks well loved.”
“Mamma made him for me when I was little. He was always my favorite.”
“Why is he called Pietro?”
“That’s the name of the rabbit in the book by Signorina Potter. We had it, too. The book, I mean. It was in English, so Mamma would translate as she read. I remember being very afraid of the farmer.”
“The farmer?”
“Yes. He wanted to catch little Pietro and bake him into a pie.”
“Not this farmer. You know I’m too softhearted for that.”
Hearing the smile in his voice, she turned to face him. Her eyes were at the same level as the base of his throat, and she was close enough to see his leaping pulse as it danced under his skin. She looked up, and he looked down, and there was a moment when neither of them remembered to breathe. He tilted his head,
as if he were about to ask her a question.
She nodded.
He kissed her. His mouth was gentle, his touch a whisper, no more. She stretched toward him, her shoes creaking as she rose on her tiptoes, her hands curving over his shoulders. He pulled her closer still, one arm wrapped around her back, the other reaching up to cradle her head.
“Nina,” he whispered against her lips. “We need to stop.”
“Why? I don’t ever want to stop.”
“Neither do I, but the children are just down the hall, and it’s the middle of the day. Later, when everyone is asleep, then we can . . .” He was blushing, the color rising under his day-old beard.
“Later,” she agreed, her face equally crimson. “When it’s time for bed.”
NICO WENT TO join his father in the barn, and it started to rain soon after, so there was nothing else to do but sit in the kitchen, under the feeble light of the oil lamps, for once again the electricity wasn’t working, and attend to the mending. Nina darned sock after sock, found ways to patch Carlo’s trousers that were already nothing but patches, and stopped only when her eyes watered and burned and she could no longer see the needle in her hand.
At last it was time for supper, a meager meal of soup and stale bread, and with the youngest three children still in bed it was far too quiet around the table. They ate in near silence, the rush of pouring rain a numbing melody, and when Rosa pushed back her chair and told the boys to bring out the bathing tub, Nina’s heart missed a beat. They would have their baths, and then it would be time for bed, and then . . .
Rosa was kind enough to share some of her good soap, and after everyone had bathed and washed their hair and had dressed again, she combed through Nina’s curls, working through the tangles and twisting her hair into two neat plaits, her touch soft and certain and wonderfully soothing. When she was finished Nina did the same in return, braiding Rosa’s hair into one thick plait that fell all the way to the small of her back.
Our Darkest Night Page 13
