She nodded, for it was true—not only of Nico, but also of her parents. “If only I could help them. But there isn’t a thing I can do.”
“Not directly, no, but your actions today will make a difference. To this man, and also to his family. To all the people he will go on to help in the months to come. And it’s by such actions that you tip the scales in our favor. A few grams today, a few more tomorrow. That is how we will prevail.”
She nodded, absorbing his words of comfort, wishing she were stronger. Wishing she wasn’t so consumed by fear.
“I never used to be like this,” she confessed. “Jumping at my own shadow, my heart pounding at every creak on the stairs, always wondering and worrying if today is the day I’ll learn that my parents are lost. If someone will come to tell me Nico has been captured, or hurt, or . . .” She could not give voice to the last, and most terrifying, possibility.
“There’s no shame in being afraid, my dear. Even the bravest men are frightened at times.”
“So how do I bear it?”
“Simply by bearing it. You already know what it is to send him away with your blessing. You already know how painful it is to wait for his return.”
“I do, and I know I mustn’t stop him from going. I know that others will suffer without his help. But . . .”
“Go on.”
“I can’t help wishing he would stay,” she admitted. “It’s wrong of me, I know.”
“It isn’t. Who among us doesn’t long to keep our loved ones close by? But only think—what sort of man would he be if he did stay? If Nico sat by and did nothing, if he told himself the injustices he witnessed weren’t his concern, would you love him as you do now?”
“No,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t recognize that Nico.”
She loved him because he had chosen to do what was right. She was alive, and safe, because he had refused to look the other way. Father Bernardi was right, and it was past time for her to stow away her worries and get to work.
“Thank you, Father. I had better see if Nico needs my help.”
“No need,” he said from the doorway. “Sorry I took so long—I had to rummage around a bit. Does this look all right?”
Nico set down the tray on the bedside table and stepped away so she might inspect its contents. She saw at a glance that he’d thought of everything: bandages, gauze, lint, scissors, tweezers, bottles of iodine and rubbing alcohol, and a basin of steaming water.
“Well done, Nurse Gerardi,” she praised him. “I’ll wash my hands now.”
She hurried downstairs to the rectory’s modest little kitchen, and though there was a bar of soap in a dish by the sink, there were no clean towels in sight. Instead she shook off the excess water and hurried upstairs before she could forget her next question for Father Bernardi.
“Do you have any clean towels or napkins I might use? Not your good things, though. Nothing you mind getting stained.”
“Of course,” he promised, and returned a few minutes later with a stack of pristine linen towels, each one starched and ironed to a glossy sheen.
“Are you certain?”
“Quite certain. There are mountains in the cupboard down the hall. Only . . . would you mind taking them home to launder? I don’t want my housekeeper to fret over the bloodstains.”
“Not at all. Rosa will know exactly what to do.”
She returned her attention to the man on the bed. He had woken while she was washing her hands, and was now struggling to sit up.
“No, please—not yet. Not until I’ve had a better look at you.”
“Are you Nico’s wife?” he asked hoarsely.
“I am.”
“You’re just as pretty as he says.”
“Thank you. How are you feeling?”
“My leg hurts like hell. My arm, too.”
“Does your head pain you at all? Do you have any difficulty in moving your limbs? Do you feel nauseous? No? Good. I’m going to begin by looking at your leg, but first I’ll have to cut off your trousers.”
The man grinned, and was about to say something, but his gaze flickered to a point behind Nina’s shoulder and his smile faded. “I, uh . . . I guess that’s all right.”
“I’ll do it,” Nico stated, the scissors already in his hand.
“All right,” Nina said, “but stay close to the seams. That way there’s a chance the trousers can be repaired after. And watch his ankle and knee when you take off his boots.”
Nina turned away, privately glad to be freed of the task, and was even more relieved when she saw that Nico had laid a towel over his friend’s midsection, though the man’s undershorts were still in place. She began by washing the affected limb, sponging away the dirt and blood, and when she had patted the skin dry she looked over his entire leg, manipulating the ankle and knee slowly and carefully, letting her fingertips discern what her eyes could not see.
“Does it hurt when I press here? Or here?” she asked as she pushed against the bones in his ankle and foot, and was pleased when the man shook his head. His skin color was good, his circulation appeared to be unaffected, and there didn’t seem to be any mechanical issues with his ankle, though it was badly swollen.
“We can’t be entirely certain without an X-ray, but I don’t think you’ve broken anything. I’ll wrap it in a cold compress while I look at your arm.” And then, to Nico, “Could you take one of these towels and dampen it for me? Let the tap run until the water is good and freezing.
“Now for that arm of yours.” With Father Bernardi’s help, she raised her patient to a sitting position and, working carefully, eased him out of his shirt and undershirt. Angry abrasions marked his skin where he’d fallen from the truck, and after washing the injured areas and using the tweezers to pry out stray bits of gravel, she swabbed his cuts with iodine and wrapped his arm in a layer of gauze.
“No stitches required—just a good clean,” she pronounced.
Nico had returned with the towel while she was still busy with her patient’s arm, and without any further direction had wrapped it around his friend’s ankle. Now she pulled it back, just to check that it had helped to reduce the swelling, and was pleased by what she found.
It took only a few minutes more to wrap the ankle, but the poor man was shaky and pale by the time she was done. If only she had some way of dulling his pain.
“Perhaps a few sips of grappa?” Father Bernardi offered, as if reading her mind.
“What a good idea. But some water first, please. You too, Nico.”
“Very well.” Crouching beside the bed, he grinned at his friend. “You bore up well.”
“Easy enough with your wife as nurse.”
“I’m going to help Nina tidy all of this away, and I’ll bring the grappa with me when I come back.”
“Thank you, signora,” his friend whispered, his smile wan.
“You’re very welcome. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”
In the kitchen she busied herself with disinfecting the basin, tweezers, and scissors while Nico sorted out the rectory’s first-aid box. He was finished before the kettle had boiled, so occupied himself by standing behind her and depositing kisses on her temples and the tips of her ears.
“We have to move on tonight,” he whispered, his breath tickling pleasantly against her ear.
She nodded, swallowing back her disappointment, and it was a minute or more before she found her voice again. “He won’t be able to walk. Not without crutches.”
“He’ll have help. Don’t worry.”
“You’re going with him?”
“Yes.” He took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. “What is it?”
She looked up, her eyes fixed on the scattered freckles that adorned his nose, and tried to smile. “I know you have to go.”
“I overheard a little of what you and Father Bernardi were saying. I don’t want you to worry.”
At last she met his searching gaze. “How can I not? I love you, and that means I
fear for you. But I also trust you, and I know you won’t take foolish risks.” She stepped into his arms and pressed her ear to his chest, memorizing the steady rumble of his heartbeat. “How long . . . ?”
“Until I’m home? A week, maybe a little longer. But I will come back to you. I promise I will. And then you will worry no more.”
Chapter 18
The promised week passed, and still Nico did not return, and it was hard, at times, to remember his promise. To remember how certain he’d been that he would come home to her.
To make things even worse, she’d begun to feel poorly, her stomach roiling at the sight of nearly every meal that Rosa set before her. After a few days it settled, but she decided to keep up the pretense of feeling unwell a little longer.
Just before leaving the rectory on Palm Sunday, she’d remembered to ask Father Bernardi when Passover began; the following day he had sent her a note—he must have felt very clever when composing it—that read, simply,
The verse in Scripture that I wished to tell you about is the eighth chapter of the fourth book of Exodus.
Unless she had entirely misinterpreted his message, she took it to mean that Passover began on the eighth of April; and though she wasn’t able to observe the holiday as she’d have wished, she was at least able to refuse bread for the week that followed.
“You’ll fade away,” Rosa insisted.
“I won’t. I’m fine with brodo and some vegetables. Anything more is too much.”
Though her nausea had abated, a few days later she began to feel faint while they were weeding the vegetable garden. Rosa sent her inside for a glass of water and told her to get started on the mending, and Nina knew better than to protest. So she fetched the basket of mending and settled herself in the shade of the olive tree, and in no time at all she felt much better.
She was almost finished with the mending when she came across the nightgown she’d been wearing when she and Nico had whispered their vows to one another. It needed only a simple repair where the hem had come unstitched, but looking at the garment made her remember, and remembering made her heart grow tight with longing.
She was wiping her tears away, using the gown as a handkerchief, when Rosa returned from the garden and sat next to her.
“I came to see how you were feeling, but I didn’t expect to find you crying over the mending. I thought you liked doing it.”
“I do. I was having a weak moment. That’s all.”
“Fair enough. Thinking of Nico, were you?”
“Yes. It’s so hard when he’s gone. I try not to dwell on it, but everything reminds me of him.”
Rosa nodded, her features soft with understanding. “I know. I’ve lost count of the nights I’ve lain awake with nothing but my worries for company.”
“You must miss him,” Nina dared to say.
“Nico? Of course I do.”
“I meant Luca.”
There was an awful pause, and Nina feared she had pushed the other woman too far. Rosa had never spoken of her lost love with the rest of her family; why would she choose to confide in Nina now?
But then Rosa nodded. “Every day,” she whispered.
“What was he like?”
“He was . . . he was a good man. Always so kind to me. Forever coming by the farm to help me with my work, even though he had his own chores to do at his parents’. I was so angry at him afterward.”
“After he left for Africa?” Nina asked, remembering a little of the story.
“After he was killed. I wanted to scream in his face—why did he listen to Marco? Why didn’t he stay here where he was safe? Silly of me, I know. None of us can change the past.”
“No, Rosa. It wasn’t silly at all. Are you still angry?”
“Not anymore. And I still have my memories.”
“You don’t think you’ll ever find anyone else? You’re young still—you could have children of your own.”
“I could,” Rosa conceded, “but I’m happy here. And if I can’t have Luca, why should I settle for some man who’ll always be a stranger to me? I knew my Luca as well as I knew myself. Turning to someone else . . . I can’t bear the thought of it.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to—”
“I don’t mind your asking. I mean, I’ve asked myself the same question more than a few times. I know my life with him wouldn’t have been perfect. We’d have had our share of bad days, same as anyone. But I think—I know—we’d have been happy together.”
“Are you happy now?”
“You and your questions! I don’t know, not really. For certain I’ve been happier than I am now.” She laughed, and there was even a little humor in the sound. “One day life will be better. Perhaps it will even be easier once this war is done.”
“When I first came here, you were upset with me. With Nico, too. And I’ve meant to tell you this for ages, but I’m sorry for it. I’m sorry we hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me. Not really. It’s only that I was disappointed to see him give up his fine education. And, well . . . it was hard to find out he’d been keeping secrets.”
“Oh,” Nina said, and tried not to think of all the other secrets they were still keeping.
“Nico and I had always been close,” Rosa went on. “Even after he went away to school, he wrote to me all the time. He used to tell me everything, you see, and when I realized he’d known you for months and months, but hadn’t said one thing to me about you, I was so hurt. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“I don’t blame you at all. I never did.”
“You should. There was no call for me to be so awful to you, and I do regret it. At any rate, it’s done and over, and we still have supper to make. Do you think you can face something more than brodo tonight?”
“Not quite yet. Do you need me to help you?”
“Just so you can faint again? No, thanks. Finish off the mending instead, and make the most of this last hour of sunshine.”
It was good advice, so Nina threaded her needle and set to repairing the hem of her nightgown. She would do as Rosa said, and make the most of the fading day. She would drink it in, now, and when the nightmares came, as they so often did when she was alone in her bed, she would turn her dreaming face to the remembered warmth of the sun, and she would think of the comfort of Nico’s arms, and she would listen hard for the blessed sound of his beating heart.
WHEN NICO DID return some two weeks later, Rosa wasted no time in telling him that Nina had been poorly, and though Nina protested that she barely remembered being ill, and couldn’t imagine why Rosa would bother him with such things, Nico fussed over her for the entire afternoon and evening.
Only when they were safely alone in bed, and it was at last safe to talk freely, was she able to tell him the truth.
“I wasn’t ill. Not really. It was Passover, and since I couldn’t do anything much to celebrate it properly, I made excuses so I wouldn’t have to eat anything leavened. But only for the week.”
He hugged her close, arranging her head just so under his chin. “I’m sorry I was away. One day we’ll celebrate it together. You can teach me about Passover and the rest of the holy days.” He sighed contentedly. “So you weren’t sick at all?”
“There were a few days, just after I saw you last, when I did feel a bit queasy. I think I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me. And then, even though I felt better, I realized it would be easier to explain to Rosa than inventing some farfetched reason for not eating bread for a week. Apart from the truth, that is.”
“You had me worried. I can’t bear the thought of your being ill while I’m away.”
“But you’re home now.”
“Yes, although I do have to help my zio Beppe next week. At his fields in Liedolo. We’ll stay with Zia Nora—it’s too far to come back every night.”
“For how long?”
“A few days. No more.”
Nico was home for all of Saturday and Sunday, but on Monda
y he left at dawn, and as soon as he’d vanished down the road the women got to work on the week’s laundry. It was midday before Nina was able to spare a thought for anything beyond the baskets of steaming linens, the effort to get them loaded onto Bello’s cart, and the numbing work of rinsing every last sheet, tablecloth, and garment in the arctic waters of the stream.
By the early afternoon they were finished at the stream and ready to return to the house with Bello and his cart. Rosa let the girls run on ahead while she and Nina caught their breath and took a short rest.
“Only a few minutes, mind you, or we’ll miss the best of the sun,” Rosa cautioned, but Nina barely heard. She was so very tired, and the sun was so scorching, and she would give almost anything for the chance to lie down and rest. Five minutes only. That was all she needed.
“Here,” Rosa said, and handed Nina a clean and wonderfully cool washcloth from the nearest basket. “Wipe your face and neck. That will help.”
“Thank you. I don’t know why I’m so tired. I slept well enough last night.”
“Have you told him yet?” Rosa asked softly.
“Told him what? That I was ill? You were the one who told him. Don’t you remember?”
“No, you goose,” Rosa huffed, and it was the same reaction she always had when one of the children, usually Carlo, was being willfully obtuse. “I understand if you don’t want to tell him yet, but you don’t have to hide it from me.”
Nina stripped away the washcloth and opened her eyes. “Hide what?”
“You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? What did they teach you at that nursing college?”
Nina stared at Rosa, who for some strange reason was smiling—and were those tears in her eyes?
“When was the last time we washed the cloths from your monthlies?”
And still Nina stared, her thoughts in the most hopeless tangle. Could it be . . . ? And if so, how had she missed the signs?
“Don’t you keep track of such things?”
“I, uh . . .”
“I know you’re still feeling off in the mornings, and don’t tell me it’s something you ate—you went all green when you had to bandage the cut on Matteo’s leg the other day. Nina?”
Our Darkest Night Page 15
