Visitors to the farm were always surprised to learn that the white roses were Signora Ferraro’s favorite.
“But they’re so simple. How can you not prefer one of the brighter hues that you grow—like the vivid crimson or fuchsia roses, or the fiery orange and yellow blooms?” they would often ask.
“Their simplicity is the very reason why I love them so much. They have a subtle, quiet beauty that says they don’t need any additional adornment to show that they are just as special as the colored roses. The white roses are pure, not tainted with anything.”
Her answer would often seem to satisfy their curiosity as well as give them a newfound appreciation for the white roses. What Signora Ferraro didn’t tell them was that she also loved these flowers because they represented new beginnings, but, more important, they were a token of remembrance.
In addition to being used in weddings, white roses were popular in funeral arrangements, especially when the deceased was a young woman or a child. Although Signora Ferraro mainly sold flowers to neighboring florists and other vendors in Pienza and its surrounding towns, sometimes the villagers came directly to her farm and asked Signora Ferraro if she would arrange the flowers for their special occasions. And when the request was for a funeral, she always took care of the order herself, even though Chiara was just as adept as she at creating stunning arrangements.
But the white roses she chose for weddings and funerals did not come from the garden she was tending to today. For this was her private garden, forbidden to everyone including Anabella. The garden was the first she had planted after she bought the property—even before she knew she would turn all of the acres into a rose nursery. Every year, her private white rose garden grew. Signora Ferraro loved planting the seeds and watching the plants grow and then bloom. She never grew tired of them. Her need to continue growing and having the satisfaction of watching the flowers come to life was what had given birth to the idea of owning a rose farm.
Her customers and the villagers always praised her roses. So it came as a shock to Signora Ferraro one day when she was in town, purchasing a few food staples at the local market, to overhear two women gossiping about her and accusing her of being crazy for growing so many roses.
“There is Signora Ferraro,” one of the women whispered, although her hushed tones were carried clearly to Signora Ferraro.
“You mean the crazy flower lady. Everyone in Pienza knows there is something not right with her. Every year, that rose farm grows.”
“Well, maybe she is just greedy. After all, she is not the first business owner to be guilty of continually expanding.”
“No, that is not it. Look at how she barely talks to any of the villagers, and, when she does, it is as if she doesn’t trust them. There is a certain wild, almost paranoid look in her eyes. And then you just have to look at Anabella to know her mother is crazy.”
Signora Ferraro’s hand tightened on the loaf of ciabatta bread she was holding. How dare they talk about her daughter? She was about to turn around and reproach them. But then the rest of their conversation reached her, causing her to remain fixed in place.
“That poor girl. She is what now, twenty-six? It’s well beyond time for her to marry and start a life and a family of her own. Instead, Signora Ferraro has her cloistered on that farm as if she is a nun. She might as well send the girl to a convent. Maybe you are right that Signora Ferraro is greedy—not just with her need to make more money on the rose farm, but also in keeping her daughter to herself. What a selfish woman. I don’t think that girl has ever had a friend.”
“Povera ragazza. Poor girl,” the other woman whispered.
The two women were distracted by another villager who had come over to greet them, and soon Signora Ferraro was forgotten about as they began gossiping about another neighbor.
Signora Ferraro slowly made her way to the cashier. Her legs felt like deadweight, and an overwhelming fatigue quickly washed over her. She was tempted to just leave the market, but she needed the groceries to prepare dinner.
“Buongiorno, Signora Ferraro! Come sta?” Carlo Battali warmly greeted her. He was the son of Vittorio Battali, the market’s owner.
She merely nodded, still feeling too drained from overhearing the cruel words that had been spoken about her.
“Are you all right, signora? Would you like a glass of water?” Carlo looked at her with concern.
She almost cried at the young man’s kindness, before managing to utter, “No, grazie. I just have a headache. I will be fine.”
Signora Ferraro waited as Carlo rang up her items on the register. Although he was done in a few minutes, the time passed too slowly for her. Every few seconds, she glanced over to the gossiping women, hoping they wouldn’t come over to the cashier while she was still standing there. She had never met these women, but she wasn’t surprised they knew of her because of the rose farm. Pienza had been growing, and there were new people who moved here every year. It wasn’t as it had been when she first came to Pienza years ago, when it had been easy to know most, if not all, of the villagers. And she’d always known people gossiped. These women must’ve learned all about her from the older residents.
After she paid Carlo and he packed her bags, he said, “I will carry these groceries to your car for you, Signora Ferraro. Though you say you are fine, I can clearly see you are not.”
Before Signora Ferraro could protest, he had walked away with her bags. She followed him, casting a final glance in the direction of the ugly women who had gossiped about her. But they didn’t notice her, as they were still talking animatedly among themselves.
Thanking Carlo, Signora Ferraro drove away from the market. But she did not go far. She pulled over on a quiet road. Her heart pounded violently against her chest as she gasped for air. Stepping out of the car, she walked to the passenger side so oncoming motorists wouldn’t see her and then sank to her knees as she bent forward, trying to force her breathing to slow down. Closing her eyes, she thought about Franco’s smile—his wonderful, gentle smile that had always disarmed her and managed to comfort her even when she had been afraid or distraught. Soon, her breathing returned to normal. She stood up and placed her hands on her lower back, which always ached from the long hours she spent crouched while gardening.
Pacing to and fro, she took in slow, deep breaths and tilted her chin slightly upward to the sky as she let the breeze cool her face. She’d sweated profusely during her panic attack. It had been years since she’d suffered from one, though sometimes in her sleep her nightmares led her to believe she was having another attack. Sometimes she was surprised that after twenty-six years, she was still having the same nightmares. While they had grown less frequent, she knew she would probably always have them until she died. She remembered there had been times when she had screamed in her sleep, forcing Anabella as a little girl to run into her bedroom, crying and pleading with Signora Ferraro to wake up. But the screaming had subsided by the time Anabella was a teenager. Signora Ferraro supposed she had gotten too old to muster the energy to scream anymore. And Anabella had learned early on not to pester her mother with questions when she had her nightmares. On a few occasions, Anabella crawled into Signora Ferraro’s bed, nestling close to her until they both fell asleep. If she could have, she would have had her daughter sleep with her every night to ward off the bad dreams, but she did make Anabella return to her bed on certain nights. Despite what the two villagers had said, she had not been that selfish—or crazy. If she had been, she would’ve insisted that Anabella sleep with her every night.
Still. She replayed the women’s words in her head: Maybe you are right that Signora Ferraro is greedy—not just with her need to make more money on the rose farm, but also in keeping her daughter to herself. What a selfish woman. I don’t think that girl has ever had a friend.
Had she been that selfish? Anabella had always seemed like a happy child, running around the farm, having free rein on the massive property. And she had companions. Chiara, the o
ther workers, and of course, Cioccolato. A handful of times, she had even let Anabella invite Graziella Montana over. But after her father died of a heart attack, Graziella and her mother were forced to move in with an uncle who lived in Genoa. Signora Montana was unable to handle running the butcher shop on her own and had sold it. Signora Ferraro hadn’t understood that. After all, if she had managed to run her large farm, why couldn’t Signora Montana handle a little butcher shop? But she knew she should not judge. As she had learned in her own life, everyone had his or her cross to bear and was struggling to do his or her best.
The gossiping women at the market were just jealous of her—jealous of her success with the farm, jealous that she did not have to worry about money as so many of the other villagers had to, perhaps even jealous that she could do as she pleased without having to run everything by a husband. But if Signora Ferraro could change any of the circumstances in her life, she would change the fact that she was a widow. When Franco had been alive, Signora Ferraro had never minded consulting with him on decisions, and once they married, Franco had granted her all the freedom she desired. He had always respected her intellect and her fierce independence. She’d known she was very lucky—for that was not the norm in most marriages in her time and even today.
Stupida! What is the matter with you? Why didn’t you give those women a piece of your mind? How could you have let them get away with talking about you and Anabella like that? She silently scolded herself, shaking her head. The young woman she had been twenty-six years ago would never have let anyone get away with mistreating her or those she loved. What had become of that woman? Rarely did Signora Ferraro look at herself in the mirror. She brushed her hair without even checking to ensure every strand was in place. And she never bothered examining herself in her clothes to see how they fit. Besides, most of her clothes were her everyday sundresses and shirtwaist dresses or the dungarees she wore when the weather cooled and she was working outdoors on the farm. Even on Sundays when she wore a nicer dress to attend church, she didn’t bother looking at herself. But sometimes she could not resist the temptation to see how time had been treating her. And from what she saw in the mirror, it had not been kind to her. The woman who stared back was unrecognizable from the vibrant, beautiful woman she had been in the prime of her youth.
Returning to her car, Signora Ferraro got inside, but instead of starting the ignition, she lay down across the seats and closed her eyes. She was not ready to return home just yet. Though her panic attack had subsided, she was still feeling weary. Soon, she drifted off to sleep and, dreaming, returned to one of the happiest—and most terrifying—times in her life.
CHAPTER 11
Maria Rossi
Florence, 1943
Maria was up early, making her way through the outdoor market, where she purchased her family’s produce and other grocery staples. She loved waking up early and arriving at the market as soon as it opened, before the crowds descended upon it. As she walked by the vendors’ tables, she hummed softly to herself. She stopped at Filomena’s table. Filomena always had the best, most fresh produce at the market, and Maria loved chatting with her.
“Buongiorno, Filomena. Come stai oggi?”
“Ciao, Maria. Bene, bene, grazie. I hope you are doing well today.” Filomena smiled.
“Si. We must be grateful for whatever blessings we have, at least for now.” Maria’s face clouded for a moment, before she realized that she should’ve kept the conversation light. Ever since the war had begun everyone was on edge as they constantly wondered if things would get worse and when it would end.
Filomena sighed. “I know. As we’ve learned, things can change in an instant. But it is out of our control. All we can do is pray.”
Maria nodded. Her thoughts turned to the man she had met in the sunflower field two weeks ago. Since then, she’d wondered several times if he’d been captured again and had remembered what he’d told her about people being sent to remote Mediterranean islands or worse. A shiver traveled down her spine. She hoped he was safe.
“So, what can I interest you in today? Look how beautiful my eggplants and zucchini are. I think they might be the largest crop I’ve grown yet. It’s your lucky day if you ask me.” Filomena laughed as she gestured toward the vegetables.
“Ah, si! They are gorgeous. I’ll make a ratatouille. I wasn’t sure what to make for dinner today, but now that I see how ripe the eggplants and zucchini are, they’ll be perfect for that dish.”
In addition to the eggplants and zucchini, Maria took a pound of plum tomatoes. She paid Filomena and wished her a good day before she took her leave. As she was placing her produce into her large straw tote bag, she noticed a paper folded in half inside. She frowned. The bag had been empty when she took it out of her closet this morning. All she had placed in it was her wallet. Taking the paper out, she unfolded it and gasped softly when she saw it was none other than an anti-Fascist leaflet written by FAF—Florentines Against Fascism. How did this end up in her bag? Quickly, she glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was looking at her or if any police were present. But all she saw were ordinary people going about their day, engrossed in picking out their fruits and vegetables. She was about to crumple the leaflet and find a discreet way of discarding it, when curiosity took a hold of her, and she decided to continue reading it.
My fellow Florentines, we must continue to RESIST our Fascist regime. Many of our fellow paesani continue to be imprisoned unjustly. FAF needs all the help we can get. Please consider joining our efforts. If you have already fallen victim to the forces that currently hold us imprisoned in our own motherland, you do not need to stand idly by. Come RESIST with us. Come fight for justice and for a free Italy. For those who have been fortunate enough not to experience personally yet the evils of Fascism, I still implore you to join us. It is only a matter of time before you, too, will be affected. Things are only becoming more dire in our country as the war rages on around the world. Soon no one will be immune to the havoc the Fascists have laid in their wake and will continue to mete out. RESIST, my fellow Florentines—for it is our only chance for salvation.
The rest of the leaflet then went into detail about recent incidents that had happened in and around Florence. A couple had been arrested, falsely accused of writing anti-Fascist literature. Both the man and woman had been imprisoned and tortured. To the surprise of the couple, they were released, but not before being told, “Go home and show your neighbors your beaten faces. Warn them that this and much worse will happen if they, too, speak out against Fascism.” But as the couple left the prison, the husband had been shot in the back. Another incident described two old men, minding their own business playing bocce at a park just outside of town. The men were accused of being spies for FAF and were also imprisoned. Their families had not been able to visit them in prison, and no one knew of their fate.
There were other incidents, but Maria stopped reading. A seething anger began growing inside of her. How dare they kill and imprison innocent people? But as the man in her father’s sunflower garden and this leaflet had warned, no one was truly immune. For years as Mussolini grew ever more powerful, scores of young men had been rounded up and asked to profess their allegiance to Mussolini or risk being punished.
Although her father had confessed behind closed doors that he hated Mussolini and thought he was the devil incarnate, her father had refused to attend meetings that were held in secret to try to retaliate against the Fascist regime. And even with more and more of their neighbors joining the fight, he had not wanted to become involved. Maria didn’t blame him. He was growing older, and her father had always had more of a pacifist nature. But her brother Michele was another story. Unbeknownst to their father, Michele had recently begun attending anti-Fascist meetings, but she wasn’t sure of the name of the group. Could it be Franco’s group, FAF? She’d overheard Michele talking about the meetings to Enza, but when she’d stepped into the room, he had quickly ended the discussion. Later, Maria had tri
ed asking Enza about it, but Enza had changed the subject. Maria had felt a little hurt that neither Michele nor Enza had taken her into their confidences. Though she later realized that they were probably just trying to protect her, the rejection had still stung.
So it had been easier for Maria to try to pretend that what was happening in her country was not really happening. But deep down, there was a part of her that feared someday the horrors she’d heard about would infiltrate her world.
She crumpled the leaflet and discreetly threw it on the ground by a sack of potatoes leaning against a vendor’s table. Maria walked away, but only managed to take a few steps before she heard someone call out to her. Her heart raced, but then she realized she had nothing to fear since only her family or friends would know her name. Turning around, she didn’t recognize the man standing before her. He was wearing a gray fedora hat with a black band around its brim and dark sunglasses. He smiled and removed his sunglasses. She was stunned to see Franco, the man she had found hiding in Papà’s sunflower garden.
“I think you dropped something.” Franco stepped forward and placed in her palm the leaflet she had discarded a moment ago. He closed his hand over hers. The gesture felt strangely intimate.
She swallowed hard before looking around nervously to see if anyone was watching them.
“Grazie, but I do not need the leaflet anymore.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t finish reading it.” Franco gave her a half smile.
Maria opened her mouth, about to ask him how he knew she hadn’t read the entire leaflet, but instead said, “You were watching me.”
“You catch on quickly. Smart as well as beautiful.” Franco’s gaze traveled the length of her body, causing Maria’s face to flush. “I also noticed you looked moved by what you read.”
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