One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020

by Lori Nelson Spielman

  Poppy reaches into her purse and pulls out a stack of letters, at least a dozen of them, bound with a ribbon. They are addressed to Krause Autoreparatur, Radebeul, Germany.

  “These were returned to me,” she said. “Eventually, I stopped writing.”

  She hands them to Jan, and I catch sight of a handwritten note on the top envelope. Do not write no more. Please.

  Jan turns them over in his hand and examines the note. “My grandmother’s handwriting.” He shakes his head. “Aunt Joh received all the mail at the shop. I suspect she gave these to her future sister-in-law, rather than to her brother. You see, both women were desperate to keep my grandfather in Radebeul.” He stares down at the letters. “Please understand, she was not a bad woman, my grandmother Karin. She was a fine mother and wife. She and my grandfather seemed … compatible. Before the wall came down, people did not expect joy.”

  “When did he pass?” Poppy whispers.

  Jan looks at her quizzically.

  “She wonders when your grandfather died,” I say.

  “He is still alive, as far as I know. My father arrived last week to take him home to Germany, but Grandfather wasn’t strong enough to travel. He was admitted to L’Ospedale Leonardo—the hospital in Salerno. The doctors diagnosed him with a blood infection.”

  “He’s alive?” Poppy says, her voice wavering.

  “He’s alive!” I repeat, rising. “We need to see him.”

  “I am afraid it would be a disappointment. My grandfather is completely … what is the word … unresponsive. Father says he no longer eats. He hasn’t uttered a word since he left Ravello.”

  “I must see him,” Poppy says.

  “But you are leaving today, sì?” Jan shakes his head. “Salerno is an hour to the east; Naples International is three hours northwest.”

  From her place on the sofa, she rises. “I will not leave mein Ehemann. Not this time.” Her voice is strong and fierce. She’s never looked prouder or more certain.

  Before Italy, I would have hidden behind a thousand excuses, for fear of Nonna’s wrath. Poppy’s too sick. Rico won’t even know she’s there. Nonna expects me back at work. But today, I don’t hesitate. I lace my fingers with hers. “I’m staying, too.”

  She squeezes my hand and turns to Lucy. “I know you must get back to that new job of yours.”

  “And miss all the fun?” Lucy cracks a smile. “Nice try, Pops, but this chick’s going nowhere.”

  Ninety minutes later, we five—Jan and Elene, Aunt Poppy and Lucy and I—race down the sterile corridor of L’Ospedale Leonardo. My heart thumps wildly as I push Poppy in a borrowed wheelchair. She’s applying lipstick as we move. Please let Rico live long enough to share a final good-bye.

  I’m out of breath when we reach room 301. A nurse flags us down, handing us each a paper mask. Jan offers Poppy a hand, but my proud aunt rises from her wheelchair independently. Once on her feet, she pats her head, as if to smooth her hair. But today, of all days, she opted not to wear her wig. Her hand goes still upon her bare scalp, partially covered with the scarf. She sucks in a breath, and I can almost hear what she’s thinking. Her beloved will see her bald head.

  “You’re gorgeous,” I say through my mask and point her toward the door.

  Chapter 44

  Emilia

  Salerno, Italy

  The blinds are closed, and the dusky room smells of disinfectant and decay. Machines blink and hiss. Elene, Lucy, and I stand aside as Poppy steps up to the hospital bed. She clutches her throat.

  “Rico.”

  He wears a veneer of silent agony on his lifeless gray face, a patchwork of age spots and yesterday’s whiskers. An IV needle punctures his arm, and an oxygen tube fills his nostrils. Poppy leans in over the bed rail and cups his face. Tears well in her eyes. “Rico, it’s me, Poppy.”

  The old man in the bed—Rico—doesn’t move. A shiver runs over me. Is he even breathing? Poppy smooths his hair, still thick but gray and coarse looking now. Wiry hair sprouts from his nostrils and ears. But I can still detect the strong jawline Poppy described, and somewhere in my mind’s eye, I see the handsome man who played the violin in Piazza della Signoria.

  “Rico,” Poppy says again, her voice strained. “Wake up. It’s me, mein Ehemann.” Desperation clings to every syllable.

  Rico lies motionless. From the other side of the bed, Jan calls to him, each word loud and deliberate. “Opa, you have company.”

  “Poppy,” she says, her voice quivering. She lowers the metal bed rail. With shaking hands, she removes her paper mask. Slowly, she bends down to kiss his sunken cheek. “It’s me, Poppy.”

  She adjusts Rico’s hospital gown, smoothing the green fabric. A ghastly scar appears on Rico’s shoulder. She runs a finger over the thickened skin.

  “What happened to you, my love?”

  “Bullet wound,” Jan says. “My grandfather tried to escape from East Germany in 1961, and again in 1963.”

  Poppy drops her bald head onto the old man’s chest, and I can almost see the pride, the vindication, the regret pouring from her. “I knew it. I knew you would try to come back for me. I should have waited for you. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

  She finally straightens, and Jan presses a wet washcloth to the old man’s cheek. “Poppy is here. Wake up, Opa.”

  “Please, Rico, I have so much to tell you.”

  The room goes silent. From the hallway, muted Italian voices call from the PA. We wait, wishing, hoping, praying, he will respond. Poppy strokes Rico’s hand, his cheeks, her eyes pinned to his hollow, vacant face, whispering her love over and again. Despite the ache in my heart, it was worth the four-thousand-mile journey just for this—Poppy’s one last glimpse, one last touch, of her beloved Erich.

  A tiny movement startles me. I inch closer.

  Ever so slightly, Rico’s eyebrow twitches.

  “Rico!” Poppy cries. “It’s me. Poppy. Wake up, mein Ehemann.”

  Rico’s forehead creases. Shivers blanket me. My heart batters in my chest. Please, open your eyes! In all of my life, I’ve never wanted anything more. I will every ounce of my strength to this man.

  Softly, Poppy begins to sing. “Que será, será. Whatever will be, will be.” Her voice is craggy and she sings off-key. I’ve never heard a more beautiful rendition.

  Rico’s lids flutter. I can almost feel the strain of each muscle as he battles to lift his eyelids. Poppy moans and leans in, stroking his cheek.

  “It’s me, Rico,” she says, her voice breaking. “I came here. To Ravello. To see you. On our anniversary. All day, I waited.”

  His right eye cracks open for an instant, then slams shut again.

  “Yes!” Poppy’s laughter gets tangled in a sob. “It is me, my love, your Poppy!”

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if using every bit of strength he can muster, his eyes strain to open.

  “Opa!” Jan cries. Quickly, he fumbles to place a pair of glasses on his grandfather’s face. Rico stares blankly through the lenses. From over Poppy’s shoulder, I gaze into rheumy eyes the color of aquamarine.

  Poppy sobs. “Mister Blue Eyes. I love you, my sweet man. I love you.” She bends over and presses her wet cheek to his face. She whispers her love, her undying love, all of the tender words she’s longed to share with him for the past fifty-nine years.

  His eyes fall closed again.

  “I never gave up on you, Rico. I never stopped loving you.”

  I wonder if he hears her, or if he’s drifted back to sleep. But very slowly, his eyes lift again. A leathery hand rises, the one that once so deftly held a violin bow. He touches his fingers to my aunt’s face.

  “Poppy,” he mouths. When his crusted lips move, they carry no sound. But the words are unmistakable. “Mio unico amore.”

  For the rest of the day, Rico’s eyes remain closed, as if he’d spent his last drop of energy to profess his love and the effort left him drained. Maybe it’s my imagination, but the earlier agony etched upon his s
leeping face seems to be replaced now by a contentedness, a serenity. I like to think the glimpse of his love, after all these years, was the missing peace he’d been searching for.

  Visiting hours are almost over, and Jan and Elene have gone to retrieve the car. Lucy and I step from the room, allowing Poppy a private good night with her sleeping prince, one that very well could be their last.

  While Lucy meanders up and down the hallway, talking to Sofia on Poppy’s phone, I tap open my text messages. It’s midafternoon in New York, and Matt’s probably out on a job. How can I possibly put the week’s events into words?

  So much to tell you, MC. My aunt met the love of her life today. We’re staying in Ravello until he … I swallow hard and say a silent prayer … recovers.

  I press send, then punch in Carmella’s number. As I predicted, my sweet cousin is thrilled to continue staying at Emville, taking care of Claws.

  “Stay as long as you want, Emmie,” she tells me. “Now, sit back while I catch you up on my life. Do you have a minute or thirty?”

  “We’re getting ready to leave and I need to call my dad.”

  “No worries,” she says. “Just know that I’m loving life in Emville. Claws is cranky as ever. We’ll talk when you get home.”

  Finally, I make the call I’ve been avoiding all afternoon. My dad answers on the first ring.

  “Thank God you’re home.” I imagine him behind the meat counter, shouldering his flip phone while he replenishes sausages for the afterwork customers. “Your nonna can finally rest. Are you coming in today, or will I see you at home?”

  My heart thumps. “I’m still in Italy, Dad. Lucy and I are staying here with Poppy.”

  Through the phone, a heavy sigh escapes him, one he’s likely been holding for the past ten days. “No. Emilia, be reasonable. You must get back now. Let Lucy take over from here.”

  “Aunt Poppy needs me.”

  “Your nonna needs you, too. She is expecting you at work. You must be respectful of her.”

  I gaze past the open door of room 301, where my aunt cups Rico’s sleeping face in her hands.

  “One who demands respect will never command it.” Out of nowhere, the statement comes to me, a “Poppy-ism” if ever there was one. My chest puffs with pride.

  “What are you saying?” my father asks.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I say. “I’m staying here as long as Poppy needs me.”

  The October moon is full tonight, illuminating the road as we wind our way back to Ravello. Poppy sits between Lucy and me in the backseat, her head pressed against my shoulder. A soft ballad plays on the radio, and I say a silent prayer of thanks. Poppy and Rico shared a moment, however fleeting. What a trip this has been. We, all three of us Fontana second daughters, found love. The still-cynical part of me wonders whose, if any, will last.

  Lucy turns to Poppy in the moonlight. “Can I ask you something, Pops? Those letters you brought, the ones Karin returned to you, they were mailed from Italy. What about the letters you wrote from the US? You think he ever got those?”

  “I never sent a letter from America. I was too ashamed.” She lets out a sigh. “You see, a mother has one job: to protect her child. I couldn’t tell Rico that I had failed that singular task, not in a letter.” She turns to the darkened window. “It would have to wait until I saw him in person.”

  Chapter 45

  Poppy

  1961

  Ravello, Amalfi Coast

  Rosa stepped from the bus the second day of August, a shawl draped over her shapeless gray dress. She looked different—older yet softer—than the last time I’d seen her, six months earlier. Her face was full and her eyes somehow wiser. And her figure had become lush, with ripe hips and large breasts. She caught me gawking and her face turned pink.

  “I have been eating too much pasta,” she said.

  “You do not fool me. You are pregnant!”

  Her eyes flooded with tears and she crossed herself. I pulled her into a hug. “We are both having babies, like we’d always dreamed!”

  “Stop. Please. Can we not talk about this yet? It is your time now.”

  I understood. After trying for so long to get pregnant, she was afraid she might jinx it. “You look gorgeous,” I told her. “Alberto will be mad for you.”

  This time she did not turn anxious at the mention of his name. “Alberto is writing to me every week. He is very excited for me to come to America.”

  I smiled at my sister. “Of course he is.” I patted my round belly. “I appreciate you being here for the baby’s arrival.” And I was. But my gratitude was tempered by disappointment. In my heart, I believed Rico would be here when I gave birth. My faith was wavering. Was he alive? “Have I received any mail from Rico?”

  Even though he should have known to write to me here in Ravello, I held my breath, hoping against hope she’d say yes.

  “A letter arrived last month.”

  My heart nearly leapt from my chest. “He still thinks I am in Trespiano? Where is it? Let me see!”

  She shook her head. “Papà found the letter before I could hide it. He was livid. I risked my life by snatching the envelope while he was talking to Mamma.”

  I smiled at my sister’s unusual burst of courage. “Grazie, Rosa. Now please, I must read it.”

  “I do not have it. I threw it into the fireplace before Papà could see it.”

  I gasped. “You destroyed it?”

  “I had no choice. He would have killed us both. I am sorry. But I did manage to read it first.”

  “You read it? What did he say? When is he coming?”

  “He cannot leave.” She shook her head. “He wants you to go to America. He wants you to marry Ignacio.”

  The air became scarce. I put my hands to my head. “No! Rico is my husband! How dare he ask me to commit adultery?”

  Sympathy welled in her eyes. “Listen to him, Paolina. He loves you. He wants what is best. He refuses to raise the child in his homeland. It is a prison there. The people are desperate to escape. Have you not read the paper? East Germany is no place for a baby. He wants you to have a good life, and more important, he is trusting you to provide the same for his child.”

  Tears blinded me.

  “Think of the baby, Paolina. Not yourself. You can no longer be selfish.”

  We walked arm in arm back home, each of us lugging a suitcase. I listened as she told me about her travel journey. She had concocted a story, telling our parents that I’d had a change of heart, that I no longer loved Rico. She was coming to get me. We would travel together to America. She had already said her final good-bye to Mamma and Papà.

  “I have our papers, your passport, everything we need, in these suitcases. Our ship leaves from Napoli next month.”

  “But Rosa, I am not going to America. I must wait for—”

  She held up a hand, silencing me. “Mamma and Papà were so relieved, Paolina. Their daughter has come to her senses. They were worried I would have to make the journey to America alone.”

  But I knew better. It was Rosa who was worried. She knew she must travel to Brooklyn, especially now that she was carrying Alberto’s child. And she still hadn’t given up on the idea that I’d join her. I forced myself to hold my tongue. When Rosa had her mind made up, there was no reasoning with her. Soon enough, she would find that I could be just as stubborn as she.

  “I convinced Papà to purchase two tickets,” she continued. “Our ship leaves in six weeks. Which means …” She turned and looked me up and down. “You must deliver this child soon, so we can leave and start our new lives with Alberto and Ignacio, in America, land of the free.”

  Five days later, on the seventh of August 1961, with the help of Signora Tuminelli, a grouchy midwife my sister found in the next village, Johanna Rosa Krause was born. She had thick, dark hair and blue-black eyes, and Rico’s dimple in her left cheek.

  They say that motherhood changes a woman. That when she holds her child for the first
time, something shifts. Priorities change.

  I lay upon the fresh sheets, baby Joh asleep on my chest. I gazed down at her in awe, the miracle of life created by Rico and me. I studied her downy skin, the long lashes splayed against cheeks pink as a sunrise, the ten little matchstick fingers, each capped with a miniature pearl.

  “Welcome home,” I whispered to her. “May the essence of kindness fill you. May you be blessed with goodness, and carry with you the best parts of me and the best parts of your father.” Tears blurred my vision. “Your papà may not be here, but he loves you. He—we—want only good things for you. You are going to have a wonderful life, full of opportunity and riches and joy. I promise you. And I promise him.”

  Eight days later, Rosa blew into the apartment waving a newspaper. “They’ve built a wall!” she cried. “Two days ago, the free passage between East and West Berlin was sealed off with barbed wire. Today, they are building a wall out of concrete, five meters high.” She held one hand to her belly as she read from the article. “It will be topped with barbed wire, guarded with watchtowers and machine guns and mines.” She tossed the paper onto the table and took my hands. “Access to the West is closed, Paolina. Permanently. Rico will never return.”

  Chapter 46

  Emilia

  I dab Poppy’s wet cheeks with a tissue, worried that the painful memories are too much for her fragile spirit. She leans back and closes her eyes.

  “How could I celebrate the birth of my child while grieving the loss of Rico? The cruelty of the Berlin Wall was too much. I allowed my Joh to slip away. In my sadness, in the darkness of my despair, I didn’t realize how quickly she was fading.”

  So that’s it. The Berlin Wall was erected. Rico was trapped. Poppy suffered from severe depression, so all-encompassing she didn’t even realize her baby was dying. I shudder, wondering what, exactly, happened to baby Johanna. Rosa was wise to bring Poppy to America. But she left all hope of Rico behind. Two hearts separated by war and wounds and a godforsaken wall. I kiss Poppy’s hand.