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

by Lori Nelson Spielman

  “We’ll get another. Surely that old battle-ax midwife will create a new one if we grease her palm. This one will list you as the mother and Alberto as the father.”

  “Oh, Paolina, if I get caught—”

  “You won’t. I promise. Please, tell me you’ll do it.”

  She let out a heavy sigh. “Let me think about this, Paolina. You are asking so much from me.”

  One day passed. Then another. It was all I could do not to scream. I needed an answer. But Rosa’s face looked suddenly old, and I caught her more than once on her knees with her rosary beads. I had placed her in a horrible position, having to choose between the truth and Johanna’s future. Finally, on the third day, just one week before the ship would sail, I could stand it no longer.

  “Rosa, please! I beg of you. Say you’ll pretend to be Johanna’s mother. If you won’t do it for me, do it for your niece.”

  She closed her eyes and then crossed herself. A slow smile came to her face. “You mean, for my daughter.”

  I laughed and grabbed her into a hug. I’d never felt so much love and gratitude for my sister. “Yes! For your daughter!”

  I wept the first day I tried to wean Johanna off my breast. Neither of us liked the clunky bottle that invaded our intimacy. I missed the feel of her skin against my chest, the contented sighs when she suckled from me, as if I alone could nourish her. But Rosa was right. Weaning was necessary if we were to cross the Atlantic as niece and aunt.

  As we’d guessed, with the help of a few coins, Signora Tuminelli was happy to create a bogus birth certificate. And for an additional coin, she would forge the signature of the county official.

  The ink was still wet when the tight-faced midwife handed the single slip of paper to Rosa. “I know nothing of this,” she said, slicing a finger through the air. “Nothing!”

  My heart battered against its cage. I was a criminal. Together, Rosa and I inspected the new certificate. The line above “Mother’s Name” read Rosa Lucchesi. The father: Alberto Lucchesi. I swallowed hard.

  “It looks very official,” I said. “Nobody will ever guess it is not valid.”

  But then I caught sight of the child’s name: Josephina Fontana Lucchesi.

  “Wait,” I said. “Her name is Johanna.”

  Rosa placed the birth certificate between two pieces of cardboard and taped the edges shut. “Don’t be foolish. Alberto and I would never choose a German name.”

  She’d thought of everything. Why give the officials anything to question? But still, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

  Rosa looked every bit a mother that mid-September afternoon, boarding the SS Cristoforo Colombo with Johanna in her arms. The authorities gave little more than a cursory glance at the baby nestled in the pink blanket I’d crocheted, before stamping Rosa’s papers. I approached the desk next, my heart thumping in my chest, playing the role of dutiful aunt, loaded with our suitcases and a small bag for Joh. Within minutes, I, too, was welcomed aboard the ship. I let out a sigh of relief. So far, our plan was working perfectly.

  “Look!” Rosa exclaimed, pointing to the crowd that had gathered at the harbor, family members and friends who’d come to bid farewell to their loved ones.

  I shielded my eyes from the sun and followed Rosa’s finger. And there, standing side by side in their Sunday best, stood our mamma and papà. They’d traveled all the way to Napoli to say good-bye. I lifted my hand, tears blinding me.

  “Mamma!” I shouted over the grunt of the ship’s engine. “Papà! I love you!”

  Papà lifted his hand. Mamma waved and threw a kiss.

  “Your granddaughter!” I shouted.

  Beside me, my beaming sister proudly lifted baby Joh. Mamma clutched her heart, and Papà dabbed his eyes. “Bellissima!” Papà cried. He raised the camera that hung from his neck and snapped a photo.

  “They love Joh,” I said to Rosa. “I knew they’d love her.”

  “Yes,” she said. “They are very proud of their new grandbaby.”

  My chest puffed with pride. “Grazie!” I yelled to Papà, my voice choked. “Grazie mille!” I stroked Johanna’s downy hair, her rosy cheeks, and laughed through my tears.

  That moment marked the last time I would ever feel such joy. I didn’t yet know that during this passage to find a brighter future, somewhere over the blue-black waters of the sea, I would lose my baby girl.

  I spent every evening with Johanna. And each morning, as the sun rose, my baby’s eyes would grow heavy, just in time for Rosa to take over. As we three strolled the decks, female passengers would stop Rosa to coo at the sleeping angel in her arms. “Your first?” they might ask.

  “Yes,” Rosa would say. “She’s seven weeks old, my little sweetheart. Her father is waiting for us in Brooklyn.”

  An odd mix of pride and resentment churned in me. I said nothing of course. It was crucial that nobody learn of our charade. But inside, I felt robbed.

  Soon, Rosa met other mothers who were traveling with their children. The lot of them would sit beneath umbrellas discussing motherhood, their husbands, gushing at photos. I wanted so much to join their conversations. But Rosa reminded me to keep quiet. She insisted I go to the cabin and rest. Later, when the women wanted to play cards, or when the baby needed to be changed, or when she simply grew tired of Joh, Rosa would fetch me.

  Mothers, it seemed, shared a bond. I felt excluded, isolated, alone. My heart ached for Rico. I never should have left Italy. When I voiced my frustration, Rosa correctly reminded me, “This was your idea, Paolina. Do not forget it.”

  And then she would tell of the wonderful life Johanna would have in America, something that would not have been possible had she not agreed to lie for me. All of this was true. Feeling left out was a small price to pay. Rosa had risked so much for me and Johanna.

  We’d spent seven nights aboard the giant ship, each day drawing closer to America, to Joh’s future. But I could almost hear the past calling to me, chastising me for abandoning it, beckoning me to return. I had nightmares where Rico had come back for me, pounding on the apartment door while I was locked in a closet, unable to answer. I would wake, exhausted and emptied, reality creeping in with the dawn. I had given up on Rico. And it was too late to go back.

  On the eighth night, neither Johanna nor I could sleep. I stood on the ship’s deck jostling her. “Shhh,” I whispered. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” As the chill of the night crept over me, I wondered who I was reassuring—my child or myself.

  The eastern sky gradually came to life, a watercolor of peaches and lavenders. I blinked once. Twice. For the first time in eight days, something shone in the distance.

  Cheers rose from the captain’s deck. A chill came over me. I positioned Joh at my chest, so that she could see what lay before her.

  “Look,” I said, my wet cheek pressed against her downy head. “See that distant land, my beautiful girl? This is our new home, the place where you will grow to be wise and free and become anyone you want to be.”

  The tears continued to flow. I couldn’t stop them. If anyone had asked, I would have claimed they were tears of joy. But they were anything but. The full gravity of my decision struck me. I’d given up on my husband, my love. I was thousands of miles from my home. And there was no turning back.

  A fierce grip on my arm startled me. I turned to find Rosa, her eyes wide with horror. “What are you doing?”

  I could see how it looked: me, sobbing, leaning too far over the ship’s rail; baby Joh wrapped in a blanket, wailing in my arms.

  “I can’t live without Rico. I must return home.”

  I heard the crack of her hand against my face. My hand flew to my cheek and I gasped for breath. As if she, too, felt the heat, Johanna began to scream.

  “Stop this nonsense!” Rosa said, yanking Johanna from my arms. “You think you are the only one in pain? No. But do you see me wanting to throw myself overboard?”

  Had my sister lost her baby? I wanted to set her straight. I wou
ld never take my own life. But now was not the time to defend myself.

  “Oh, Rosa,” I said, clutching my chest. “I am so sorry. What happened, my sweet sister?”

  She put her hand to her lips, but I could see the downward tug of her mouth. “It happened quickly, back home, the fifth of June. She had stopped growing weeks earlier.” She swallowed hard. “You are never to speak of this. Nobody is to know.”

  “But Mamma knows, sì? And Papà?”

  She shook her head. “The disappointment would be too great. Papà was so proud of me. He expects many grandchildren from his firstborn daughter.”

  For the first time, I realized the pressure the curse had placed on Rosa. “But surely you told Alberto.”

  “Especially not Alberto.” Her eyes fixed on mine. “Not until I am in America. He would have told me not to come if he thought I could not bear children.”

  Shivers blanketed me. Had she miscarried before? I took her by the arms, all self-pity vanishing. “The doctors in America will help you. You will have many children. We Fontana women are strong. We are resourceful. When a door closes, we take an ax to it.”

  She smiled then, a troubled smile that never reached her eyes. How was I to know how fully Rosa would embrace my advice?

  Alberto cried when he first laid eyes on Johanna. He stooped, pressing his lips to baby Joh’s forehead. My throat squeezed. It should be Rico, giving his daughter her first kiss, not her uncle Alberto. Rosa placed the baby in his arms, a contrived portrayal of a loving mother and proud papà. Johanna latched on to Alberto’s pinky. He stood gazing at her, as if she were a beautiful apparition he couldn’t quite believe. Finally, he turned to Rosa. For the first time ever, I saw affection in his eyes.

  “My love,” he said, and he planted a kiss on her lips. “You have made me a happy man.”

  Had my sister not told him our plan? My heart thrummed. I waited for Rosa to explain. Instead, she gazed at her handsome husband with such devotion it nearly blinded me.

  I tried to calm myself. Of course she couldn’t explain at that moment. The news of the miscarriage would break his heart. And besides, we were still within sight of customs officials. Once we got to Brooklyn, she would stop pretending.

  Rosa wore her prettiest dress—a navy frock, belted at the waist, meant to show off her curves. But the fabric across her bottom stretched, and the buttons at her chest threatened to burst. I fought a wave of sadness. My sister had the body of a new mother, with no child to show for it.

  I smoothed the wrinkles from the old red and white polka-dot dress I’d made back in Trespiano. I refused to wear my best dress. That white garment was packed away, secured in a bag in remembrance of my wedding day.

  We stood on the edge of the harbor, shivering. New York’s autumn air felt like the refrigerated room in the bakery, and I rubbed the chill from my arms. I looked up and noticed for the first time an older man standing behind Alberto, eyeing me as if he were judging cattle at the market.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and listened as he whispered to Alberto in broken English he foolishly assumed I didn’t understand. “I thought you said her skin was like cream. And she is much too scrawny. No hips, that one.”

  I seethed. I’d lost weight on the voyage, it was true. And the sun had darkened my skin. But who did he think he was, this pinkheaded man with a watermelon belly?

  “I suppose she will do,” he said and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. My stomach lurched. Did Ignacio think I was here to marry him? Had Rosa not made it clear?

  He cast me a smile, one I’m sure was meant to charm. It did not.

  We climbed into Ignacio’s automobile, a snazzy turquoise car that said Oldsmobile on the back. Alberto hunkered in the backseat beside Rosa, holding Johanna. I had no choice but to sit up front with Ignacio.

  Ignacio flipped on the radio. Of all songs, “Que Será, Será” rang out. I bit my cheek to keep from crying out. Rosa let out a whoop and leaned over the seat. “Can you believe it, Paolina? He has his own automobile!”

  I turned and reached for Joh. “I can take her, Alberto.”

  He smiled down at the baby. “She is happy right here, aren’t you, Josephina?”

  The car sped off with a squeal. The belt of dread around my belly, the one I’d been trying my hardest to ignore, tightened another notch.

  Alberto lived in a sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment above a butcher shop. He held Joh tightly to his chest as his wife inspected the drafty place that smelled of blood and raw meat. A tiny wall of cupboards created a kitchen, along with a filthy range and dented refrigerator. I could almost hear my sister’s thoughts. Where was the beautiful home he had promised? Where was the machine that washed clothes?

  “You will sleep here,” Alberto told me, tipping his head toward a ratty sofa in the main room. I glanced at him, sheepishly. Surely he’d rather have his wife all to himself. But to his credit, he gave me a welcoming smile. “This is your home, too, Paolina. Until you and Ignacio become husband and wife.”

  “But Alberto, I’m—”

  “Hush,” Rosa said, silencing me. “We will talk of wedding plans later.”

  Joh began to fuss. When I went to take her, Alberto swooped away. “It is okay. Mamma will change you.” He planted the baby in Rosa’s arms.

  I stood, my mouth agape. Rosa giggled nervously, avoiding my eyes. Beside us, Alberto smiled, a dreamy look on his face. “La mia famiglia è qui, finalmente.”

  My family is here, at last.

  For years I’ve thought of that moment, cursing myself for not making it clear, in that instant, Johanna was mine. In part, it was the sorrow I felt for my sister. In part, the loyalty. For what she thought would be a brief moment, she allowed her husband a glimpse of fatherhood. She hadn’t considered how instantly he would fall in love. And once dispensed, she didn’t have the heart to steal that joy from him. How could she explain, when he was holding a beautiful healthy baby in his arms, that his own child had died months earlier?

  And so the nightmare began. The following week, while Alberto worked in the store, Rosa and I spent ten hours a day alone with Johanna. I demanded she tell the truth. And every day she promised she would. But each night, when Alberto entered the apartment, he would kick off his shoes, scrub his hands at the kitchen sink, and go straight to Johanna. He sang songs to her, rocked her, whispered as he smoothed her downy hair. And another day passed with a hole in the truth.

  Had something broken in my sister’s heart, when her body would not produce a healthy child? Was her fear of losing Alberto so overwhelming that she would do anything to keep him—even if it meant claiming her sister’s child as her own? Or did she truly believe she was doing what was best?

  By the end of the week, my sister stopped making promises. She only looked at me with sadness. “La mia sorella testarda. How can you be so selfish? Do you not see? I am doing what is best for Josephina. She will have a good life now. She will have a mamma and a papà and a loving aunt.”

  “She has a mother!”

  “What can you give her, Paolina? You are so distraught you were willing to throw yourself off the boat!”

  “That’s not true. I could never do that.”

  “You are the second daughter. You were not meant to have a child; I was.”

  That evening, I finally took charge. I was holding Johanna when Alberto arrived home. When he reached for her, I kept her firmly in my grip. “You need to hear the truth. This is my baby, Alberto. I am so sorry.”

  He reared back, his face a heartbreaking mosaic of shock and confusion. “Rosa?” he called into the kitchen. “What is she talking about?”

  It seemed to take hours for my sister to turn around from her place at the stove. She looked at Alberto, not me, when she finally spoke.

  “Poor Paolina is struggling with grief. I told you this already, Alberto. Do not agitate her.”

  “This has nothing to do with grief.” My heart was pumping wildly, but I forced myself to remain ca
lm. I explained to him, clearly and concisely, my idea to pretend Rosa was Johanna’s mother. When I finished, he only looked at me sadly.

  “No, Paolina. Rosa shared the good news many months ago. It was a letter I shall never forget. Our love has multiplied. You are going to be a father.”

  I collapsed on the sofa, the gravity of the situation hitting me full force. The letter I’d dictated to Rico had been sent to Alberto—or at least, copied. Did Rico even know I was pregnant?

  “Those were my words!” I screamed through my tears. “That letter was meant for Rico, not you.”

  His voice boomed. “Enough, Paolina. I saw the name tag you wore at the Uffizi, pretending to be Rosa. But you are not her, do you understand? And Josephina is not your baby. This game is over, capisci?”

  “Rosa miscarried,” I said softly. “You lost your baby. I am sorry, Alberto.”

  “What proof do you have?” he said, his face bloated with rage. “If this child is yours, show me.”

  A sinking feeling came over me. I thought of the bogus birth certificate, the ticket stub with Josephina Lucchesi’s name. Even my breasts had dried up. With the exception of slightly wider hips and a few faded stretch marks, my body had contracted as effortlessly as a rubber band. It was Rosa, with her flabby belly and pendulous breasts, who looked as if she’d just given birth.

  I lifted my eyes to my sister, the only person who could corroborate the truth. “Tell him, Rosa,” I begged. “Please. Now is the time.”

  “Yes,” Alberto agreed. “Tell me.”

  My sister’s face went white. Her hands trembled and she shoved them into her apron pockets. Despite my disgust, my feelings of vengeance, my heart went out to her. She was frozen with fear. When she finally spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “It was you who miscarried, my poor sister. The day I found you on the stair steps.”

  Did Alberto realize the truth? Sometimes, I suspected he did. But there were no DNA tests back then. I begged for all of us to test our blood types, but Alberto wouldn’t hear of it. And because he and Rosa were believed to be the parents, I couldn’t force it. Joh looked nothing like him or Rosa. Her skin was creamy, not nearly as dark as theirs. Her hair had a softer texture, and when the sun shone, gold highlights appeared. Her eyes eventually changed to brown, as Rosa claimed they would. But in the right light, they held fast to a hint of blue, as if my baby were insisting upon her true heritage.