But to everyone else, Johanna was Josephina, Rosa and Alberto’s new baby, the only child they would ever have.
I begged my big brother, Bruno, to listen to me, sure he would be my ally. But he only looked at me with pity. He went to a drawer, removing letters Mamma had written in the months earlier. Each page chronicled Rosa’s pregnancy, her growing belly, and the family’s excitement.
“I know about your stillborn baby. I am very sorry.” He pulled me to his chest. “It was not your fault.”
I pushed him away with such force he staggered backward. “They are lying!”
He gave me a grave look, one my father might have delivered. Then he marched to his bureau and retrieved a photo. “You must stop, Paolina! You are scaring everyone with your behavior.” He thrust the photo at me.
It was the picture Papà had taken at the harbor. A glowing new mother stood on a ship’s deck, proudly displaying her infant. On the back, Mamma had written, Rosa and Josephina, 17 September 1961. I burst into tears.
Bruno took my head in his hands and brushed the tears from my face. “You love this baby. I see this very clearly. But she is only your niece.”
“No! She is my daughter.”
Bruno gathered me in his arms. “Shhh. It is okay. You will have another child, one who is healthy, and all yours. Ignacio is still willing to marry you. Imagine that! You, the second daughter, the first to find a husband.”
I wanted to scream. Nobody would believe me. I hated America. I hated Alberto. My sister was a stranger to me. We spoke only when necessary, exchanges that inevitably ended in fierce arguments. To keep from going crazy, I busied myself with cleaning and cooking, all the while weighing my options. Marrying Ignacio was out of the question. My dream of going to the university was lost now. I had no money, and I would never leave my baby.
If I stayed with Rosa and Alberto, I could be with Johanna, but I would never be her mother. As hard as it was to live that lie, at least we’d be together. I could help shape her, guide her. That’s what Rico would have wanted.
Joh and I already shared a special bond, one that seemed to infuriate Alberto. He seethed when I called her Johanna, or when he caught her gazing into my eyes as I sang to her. He pretended not to see her smile when I blew kisses into her chubby neck. His face would turn crimson when she would cry and I was the only one who could soothe her. My heart swelled with love. She and I knew the truth.
Alberto grew weary of my presence. Within a month, he secured Rosa a job in the store, working ten hours a day. He insisted she bring the baby to work, an attempt, I knew, to keep Joh and me apart. When it became apparent I wouldn’t marry Ignacio, Alberto began pestering me about finding an apartment of my own, suggesting places in other boroughs. It was clear, Alberto loved his family of three. I was not welcome.
Every day I grew more anxious, more desperate. I had to get my child away from Rosa and Alberto, before I lost her forever.
I made a horrid mistake, one I have forever regretted. I left with Johanna, without the knowledge or resources a single mother needs. Had I stayed, perhaps I could have remained in her life, rented a small apartment nearby, convinced Alberto that I wasn’t a threat.
I escaped with Johanna one winter morning, on Rosa’s day off. I waited until Alberto had left for work and Rosa was in the bath. With a bag of our belongings and Joh wrapped in a blanket, I snuck from the apartment. We traveled as far from Bensonhurst as the city bus would take us.
Suffice it to say, Harlem was a dreadful place back then. What’s more, I had underestimated the cost of living on my own. One week later, I returned to Bensonhurst, penniless and defeated. I showed up at Bruno’s apartment with my sick child, begging him to take us in.
While Bruno warmed a pot of milk, he informed me that Alberto had filed kidnapping charges.
That was the final blow, when my knees finally buckled. He had won. I would be of no use to my daughter if I were imprisoned.
Perhaps I should have been grateful to my brother. Bruno brokered the deal. He went to speak with Rosa and Alberto and returned three hours later with a proposition. The kidnapping charge against me would be dropped. I would not go to jail. Instead, I would leave Brooklyn. Forever. I would be allowed to visit at Christmas and Easter. I could send Josephina cards on holidays. But I must promise never to claim her as my child.
I tried to convince myself she’d be better off. She had the chance to grow up with two caring parents, free from ridicule and poverty. I had nothing to offer my daughter except love, and despite what I once believed, love was not enough.
My grief nearly leveled me. I taped a shiny penny to the backside of her crib, where nobody would see it. Then I walked three blocks to the bus station, hollowed out and empty. I spotted a travel poster at the depot for a place called “the Sweetest City on Earth.” I bought a one-way ticket to Hershey, Pennsylvania. If there was anything I craved at that time, it was sweetness.
But for nearly two years, life wasn’t so sweet. Almost immediately, I regretted my decision. But there was no turning back. Any chance of convincing even one person of the truth was no longer an option. What kind of mother gives up her child? I was shackled by guilt and self-loathing. What would Rico think if he knew I’d given away our child? I grew intimate with the term “self-destruction.” I acted recklessly. I wanted to die, it’s as simple as that. But thanks to friends like Thomas and a hidden, deep-seated resiliency, I eventually found my bearings again. I had someone who needed me, and I would not let her down.
I spent the next twenty-seven years living for the holidays, the only time I was allowed to see my daughter, Johanna Rosa Krause.
Chapter 55
Emilia
I place a hand over my trembling mouth. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I am so, so sorry.”
Her eyes are bright with tears and she opens her arms to me. “My girl.”
I burrow into them, feeling the blessed comfort of a mother’s love, the feeling I’d been yearning for, for as long as I can remember.
“My nonna,” I say, the word finally finding its sweetness. “All my life, I’ve been hoping for you.”
“And I you,” she whispers.
I look over to where Rico sits, tears raining down his cheeks.
“Opa,” I whisper, moving toward him through a hazy blur.
“Meine schöne Enkelin,” he says, his wet cheek pressed to mine. He smells of cologne and peppermint candy, exactly how I’d imagined my grandfather would.
“I’ve never had a grandfather,” I croak.
“I’ve never had a granddaughter,” he replies. “You cannot imagine how happy I am that you’re mine.”
“That makes Jan my … half-step-cousin. I have a whole other family in Germany.” Tears spill over my lids.
“So now you understand,” Poppy says, taking my hands. “My Johanna did die, in a sense, when ‘Josephina’ was born. And Rosa did, indeed, become a mother, that very day I proposed she play the role.”
“Did Aunt Josie ever know the truth?” Lucy asks.
Poppy nods. “I suspect she did. A soft heart is a keen observer of the truth.”
My chest aches for Poppy … my nonna. She kept this enormous secret her entire adult life. She showed such grace, allowing herself to become ostracized and scorned, a woman considered a thief.
“You deserve to be vindicated,” I say. “Not just by me and Lucy but by our entire family. It doesn’t matter that Rosa is still alive.”
Poppy shakes her head. “Rosa has paid her penance.”
“No. She’s—”
“I’d placed my vulnerable sister in a horrible position, and for that I am truly sorry.”
“How can you be sorry? She stole your child.”
She nods. “Unbeknownst to me, Rosa was in a state of grief when, all those years ago, I asked her to pretend to be Joh’s mother. I provided an easy solution to her problem, and the temptation was too great. Once Rosa decided to lie, it became impossible for her to recant. She
believed she would lose her husband, and possibly the love of our papà, if they discovered she could not bear children. How overwhelming that secret must have felt. To keep it, she had to be fierce, to rule with anger. Those who cannot win hearts with love often control people with fear.”
“How can you be so sympathetic?” I say. “She ruined your life.”
She reaches over and our hands intertwine. “Few of nature’s creatures are born scared. It is desperation that begets fear. Fear creates cruelty. Rosa was a desperate person.”
I gaze out at the twinkling lights of the piazza, finally understanding why Rosa believed so fiercely in the curse. She needed it to absolve herself. As long as the Fontana myth was alive, she could make believe Poppy’s fate was the fault of the curse, not of her. Everyone knew the curse would not allow a second daughter to love.
“It gave me no pleasure when, years later, my sister suffered the ultimate consequence. Josephina was ill and Alberto was asked to donate blood.” Poppy shakes her head. “Had he agreed to the blood test I’d suggested years earlier, he would have known that Rosa’s Apositive blood type and his A-positive blood type could not have produced a child with type B blood. He died soon after Josephina passed, but not before apologizing to me. I believe he died of a broken heart.”
“My god,” I say. “He must have felt so betrayed.”
“Yup,” Lucy says. “Kind of like Poppy did when he refused to believe her. Karma sucks.”
“You finally had the proof you needed,” I say.
“Yes, but I no longer had the desire. Rosa was a broken woman. She’d lost her daughter and her husband. I could not turn the family against her.” Her eyes meet mine. “I’m asking the same of you, Emilia.”
I lower my gaze. “I’ve already confronted Rosa.”
Poppy takes my hand. “Of course you did, my little pollia berry. But please, promise me you’ll keep it from the rest of the family, at least until Rosa passes.”
My beautiful, generous nonna, still protecting her sister.
She reaches into the manila envelope. As if handling an ancient relic, she gingerly places a photo on the table in front of me. “My favorite picture.”
I stare down at the old, yellowed Polaroid snapshot. I recognize my dad’s old brown sofa immediately. Wearing a hideous sweater with huge shoulder pads, a young brunette sits, her shadowed eyes gazing at the baby in her arms. She looks sweet … and fragile. I laugh through tears and trace her face with my finger. “Mom,” I whisper.
“Jesus!” Lucy cries. “You and Em look exactly alike.”
I turn my attention to the forty-something woman beside my mother. Slim, with dark eyes, she smiles into the camera, her arm around my mother and two-year-old Daria on her lap.
“I get it now,” I say, unable to pull my gaze from my beautiful young nonna. “I finally know why Rosa never liked me.” I look up, into the eyes of the courageous and selfless, wise and wonderful woman who gave life to my mother. “I was a constant reminder of you—and the truth.”
Chapter 56
Emilia
Eleven Months Later
Trespiano
I shield my eyes from the morning’s haze. A warm breeze brushes my skin, carrying the faint scent of roses and sage. Beneath a pergola canopied with pink bougainvilleas and braided vines, I spy Lucy and Sofia. A rush of love comes over me. I soak in the scene, Sofia on a chaise with her nose in her iPad, and Lucy at a small iron table with her bare feet propped on the chair in front of her, gazing out at the vineyard.
I make my way down the flagstone path. Lucy smiles when she sees me, her skin tawny from the Tuscan sun, her dark hair cropped and unruly.
“Finally,” she says, “someone who’ll talk.” She thrusts a thumb at Sofia. “I can’t get this one to put down that damn novel.”
“Don’t interrupt,” Sofia says, lifting a finger but not her eyes.
My future novel! I can hardly believe it. It’s only a Word document now, and I still have months of revision ahead of me, but my editor predicts it’ll hit the shelves next fall. It’s the story of a beautiful Italian woman in 1960, who fell in love with an East German violinist. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer of thanks to Nonna Poppy. If not for her, there would be no book. Until Poppy, I didn’t have the courage, or the heart, to share my words with the world. I imagine Poppy shaking a finger at me. “Of course you did. You just needed to find your voice. But your next novel, Emilia, must be your story.”
Is she still hoping I’ll find love? Some people think having a ring on your finger is the ultimate goal. Not Nonna Poppy. And not me. In Italy, Poppy broke the curse. She helped me find my freedom. Not freedom to marry, necessarily, but freedom to believe. I may choose to love—or not. But I know one thing for certain: it’s possible.
“You and Sofie seem really happy.”
My cousin smiles, the kind of smile that comes from deep down in her heart and carries all the way to her eyes. “Things are great, with the exception of having the friggin’ ocean between us.” She raises her shoulders. “Que será, será. Who knows what the future will bring? We’re happy with what we have now, a week here and there. The boys love Bensonhurst. Did I tell you Franco wants to be a barber?” She laughs. “Grandpa Dolphie has a chair reserved for him. Oh, and they’re all coming for your dad’s wedding in April.”
“Perfect.” When my dad proposed to Mrs. Fortino last month, they insisted it would be a small wedding. But when two Italian families merge, “small wedding” is an oxymoron. Secretly, I think he’s pleased.
Lucy studies a persimmon tree, its autumn fruit a mosaic of ocher and orange. “You know, all that time I was looking for someone to love me. But what I really wanted was to love.”
“You found it, Luce.”
She nods. “And look at you, Em. I can’t believe my cousin is a famous author.”
I wave her off. “‘Famous’ and ‘author’ are mutually exclusive terms.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know what the hell you just said. All I know is that I’m proud, and you should be, too.”
My phone chimes and I peek at it. “Daria,” I say. “I’ll call her back.”
Lucy tips her head. “You still haven’t told her, have you?”
“Not yet.”
“But you’re allowed to now,” Lucy says. “Poppy said you could spill the beans once Rosa died.”
“It’s only been six months. Dar’s still grieving. She and Rosa were tight. But one day, I will. The girls need to know how incredible their great-nonna was.”
“And how evil Rosa was.”
“No. Poppy was right. Rosa was trapped in a lie, and it poisoned her. When Poppy and I FaceTimed with Rosa, just hours before she died, she actually cried.”
“No shit? Like real human tears?”
I can’t help but smile. “Yup. I think even her nurse was shocked.”
I startle when someone comes up behind me and kneads my neck. I lift my face and pat his hand. “Good morning, Gabe.”
“Buongiorno, bellezza.”
What a flirt. A year ago, I would have melted at Gabe’s touch. I shake my head, thinking of that naïve girl who shrank back to her room, red-faced and mortified, heartbroken and humiliated. To this day, it was the most romantic date of my life.
Back then, I thought kisses held promises, and sex implied a future. I’m wiser now, and more realistic. But of all the men who could have delivered my first real heartbreak, I’m oddly proud to say it was Gabriele Vernasco.
I sit up at the sound of a car engine. Dust kicks up in the driveway. “He’s here!” My chair scrapes against the flagstone and I dash to the front yard.
Wearing khaki slacks and a straw Belfry hat, Rico shuffles his way to me. He’s clutching his old violin case in one hand, a metal box in the other. He lowers them to his sides and opens his arms. “Mein Mädchen.”
“Opa!” I press my face against his chest, my heart overflowing.
He finally steps away. “How are
you holding up?”
“I miss her so much.”
“She would be overjoyed to know we are all together for her birthday, as promised.”
All except her, I imagine we’re both thinking.
“You gave her the happiest ten months of her life.”
His voice breaks. “We both did.”
Arm in arm, we make our way toward Casa Fontana, the house where his beloved once lived. He stops before we reach the porch, and fishes into his pocket.
“Our pied-à-terre in Ravello,” he says, holding out an old-fashioned brass key. “Poppy and I want you to have it.”
I step back. “No. I can’t.”
He gently places the key onto my palm. “Jan agrees. The apartment belongs to you, our granddaughter. You will need to see Poppy’s attorney friend in Amalfi to sign the papers, and then it will be all yours. We have great hope that it will be the launching pad of many happy memories.”
I stare at the key, and all the possibilities it holds. “Thank you, Opa. You and I will live there together. I’ll buy a sleeper sofa for me—”
He pats my cheek. “I must return to Germany. But purchase that sofa—I will be visiting often.” He smiles. “Luciana will enjoy the apartment, too. And Sofia, of course, and the boys. Perhaps one day even Daria and the girls will visit.”
“Daria,” I say, already imagining it.
We wait until dusk before setting out to the field where my greatgrandparents and their children once toiled. It’s a warm evening, silent except for the chirping of insects and the thrashing of the grasses as we climb the hill. I spread out a blanket and Rico sets down his violin case. He gazes down at the metal container in his hand and gently kisses it.
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