The Golden Hour - Margaret Wurtele

by The Golden Hour (epub)

  God help me. That was the last thing I wanted to do, to be tethered to Father all day long. In desperation, I piped up. “No, Papa.” I looked from him to Mother, then back again. “No. The harvest is one thing, but I really want to be part of the war in some way. If I can’t fight against the Nazis, I just want to be part of it. Violetta tells me they need help at her clinic. I thought that might be a good idea, and I could pick up some medical skills that I could use for the rest of my life—”

  Father broke in. “Well, damn it, who says making wine and olive oil isn’t helping the cause—” But Mother cut him off, her mouth still full of food.

  “Is that the one Marchesa Falconieri is operating on her property? They say there are more POWs and wounded partisans every day.” She looked across the table, almost pleading. “Enrico, she does have a point. And maybe Giovanna could pick up some news of—”

  I knew whom she was about to mention. I focused on my now empty plate, bracing myself for a round of tears, but none came. Only silence. I saw Rosa come in to clear the plates, and then I looked at Mother. She was pale and staring straight ahead—wide-eyed—holding her hands to her throat. I froze.

  Father stood up. “Jesus! She’s choking; we’ve got to hit her on the back.” He lunged in her direction, but Rosa stepped coolly in his path and put up her hands to stop him.

  “No, no, signore, please don’t. I’ve seen this too many times—that just makes things worse.”

  She walked behind Mother’s chair, leaned over, and grabbed her from behind, lifting her up and shaking her out like a rag doll. A piece of chicken flew out onto the tablecloth, followed by coughing and the sound of sucking air. Then Mother put her head on her folded arms and collapsed in racking sobs. “Oh, thank you, Rosa, dear. I couldn’t get my breath. I just—”

  But it wasn’t about the choking. The tears were about Giorgio, and the floodgates had just been reopened. I ran to her side, leaned over her, and stroked her back, hugging her to me. “It’s okay, Mother; really it is. Giorgio’s fine. I just know it.” I looked at Rosa, but her back was turned. “I’ll use my time at the clinic to find out everything I can. I’ll ask everyone I see. I think this will be the right thing for me to do.”

  Father stood straight, observing the scene. Without a word, he went back to his chair and pushed it in slowly.

  I stood tall myself, looking directly at him. “I will talk with Violetta about the possibility of volunteering at the clinic. I also plan to make a visit to Sister Graziella at the convent to apologize to her.”

  The next morning after church, I sidled up to Violetta and linked arms with her. “Will you take a walk with me?” I hoped the pressure I was putting on her arm would convey the urgency of my need.

  She broke away from her parents with a wave and led me out toward the road to town. “You’re pinching me. What’s going on?”

  “Sister Graziella told my father.” I was breathing fast, leaning into her. “They want me to stop working at the school.”

  “I’m not sorry, Giovanna. I want you to get away from that man too.”

  “But what will I do with my time?” I hoped Violetta would think right away of the clinic, but I knew it wasn’t so simple. The two of us had been best friends for years, but we were competitive too. It seemed that we got along best when we kept our involvements separate.

  When we were ten, there was a school festival that included footraces and other mock Olympic events. Violetta and I were both the fastest in the class, but she was taller than I was by at least a foot, giving her a natural edge. She beat me consistently in the trials and even suggested that I sign up for the long jump instead. I still cringe to think of it, but before the race, as we were changing clothes, I dropped a small pebble into the toe of her shoe. The gun went off, and Violetta shot ahead, but as we rounded the curve at the other end of the oval track, I watched her begin to limp a little and give her foot a quick shake. It was just enough of a pause to let me catch up and pass her in the home stretch.

  “Nice going, Giovanna,” she said, refusing to meet my eye. “I had a darn stone in my shoe, and I just couldn’t run the way I usually do.” She won every race after that.

  I never confessed my dirty trick—either to her or to the priest—but I think I had always expected God to even the score, particularly at moments like this.

  I waited silently, feeling her inner debate. The clinic was clearly her territory, the perfect outlet for her particular interests. She had a nurturing, patient temperament, just right for working with the sick and wounded. As usual, her warmth and her inclusive nature won out, reminding me what a heel I’d been all those years before. “But how about the clinic?” she said. “We need help desperately.” She stopped and took me by the shoulders, beaming. “We could be together every day—it would be fun. Please say you’ll come and talk with them.”

  I had kept my church clothes on, which made for rough going on the way to the gazebo. The path I’d been traveling was beginning to show evidence of use, and it occurred to me that I should vary my route from week to week to avoid giving our meeting place away. So I decided to take the long way around—partly to let the path grow over and partly to save my skirt and good shoes by walking on well-traveled roads. As I walked, a horse-drawn wagon appeared far up ahead, then slowly grew larger as it moved in my direction. I could see that it was piled high with hay and that two people were sitting on the bench. Then I recognized Serafo and Esta, the farming couple who were overseers for the large estate adjoining ours. They were friends of Tonino and Catarina’s, and had known me since I was very small.

  Esta was dark complexioned and grossly overweight, the navy cotton of her full skirt stretched tight over the flesh of spreading thighs. Her hair, mostly silver now with age, was parted in the middle and pulled back into a tight bun, making her round, weathered face appear all the more manly and severe. Serafo, Esta’s physical opposite, sat erect with the reins in his hands, his skeletal frame occupying a mere quarter of the space on the seat.

  “Giovanna, is it really you, darling?” Esta called as they pulled to a stop next to me. Their horse leaned his neck down and began loudly pulling clumps of grass out of the dry, stony earth.

  “Yes, Esta.” I smiled brightly. “How nice to see you both.”

  “What brings you to this neck of the woods?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out walking so far from home.” I looked past them, my eyes darting back and forth. I knew the turn to the convent was behind me, but I was desperate for an excuse. “I was, uh, just heading for Saint Agnes to see Sister Graziella.”

  “Oh, well, dear, you’ve missed the turn altogether. It’s about a half mile behind you. Serafo, we must give Giovanna a lift. It’s not too far out of our way.”

  “No, no—I’d really prefer to walk. It’s such a beautiful day.” I tried to look relaxed and in the mood for physical exercise.

  “We won’t hear of it; will we, Serafo? Now, Giovanna, you climb up on this wagon right this instant. We’ll take you there, and we won’t take no for an answer.”

  Serafo reached down and offered me his bony hand. What choice did I have?

  “Easy does it, now. Up with you, young lady.” He moved all the way to the end of the bench, and I wedged myself in between the two of them, my stomach clenched like a tight fist. I was already so late to meet Giorgio, and now surely I was going to miss him altogether. Worse, going to the convent was no longer a choice I had to make.

  The cart bumped and rattled along the dirt road. I inhaled dust and the acrid smell of Esta’s underarms while she fired questions at me: How was Catarina; what was it like living with Germans in the house; hadn’t she heard I was working at the school; had we any word from Giorgio? I answered her inquiries as vaguely and casually as I could until at last we reached the long driveway lined with arborvitae that curved up to the convent of Saint Agnes.

  I tried to look relaxed as I waved good-bye, but I was dizzy with fear. I hadn’t had time to p
lan this moment, and now the reality of what I was about to do was all too present. I knocked timidly on the huge carved wooden door and stood shifting from one foot to the other, hoping no one would hear. After three or four minutes, the latch clicked and the door swung slowly open. A nun I had never seen before stood before me. Like Sister Graziella, she had an open, kind face, but she was thin and even shorter than I was. “Yes? May I help you?”

  “Good day, Sister. I’m…I’m here to see Sister Graziella.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “No, but…” I hesitated. “I have been working with her at the School of Santa Maria.”

  “You must be Giovanna then!” Her smile brightened. “Graziella speaks of you so often. Come in, dear, won’t you?”

  She took my arm and led me to a small group of stiff-backed chairs in the corner of the entry hall. I watched her face to see just how recently she might have heard anything about me, but her welcoming posture didn’t waver. “I’ll just go and tell Graziella you’re here.”

  I sat there for five minutes, then ten. It was eerily quiet. With the large front door closed again, there was no open access to the outdoors, so even the birdsong was silenced. Occasionally quick steps echoed down a corridor off to the left that was barricaded by an iron gate, but no one appeared. At last, I heard the measured, intentional gait I knew so well. Sister Graziella quietly opened the iron barrier, closing it as softly as she could behind her. I stood up and instinctively bowed my head, staring at the floor. My scalp tingled at the top where I felt she must be looking at me.

  “I am so glad you came,” she said carefully. “Let’s find a place where we can have a private talk, shall we?” I followed her down the hall to a small parlor. She invited me in, shutting the door to ensure our privacy. We sat knee to knee in two comfortable stuffed armchairs in a corner of the room. A window was open, letting a breeze gently ripple the filmy white curtain that let in the light. Unexpectedly, tears welled up and began spilling down my cheeks. I sobbed out loud and leaned over, not wanting to look at her.

  “Sister Graziella, I don’t know what to say.” I hiccupped. “I’m just so sorry that you had to…to see me like that.”

  “The problem is not my having had to see,” she said. “The problem is what you did.”

  “Oh, I know, I know. It was so wrong—wrong in every way. But I want you to know that I…I…Nothing really happened, Sister. I would have ended it even if you had not been there.”

  She looked at me long and hard. “Lieutenant Eisenmann is really a very kind and sensitive human being, isn’t he?” she said. “Do you love him, dear?”

  “No,” I answered quickly, and looked away. “I am so attracted to him, and I really care for him, but, Sister Graziella, I don’t know if you can…”

  “Take your time, dear. Trust me. I’m not as ethereal as you think I might be. I spent a few years living before I made my commitment here.” She waited patiently while I took that in.

  “No. I’ve been a little bit in love with Klaus, and it’s become something I think about all the time. But I don’t really know him. I can’t say that I care deeply about him—not in any life-changing way.”

  “He is married, isn’t he?” she said. I nodded, and tears welled up again. “And, I would imagine, he is lonely too.”

  I nodded again and added, “He even has a baby son.” My face contorted, and I leaned over and put my head in my hands. “I had no right to stay that night, to be alone with him, but I…”

  “You’re young, dear, and so naturally ready for this kind of thing.” She looked dreamily out the window. “There is nothing wrong with physical intimacy and the expression of love. God has surely designed us to communicate in this profound way, but it must be accompanied by deep commitment and in the context of marriage.”

  “I knew it was too much too soon. I think that’s why I stopped him.” I looked at her, wondering whether I could truly trust her as much as I was feeling I could. “And the war, that makes everything more complicated.”

  “Yes, the war. The war indeed.” She smiled. “Giovanna, I want to say something, to be clear about something.”

  “What is that?”

  “I admire your openness, your guilelessness. I find it a valuable asset to be able to look beyond obvious categories and barriers and extend your feelings. You sought out the individual soul in Klaus and tried to relate to that, not to his persona as a German soldier.”

  “Yes, yes—exactly!”

  “But sometimes,” she went on, shaking her head, “sometimes we must balance one value against the other and weigh them carefully. I am sure there are many, many nice people who are members of Hitler’s army. But in time of war, we must—we must—commit ourselves to overcoming a greater collective evil. Sometimes I wish the Church were clearer on that score.” She looked away.

  “So the fact that he is a German soldier should take precedence over the goodness of his soul?”

  “I think you should think twice about entrusting any German soldier with your very innocence, your precious innermost self—even if he is as fair and thoughtful a person as the lieutenant clearly is.”

  I was so relieved and so grateful, I came closer and hugged her tightly, resting my head on her shoulder.

  “I want to emphasize, Giovanna, that although I understand, I am truly disappointed in you, and I will expect you to make amends for this incident in some way. I want to think about what that will be, and I think you should too. You have been to confession?”

  “Yes, Papa made me go right away to Don Federico.”

  “And you did what was required?”

  “Yes, Sister, I did.”

  “I wonder if it wouldn’t be best for you to look for another way to spend your days, to leave the school.”

  “I have been thinking about that.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a punishment at all, is it?” There was a twinkle in her eye.

  I nodded, and the sudden thought of Sister Elena made me flush hotly. “Does Sister Elena”—I looked at the floor—“hate me even more?”

  “I haven’t told Elena a thing. Let’s just say that what happened will remain a little secret between you and me.”

  I threw my arms around her. “How can I thank you?”

  “What you learn from this will be my reward. And don’t forget—I will still expect some sort of compensation. Now, is there anything you would like me to tell Lieutenant Eisenmann?”

  I had been planning to go back to the school, to talk with Klaus myself. But now it seemed clear that I wasn’t welcome there. My never showing up again would surely cause him to worry and to blame himself for my having left.

  “Maybe I could write him a letter and you could deliver it tomorrow.”

  She nodded and led me to a small desk in the parlor, where there was a stack of stationery engraved with, Convent of Saint Agnes, and an etching of the old stone building perched on top of a hill. Sister Graziella excused herself. “You may seal the envelope, dear, and leave it with the doorkeeper. I’ll take it to him tomorrow.” She crossed herself and left the room.

  It took me quite a while to compose the note, and I made so many false starts that I ruined five sheets of the stationery before I finally wrote:

  Dear Klaus,

  Thank you so much for the delicious picnic dinner. I have decided that the medical clinic can make better use of my time and energy, so I will not be returning to the School of Santa Maria. I hope that the war ends soon and that you make it safely home to your wife, Mathilde, and your baby son.

  Very sincerely yours,

  Giovanna Bellini

  I gathered up all the scraps of the earlier notes and folded them into my pocket. I stood up and turned to leave with the final note in my hand. To this day I am stunned at what I did next. Perhaps it was the schoolgirl rebellion that seemed to ignite in me in this sanctified place. Perhaps it was the rush of youthful hormones that pulled me back to the possibilities on that closet floor. C
ertainly it was an irrational and impetuous act. I rushed back to the small desk, took another piece of paper and an envelope out of the drawer. Before I could waver, I scrawled:

  Klaus—I must see you. Meet me in the playground Wednesday night at five—

  Giovanna

  I sealed that note as well, stuffed the other one in my pocket, and handed the new one to the trim little sister at the door, saying, “Please give this to Sister Graziella.” Then I ran like the wind down the convent’s long drive and headed toward home.

  Chapter Nine

  Violetta’s clinic was hidden away on the grounds of a vast estate owned by Marchese and Marchesa Falconieri. Like our own, only much larger, this complex was a collection of twenty or so small working farms scattered over three thousand acres. The features of the fattoria, or central farm, were clustered around the main sixteenth-century villa and included formal gardens, the granary, the cellars, the oil presses, and the dairy.

  The marchesa herself was a bundle of energy—of English and American origin—who had moved to Italy at eight years old with her mother after her father died. She grew up surrounded by the best families of Florence with names like Rucelli, Strozzi, Frescobaldi, and Niccolini, living in a community of British émigrés, but she went to Italian schools, spoke Italian like a native, and was at home with Italian history and literature. Eventually she married the wealthy Italian marchese Leonardo Falconieri, and was a popular, trusted member of the extended Lucca community. I knew her only slightly, my parents having introduced her to me on several occasions, but she was reputed to be not only generous and intelligent, but a woman of considerable courage.

  Since their purchase of the property (now renamed Villa Falconieri) in the mid-twenties, and thanks to financial help from Mussolini and the Fascist party, they had significantly expanded the business and improved the lives of their peasant farmers.

  So far Villa Falconieri had been spared occupation by German soldiers, but like so many of us in German-controlled northern Italy, the family walked a thin line between doing whatever it could to aid those fighting Hitler and avoiding detection, which would mean certain punishment or even death.