The Golden Hour - Margaret Wurtele

by The Golden Hour (epub)

  “My father was a Fascist, too.” Suddenly that sounded callous, all wrong. But he ignored me and kept going.

  “But then in November of ’thirty-eight, they eliminated the ‘discrimination clause,’ and there were no more exceptions to the racial laws. Father was one of the top executives at the Banca Ovazza in Turin, but he had to leave his job. Jews were no longer allowed to work there.”

  I anchored one end of the long strip of gauze at the top of Mario’s arm, where it was pretty well healed; then I began slowly winding it around and around—not too tightly—gradually covering up the cleaned wound. “So what did you do when he couldn’t work anymore?”

  “Well, we were lucky in that we had plenty of money. Like a lot of other Jews in that position, we moved full-time to our country house, in the hills outside Turin.”

  How much like our own life his sounded, I thought: the executive job in the city, the country house. I studied his angled forehead over deep-set green eyes, the fine lips that seemed always to have a slight smile playing about them. “How old are you?” I asked gently.

  “I’m twenty. I was born in 1924. Cecilio’s twenty-two.” He looked up. “So if you’re Giorgio’s younger sister, you must be—”

  “Seventeen, but I’ll be eighteen next month.” It seemed important that he not think me too young.

  Mario nodded. Then he got up, suddenly edgy and distracted. “Hey, Giovanna, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. But I’ve got to go now. I can’t stay here.”

  “Wait. There’s one more thing we have to do.” I took out the thermometer, shook it down. “You’ve got to sit still long enough to do this. It’s important.” I held it out to him like a nurse, and he dutifully opened his mouth, let me slide the glass rod under his tongue, then closed his lips gently around it. Softly modeled lips they were, neat and symmetrical, like a woman’s. A drop of sweat slowly rolled down from under his nose and hung there. I wanted to wipe it off with my thumb, but I held back.

  “Mario, I…” This was an opportunity, and I had to take it. “I want you to know I’m really sorry all this is happening to you and your brother. It isn’t right.” I didn’t know what I was about to say, but I pressed on. “If you need anything, not just food, but help of some kind, let me know.” I looked away, feeling the breeze lift an unruly curl next to my ear, listening to the kick, kick, kick of a great spotted woodpecker overhead.

  I reached for the thermometer, then tipped it just so in the light: 102 degrees.

  “You’ve got a fever,” I said. “A high one.”

  He winced. “I was afraid of that. I really don’t feel very well. Do you think it’s my arm?”

  “I do. They told me at the clinic that means infection. And it could be serious. You’re going to need a shot. Can you come back tomorrow?” I began stuffing all the old bandages and debris into my bag.

  He looked nervous, shook his head.

  “Mario, you’ve got to. You have to.” I was surprised at the intensity in my own voice. Suddenly this mattered more than anything had in a long time. “I’ll be here, right here, at noon tomorrow. Don’t let me down.” I shouldered the bag, turned my back, and walked away, not waiting for an answer.

  I slipped quietly out of our quarters and down the stairs just after sunrise the next morning. My plan was to pass by the Santinis’ garden for some vegetables to take with me that Mario could deliver to the boys, then to go to the clinic to pick up a dose of penicillin. I parked my bike on the road and circled around the back way toward the garden. As I neared their property, I saw Luigi sitting by the path. His bicycle was turned over nearby, and he was bent over, hugging his knees to his chest.

  I approached warily, still not sure whether he might be blaming me personally for Ignazio’s kidnapping. “Hello, Luigi,” I said casually. He seemed lost in his thoughts, not in the least hostile to me. “Is something the matter?”

  “I’ve just heard about the evacuation, and I’m worried about Flavio.”

  “Evacuation?”

  “There’s a poster hanging in his village by the fountain. It says that those people and all the villages of the Serchio River valley are to be evacuated beginning on July fifteenth—that’s the day after tomorrow.”

  “Where will they go?”

  “We talked with Flavio’s parents, and they said they had heard that everyone is supposed to be loaded on trains and taken to some unknown destination in the north. They would be allowed only one suitcase and have to leave everything else behind. Everyone in the village is talking about it. I guess the parish priest has announced that there will be a meeting to discuss it tonight.”

  “But that would mean Violetta’s family, too!” I leaped to my feet and brushed my skirt off. “Luigi, I’ve got to run. I’m really sorry about Ignazio, and I’m so glad you’re okay.” The vegetables forgotten, I picked up my bag and took off for the clinic.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Violetta was not at the clinic when I arrived. I feared the worst—that she wouldn’t even show up—but I busied myself tidying the supply room while I waited. I sifted through piles of bandages, rolls of flat cotton enfolded in blue paper, small white laundered towels, large containers of aspirin, and bottles of evil-looking mercurochrome. I returned things to their assigned spaces and neatened the piles. No sign of penicillin anywhere. What if she never came? I was searching through a basket on the bottom shelf when the light in the room dimmed. Someone was standing in the doorway. I turned, and the marchesa leaned in.

  “Giovanna, why don’t you come out here? Violetta has just arrived, and as her good friend, I think you should hear what she’s saying.”

  There were three other nurse volunteers clustered around Violetta near the entrance to the annex. She was talking animatedly, and as I came closer, I could hear that it concerned the evacuation.

  “They say we will be able to take only what we can carry, and that all our houses are to be abandoned—I suppose for German troops to move in and take them over.”

  “Is it true everyone is to be put on trains and shipped off?” I asked.

  “It is, but from what my parents say, most people are just planning to run off into remote parts of the mountains and stay with friends or family in those inaccessible areas—not to go forcibly by train.”

  “What will your parents do?” asked one of the other nurses.

  “They are planning to climb up to Piegaio with my aunt and uncle. We have some third cousins who they think will take us in.” That would mean her cousin Flavio would go as well. Poor Luigi would lose his other good friend.

  There was a moment of silence while we took this in. Then the marchesa spoke up. “Violetta, I just cannot afford to lose you. We are far enough from the river in this part of the countryside that we won’t be included in the evacuation—at least not yet. I want you to stay here with me and my family. We have a room for you in the villa. You can work in the clinic by day and help me with the children if need be. Do you think your parents will allow it?”

  She stared at the marchesa. I could tell she was torn. I knew she wanted to be with her parents, but she would also rather stay here. She glanced at me, then seemed to make up her mind. “I’ll ask them tonight. There’s a meeting about all of this at the church, and we can decide together.”

  The group disbanded, and the other nurses climbed the stairs to the clinic, but I pulled Violetta aside. “We’ll talk later. Right now I need that dose of penicillin,” I said quickly, “and I can’t find it in the supply room.”

  I didn’t see Mario at first when I arrived in the clearing. Thinking he wasn’t there, I started to pace around the gazebo, but when I reached the back, I saw him lying curled on his side, tucked in behind the legs of Prometheus. Not sure whether he was awake or asleep, I leaned over to see his face. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. His forehead and nose were wet with perspiration. I reached out and gently shook his shoulder.

  “Oh—I’m sorry.” He sat up slowly, tr
ying to get reoriented. “I must have fallen asleep.” He was holding the bandaged arm protectively, even though it was in a sling. “I’m just so tired lately. It must be the fever. I can hardly keep up with the other guys.” He managed a wan smile, then looked serious. “Were you able to get some penicillin?”

  I pulled a wrapped paper package from my bag and held it up. “Here it is. Now I just have to muster the courage to give you the shot.” I smiled and winced. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Trust me, Giovanna. No shot could ever equal the pain in this arm. So even if you botch it, it won’t make much difference.” He gave me an encouraging smile. “What have we got to lose?”

  “So…” I loosened the packet and slowly pulled out the vial and the hypodermic needle. “I can either give this to you in your other arm, or…” I paused, embarrassed.

  “I only have one arm to speak of, so I’d better not risk making that sore, too. I guess that settles it.” He turned and unbuttoned his pants until they were loose enough for him to lower the back waistband enough to expose an area of flesh on his behind. “Will this do?”

  I pulled out a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and tore off a piece of cotton. I soaked the cotton and swabbed the fleshiest place I could find. My hand shook as I filled the needle from the vial as Violetta had shown me. When it was full, I put the vial and packet down and took a deep breath. “Here goes.”

  I held the needle in my right hand and moved it toward the target. Why hadn’t I practiced this somehow? My hand was trembling violently, and my wrist seemed suddenly weak. I grasped the instrument like a pen between my first and second fingers, but when I stretched my thumb back to reach the plunger, my whole hand shook so hard the needle dropped to the dust at my feet.

  “Oh, Mario,” I cried out. “I’ve dropped it! I was afraid of hurting you.” I picked up the needle, now caked with dirt all the way to the tip. Should I wipe it with alcohol? Try to sterilize it again? I had no idea whether that would work. I might do more harm than good. “I’m afraid this just isn’t going to work. The needle’s too dirty now. I’m so sorry. I’ve just let you down horribly.”

  Mario, still facing the other way, pulled his pants up and buttoned them. He lowered himself slowly onto the marble platform. “That’s all right, Giovanna. I don’t blame you. I couldn’t have done it any better myself.” He sighed deeply. “You have no idea how little energy I have.”

  He began to describe how much work the group of partisans had to do each day: the cooking and the cleanup for three meals a day; the foraging for food and fuel for the fire; the sending and receiving of messages with other clusters of rebels in the area; the building of explosive devices, the testing and the eventual and very dangerous planting of the bombs. “They obviously don’t send me or my brother on those missions into the German camps,” he said. “I’m committed to this work, but I just find it hard to keep up.”

  I could hear deep fatigue in his voice, and fear—not only for his and his brother’s safety but also for his own health. A rush of feeling came over me. I wanted fiercely to protect this man I hardly knew, and more than that, to set about it right away. “Mario, I don’t think you should stay with Giorgio and his band anymore. You’re so sick, and it’s just too risky—for you and for them. I have to think of my own brother too.”

  He stared at the ground, saying nothing for a while. Then he looked at me. “But where would I go? I couldn’t leave my brother behind. I just couldn’t.”

  Where could they go? The enormity of that question hung in the air like a huge soap bubble that was about to burst. “I have no idea, but I promise I’ll think about it and come up with an answer. I have some ideas, but I’ll have to see. It’s Thursday, and we usually meet on Sunday. Will you be there?”

  He nodded.

  “Your brother too. And bring your stuff—be prepared to come with me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I had been watching the marchesa closely ever since I had begun working at the clinic. For someone in her position, she seemed not to care about what she wore or how she presented herself; she was utterly absorbed by the demands of the work she had to do. Yet she was also the kindest, most generous person I had ever met. She always took the time to stop at each bedside and chat with the patients. And I knew from Violetta that she also welcomed meetings with the volunteers one on one, to encourage them and give them any help they needed.

  So I was not surprised when she approached me as I wheeled my bicycle into the thicket later that afternoon. Beaming, she threw her arms out wide. “Isn’t it a beautiful day? It’s so good to see you here, Giovanna. I can’t tell you how appreciative I am.” Her face darkened, took on a more serious air. “How is it going for you, my young friend? Is there anything you need? These are hard times, and we all need to support one another.”

  “Oh, no…everything is just fine, thank you.” I smiled politely. “I’m just glad to be able to help.” I wanted to trust her. In fact, I admired her so much, something made me want to show her I was a person who took herself seriously, who had a role in this war just like she did.

  “You can’t fool me, you know.” She moved closer to me. “I pride myself on having better than average intuition. Do I detect a tiny hesitation in your response?”

  I tucked the bike under a big branch. Dared I prod her a bit? She knew so much about the area, and, no doubt, she understood all aspects of the war. I turned to walk beside her. “Well, actually, there is something I’ve been wondering about.”

  “What is that, dear?”

  “I know you have been so generous with all the escaped prisoners of war who have come through here—the English and the Americans especially.”

  “You know my mother was American and my father English. It seems right for me to help them.”

  I hesitated. “Have you ever had any…” I forced myself to say the words. “Have you had any Jewish people ask for your help?”

  She took my arm and turned so that we were walking away from the clinic toward a bench that sat next to the entrance of the chapel. She said nothing until we were sitting down. “Giovanna.” She spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. “You know that we are in great danger here, taking in these prisoners and wounded soldiers.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And I am dedicated to the work we are doing.”

  “I know. I have so much respect for you.”

  “But the Jews. That is a risk of a different order. There is something so sinister, so beyond war, in the threats to them. I just don’t know what to make of it.”

  “But have you had any come here?”

  “I will tell you that yes, I have.”

  “Are they here?”

  She looked away from me. “No.” She shook her head a little, as if reassuring herself. “They are not. I just didn’t feel—how should I say this?—that I was the right person to deal with their situation.” She combed her curly hair back from her forehead with her fingers. “I was in enough danger with the work we were already doing.”

  “But what did you do?” I said. “Where did you send them?”

  There was a pause before the marchesa looked directly into my eyes.

  “Giovanna, where are your sympathies in all of this? How do you feel?”

  “Oh,” I said quickly, “I believe they should be helped in any way possible.”

  “In that case, I’ll tell you.” The marchesa took a deep breath, then continued. “I referred them to the Church. Believe it or not, it is the Church that is doing the most work in this area.”

  I nearly fell off the bench. “What do you mean exactly by ‘the Church’?”

  “There are several priests in the region, both in the countryside and in Lucca, who are involved—who refer people to citizens who will hide them, who even hide them themselves on church property. I’ve heard there are convents too, that many nuns are proving to be heroines in this thing.”

  Nuns? Could it be that Sister Graziella and her co
mpatriots were housing any Jews at the convent of Saint Agnes? How could I have managed to damage the one relationship that could possibly help me?

  I stood up. I had to talk to Sister Graziella right away. “Thank you, Marchesa. I appreciate your trusting me with this information. I need to get back to the supply room.”

  She reached out her hand. “Is there a specific reason you wanted to know?”

  “Oh, well, no, I…” I started to lie to her, but I knew I owed her more than that. I owed her at least the same dignity and openness with which she had treated me. “Let’s just say that I know of a situation in which some shelter might be necessary, but”—I started walking back toward the hospital—“this is something I can handle on my own.”

  “Good for you, Giovanna. You’re a woman of heart and courage.” She put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me to her. “Just know that you can come to me anytime if you need advice—or even just encouragement.”

  I didn’t want to appear at the convent empty-handed, so I persuaded Rosa to sacrifice a jar of her lavender honey. I took a small cracked pitcher from the larder as well, gathered a bouquet of roses, cornflowers, and dahlias from the garden, and laid them in my bag.

  On my bicycle the tree-lined driveway seemed longer and much steeper than it had in the horse-drawn cart. I could feel my anxiety mounting. At the top of the hill, next to the gravel courtyard, I spied a rusted pump in the corner of the garden. I filled the small pitcher with water and arranged the flowers as artfully as I could. All the while, I rehearsed lines of contrition, of gratitude, of devotion, as I fought down the fear that Sister Elena would be there and somehow haunt and spoil the upcoming reunion.