At last, I rapped three times, my knuckles making only a faint sound on the great door. After a moment or two, the same compact little nun raised the latch on the inside and swung it open.
“Oh, yes, Giovanna. Graziella is expecting you. What lovely flowers!”
There was no one else around. The air was stale, and the walls gave off a faint odor of mildew. Our footsteps echoed as I followed the little nun down the corridor to the same parlor where Sister Graziella and I had met before. She ushered me in, then closed the door, leaving me alone to wait. I set the bouquet of flowers and the honey on a low table and perched on the arm of one of the soft chairs. My hands were cold. I folded them in my lap, then crossed my legs and pressed my fingers between my thighs to warm them. The small desk with its drawer of stationery loomed in the corner. Filmy drapery billowed at the open window, and a rooster crowed somewhere nearby.
This room was so formal and elegant. The whole place reeked of righteousness. It was impossible that the nuns were hiding Jews anywhere within its cloistered walls. What a silly notion, a preposterous idea. The marchesa must be mistaken, I thought.
There was a firm double rap, and the doorknob clicked. “Come in!” I said, more brightly than the occasion warranted. I stood up quickly.
Sister Graziella did not smile. Her habit swished as she walked purposefully over to the armchair beside mine. “Sit down, Giovanna. Please.” No mention of the honey or the flowers.
She sat there without speaking, her hands in her lap and her eyes closed. Was she praying? The rooster crowed again. More silence. Her face, her mouth and cheeks, sagged in utter relaxation; her breath became even and slow.
Slowly my own eyes closed, and I too began to resign myself to this shared silence. My head was full of questions, and my brain bounced like a tennis ball from one to another: Was she angry with me? Did she even know about the note? What had Sister Elena told her? Why had she not acknowledged the gifts I had so carefully brought along? A beam of sunlight from the window behind us moved slowly, creeping gradually across my shoulder, warming my back. My own breath calmed, dulling my nerves. Soon my questions faded; there was only the warmth of the sun, the breathing, and silence.
At last—after maybe fifteen or twenty minutes—Graziella’s arm lifted, made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” she murmured. “Amen.” We opened our eyes together. She studied me for a moment or two.
“Tell me who you are, Giovanna.”
“Who I am?” What was I to make of this question?
“Yes.” She was serious, patient.
“Well, let’s see.” I giggled a little. “I am the seventeen-year-old daughter of Natala and Enrico Bellini….I am the younger sister of Giorgio….I am a friend of Violetta…a keeper of the supply closet at the marchesa’s clinic. I am—” I stopped, not sure how to go on. None of that seemed to matter right now—to me or to her. I tried again.
“I am a person who…hates this war.”
“Go on.”
“I am someone who sees the huge injustices of it—the Germans’ tactics, their evil goals. I want to make a difference, to do what I can to stop them.”
“And?”
“My brother is fighting for a just cause, and I want to support him. And I have just learned what they are doing to the Jews, and I want—”
She held up her hand to stop me. “All right. So you, Giovanna, are a child of God. You are here to do God’s work in the world. You know that.”
I nodded.
“You need to listen carefully to what comes from deep within your heart. And you must act from that source and no other. Do you understand?”
I nodded again.
She stood up and began pacing back and forth. “Sister Elena showed me the note you wrote to Lieutenant Eisenmann. I would guess that you regret doing that, but I am afraid, Giovanna, that you must nonetheless make restitution for it. You deceived me and your parents; you used our convent stationery for your own devious ends. Is that correct?”
I nodded, staring at the floor. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are. I truly do. But that does not change the need to make amends. Do you know how to use a broom?”
And so it was I learned that each morning for the next three weeks I was to show up at the convent and sweep the floors. I was to do it prayerfully, Sister Graziella explained. I was to focus on only the task at hand, the rhythmic back-and-forth of the broom, the growing pile of dust, the gradually gleaming stone or shining tiles. Worse, I was to tell my parents exactly where I was going and why. “Tell them about the letter,” she instructed.
My encounter with Sister Graziella stayed with me. I felt as if I had taken on a kind of internal ballast. I thought often of the interval of shared silence until it became a refuge of sorts. If I began to worry or become anxious, I would try to recapture the calm and centeredness of our time together, breathe deeply, and let her words echo in my head: Listen carefully to what comes from deep within your heart. You must act from that source and no other….
“I have a confession to make.”
My parents and I were elbow to elbow around the table as usual. “I met with Sister Graziella this afternoon, and I want to tell you exactly why she asked me to come to the convent and what we spoke about.”
Mother’s hands began fiddling with her silverware, her napkin, her glass. She glanced quickly over at Father, then down to her plate, not at me. He sat up taller in his chair, put down his fork, and said, “This is a story I’m not sure I want to hear.”
“No, Papa. It’s okay.”
I began recounting what had happened since our last discussion about Klaus: how I had met with Sister Graziella the first time to apologize, how I had decided, with her blessing, to send a note to Lieutenant Eisenmann to explain my disappearance. Then I added how, on a strange impulse, I had written, instead, to ask for a rendezvous.
At that, Father banged the table with both hands so hard the forks jumped on the plates. “My God, Giovanna, I can’t believe you would do a thing like that—”
“Wait. Papa, hear me out. Please.”
Mother put a hand on his forearm. “Let’s just listen, Enrico.”
So I went on to disclose our encounter at the school. “I told the lieutenant that I have my own life to lead and that I do not want to see him again, that I will not be returning to the School of Santa Maria.” I looked at Mother, who nodded reassurance.
Father pressed on. “So that’s why Sister Graziella asked you to come to Saint Agnes today. Sister Elena had opened and then shown her the note?”
“Yes. And she felt that I needed to make amends for it, for deceiving her and the two of you.”
He nodded. “And?”
“And now I have to go to the convent every morning first thing for the next three weeks. I have to…” I hesitated a moment, because it sounded so ludicrous somehow, so embarrassing. “I have to sweep the floor.”
Father let out a loud guffaw. “You? Sweep the convent floor?” He looked at Mother. “Well, that’s a skill we can probably put to good use around here. How about the winery after that?”
Mother cleared her throat. “I trust Sister Graziella to know what’s right. And I’m sure both your father and I feel good about your spending time up there. Will you keep working at the clinic?”
“Oh, yes—I’ll still go there every day after I’m finished at Saint Agnes.”
Mother took her napkin and pressed her mouth with the corner. “Thank you, dear, for telling us all of this. It can’t have been easy.”
Father pushed back his chair. “And that damned Nazi is out of the picture. That’s the good news.”
The meal was over. I had done exactly what Graziella had asked me to do. I wondered whether she’d had any idea how this would help me prepare the ground for what lay ahead.
Chapter Fifteen
News of the impending evacuation swept the valley. It preoccupied everyone living in the count
ryside as well, beyond the immediate reach of the orders. My parents felt sure that they could remain at home, and in fact, they congratulated themselves that Germans were already ensconced on their property, making their own departure unnecessary.
As the villagers prepared to escape into the hills, they knew that they could take only as much as they could carry. Rumors were flying that jewelry, photographs, bicycles, sacks of grain, wine, china, and crystal were being bricked up in back rooms, stuccoed over, smeared with ash, and marred to look old. There was no time to waste and no guarantee that even their houses would still be there when they returned.
Saturday, the day of the planned evacuation, I showed up on time for the first day of my floor-sweeping duties. Sister Graziella was nowhere in sight when I arrived, but a tall, slender, pale-faced novice named Sylvia, no older than I was, had been assigned to take me under her wing. I was to begin indoors, she explained, sweeping the long tiled corridors in the noncloistered section of the convent, then move on to three exterior courtyards paved in cobblestones of rough local marble.
I was clumsy at first. The crude, uneven sticks made it hard to cover the ground smoothly. I kept missing places and having to go back and redo them, especially inside. The broom’s bristles had been bound into a round shape that made it nearly impossible to get into corners or close to the walls. I kept breaking the straws in my attempts to do so, leaving broken pieces strewn all about that had to be cleaned up as well.
Sister Graziella’s admonition to do this work “prayerfully” made me laugh to myself. How could anything so awkward, so frustrating, so poorly executed be considered a prayer? She was right about one thing, though: My mind didn’t have a chance to wander, so hard did I have to concentrate on making the broom do its job.
I had been working for at least two hours and was just finishing up the third of the courtyards when a voice called from the columned galleria along one side. “I never thanked you for your gifts yesterday, Giovanna.” Sister Graziella was standing there, her hands on her hips, grinning at me. “It’s a lovely little bouquet, and the honey is delicious.”
This was my chance, and I had to seize it. There was a semicircular bench in the corner of the courtyard, backed by a clipped hedge. “Could you sit with me for just a minute?” I asked, sweeping the last of the leaves and clippings into a small pile. “I want to bring you up-to-date on my parents.”
We were all alone. I quickly told her about dinner the night before, how I had told Mother and Father all about the letter and my restitution program.
“Good for you, dear. I’m proud of you. Now I’ll let you get back to work.” She stood up to leave, but I pulled on her habit.
“Wait, Sister. I…” How could I possibly do this? “I have to talk with you about something else. It’s important.” This was too much, too soon, but I had no choice, no choice at all.
She sat back down, wrinkling her brow in concern, and I took both her hands in mine. “Remember how you said that I must act only from a source deep in my heart?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “What is it, dear?”
“Oh, this is so hard.” I dropped her hands, stood up, and began pacing. “I might be making a big mistake, Sister Graziella.” She was listening attentively; I could see that. She understood the importance of what I was about to tell her. “First of all, my brother. You remember Giorgio?”
“Of course.”
So I filled her in. “It’s so dangerous out there. I worry terribly about him—all of them. And it’s risky for me as well.”
“Do your parents know you are in touch with him?”
“No. Mother is so anxious—she doesn’t even know whether he is alive. But if I told them, I’m afraid Father would force me to betray them. He’s furious that Giorgio deserted, and he might want to make him turn himself in.”
“Oh, I doubt that he would do that. Not with the Germans as vicious as they are. I really don’t think he would.” She shook her head and shrugged. “So how can I be of help?”
“I’m not asking you for help with my brother. I’m afraid there’s more to tell.” I took a deep breath and sat down next to her again.
“The other day, he showed up with two friends from military school, two brothers. One of them was badly wounded. I’ve been tending to his wound with supplies from the marchesa’s clinic, but it’s serious. He’s very sick, and I don’t think he should stay with the partisans anymore.” I stopped talking, and my lips began to tremble.
“Can you take him to the clinic?”
“I could. Maybe I…Well, the truth is, the marchesa would rather that I not do that.” There was a long moment of silence.
“What is it, dear? You’re shaking.” Sister Graziella put her arm around me and pulled me to her. “What is it, Giovanna? You can tell me.”
I bent over my lap, facing away from her. “Until almost a week ago, I didn’t even know about all of this, but now…” I put my fingers over my eyes, my head still in my lap. “Now it’s the only thing that matters.”
“What is, dear? What is the only thing?” Her hand was heavy on my back.
“Mario and his brother are Jewish.” I stayed there, bent over my knees, holding my breath.
The hand slid slowly down from my shoulder blade along my spine. Then it lifted. She got up, walked a few feet away. I let out my breath slowly, inaudibly, and waited.
“What do you want from me?” Her voice had found a new low register, and it was guarded, dark. I thought I heard anger threaded through it. Was the anger at me?
“The marchesa told me that there are people in the Church…some priests and nuns. She did say nuns; I know she did. People who might help. I just thought maybe, Sister Graziella…I had no idea, but I have nowhere else to turn. I need someplace by tomorrow, and I thought…” I sat up and looked her straight in the eye. “I thought maybe Mario and Cecilio could come here.”
She pulled herself up to her full height and looked at me. In a loud, sure voice, her jaw tight, she said, “I’m sorry, Giovanna. This is a cloistered convent. You are gravely mistaken. That is not even within the realm of possibility.”
I stared at her face, a looming carved marble sphinx. “It’s not?”
“No, it’s not.”
“But what am I to do?”
Just then, another nun strode rapidly through the galleria. Sister Graziella glanced at her, then back at me. “That, my dear, is something you will have to pray about. I cannot help you. I’m sorry.”
She reached out her arm in a gesture that said we were finished with our tête-à-tête. We left the courtyard together and entered the convent, heading down the hall toward the front door. “We’ll see you tomorrow, I presume? You will have to do your sweeping later on Sundays in order to have time to go to mass.”
We reached the door to the parlor halfway down the hall. “Wait just a minute, Giovanna. I want to send a note to your parents—to let them know how pleased I am with your progress here.”
She stepped into the room, leaving me in the hall to wait. After a couple of minutes, she returned, pressing a sealed envelope into my hand. “Now. You’ve made a good beginning. We’ll see you tomorrow.” And she led me the rest of the way down the hall.
I swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to cry. “Yes, I guess you will. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The huge wooden door creaked on its hinges and closed behind me. The latch dropped into its slot with a loud clank that echoed in my head as I coasted on my bicycle down the long drive.
As I rode along the lane, back toward home, the stiff envelope poked into my leg with each turn of the pedals. What could she have told my parents? Was it really a progress report, or had she said more? She had voiced doubts that my father would make Giorgio turn himself in to the Fascist police—was it possible she was alerting my parents to his activities with the partisans? It would be wrong to open it, but I couldn’t be too careful. I stopped my bike, straddling it there on the road, and pulled the envelope out of my pocket. To my surp
rise, it was addressed to me—Giovanna—not to my parents. I slid my finger under the seal and pulled out the now familiar card etched with a drawing of the convent of Saint Agnes. It read: Bring the young men with you tomorrow afternoon. Come the back way and meet me in the entrance to the wine caves at exactly two p.m. There was no signature. A hundred roses bloomed in my heart.
When I reached home, Violetta’s bicycle was leaning on the wall next to the entrance to our quarters. I found her in the parlor, talking excitedly with Mother.
“They each had a small suitcase in one hand and a satchel in the other, and they just took off—to go the whole way on foot.”
“What about the train the Germans promised?”
“No one wanted to take that. They were afraid it would go too far away, and—with all the rumors about the J— Well, let’s just say no one wanted to do that.”
“So where are they headed?”
“People are streaming into the forest, into the hills. Germans are now crawling all over town.”
Mother knitted her brows together. “And your family?” She knew Violetta’s parents well.
“We have some relatives in Piegaio. They couldn’t get in touch with them ahead of time, but we’re assuming they’ll take them in. I hope we’re right.”
“Your parents and…”
“…my aunt and uncle and Flavio. I’m counting on Flavio to help my parents.”
“So you decided to stay?” I broke in.
She turned to look at me, and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Giovanna. I’m still not sure I did the right thing, but—yes, I decided to move in with the marchesa. I took a small suitcase over there before I came here. I just had to talk with you.” She suddenly lifted her head, as if remembering something important. “How’s your friend’s arm? Did you ever give him the injection?”
“What friend?” said Mother. “What injection?”
“Oh, just a man at the clinic. No one you know.” I shot Violetta a warning look. “Let’s go take a walk, okay? I want to hear more about the village.
The Golden Hour - Margaret Wurtele Page 14
