The Golden Hour - Margaret Wurtele

by The Golden Hour (epub)

  We watched her go without speaking. The men continued on, carrying the stretcher and laying it down gently under a spreading linden tree. Then they sat down next to the body to rest.

  I approached Violetta. “And my brother’s friend?”

  “The redhead? Oh, he died that same night.” She looked at me straight on, defiantly, speaking under her breath. “How could you, Giovanna? How could you do that, just take it like that? I can’t believe it.”

  “What does the marchesa think?”

  “Oh, I just told her it was missing. I never told her that you were there that day. In fact, I told her the redhead said he was a friend of your brother—so she would think you’d want him to get the shot, at least. But why? Why would you do that? You knew how much we needed it.”

  I looked around. The marchesa was out of sight; the men were talking quietly under the tree. “Walk with me,” I said. “We need to talk.” I took Violetta’s arm in mine and led her off toward the other side of the tower.

  “It’s that same man, isn’t it?” she asked. “The one I gave you the other penicillin for.”

  I nodded.

  “Who is he?”

  “Can I trust you to keep a secret?”

  “I haven’t said a word about Giorgio to anyone.”

  I took her hand. “He’s Jewish.”

  She looked at me soberly, then nodded. “And?”

  “And I can’t explain it, but I’m so drawn to him. I don’t know why, even though I hardly know him, this really matters to me.”

  “He must be very sick.”

  “He would have died without that penicillin. I’m sure of that. I feel so terrible about the marchesa’s friend, but I…” Hot tears blurred my vision, and I started to sob. “I should never have taken it, but there was no question. I had to do it. I just lost all sense of right and wrong. What should I do?”

  Violetta straightened, and her face hardened. “I know you. I know how much you want to confess, but take my advice: Don’t do it.”

  I gave her a questioning look.

  “Those two men—your brother’s friend and the parachutist—are already dead. Nothing’s going to bring them back now. This is war, and I’ve seen a lot of death in this clinic. That’s just the way it is.”

  “But I owe her an apology. I feel so terrible.”

  “I know, but just give her time. You also need her as an ally and friend. We both do, and I…I’ve been covering for you. If she finds out, it will implicate me as well. Let’s just wait. You never know how it’s going to go.” She looked away, then back at me. “Where is he—your friend?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But, Violetta…” I giggled in spite of myself. “You’ll never guess who’s really saved the day.”

  She shrugged.

  “Who’s the last person you would ever turn to if you were in trouble?”

  A little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “A nun?” I nodded. Violetta’s eyes popped wide. She shook her head in disbelief. “No. But how…”

  The sound of an approaching jeep sobered us both. We linked arms and headed back to pay our respects to the marchesa’s family friend.

  “Do you ever hear from your friend Signora Lazzato?” I came upon Mother later that afternoon, bent over a potted cone-shaped topiary, her most delicate pruning shears snip-snipping microscopic portions of leaf away as if she were painting a tiny landscape on a piece of porcelain. Her hand paused in its work. She lifted the tool slightly and murmured, without looking at me, “Why ever do you ask that, dear?”

  “I remember you used to play the piano with her. Then she left for New York, and I just wondered. They’re Jewish, right?”

  She straightened and assumed her usual posture, holding herself as elegantly as a dancer on point. She removed her gardening gloves slowly; then with one finger she smoothed off the sheen of perspiration that had formed along each side of her nose. “They left for New York because Signor Lazzato felt the business opportunities were greater there.” It had a rote feel, like a line of poetry that had been committed to memory but never fully absorbed.

  “But wasn’t he one of the best silk salesmen? I even remember Papa saying once that Signor Lazzato was his chief rival for vice president of the company.”

  “Mmm. He was very talented in that way, very good with people.” She squinted at the topiary, studying it closely for flaws.

  “So why would they leave for New York? If he was so successful here, why wouldn’t he want to stay on and move up, take on more responsibility in a company he knew so well?”

  She snipped an errant twig, gloves still off, then straightened again, sighing. “It was more complicated than that, Giovanna. Your father…” She looked up at the sky and fanned herself lightly with the loose gloves. “There was a lot of talk in the party then about changing the rules for people of Jewish background.”

  “And Papa went along with that?”

  “Well, dear, as I remember it, he wasn’t sure, but there were pressures on Mussolini in those days. Our allies had certain expectations.”

  “I know, Mama, but it wasn’t right. Those rules were absurd. You said so yourself. Look now what Hitler’s done. Father must have known they were bad.”

  “Your father wasn’t for it, you understand, but he had his own reputation to think about, his own standing in the company.”

  “But if Signor Lazzato left, it would clear a path for him, right? No more competition. He’d be the obvious heir apparent. How convenient.” When I pushed Mother like this, I always became acutely aware of the physical differences between us: her height, her elegance, my own sloppy dress and lumpy lines. It made me doubt my own feelings. “Wasn’t he ashamed of the party? The Lazzatos were good friends of yours, right?”

  “Olivia was a dear, dear friend of mine. We had the music, and…” She smiled at the memory, a wave of animation sweeping her face. “She had such a great sense of humor; we used to—” She broke off suddenly, sobering. “But your father didn’t feel the same way about them, so even though we were neighbors, we rarely got together as a—”

  She pushed that away and added quickly, “Enrico used his own contacts to get them safe passage. They were so grateful, but—as you say—maybe he had some of his own self-interest at heart.”

  “He wanted to take over the company.”

  “Yes, but now, in retrospect, Giovanna, he may have saved their lives by helping them leave.” Mother picked up her gardening basket and handed it to me to carry. She put an arm around my shoulder and gently led me across the gravel terrace toward the villa. “As you know, your father’s family background just isn’t the same as mine. I think he’s tried to learn to be more tolerant, especially now, with all that’s been happening, but he doesn’t…he’s never—”

  “He just thinks they’re different, right?” My voice was tight in my throat, and tears sprang to my eyes. “I see where you are going, Mother. And I don’t like it at all.” I broke away from her and ran toward the house, letting the basket slip from my hand. I heard a loud clatter as the tools, one by one, hit the gravel behind me.

  Saturday morning, after my time at the convent, I was surprised, as I approached the cottage, to hear a male voice. I knew Guido would be at the winery at that hour, so it could only be Mario’s. Every cell in my body quickened as a wave of anxiety swept over me and settled in my gut. The door was unlocked, so I tapped lightly and entered. I could hear Serena back in the storeroom. “No. I’m sorry. He’s not here. I’m sure of it.”

  “He must be nearby.” That was Mario. “My brother would never leave me. We had a pact to stay together no matter what happened.”

  I opened the storeroom door slowly. Mario was trying to sit up on one elbow, and Serena was pushing him back down. “No, no. You just rest. There’s nothing to be done.”

  “I hear him! He’s back! I just heard the door,” said Mario. Then he saw me. He looked confused—as if he were searching his memory, trying to connect my face with somethi
ng.

  “You remember Giovanna,” said Serena. “She’s the one who brought you and your brother here.”

  His face was gaunt, shadowed by a week’s growth of beard, but for all that his hazel eyes burned more intensely. “Giovanna…Giorgio’s sister.”

  “That’s right.” I smiled. “It’s good to hear your voice again.” I wanted to reach out my hand to him, but I kept my arms folded instead.

  “Where’s my brother? Where’s Cecilio?”

  I glanced at Serena. “We don’t know. He said he was going to find Giorgio again…but it’s been five days since he left. We haven’t heard a word, I’m afraid.”

  He rose again with great effort, trying to sit up. “I need to go after him. He’s my big brother, and we promised to stay together.”

  “You can’t, Mario,” Serena said. “You’re not strong enough, and it’s much too dangerous. Just rest now. We promise we’ll ask about him and let you know if we hear any news at all.” She put her hand on the small of my back, gently pressing me into her place. “I’ll get some soup. I’ve just got it warming on the stove.”

  Mario lay back, exhausted. He was quiet for a few long minutes, his eyes closed. Then he looked up at me. “How could he do that? Leave me here? We promised.” He looked away, toward the wall, and a tear eased out of the corner of his eye and slid slowly down his cheek. I watched it meet the roots of his sprouting beard and dissipate.

  “He was angry,” I said, “and probably scared.”

  Mario remained quiet.

  “I guess he just ran out of patience,” I added.

  “He’s like that.”

  “He’ll be fine, I’m sure,” I said quickly. Then, because I was afraid I had not been convincing enough: “He’ll find someone to help him. Don’t worry.”

  “Cecilio doesn’t like to be helped. He doesn’t want to need it. Never has.” He closed his eyes again, and another tear came. By the time it caught up with the first, he was asleep.

  I tiptoed out of the room and into the kitchen. Serena, a blue apron tied over her sleeveless cotton housedress, was ladling steaming soup into a large earthenware bowl. “He’s asleep,” I said. “Don’t bother.”

  “He’s a nice young man,” she said, tipping the bowl back into the pot. I stared absently at the cascade of dark red beans, cubes of carrot, onion, squash, and a web of greens sliding back into the thick bubbling minestrone. It smelled delicious. I must have inhaled a little too greedily, because she set Mario’s down and pulled another bowl from the pile. “Won’t you have some? Here, cara. Somebody might as well enjoy this.”

  We took our places at the small table, setting our bowls on its cloth, once the color of sunflower petals, now bleached and mottled with years of laundering and use. Serena’s nails were chipped and rough. Her knuckles were swollen, and the ends of her fingers seemed to grow sideways out of them. I winced inwardly as she wielded her spoon, imagining how painful that must be.

  “You and Guido are so generous to do this. I can’t tell you how much I admire you.”

  “We all have to do our part,” she said. “It just isn’t right the way these Germans search them out.” She scraped at the side of her bowl. “And just because of their religion. Why?”

  “It must be hard for you. I’m so sorry to have put you in this position.”

  “Every day, all the time, I’m listening for a knock at the door. Can’t sleep a lot of nights. Now, yes, with Mario staying here, it’s worse again.” She put down her spoon and leaned back in her chair. “You know, Guido and I, we’ve been working for the sisters for many years now. I guess a bit of them’s rubbed off on us. Jesus was pretty radical, pretty clear about how to be.” She winked at me. “He was a Jew himself, you know.” She sobered. “But we did tell you it’s not for long, right? Now that he’s on the mend, you’ll need to be thinking ahead, figure out where you can take him, a more permanent hiding place.”

  A hollow pocket under my ribs began to burn. My face must have shown it, for she added, “But he’s in no condition to move now, little lady. That’s for sure.”

  “That reminds me,” I said, standing and carrying my bowl to the sink. “Where did you hide that other vial? It’s time for me to give him the second shot of penicillin.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The end of July settled into a kind of routine that I found immensely comforting in the midst of all the chaos of that summer and its war. Beginning each day at the convent, I was usually alone except for the occasional passing figure of a novitiate or older nun who might nod politely but rarely, if ever, spoke to me.

  Once, only once, I encountered Sister Graziella. It was odd, because I had not set eyes on her since her nonappearance in the wine caves the day of our arrival. I had missed her. I must have been deeply absorbed in my work that morning, because when I felt a tap on my shoulder, I cried out as if a mouse had just run under my feet.

  “Graziella!” I clutched the broom to my chest to stop the pounding of my heart. “You scared me to death!”

  “I’m sorry, dear. I wanted to apologize for failing to meet you and the young men,” she said. “I hope you will forgive me.” A warm smile dimpled her round cheeks and lit up her merry eyes. “You know now that Elena was really the one to deal with the situation. I was afraid if I told you she was the one you were to meet”—she grimaced—“you might not have come.”

  “And I owe you an apology for misjudging her,” I said. “She just always seemed so angry and impatient, as if she didn’t like me. Now I feel nothing but gratitude.”

  Graziella hesitated, as if she were reluctant to go on. “You haven’t entirely misjudged her, my dear. She is angry—very, very angry—and with good reason. You see, Elena’s grandparents on one side were Jewish. Her father converted to Catholicism when he married her mother. Elena was raised Catholic—she is a devout, committed believer—but her roots are important to her. This war has, from the beginning, been so very difficult. Her activism is a way of channeling her anger to good purposes.”

  “When you see her, will you let her know how grateful I am? I haven’t had a chance to tell her myself. And, Sister Graziella, this is going to sound odd, but—”

  “Yes?” She smiled. “What is it?”

  “I just want to thank you for giving me this sweeping penance. It’s—I don’t know how to express this—it’s been a refuge for me, a gift really.”

  She nodded slowly, a look of satisfaction spreading over her face. “I know. Prayer can take many forms. Remember that.” She reached for me and enfolded me to her soft bosom. “Bless you, Giovanna. You’re a courageous young woman. May God keep you safe in your work.”

  Calmed by my morning hours at the convent, I would head for Serena’s nearby cottage. It drew me like a magnet. I was embarrassed at first to show up every day like that, worrying about what Serena would think. She didn’t need me to look after Mario, after all, so I would leave something behind—a sweater, a shawl, an excuse to stop by the next day to pick it up. I would bring her the occasional squash or peach that I knew she didn’t have in her own garden. She got used to me, and I think she welcomed the company.

  The second penicillin shot had put Mario on a slow, steady path back to health. His eyes gradually began to focus on his surroundings; his color improved. He started to drink water, to eat soup, then solid food, and his face filled out again.

  One day I noticed his soiled shirt had been replaced by one of Guido’s—it fit him more like a dress than a shirt, but at least it was clean and neat—and Serena was in the midst of giving him a shave and trimming his hair. “I’m tired of him looking like a bum,” she said. “I thought there might be a handsome man underneath all those weeds.” She winked at me between snips.

  Indeed, there was. I made an effort to remain impassive, but I watched out of the corner of my eye with great interest. Clean shaven, I could see Mario’s face: his olive skin, his high forehead that slanted down toward full, prominent brows. His dark hair was shorter
now, shaped overall, but it curled in every direction with a life of its own. He was handsome, but his looks were not intimidating. They gave him a friendly, self-deprecating air that softened every passing expression with a hint of humor.

  He rolled his eyes. “She won’t give me a mirror, so I can’t manage what’s happening to me.” He shook his head slightly and looked up at me, as if he were asking for an assessment.

  “Hmmm,” I said, holding up my hand with the thumb and fingers spread as an artist might size up his subject. “I’d say things are shaping up nicely. Wouldn’t you, Serena?”

  “Yes, they are, cara mia.” She took a couple of final snips at the back of his neck, brushed off his shoulders, and stuck the scissors in her apron pocket. “There. That should do it—a new man.” She stepped back, looked appraisingly at Mario, then turned her back to him. She raised her eyebrows at me, opening her eyes wide. “Not bad at all.” She grinned. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back to my pasta sauce.”

  She left the room and closed the door behind her. I was suddenly shy, as if confronted by a stranger. Without the beard, Mario was unmasked. No longer the scruffy partisan fighter or the hunted refugee, he looked like one of the boys from school or the town. I was thrown into the self-consciousness I usually felt around boys, especially good-looking ones like him. I started to turn away, to give him his privacy and opt for the comfort of Serena’s kitchen, but he reached out to me. “Sit down,” he said. “Talk with me awhile. You’re always leaving to help her.”

  I didn’t realize he had noticed. I stood stiffly next to the cot. “What do you want to talk about?” It was awkward, but I was not feeling confident or easy.

  “Won’t you please sit down?” he asked again.

  There was a small stool that Serena had been using, so I perched tentatively on its edge, my hands between my knees.

  “Have you been in a lot of pain?” I asked.