“The SS—four of them—and a couple of Italian militiamen. They’re headed to the basement down the front stairs. Someone, one of the nuns, must have tipped them off. They know just where to go.” She ran ahead, and I followed her down.
We reached the bottom of the stairs and quietly opened the door from the stairwell into the long corridor lined with wooden doors. To our right, six men in uniform were knotted together, pounding on the locked door, shouting, “Open up or we will shoot our way in.”
To our left, we saw that a small group of nuns had followed the soldiers down the main staircase and were gathered in the corridor, watching. We came out and stood among them. I felt conspicuous, the only one of the group not wearing a habit.
The blows continued until at last the latch was lifted from the inside. A soldier slammed the door wide-open, burst in, and pushed two women and two small girls, maybe six and seven, out into the corridor in front of us. One of the women had gray hair; perhaps she was their grandmother. The two girls gripped their mother’s skirt in their fists, tears running down their cheeks.
The nuns around me were crossing themselves and praying audibly. Sister Elena, fronting our group, stood tall, and in that gravelly voice I knew so well, protested: “This is private, sanctified space. You have no right to be here. These are our guests.”
The soldiers ignored her, but the two Italian militiamen moved toward us at a signal. As they did so, I recognized one of them—Rodolfo Giordano, the son of one of my father’s Fascist party compatriots. That could have been Giorgio, I thought, having to carry out this evil work. The two Italians herded us back against the wall and stood guard while the SS men continued their confrontation.
“Please,” said the older woman, her deeply creased face wet with tears, “per favore, signori. I have something for you if you will just leave us in peace.” She reached inside the bodice of her dress and unpinned a small maroon velvet drawstring bag. “These are family heirlooms, worth a lot.”
She handed the bag to the tallest of the SS soldiers. He opened it, shook its contents into his hand, and showed it to his three companions. “Ja, ja—we take those”—he laughed, pocketing the jewelry—“but you will come with us—all of you.”
One of the SS men held those four against the wall, while the other three moved on to the next closed door. “You now. Open up!” they shouted, pounding hard.
Again the latch lifted, and the tall soldier shoved it open. A young woman, hollow eyed, terrified, holding a baby of no more than three months to her breast, stood staring at them. He yanked her out into the corridor. “Over there,” he ordered. “Stand with the others.”
“Please, no. Not my baby.” She fell to her knees, sobbing in the midst of them. “Please.” She grabbed the tall soldier’s legs, hanging on with her fists to his trousers. “I will do anything you ask, give you my body for pleasure. Please—not my baby, not my son.”
Another of the SS, burly and red-faced, tore her away, hauling her to her feet by the back of her dress. “Pleasure—ha!” He pushed her and the baby toward the others, muttering under his breath, “Swine…”
The nuns around me, all of us, were mostly crying now, continuing to pray and to clutch one another’s hands.
The soldiers moved on, trying each of the doors in the corridor in turn. There were three more women in the next room, meek, submissive young women who joined the others, shaking and crying without protest, but they found all the other doors unlocked, the rooms empty. After they had checked them all, they came back in our direction. The tall one spotted me in my cotton clothes, surrounded by the nuns. I was arm in arm with Sister Graziella.
“Kommen Sie her—you in the dress,” he demanded.
I gripped her arm tightly and stood tall, unmoving, defying him with my stare.
He moved toward me, shoving the nuns away on either side, and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me off Graziella and out of the shelter of the group. “You…you are no sister. Go with them.”
“No, Heinrich,” the militiaman Rodolfo broke in. “Nein. I know her and her family. She is not Jewish.”
The officer shrugged. He leaned down and peered into my face, squinting, a hint of mockery about his mouth. “Dark hair, brown eyes. How do I know?” He looked around at the others, shrugged again, then pushed me roughly back toward the nuns.
They turned and moved toward the stairs, herding the women and children in front of them. I was flooded with relief and, under that, a burning kind of shame.
We waited upstairs in the front hall under the watchful guard of the two militiamen while the SS searched the convent from top to bottom. We prayed together, Sister Elena assuring us there were no others. They would find nothing. After an hour or so, Rodolfo Giordano pulled me aside, away from the nuns. “Take my advice, Giovanna, and leave, right now. You are not to blame for this, and you don’t have to stay here. Just trust me, and run before the soldiers get back.”
I hated to leave the sisters at such a crucial moment, but all I could think of was Mario, nearby in the winemaker’s cottage. He needed me, and I couldn’t afford to risk leaving him stranded. I hugged both Graziella and Elena tightly, and—while Rodolfo pacified the other militiaman—I made my escape.
The women and children were never seen again, presumably shipped off on the train to one of the waiting camps. We later learned that Graziella and Elena, along with the other nuns who gathered to watch that day, were thrown into prison for the duration of the war.
Chapter Twenty-one
I knew one thing: I needed to relieve Guido and Serena of their burden, the sooner the better. I had to find a permanent place for Mario. I couldn’t imagine trying to hide him at home. Perhaps Catarina could be brought into my confidence; perhaps there was a remote building on the property we could use, but with the Germans so close, actually living there day after day, it was clear to me that that would be folly. There was no alternative I could see but to ask the marchesa to help me shelter him on her estate.
No one in our immediate area had heard about the raid on the convent; however, the same day, the Germans had arrived in Pietra Santra, a town on the coast near Carrara. A ruthless young Austrian named Major Walter Reder commanded the unit. Because part of his left arm had been amputated, he was known as il Monco—“the Stump.” Since there were no official newspapers, news of Reder’s presence traveled about the area by word of mouth and on paper handbills. People were terrified, because he was rumored to be very dangerous.
What happened then is seared into all of our memories. The Germans, under Reder’s command, had received word that the residents of Sant’Anna, just outside the fortification walls of Lucca, had been feeding and sheltering partisans as well as sending secret messages to the Allies informing them of the German troop movement. On Saturday, the twelfth of August, SS troops herded residents of Sant’Anna into the village square and began to mow them down with machine guns, killing not only men, young and old, but women and children as well.
We were told the story over and over about a local priest who darted into the crowd after the firing began, trying to help an injured child. The poor child was already dead, so the priest lifted him high above his head and pleaded with the Germans to have mercy and stop the massacre. Instead, they turned the machine guns on him, killing the priest instantly, and then turned back to the people nearby. In all, they slaughtered 570 civilians, whose names are engraved on a monument erected in their memory.
The horror of it was devastating. People talked about nothing but the massacre; yet they continued to remain unsure of their feelings toward the partisans. On the one hand, those ragtag insurgents were clearly helping the Allies and making it difficult for the Germans. But also, it seemed, they were the ones responsible for the Germans’ retaliation on innocent villagers. About ten days before the Sant’Anna massacre, handbills had been posted all over town, signed by the commander of the Garibaldi partisan brigade, urging the townspeople to arm themselves and offer passive resistanc
e to the Germans. People of Versilia, it read in part, do not obey the Germans! Death to the German oppressor!
News of this debacle was buzzing about the clinic when I arrived early the next day. I busied myself in the supply room for a bit, trying to get my bearings, until I heard the marchesa’s voice coming from just outside the door. She sounded like an island of calm and resolve. “Of course they are endangering civilians,” she was saying, “but, my God, the partisans are the only hope we have of slowing these beasts and helping the Allies. We owe them all the support we can muster, in spite of the risks.” I rustled about, setting some new boxes of cotton batting on the shelf. Then I tentatively pushed open the door to the outside.
“Oh, Giovanna! How are you, dear? I spoke with your mother the other day, and she told me you had a birthday a week or so ago. I’m sorry I missed a chance to congratulate you. How was your celebration?”
I offered her a weak smile. “It was fine, thank you. I…” I glanced at the nurse she was talking to. “May I…Might I have a word with you privately sometime this morning?” My face must have spoken volumes, for she sobered instantly.
“Why don’t we take a walk toward my house? I promised Leonardo I would be back in an hour, and I’m afraid I’ve stayed here too long.” She put an arm around my waist, turning to the nurse. “I’m sorry, Clarice. We’ll continue this conversation later. In the meantime, please trust me. Believe in the support we are giving here. It’s the right thing to do.”
We began strolling together along the wide dirt road in the direction of her villa. The sun was directly overhead, and the heat bounced off the bare clay in relentless waves. “Now, Giovanna, tell me honestly. What’s troubling you? I can see anxiety written all over your face.”
The question was so earnest, so direct that it caught me by surprise. I took a deep breath. “First,” I said, “let me ask you something. Have you heard anything about the SS raid on the convent of Saint Agnes yesterday?”
She stopped walking and turned to look at me. “No, I certainly haven’t. My impression has been that up to now the Germans have been respectful of Vatican property. What happened? You were there?”
I told her what I had been through, sparing no detail. As I spoke, I could feel my voice pinch at the edges. “I…I’m so afraid, and I really need help.”
The marchesa took my hand in hers. “Tell me more, Giovanna. This is obviously troubling you very personally.”
She was so warm, her voice full of solicitude. I trusted her implicitly, and besides, what choice did I have but to plunge in? I began with our last conversation, when I had asked her if she had ever hidden any Jews. When I got to the memory of my own treachery with the penicillin, I broke down utterly. We had reached the edge of an olive grove, and I broke away from her and ran across the roadside ditch and leaned against a tree.
She followed me and stood nearby. “What’s upsetting you so much? It sounds like you’ve been doing just fine.”
“No, I just can’t do this. I’m a terrible person. You’ll never forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what?”
“For what I did to you. It was I who took the last two vials of penicillin from the supply closet. That’s the reason Mario survived.” I shuddered, sobbing some more. “And that’s the reason your English friend died. It’s all my fault.”
She stared at me, her eyes darkening to a deep violet. Her expression didn’t change, but tears collected at the inside corners of her eyes. She did not reach up to brush them away. I hung my head and did not dare look at her for what seemed like an endless minute. At last she breathed deeply and sighed. “Well, then, we mustn’t let this one die too, must we?”
A wave of relief and hope flooded over me. I stared at this pale, petite woman at once so diminutive and yet so full of energy and courage, and I thought I had never admired anyone so much. “You’ll help me?”
“I don’t even know what you need yet, Giovanna, do I?”
That afternoon, the marchesa walked me to an old mill on the property, far from both the clinic and the villa. She pulled out a stone from the crumbling wall and showed me the rusted key hidden in the cavity behind it. Once inside, we climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor, then a second flight in the rear, up into a bare attic space under the red tile roof. “I can help now and then, but basically you will have to be responsible for feeding him,” she said. “If the Germans come, I will do my best to keep them away, but I will have to deny any knowledge of his being here. In the next day or so, I will bring over some blankets, a washbowl and towel. I don’t have to tell you not to provide him with any flashlights or even candles that would be visible at night.
“You’re a brave girl,” she said. “I’m proud of you. But make no mistake: You will face grave danger in getting him here at all. This war will not end tomorrow, and it’s going to be a long, cold winter. There’s no heat in this building, Giovanna. Are you sure you’ve thought all this through? You could just continue to work at the clinic, and you would still be doing a lot for the cause. You don’t have to put yourself in such a precarious position.”
“I can’t think about all of that right now. But please believe me: I’ve just never been surer of anything.”
The marchesa nodded slowly. “Bless you then. God bless you.”
“You are the most wonderful woman in the world. I will never forget this.” I flung myself into her arms. “When should I bring him here?”
“I see no reason to wait. From what I hear, the Germans are increasingly anxious. The Allies are working their way up the coast. They’re likely to be more vigilant and intolerant than usual.” She locked the door and placed the key back in its hiding place. “You will probably need at least twenty-four hours to make the journey from the convent. Why don’t you tell your parents that you are needed here overnight tomorrow? I will telephone your mother and tell her personally, if that would help.”
I nodded solemnly, my head swimming with all I would have to plan and accomplish in the next day.
Chapter Twenty-two
I needn’t have worried that my parents would interfere. Since my birthday dinner, I had been deliberately remote. They, in turn, had backed off a bit and begun to give me more emotional space. Mother was completely obsessed with the news from Lucca and reports of all the partisan attacks and reprisals—worrying about Giorgio, desperate to know where and how he was, thinking little, if at all, about me or what they assumed was my work at the clinic. Father was busy trying to reassure her and monitoring the news of troop movement on both sides.
The atmosphere was chilly at dinner the night after my meeting with the marchesa. The food itself was bare-bones: a pasta alla carbonara made only with eggs, cheese, and a little bacon, some bread, a glass of table wine. I came in a bit late and took my seat in silence as Father lectured Mother: “You must remember, Natala. It wasn’t the partisans who were shot in Sant’Anna. It was the civilians, people of the village who were aiding the partisans. They were punished for feeding them and giving them shelter.”
“But what about all the partisan skirmishes with the Germans? Why hasn’t he contacted us? He must know we are worried.” Mother was picking at her food, moving it around on the plate.
Father shook his head without looking up at her. He shoveled in the pasta, talking with his mouth full. “If something had happened to Giorgio, you know we would have heard about it. No news is good news, in my book.”
“The marchesa says…” I broke in, and Mother looked at me in surprise, as if she had just noticed I was sitting there.
“Oh—Giovanna—speaking of the marchesa, she called this afternoon. She says she wants to keep you overnight at the clinic tomorrow. Is there a problem?”
I looked down at my plate. “Oh, there are just so many seriously injured men that I guess they need more people on overnight shifts. She needed extra help, so I volunteered.”
“I told her it was fine. You do question all of these men about Giorgio, don’t you,
dear? One of them might know him or have seen him or something.”
That was all there was. They asked me no more about it, just continued talking with each other, speculating about the progress of the war and imagining Giorgio’s whereabouts.
At one point, as I was absently pulling off a crust of bread, I asked, “Mother, were the boxes of Giorgio’s clothes walled off in the attic or are any of them still accessible?”
She stared. “Why? Why would you want those?”
“So many of the men at the clinic are dressed in rags. I just thought we could share some of Giorgio’s things and then get him some new ones when he returns.”
She ate a few bites and chewed her food slowly without saying anything.
“I’m not in any way implying he won’t still need them, but it just seems a waste to me not to share the clothes with people who need them right now.”
She looked at Papa, who nodded. “It makes sense to me. They’re just sitting there, wrinkled and crushed. I know where they are—we’ll go through them together after dinner. I’m sure Giorgio wouldn’t mind.”
That is how I was able to set off the next morning with a bag bulging with shirts, pants, socks, shoes, and a decent leather belt. In case, God forbid, we were seen as we made our journey, I wanted Mario to look like someone I might naturally be with, rather than someone who had been living as a fugitive for months.
I made my way slowly on foot toward the convent, devising a new sequence of strange fields and unknown paths, looking for buildings that could briefly offer shelter, for the cover of densely wooded groves, the occasional water pump. I was planning our route with care, my heart beating a steady note of encouragement, urging me on toward this impossible thing I was about to do. I headed for the winemaker’s cottage.
All was quiet. I knocked timidly, absentmindedly watching two hens pecking about on the ground. At last, the door opened a crack. Guido peered out, took one look at me, and opened the door wide, drawing me into his warm embrace. “Giovanna, my sweet girl. Come in, come in. Here, let me take that bag. It looks heavy.” He quickly closed the door behind me and locked it. “Serena, look who’s here!”
The Golden Hour - Margaret Wurtele Page 20
