The Golden Hour - Margaret Wurtele

by The Golden Hour (epub)

  “I was just putting some soup on the table,” she said. “Won’t you join us?”

  She ladled minestrone into a bowl and handed it to me. “Take this into the back for Mario, won’t you? We just can’t let him sit out here with us in case someone passes by the window.”

  So they were all still here, still safe.

  I opened the door slowly. Mario was waiting for me. We both smiled. He reached for the bowl, and we held it together for a few seconds. “I wasn’t sure I would see you again after yesterday’s raid,” he said.

  I nodded. “I was afraid of that myself. Hold on. I’ll be right back.” I ran to fetch the bag full of clothes. “I think these clothes will fit you. We don’t have any time to waste. And eat up. We might not get another meal for a while.”

  Mario stared at me, openmouthed, but before he could respond, I closed the storeroom door and joined Guido and Serena at the kitchen table. The soup was thick and hot and tasted of fresh tomatoes and pungent oregano. At first, we simply ate quietly, savoring the end of summer on our tongues. I broke the silence, putting my spoon down briefly. The three of us sat in silence, just staring at our bowls. Finally I spoke. “I have come to take Mario away.”

  Serena let out a gasp of relief. “Oh, God bless you, Giovanna.”

  But Guido’s round, soft face was full of concern. “But where will you go? It’s so dangerous to travel. You know that.”

  “I have a refuge for him, but I have to keep it a secret. I just can’t take any chances.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Of course, it depends on a lot of things, but I think we should be there by tomorrow if all goes well.”

  Serena busied herself with packing up a little food for us while Guido went to look after Mario. Giorgio’s clothes fit him well, so they decided to burn the things he had been wearing. Within an hour of our departure, there would be not a single trace of the weeks he had spent in the storeroom.

  “Will you keep us informed somehow, dear?” Serena handed me a packet of food tied in a cotton cloth. “We have grown to love this young man like a son.”

  “I know. I’ll try to let you know what happens.”

  “Don’t you want to wait until dark?” Guido asked anxiously. I looked at Mario, who looked normal and presentable in his new suit of clothes.

  “We’ll have to travel some in the light or we’ll never get there. I have a route through the woods all planned. Then, tonight, we can cross the open fields in the dark.”

  There were hugs all around. Mario was overwhelmed with gratitude and pledged that someday, when the war was over, he would reward them for their kindness and generosity. “I have nothing to give you now,” he said, kissing Serena on the cheek. “Nothing but my love and appreciation—but you know I will never forget you.”

  It was midafternoon when we crept around the back of the cottage and headed into the deep woods. I knew, by going out of our way, we could cover a good bit of ground toward the south and east before we would have to cross any open territory.

  We walked in silence, both of us afraid that any voices at all might alert some unknown person to our presence. It was cool in the shade of the forest. I knew the way, and Mario followed me, making very little noise with his feet. The occasional snap of a twig would start my heart beating in my throat. Squirrels chased one another overhead, and now and then their scurrying path through the leaves nearby would sound like footsteps. After an hour or so, we began to relax, and, though we still didn’t talk at all, we hiked with more confidence and made better time.

  Around seven, after we had been walking for three or four hours, we stopped and shared some of the bread and cheese Serena had packed for us. We whispered a few words of encouragement as the day began to fade and dusk settled over us like a gentle cloak.

  After half an hour of rest, we gathered our things. The light was low enough that I figured we could now head for the main road. We had to cross that principal thoroughfare, then another short span of woods before we could enter the wide fields we needed to pass over in the dark. We began the descent into the steep ravine that led to the road. We were quiet, watching our steps carefully as we planted our feet sideways, holding on to hanging vines and thin tree trunks to keep our balance. Now and then one of us would slip on the thick blanket of leaves that covered the hillside. Off to our left I noticed a dark hole framed by mossy growth that must have been the entrance to a cave. It occurred to me that animals must use it for shelter in the rain.

  When we reached the bottom, it was almost dark. I signaled to Mario to follow me over the rocky creek that was nearly dry. We scuttled quickly up the bank to the road, popped out of the underbrush, and began walking in silence along the shoulder. I glanced behind me to make sure Mario was following close behind, when I noticed a military vehicle. It was pulled over, just behind us, its lights off. Two figures were crouched together over the front right wheel, as if they were changing a tire. I stopped, not daring to breathe, and pointed them out to Mario. Just then the strong beam of their flashlight moved from the work they were doing right onto us.

  I know we should have just continued on our way as if nothing were wrong. But we were so on edge, so ready for trouble, that instead we grabbed each other and ducked back into the underbrush.

  “They’re German officers,” Mario said. “I’d know that car anywhere. Let’s get out of here.”

  “I saw a cave not far back, partway up the bank of the ravine,” I whispered. “Follow me.”

  There must have been a couple of other men sitting in the vehicle, for now we heard what sounded like several voices shouting to one another in German. Two of the car doors slammed, and we could see several flashlight beams scanning the trees.

  We clutched hands. Our hearts racing, we felt our way through the dark, retracing our steps. At last I could make out the entrance to the cave. I yanked Mario down and pushed him through the entrance, following closely behind. We crouched side by side, panting in the low space. It smelled earthy, like crushed mushrooms and wet moss. We could hear shouting in the distance. We waited and hoped for them to give up the search.

  Then there were footsteps climbing the ravine. I heard no voices, saw no light. It sounded like an animal, not a man. They came closer, followed by the sound of sniffing around the mouth of the cave. We backed up against the wall, holding on to each other and making ourselves as small as possible in the darkness, when there was scratching at the cave’s mouth and whining that sounded like a dog. Suddenly against the faint moonlight the black head of a German shepherd loomed in the entrance.

  The dog came into the cave and began sniffing at my feet, up my legs, into my lap. It was not fierce at all, but rooted under my arms, whining and pushing its head into my chest as if it were glad to see me. “Panzer!” I whispered. “Get out of here! Go on, get out.”

  “You know this dog?” Mario was incredulous.

  “Shhhhh.” I put my hand over his mouth.

  At that, a flashlight beam swept the earth at the entrance to the cave. “Panzer. Wo bist du?”

  We held our breath, but the light found first the dog, then the two of us crouched up against the back wall. The cave was so small that the wide beam lit up the space enough to make out the face behind it. Klaus.

  “Giovanna—it is you?”

  We stared at each other for a long moment. He said nothing; then he moved the light to Mario’s face. “Who is this man? He is a friend of yours?”

  I stared back, wide-eyed. “Yes, Klaus. He is.”

  He held the beam on Mario, letting it travel slowly up to his hair, down to his chin, and back and forth along his crouched body. “Why are you hiding? That means he is a partisan or…You know what I think? I think he is Jewish. I think he is a Jew and you are hiding him.”

  I stared at him as tears filled my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I shook my head.

  He nodded. “Ja. That is what I think.”

  “Please, Klaus…” My lips were trembling. “Ple
ase.”

  He stared back at me, his eyes holding mine. “Why I should do something for you I do not know.” He shined the beam on Mario’s face again. In the jumping shadows, the distorted light, I saw him shake his head. Then, without a word, he flicked off the flashlight and backed slowly out the way he had come. We heard his fingers snap twice, and Panzer followed. Then heavy bootsteps slipping and sliding down the steep descent. A shout at the bottom. “Nichts. Let’s go.”

  The moon was rising, cutting a path up from the east, and we could just see it cresting above the fork of a large tree visible from the mouth of the cave. Neither of us said a word. I was suddenly conscious that Mario and I were still holding hands, that we had not released the death grip that had held us together all the way up to the cave and through the ordeal with Klaus. I moved my fingers a little and looked at him. He smiled and lightly wiggled his own.

  “I didn’t know you had Nazi friends.”

  I waited, listening, before I answered. There was the hoot of a prowling owl and the incessant vibration of the crickets, nothing else. “Do you think they’re really gone?” I whispered.

  He nodded. “I thought I heard their car drive off earlier. I don’t think they’ll be back.”

  We crawled to the cave’s entrance, looked in every direction, then stood up, stretching our legs and arms and brushing the dirt off our clothes. “I’ll tell you all about Klaus when we get there,” I said. “We’re going to have a lot of time to talk.”

  After crossing the main road, this time without incident, we picked our way in the dark through the short span of woods, then hastened across the stubbled fields of harvested wheat. Our shadows zigzagged in the moonlight shining on furrowed rows of fragrant beans, patches of high grass, and tangled, thorny branches of little roses. Resting in an abandoned shed, we finished Serena’s food before working our way through the remaining countryside to the marchesa’s property. At last, we walked casually, trying to project an image of a relaxed couple moving together. We could hear a dog bark for a long time, perhaps at us, perhaps at the moon, but we kept moving steadily and paid it no undue attention.

  The sky was beginning to glow with the first light of dawn when we arrived at the walled border of the marchesa’s estate. I avoided the main gate and moved around to the back, where I knew there was a break in the wall used by farmers and their equipment on the way to market. The fence was easy to scale, and once inside I began to breathe easier. We found the old mill, extracted the key from its hole in the wall, and mounted the staircase in silence to the room where everything had been laid out, just as she had said, waiting for Mario.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Wednesday, August 16, 1944

  Giovanna and I found this journal, set like a crown jewel on top of a pile of gray army blankets, when we arrived at the mill this morning. G left for the clinic right away, and I was so exhausted that I swept the book aside, curled up on the floor, and fell asleep. The slant of light over the vineyards told me it was afternoon when I woke up, hungry and disoriented, an hour or so ago. What an extraordinary turn of events. Here I am, sitting in a tower, in a round stone room with one high, tiny window that looks out across the fields. I feel so alone. Mama, Papa, and Cecilio have all evaporated. I don’t know where they are. I try not to think about what’s happened to them, but it’s a creeping mold, eating away at the edges of my spirit. Still, here in my hands is this beautiful book with soft leather binding and gilded red-and-green endpapers—a treasure, a talisman, a reminder of a life that is lost to me and an investment in the future. I will gladly use it. What else do I have to do?

  Thursday, August 17

  The marchesa—who left this book for me—stopped by this morning. She is both elegant and warm. I was embarrassed (even wearing Giorgio’s clothes), being so rumpled and dirty. I felt like reassuring her that her “guest” was not just a street ruffian, but there didn’t seem to be time for that kind of conversation. She went over the “rules” of the house—no noise, no lights, no going outside the building at any time. I wonder how long I will have to be here, how long I will last. She asked about my health, and I told her about my arm, how G had cleaned the wound and given me the penicillin shots that turned it all around. Hearing that, she became busy and in a hurry, so I just thanked her for everything, the space, the blankets, the journal. She flashed a warm smile and left me alone again.

  Sunday, August 20

  Where would I be without Giovanna? She comes by every day, bringing food and welcome company. I barely know her, yet I depend on her for everything I eat and drink. I can’t ever go outside, so she even has to empty my chamber pot when she gets here. (Thank God it has a lid!) It’s an agonizing, animal connection between us that makes me feel both shy and recklessly myself.

  I’m getting used to her appearing at the door—those weeks at Guido’s cottage and now these afternoons. She’s always brimming with life: Her hair stands out, dark and unruly, around her open face. Her eyes are the color of roasted almonds, and so alert. I wait for her smile, which—when it comes—is rich and full, like the best moment of a glorious aria. How did this happen? How did this girl become the axis around which I spin?

  Tuesday, August 22

  The marchesa and her husband are my second lifeline, after G. The marchese, Leonardo, has come a couple of times to check on me. He’s a bit like a heron—tall and gangly, with an erect and graceful carriage. Whereas his wife is so outgoing and exuberant, his conversation is more measured and restrained. He saw right away that boredom is going to be my worst enemy, so he took the time to find out what interests me, and he’s going to keep me supplied with books from their library. What a gift that is!

  I told the marchese about last fall, just after the Germans arrived, before we knew how bad it would get. Italian Fascists broke into Turin’s Jewish community library, piled up most of the books, and set fire to them in a huge blaze in the Piazza Carlina. It was shortly after that that we left the city. We’ve always been book people, and that incident hit Papa hard.

  As for what to lend me, I said I’m really curious about farming—particularly viticulture—and I love history. Maybe, if I read enough, I can figure out how Italy got into this mess.

  Thursday, August 24

  Another heel of day-old bread and a rind of parmigiano for dinner. G says that’s all she can find, that she doesn’t want to take more, to threaten the partisans’ supplies or lead anyone to suspect my presence. I agree with her, but it’s hard. I get so hungry. I saved it until just a few minutes ago, closed my eyes, and pretended it was shaved onto some fresh arugula and drizzled with olive oil.

  Giovanna stayed longer this afternoon. I try not to put pressure on her, but I live for her visits. I’m desperate for company, but it’s more than that. I really like her. She’s cheery and frank and full of stories about the clinic and her friend Violetta, who’s fallen in love with one of the patients. We’ve started at the beginning, filling each other in on our lives. She grew up in Lucca, me in Turin—but it’s striking how similar our childhoods were. We’re both the younger of two; her mother plays the piano, mine the violin; and we both have hardworking, doggedly Fascist fathers. It’s made me see some differences too. My parents—especially Father—are more intellectual than hers, I think. Of course, her family is Catholic and, I get the impression, more observant than ours. We had so many Catholic friends in Turin that I feel comfortable with that. They must not have any Jewish friends, though—G doesn’t seem to know much about us.

  Friday, September 14

  I finally got up the nerve to ask G about that Nazi soldier who found us in the cave. I was shocked, really, to hear how he tried to seduce her like that. But I can see how it happened. I can’t blame her, really—or him either, for that matter! He must be a decent guy, because he let us go that night. Still, that close call makes me shudder.

  She started teasing me after that story and said I owed her one—we call them our racconti reciproci. All that talk a
bout the floor of the coat closet reminded me of our maid, Amalia. So I told G about her, how she had seduced Cecilio first behind the garden storehouse. I told her how jealous I was and determined to have my turn, how I hid in her bedroom in the servants’ wing one afternoon until she finished the dishes; then how I asked for what I wanted. Amalia laughed at me, called me her “little goat” and said I was too young. (I was every bit of fifteen! Was it really only five years ago?) But I didn’t give up. We played cards every day for a week or so, laughing and slapping down jacks and aces on the bedspread. When I finally asked again, I guess she thought I was ready. I still dream about those breasts, like soft watermelons. I’ve never told anyone about it before today. It was only a month or so later that poor Amalia had to be let go—she and the other Catholic servants who were no longer allowed to work for Jews. She cried so hard the day she left us.

  As I talked about Amalia, I found myself trying not to look at G’s body that way. She seemed…I don’t know…annoyed at the story. But she’s the one who asked for it.

  Thursday, September 28

  The marchesa has been supplying G with more food for me from what’s given to the sick and wounded men at the clinic. There are endless pots of beans flavored with nothing, soups as thin as weak tea, and bread that’s days old by the time I get it. All I can hope for is to take the edge off my hunger. This is custom-made torture, because I love food so much. Nonna used to joke that I was the one in the family who should do the cooking, because I always preferred one cheese maker over another or argued for a particular style of roast when I was twelve years old. I pass the time here imagining feasts: I think up surprising combinations for pasta sauces, new ingredients with which to stuff a bird, weird pairings of fruit and cheese for dessert. It amuses me, but when I tell G my latest inventions, she begs me to stop. She tells me it gnaws a hole in her stomach. I would give anything for the two of us to sit down to a long, leisurely, delicious meal together. Meanwhile, I’m growing thinner. I know it.