The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  “Mamma here,” she whispered to Etto each time, letting the dirt and stones sift through her fingers, careless of whether the sun shone or whether it rained, careless of whether it was day or night, careless of whether her family expected her or not. At other times, she sorted through Etto’s clothing, his toys, touching them, smelling them. Days became months, and months turned to a year, then two, then another. One day, after she returned from Etto’s grave, she spoke to Gabriele for the first time in weeks: “Today, I couldn’t remember Etto’s smile or the color of his hair.”

  The end of Willa’s ability to recall how Etto looked also marked the end of her connection to Orvieto. “I can’t bear it here any longer,” she told Gabriele. “I want to take the children and go to America.”

  “Go, then, but I won’t allow you to take my children away from me.” Willa wasn’t surprised. She knew Italian law was on his side. Even if she had wanted him to go with her, he wouldn’t have agreed to leave Oriveto, and Gabriele knew Willa would never leave without her children. Thus, they continued to live together outwardly, while little by little, Willa recalled herself to herself. Smaller withdrawals accumulated, became mutual, and eventually formed the greater part of their marriage, creating a distance between them that was insurmountable. They became strangers to one another. They became stranieri.

  II. MICHEL LOSINE

  1

  ORVIETO, NOVEMBER 1947

  At noon on a Friday in the beginning of November 1947, Michel Losine stood alone in the Piazza del Duomo holding a black umbrella over his head. Memories of his earlier visits to Orvieto with Greta and their friends flooded over him. In the years before their son Paul was born, they had often gone on amiable excursions into the Italian countryside. Orvieto had been among their favorite places “to drink history,” as they had told one another, and to fulfill their intention “to live fully and joyously.”

  Losine and Greta had come to Orvieto by themselves for the first time in 1934, not long after their wedding. It had rained then, too, Losine recalled. They had paused on the steps outside the Duomo, earnest in their sturdy shoes and khaki hats. He had grown up in Brussels, she in Munich, and had met in Milan as university students, married there, and remained. He worked as a jeweler and a dealer in gems, she as a researcher in archaeology specializing in Etruscan civilizations, including the one that had once flourished in Orvieto. The following year, 1935, they had returned to Orvieto after Greta had become pregnant.

  “Stand under the statue of the Virgin,” Losine had told her as he prepared to take her photograph. His camera was new, a very expensive Leica, her birthday gift to him. “I want us to remember us together here in our favorite place.”

  “After lunch, I need to make some notes on the necropolises,” she had said.

  “You must be careful now, my darling. The paths are not well kept.” He had held her hand and kissed it, for she was his treasure. There had been a light wind that he had experienced as a kind of threat, but he had banished the feeling, though he still remembered this one detail, now, years later. Rain always stirred his memories. Sometimes he grew confused, lost track of what had happened first, second, and so on, sometimes even of what had happened to Greta, to Paul, and the others. And then, as always, what happened suddenly returned to him: they were gone, gone forever. Swift, dark clouds coalesced overhead. He felt another twinge in his right leg.

  Crossing the Piazza, he went into the bar at the Hotel Maitani. He was the only customer. Well, it’s still early. He removed his gray topcoat and set it down on a chair next to him. The coat of exceptionally fine alpaca had been a gift for his assistance in reuniting the maker with the latter’s missing fiancée. He placed his cane on the coat and sat down heavily, taking care to extend his leg so it it didn’t swell or become numb. He declined the waiter’s offer to store his bag. No reason to take a chance on losing one’s valuables among strangers. Inside the bag was a fine Hasselblad camera, which he had recently removed from the account of a German client when the latter failed to pay for Losine’s services which had included moving a large amount of cash to a numbered Swiss bank account.

  “Coffee and some brandy,” Losine said to the waiter. He stubbed out his cigarette in the tin ashtray and rubbed his leg again, an effort to counteract the pain behind and just above the knee. It always aches, especially when it rains, he thought. Nothing to worry about. He sipped his coffee and watched the water dribble down the windows, watched the puddles accumulate, remembering. As usual, images rose up to meet him, danced in front of him. Memory endures. Nothing else.

  Munich. 1940. Just outside the window of the cafe, he had noticed right away a man in a sparrow-colored coat, his eyes intense, curious. The man had been leaning against a lamppost in the middle of the morning as if he had nothing else to do. Although Losine had known that a warrant was to be issued for his own arrest that morning, Losine had decided he must nevertheless go through with his next appointment with a local police commander of middling importance. It was possible the latter had information about the fate of Greta and Paul and Greta’s parents. He couldn’t forego the possibility of learning for certain what had happened to them, no matter what the risks might be. Losine went outside where he could see the address on the building across the street and compared it to the number on a piece of paper he took from his pocket. “That’s the place, if you’re looking for the neighborhood police,” the man said to him. Losine stepped back involuntarily, hesitated, and then continued across the street to the address he had been given and entered. He wondered when—if — he would come out.

  Inside, the commander, a corpulent man with a thin, uneven mustache, greeted Losine with a hearty handshake—Losine noted the softness of his hand—and ushered him into his sparse, grey office; he looked both ways before closing the door and took care to turn the lock. Standing in front of the commander’s desk, Losine wondered again whether he would ever leave the room. This would have to be his last contact for a while, that much was certain.

  “So, we are ready for our business,” the commander said, handing Losine a brown leather bag. Losine opened the bag, shook the contents out onto the coal-colored blotter on the desk. He set the bag aside, and leaned over the desk, resting his weight on long, delicate fingers as he considered the sparkling pile: diamond earrings with ruby centers the size of currants; gold necklaces, one with emeralds set in a meadow of diamonds; a platinum ring with a marble-sized sapphire; scattered wedding bands; strands of gold and silver; humble turquoises, charm bracelets attesting to a love of grandchildren, horses, music, flowers, unicorns. The commander breathed noisily next to him. Losine could see the hairs of the commander’s mustache moving as he exhaled and wondered fleetingly whether the commander might be the sort of man who would wear women’s undergarments under his carefully pressed uniform.

  Losine returned his attention to the jewels in front of him. “With your permission, I’ll make an inventory.” He reached for his briefcase, unlocked it, and opened the lid. Inside, papers lay in neat stacks like a display in a stationery store window.

  “Make two copies,” the commander said. “I want a proper record. My collection is far better than the other officers’.” He folded his hands momentarily and then reached out to touch one of the glittering objects that lay in front of them. “Of course, you’re the expert,” he added, as if placating a too-strict father.

  Losine moved some of the jewelry aside and looked more carefully. With a start, he recognized the brooch, its concentric petals of diamonds and pink tourmalines, their minute citrine centers. He had designed it for Greta himself. A wedding gift. Inwardly, he slammed into something large, hard, flat. Was he still alive or had he by mistake moved into what he had imagined to be the transition between life and death, a state in which he saw and heard and was conscious, but not? He sucked in his breath, coughed, and covered his mouth in an effort to disguise the trembling of his pale hands. He realized the commander was watching him.

  “Is someth
ing wrong?” the commander asked. “You look upset. You don’t think my jewels are real and you don’t want to tell me. Is that it? My wife says it’s all cheap costume jewelry. She says I never bring her anything good.”

  Losine cleared his throat, covered his mouth, and coughed again. “May I have some water, please?” He thought about the warrant. How long would it be before the commander received word? Or had he already? The commander unlocked the door, opened it slightly, but kept his foot against it.

  “A carafe for my guest!” he said to an assistant. He turned back to Losine and pointed at the desk. “Cover those up.” Losine took off his coat and put it over the jewels. The commander smiled at his assistant, took the carafe, and then closed the door and bolted it once more. He returned to his desk with the carafe, but his attention remained on the jewelry. “I want your honest opinion. You don’t need to spare me the truth.”

  Losine moved his coat to a chair and picked up the brooch, held it in the clammy palm of his right hand. A miracle to have found it! And the gold buttons with her initials, too. Perhaps Greta was nearby. Paul. Greta’s parents. He wanted to seize the brooch and the buttons, run from the dingy command post into the streets, call his family back to him at last.

  “I believe in knowing the truth,” he heard the commander saying. “It’s one of my principles.”

  Losine roused himself into the present. “The diamonds appear quite fine.” He rationed each word, containing himself, imitating the way one might speak when talking about pleasant weather or describing a brief holiday. “I can tell you that much, even without my glass.”

  A smile swept across the commander’s plump face, filling his cheeks like a squirrel’s. “They are real, then! I knew it!” He gave a small clap of pleasure like a child who has been promised a toy. “I’ll tell Hedda as soon as I get home.”

  “This is a very unusual piece.” Losine said turning the brooch in his fingers, aware of the commander’s black uniform and shiny boots, of the grey walls, the stale air, the black shade over the window. He felt the officer’s warm breath near his neck.

  The commander touched the brooch with the tips of his fingers. “You’re sure I can depend on its authenticity? I must be sure. May I tell Hedda that she was wrong?” he asked.

  “There’s a maker’s mark on the back,” Losine said. “May I ask where you obtained this piece?” Losine avoided looking at the commander when he spoke, afraid he would betray himself.

  The commander eased closer to Losine as if to impart a confidence. “I call these my ‘family pieces.’” He laughed pleasantly. “The ‘relatives’ who owned them left them to me.”

  “Left them to you?” Losine gasped. He knew that he must speak casually, calmly, knew he must remember that he was talking about business, not about Greta and Paul. Everything depended on it.

  The commander leaned toward him, almost touching Losine’s head with his own. “Deported,” he whispered next to Losine’s ear.

  “Deported?” Losine thought he might have shouted.

  The officer nodded vigorously. “Their parting gifts to me,” he said as if they were sharing a good joke or a fine meal. “For my help. That one, for example,” he said plucking the brooch from Losine’s frozen hand, “wanted safe passage for her son back to Italy. Milano. I think that’s where she said she lived.” He turned the brooch over and over with his thick fingers and tossed it back into the pile like a piece of coal.

  Losine’s heart thrashed. Grab the brooch and run away. No. I must not. No. “They offered their jewelry in return for your help?” Losine felt as if he were choking. He reached for the water carafe. The commander settled back in his chair.

  “Their jewelry. Their property. Themselves. Anything. But, of course, there was nothing I could do except to perform as my duty demanded.” He smoothed his uniform and looked up at Losine. “Understand I’m just as patriotic as the next man. Of that you can be sure. So why shouldn’t I enjoy the fruits of my loyalty?” Losine clenched his teeth to prevent them from chattering. “Surely, anyone would agree with that,” the commander added. Losine coughed once and then again, avoiding speech, afraid of what he might reveal. “Do you agree with me?”

  “Yes, of course,” Losine heard himself say. “Clearly.” The words caught in his mouth. He wondered if he had mispronounced them, like a drunk. Perhaps the commander knew nothing of the warrant, at least not yet. I must leave immediately, Losine thought.

  “Take some more water,” the commander said. “You’re not ill, are you?” He looked closely at Losine from across the desk. “I don’t want to catch anything. I’m a very busy man.”

  Losine clutched the glass. “No.” His hands trembled. The water swayed over the rim of the glass and splashed onto the concrete floor. As Losine took out his linen handkerchief, the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered. “Forgive me. So clumsy.”

  The commander came around to Losine’s side of the desk. “What a mess.” He laughed and clapped Losine on the back. “I hope you don’t handle all of your business this way.” He paused. “If there’s going to be a problem retrieving my money and my jewels after all this is over, I don’t want to do it.” Losine felt the commander’s eyes on him as he mopped up the spill. He picked up the shards of glass and put them in the receptacle nearby. The sound of the glass hitting the inside of the dented metal wastebasket echoed in the barren room. He ignored the drops on the commander’s boots and stood up. “You’re quite unsteady today. Perhaps Munich disagrees with you?” Losine stood up. “Where do you come from?”

  “Brussels originally.”

  “I thought I detected an accent of some sort. What is your language?”

  “In my work, I use English, German, French and Italian.”

  “Is that so? And are you a Jew, Herr Losine?” “Are you a Christian, Herr Tugendbold?”

  “Yes, you’re quite right. What does it matter what we are as long as we do our jobs?”

  There was a knock at the door. Losine covered the jewels with his coat. The commander opened the door, and his assistant handed him a paper. He read it and dropped it on his desk. Losine realized that the commander had forgotten his jewelry and was studying him, taking his time, moving closer. Losine put his damp handkerchief in his pocket. He tried see what was written on the paper, but the commander, following Losine’s gaze, turned it over.

  “The weather, yes, very difficult,” Losine said before he recalled that the weather in Munich had been unseasonably mild for January, less severe than the weather in Milan. “But, really, no, just an allergy from the wind.” Had the wind been blowing? He couldn’t remember. “Nothing, really, nothing at all.” He extracted two sheets of paper and a carbon from his briefcase. “Shall we finish our transaction?” The paper stuck to his damp fingers. He reminded himself to smile, to hold the papers steady, to put the carbon in correctly.

  “You seem unwell.” The commander’s grin formed an uneven window around his teeth. His pink tongue grazed his upper lip and touched his moustache. “I think you should leave as soon as possible. Before your condition worsens.” He studied Losine’s briefcase, touched the lock. “Tell me, how did you get into the smuggling business?” Losine ignored the question.

  “As a dealer in gems,” Losine said, emphasizing the word dealer, “I would need to know more about this brooch to value it correctly.” He willed his hand to write Commander Dieter Tugendbold, Munich, and the date at the top of the page.

  “How do I know that you will keep my jewels and money for me in Switzerland?”

  “It’s a matter of trust.”

  “Yes, but how do I know I can trust you? After all, you’re a smuggler.” The commander paused, turned away. “What if you’re just a thief? What if you don’t know anything about jewelry?”

  Careful. Keep it businesslike, Losine reminded himself. “I have already given you your numbered account at the bank in Switzerland that you have chosen. Your jewelry will be held for you in Zurich in a deposit box under your
name. This is the service you requested and the one that I’ve agreed to provide for the fee that you’ve agreed to pay. This is how my business works. I work only by referral, so you must consider whether you trust the word of those who referred you to me. If you are uncomfortable, you are under no obligation to continue with our contract.”

  The commander looked startled. “Don’t misunderstand me. I am quite comfortable. Still, I’d like to know for sure about the value of the jewelry first.” The commander sat down on his battered office chair and took a breath. “Does it cost more for an appraisal, more than your usual fee, I mean?” He was sweating now. His brow glistened. “I don’t want to pay extra fees. Hedda would never let me hear the end of it.”

  Losine willed a smile on his lips. “I could overlook my usual fee if you were to help me with something else.”

  “And that is?”

  “Tell me anything you might know about several people,” Losine said.

  “They said you would have questions.” The commander wiped his brow. His breathing sounded as if he were chewing the air as he inhaled.

  “I’ve been asked to check on several people in Munich on behalf of their families in Italy,” Losine said. “Perhaps you know of them.” He took out a file from his briefcase and read from the cover sheet. “A certain Herr and Frau Bernstein, their daughter Greta, and their grandchild, Paul, it says here.”

  The commander stared at him through narrowed eyes. “Just how do you know these people?” His voice sounded loud and angry.

  “I don’t know them,” Losine replied quickly. “I simply make inquiries. People give me the names of those whom they are concerned about and pay me a fee. One of my clients is concerned about the Bernstein family.”