‘Once they come out of the dishwasher, how would anybody know the difference?’ I wondered aloud.
Filomena stared, wide-eyed, as if I’d suggested she cut the grated parmesan with sawdust. ‘Raniero would!’
My eyes made a sweep of the dining room. I estimated it could seat one hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred diners. ‘How many Jewish residents do you have?’
‘Around twenty,’ Filomena said.
‘There’ll be several more in a month or two,’ Naddie added. ‘Having a kosher kitchen is a big selling point for Orthodox Jewish seniors. We’re also one of the very few communities of this type that caters to the dietary requirements of Muslims.’
‘And vegetarians,’ Filomena cut in. ‘Low salt, low fat, dairy-free, gluten-free – we do whatever our residents require.’
Just thinking about a day in the life of the resident dietician made my head spin. It would be worse than planning the menu when Emily brought friends home from college for Thanksgiving, but I wasn’t nearly so accommodating as Calvert Colony appeared to be. I drew the line at serving Tofurkys or vegan pumpkin pie made with tofu instead of eggs.
‘What do Muslims require?’ I asked, genuinely curious.
‘Food must be certified halal,’ Filomena said. ‘This means “lawful” or “permissible.” Pork is a no-no, just like it is for the Jews. In general, what is kosher is also halal, as long as the correct words are said over it at the time the animal is slaughtered.’
‘We’re very careful about the Circle U and the Crescent M at Calvert Colony,’ Naddie explained.
Filomena nodded. ‘There are other symbols for kosher and for halal, but those two are the most common.’
‘Tomorrow is Italian night,’ Naddie said, changing the subject. She snagged a menu from a wooden rack near the hostess station and handed it to me. ‘Why don’t you join me? You won’t be disappointed.’
I quickly scanned the page – Antipasto, Il Primo, Il Secondo, Contorno. ‘Very proper,’ I said with a smile. ‘You’d think you were in Rome.’
‘The Bucchos come from a long line of restaurateurs,’ Naddie informed me. ‘Raniero brought a great deal of experience with him from Argentina.’
Filomena beamed. ‘My brother and I, it is our dream to have a restaurant one day. It will be asado, how do you say? Steak house.’
‘Asado? Is that anything like churrascaria? Where they bring grilled meat to your table on skewers?’
Filomena nodded. ‘Exactly. Twelve different kinds. And a salad bar, very fancy.’
I glanced back at the menu again, puzzled. Bruschetta alla Napoletana. Tortellini alla panna. Capelli d’Angelo alla chef. It didn’t sound Spanish to me. Paul and I often dined at Jaleo, a tapas restaurant in D.C. Setas al ajilio con la serena. Camarones en salsa verde. Arroz con pollo. Now that was Spanish.
‘This menu is so Italian,’ I observed as I slipped it back into its holder. ‘And you’re from Argentina. I was expecting Spanish, I guess.’
‘My brother and I, we are Italo-Argentino,’ Filomena explained. ‘During the Second World War, many of our countrymen went to Argentina. Our grandfather, too. In Italy, he was avvocato, a lawyer, but he dreamed always to own a restaurant. Argentina was, how do you say, land of opportunity?’
I was quiet for a moment, letting that information sink in.
As if reading my thoughts, Filomena raised a hand and said, ‘I know! Nazis. You are thinking Nazis.’ She shook her head so vigorously that I thought the pearl studs might drop off her earlobes. ‘Nonno, he was not Nazi. After the war, Italy was all ruins. Foreign armies taking over everywhere. There was no work, so he goes to Argentina like so many people.’
‘I read somewhere that Italians began immigrating to Argentina in the middle of the nineteenth century,’ Naddie explained. ‘Today, sixty percent of the Argentinian population has Italian roots.’
Filomena was nodding. ‘Si, si. If you want a good Italian meal you go to Buenos Aires.’
‘Where do you come up with those statistics, Naddie?’ I asked, impressed, as always, with her seemingly bottomless reservoir of obscure facts.
My friend shrugged. ‘Jorge Mario Bergoglio?’
I blanked. ‘Who?’
Naddie punched my arm. ‘The new Pope, silly. Don’t you read the newspapers? Until becoming Pope Francis, he was the archbishop of Buenos Aires. Born and raised in Argentina but his parents were Italian.’
‘Exactamente!’ Filomena’s eyes sparkled with pride, I imagined, for the incredible success of one of her countrymen.
‘Go, now,’ she said after a moment, making shooing motions with her hands. ‘Lunch in twenty minutes. You come back then. I’ll save the best dessert for you – crème brûlée.’
‘Ah …’ I breathed as Naddie and I left the dining room together with the sound of smashing crockery still ringing in our ears. ‘Filomena said the C.B. words. I will be putty in that young woman’s hands.’
‘Yes,’ Naddie replied. ‘But if Raniero can’t get it together in the kitchen, they’ll be serving it to you on a paper plate.’
FIVE
‘Mark well that in the Catholic Mass, Abraham is our Patriarch and forefather. Anti-Semitism is incompatible with the lofty thought which that fact expresses. It is a movement with which we Christians can have nothing to do. No, no, I say to you it is impossible for a Christian to take part in anti-Semitism. It is inadmissible. Through Christ and in Christ we are the spiritual progeny of Abraham. Spiritually we are all Semites.’
Pope Pius XI, Speech to Belgian pilgrims,
September 6, 1938.
Although Naddie’s town home was only steps away we drove there in her golf cart, a souped-up Club Car that had been tricked out like a powder blue 1957 Buick Electra, with tailfins so extreme that they reached your destination a week after you did.
Situated in the middle of a block of eight semi-detached homes, each with a distinctive façade, Naddie’s new residence wasn’t all that much bigger than her double-sized apartment at Ginger Cove, but it had a superior layout, at least for her purposes. In her so-called retirement Naddie had become an accomplished watercolorist; her work was shown at local galleries, where it sold well. To accommodate her passion she had converted the town home’s master bedroom into a studio where finished paintings mounted on boards were either hung or propped up against the walls, some protected by glass. An easel held a half-completed study of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge at sunrise as seen from her window. A photograph of the same view was clipped to one of the cross pieces.
‘Why are these in the trash?’ I asked as I bent down and retrieved a handful of paintings from under a takeaway clamshell in an oversized plastic tub.
‘Watercolor’s an exacting medium,’ Naddie explained. ‘You have to get it right the first time.’
I ruffled through the rejects: bayscapes, garden scenes. ‘These are lovely.’
Naddie snatched the paintings out of my hand and tossed them back in the trash tub. ‘Not my best work,’ she said, and that was that.
We were sitting side-by-side on the living room sofa, leafing through a portfolio of her recent work – currently on display at a gallery in Baltimore’s historic Fells Point – when the doorbell rang. Naddie slid the portfolio onto my lap and got up to answer the door.
‘Izzy, do come in,’ I heard her say.
‘I was passing by and saw your golf cart in the drive, so I thought I’d see if you wanted to come out and play,’ a gentle voice said.
‘I have company, but it’s somebody I’d like you to meet. Don’t just stand there on the doorstep. Come on in.’
Izzy was about Naddie’s age, but I found it impossible to guess any closer than that. She wore white Nikes, cropped pink exercise pants and a pink-and-black-striped Ralph Lauren hoodie. Abundant snow-white hair was piled into a bun high on her head in an old-fashioned, Gibson Girl sort of way, yet somehow she managed to look incredibly modern.
I stood and extended my hand. ‘I’m Hannah
Ives. Naddie and I go way back.’
Izzy beamed. ‘I’m Ysabelle Milanesi, but everyone calls me Izzy.’
‘Hannah and I are having lunch at the hall today,’ Naddie said. ‘Would you like to join us?’
‘I’d be delighted. The only thing in my refrigerator right now is half a tuna salad sandwich left over from yesterday.’
Although Naddie’s golf cart could accommodate four, we decided to walk the short distance back to Blackwalnut Hall. Izzy, I learned along the way, had moved to Annapolis from Pottstown, Pennsylvania, after the death of her husband so that she could be closer to her daughter’s family. When the daughter and her navy husband got posted to Hawaii, she decided not to join them. Calvert Colony was ready to open, her house in Pennsylvania had just sold, so she decided it was a sign from God that she should buy in. ‘I decided to get rid of all the men in my life,’ Izzy told me with a laugh. ‘The pool man, the plumber, the lawn guy and the exterminator. I want no maintenance issues. I have a town home in the block that backs up on the golf course,’ Izzy continued after Filomena had shown us to a table near the bar and supplied us with menus. ‘Or what will be the golf course once the permits go through.’
‘Do you play golf, Izzy?’
‘Never. To me, it’s about as exciting as watching bread rise. My late husband did, though. That’s one of the reasons we were attracted to Pottstown. After my husband retired from the army he taught history at Valley Forge Military Academy. When he retired for the second time …’ She shrugged. ‘We just liked the area, I guess.’
A server appeared at my elbow. She wore a laminated name badge embossed with her name: Susanna. ‘Are you ready to order?’
I took another quick look at the menu. I’d been so engrossed in our conversation that I hadn’t made any selections. ‘The crab salad, I think, Susanna. And iced tea, unsweetened, with extra lemon.’
We were enjoying our entrées when a murmur of excitement washed over the diners. Something was happening at the other end of the room. My tablemates were staring past me, so I swiveled around in my chair.
One of the most beautiful young men I’d ever seen stood chatting with the diners at a table for four near the French doors. He was Tab Hunter in The Burning Hills; Michael York in The Three Musketeers; Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic. Tall and tanned, his neatly trimmed blond hair curling out just so from under the brim of his white pleated toque. He wore a white chef’s jacket, spotless, with a double row of buttons marching up the front and black-and-white houndstooth pants. As he talked he gestured with his hands so gracefully that he might well have been conducting a symphony orchestra.
His jacket was embroidered in red script: Raniero Buccho, Chef.
‘“Tall and tan and young and lovely, the boy from Ipanema goes walking …”’ I sang sotto voce.
‘Behave yourself, Hannah!’ Naddie swatted me playfully with her napkin.
Izzy looked up from her minestrone and smiled indulgently. ‘I used to be in love with Frank Sinatra, back in the day. Whenever he sang, “All the Things That You Are” I melted into a little pool of tiger butter puddled around his feet.’
‘I felt the same way about Anthony Andrews when I first saw him in Danger UXB, Izzy.’ I fanned my face with my hand. ‘Sorry, I lost control there for a moment.’
‘Ipanema is in Brazil, not Argentina,’ Naddie scolded.
I set my fork down on my plate and sighed dramatically. ‘But he is absolutely gorgeous, isn’t he?’
The beautiful boy was making the rounds, working the crowd. Smiling here, bowing modestly there, gradually heading our way. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. When he reached our table he rested a hand on the back of Izzy’s chair and drawled, Buenos días, ladies. Everything is to your satisfaction, yes?’
‘I’m looking forward to the crème brulée,’ I stammered.
He turned his neon-blue eyes on me. ‘Ah, madame, it will be delicioso! My pastry chef, Michelle, I have chosen her myself. She is magic with the dolce.’
Izzy had just polished off her calamari vinagreta. She kissed the tips of her fingers and saluted the chef. ‘You are a genius!’
Beneath his tan Raniero flushed becomingly, then turned to me. ‘You are new here?’
‘Just a guest,’ I told him.
‘Ah. Well, you tell Mrs Milanesi …’ a big wink in Izzy’s direction, ‘to invite you for dinner tomorrow night. We have Pasta e Fagioli. Ossobucco. Polipo alla Luciana. Melanzane.’
He paused to let the awesomeness of the menu sink in, which in my case – French major! – wasn’t very far. ‘Polipo?’ I asked.
‘Octopus,’ Izzy replied, ‘in a tomato sauce with olives and garlic.’
Yuck, I thought. ‘Yummy,’ I said, smiling toothily.
Raniero picked up Izzy’s hand and touched it to his lips. ‘A domani, nonna.’ Then, in a wave of aftershave mingled with garlic, he moved on.
‘He’s flirting with you!’ I teased after Raniero had returned to his kitchen.
Izzy flushed and slipped the tip of her spoon into the tiramisu that Susanna had just placed in front of her. ‘Nonsense. He’s just happy to have somebody he can speak Italian with, other than his sister.’
I smacked my forehead with the palm of my hand. ‘Duh. With a name like Ysabelle Milanesi, how could you be anything but Italian! Is Milanesi your maiden name?’
‘My husband was Italian, too, but he came from the North End of Boston. Second generation. His parents owned a market on Salem Street.’
‘Izzy was a war bride,’ Naddie explained.
Izzy polished off the last of her tiramisu, shoved the dish toward the center of the table, then rested her forearms on the tablecloth. ‘That’s true, Hannah, but I spent most of the Second World War in a convent outside of Rome.’
‘You were a nun?’ I asked.
Izzy shook her head. ‘No, I was a fourteen-year-old Jewish girl.’
I sat in stunned silence for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds as I struggled to form the words to the questions that were ricocheting around my brain.
Izzy came to my rescue. ‘It is a long story, and a sad one.’
Was she dismissing me, or did she really want to talk about it? ‘If it’s not too difficult for you,’ I encouraged, ‘I’d really like to hear it.’
Residents at the tables around us had finished their meals and begun to trickle out of the dining room. I stole a quick look at Naddie, who nodded almost imperceptibly, then raised a hand, summoning Susanna over from a table she’d been busily clearing nearby.
‘Coffee all around, I think, Susanna.’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Do you mind if we sit here chatting for a while? We’re finished with these dishes so you can clear them away.’
‘No trouble at all, Mrs Gray. I’ll be back in a minute with your coffee.’
Izzy took a deep breath then let it out slowly. ‘So, where do I begin?’
SIX
‘The Italians are extremely lax in their treatment of Jews. They protect Italian Jews both in Tunis and in occupied France and won’t permit their being drafted for work or compelled to wear the Star of David.’
Joseph Goebbels, The Goebbels Diaries,
December 13, 1942.
‘In the years before the war, my family and I lived comfortably in Rome, in Trastavere,’ Izzy began, stirring a generous portion of cream into her coffee.
‘Trastavere! I know it. The old Jewish quarter, right?’
When Izzy nodded, I told her, ‘Paul and I vacationed in Rome a couple of years ago and we stayed in Borgo, near the Vatican. Several evenings we strolled along the Tiber to Trastavere for dinner. There are some wonderful restaurants there. I remember, oh, what was it? This marvelous fried artichoke dish; it looked like an exploded sunflower.’ I demonstrated with my hands.
‘Carciofi alla giudia,’ Izzy supplied. ‘Artichoke in the Jewish style.’
‘Yes, that’s it. Crisp, nutty. Totally delicious.’
Naddie passed me the sugar. ‘We should put it on Raniero’s list.’
‘Absolutely.’ I sipped my coffee. ‘What did your father do, Izzy?’
‘He owned a small art gallery which was popular with local artists, but he made most of his money restoring paintings for larger galleries like the Vatican Museum.’
I set my cup down. ‘Wow.’
Izzy smiled sadly. ‘I was too young then to be impressed. Abba worked primarily in the Pinacoteca, specializing in fifteenth-century restorations. When he began, the museum had been open only a few years, and many of the works had been in storage since 1815 when they were returned from Paris, so there was much work to do.’
Paris? Then the penny dropped. ‘Napoleon took off with them, I suppose.’
Izzy nodded. ‘Years later, when Bruno and I visited the galleries, I found myself looking closely at the paintings. This Fra Angelico, that Raphael, a glorious Bellini … searching for any small detail that could be by my father’s hand. The halo of a saint, a Pope’s ring, a cherub’s toe.’
‘Bruno was your husband?’
She nodded. ‘But Bruno’s part of the story comes much later.’
Filomena materialized at my right elbow, creeping up on us so quietly that I was startled. ‘Biscotti? We make them here.’
‘Yes, thank you, Filomena,’ Naddie said as the catering manager set a silver tray carrying an artistically stacked pyramid of biscotti down on the table in front of us.
‘In Argentina, we call these cookies cantuccini,’ Filomena said.
I loomed hungrily over the tray, as if I hadn’t just eaten a monster crab salad and a crème brulee. ‘That was very thoughtful,’ I said, selecting a chocolate-covered cantuccini dotted with almonds. ‘I hope we’re not keeping you?’
Filomena waved away our concerns. ‘No worries! Stay as long as you like.’ Then she disappeared as quickly as she had come.
Izzy selected a biscotti for herself, dunked it into her coffee and held it there. ‘After the war began, my father believed we were safe because he had joined the Fascist Party, and was even active at their meetings.’ She bit into the soggy biscotti, chewed, then continued. ‘In those days everybody in Italy was a Fascist, at least on paper.
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