“They were harmless.”
“Then you have not been out on the open roads for very long. Out here, they can be just as bad as desperate people during the war. Charity does not return what it used to. It does not necessarily lead to gratitude anymore. Most who receive it feel they are entitled to more, and people will do anything for food. Besides, Rosalind can take care of herself.”
“She is lonely, I think. She is missing her cousin.”
Erich’s expression is unflinching, yet there is something there—a darkness to the look that wasn’t there before.
1941
A new subtitled American film had just arrived at the cinema, and Stefano took Nina to meet Beppe and his girlfriend, Sonia, and their friends Antonio (Toni) and Fedor. Stefano couldn’t help but notice the lengthy and appreciative stares by the men as he introduced his younger sister. Nina had grown into an attractive girl of seventeen, more confident and less in her older sister’s shadow. She had also grown interesting to talk to: she was socially conscious, curious about the war, and eager to be part of Beppe’s somewhat elite group of friends that she had until then been excluded from.
The previous year Stefano’s family moved even farther north, to follow Serafina and Enzo again, to support the government, to be closer to opportunity. Enzo had grandiose plans. There was business to be made in war. The North was where they would make their fortune, be close to greatness. In Verona, Stefano had leased a small town house for his mother and sisters, much smaller than their wealthy cousin’s.
After the film, they all went to Beppe’s apartment, and several other friends joined them. Beppe had moved out of his father’s house several months earlier when the tension of their relationship became unbearable. What little time Beppe would have on leave would be spent arguing with his father about everything. After the move, he rarely returned to his father’s home, though Serafina often stopped by to bring food and beg him to come home, but without success.
At the apartment, they opened wine and drank and talked. Beppe had served two tours of duty before the start of Germany’s war and one since, and he was losing some of his former interest. He tended to talk against the government. They weren’t supplying them with enough men, enough ammunition. Their captain made ill-informed decisions. The government was a mess. They were ill prepared to fight the British, and he didn’t like fighting the British. He had friends who were English. It didn’t seem right they were on opposing sides.
They talked about their dissatisfaction with the current government, and even Nina joined in, suddenly outspoken, and agreeing with the other men, while taking sneaky glances at Toni, who met these with just as much interest.
Toni was still recuperating from a shoulder injury and would not be returning to war straightaway, but he had other ideas, believing that their country’s alliance with Germany was wrong. It was dangerous to talk of war with anything but pride and loyalty, but the wine was opening everyone up to find mutual agreement.
One of the men was more serious than the others. Fedor and his older sister had been born in Russia. Their mother, a Russian widow, had met and married a handsome Italian foreign minister during his friendship talks with Russia just prior to the formation of the Soviet Union, and Fedor’s new stepfather had brought the family to live in Italy. Fedor’s sister had not forgotten her Russian friends and had later returned to the Soviet Union to marry an army captain before the idea of war had even surfaced. Fedor had only recently lost his two young brothers in this war that neither parent had supported. He had heard from his stepfather that many in the government didn’t like their leader. He had heard that some were planning to switch sides, to follow those in opposition and avoid further fighting.
Beppe, having drunk too much, was suddenly enraged by other news, of Jews in other countries being sent to foreign camps, of the deaths of other soldiers he had known for years, and he became especially vocal about his hatred for Hitler. Stefano suddenly worried about the darker tone their conversation had taken and pulled Beppe aside.
“Are you certain you can trust these people? Mussolini has spies everywhere.”
“Yes, of course! And, young cousin, I will do anything to keep you out of war,” said Beppe.
“But it is too late now! Tomorrow we leave. It is my first tour of duty.”
“That is why we must trust these people. By the time we come back, I am confident there will be progress made here, and you will not be returning for a second tour.”
“Your mother would die if she knew what you were saying.”
In fact, thought Stefano, Serafina was so fiercely loyal to Mussolini she might disown Beppe if she knew.
“My mother doesn’t need to know anything.”
Stefano did not feel so confident. He was not willing to make such a change. He felt betrayed in a way. He was following Beppe into war, and yet he had now learned the full extent of his cousin’s true feelings. He hoped that it was merely alcohol. That with his next tour he would feel renewed loyalty. Not that Stefano was overly loyal or supportive, but all this was for Italy. He had to believe it even if his mother, Beppe, and others didn’t.
It was time to leave when Beppe and Sonia disappeared into his bedroom, and Stefano had to drag Nina away from a close and private conversation she was having with Toni. On the way home, Nina talked excitedly about the night, while Stefano’s alcoholic high turned into a throbbing headache.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice your attentions, little sister!” he said to Nina.
Stefano had not been expecting the welcoming party on his arrival home. Teresa yelled at both of them as they entered the house, the shrill sound of her voice hurting his head.
“What kind of son are you? You should have been home. Mamma made a special dinner for you. You should have been here. She will not see you for months. And you, Nina! Where have you been? A single girl should not be out so late with those men. You will gain a reputation if you haven’t done so already.”
Nina was about to protest, but Stefano interjected.
“It was not Nina’s fault,” said Stefano. “It was all my influence. I kept her there. And those men are our friends.” He had thought about his mother during the night, but the alcohol and the discussions of subversion had distracted him.
“It is that rogue, Beppe!” continued Teresa at Stefano, while Nina snuck away, safely out of Teresa’s sight. “Always leading you astray.”
Stefano had then gone into his mother’s bedroom and turned on her lamp at the side of the bed. She was still awake, lying quietly in the dark and listening to the shouting.
“Mamma, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
She looked at Stefano and smiled. She always forgave him. How could she not? Her only son.
He pulled a thin mattress from underneath her single bed and lay on the floor beside her.
“I will stay beside you tonight.”
And she smiled again. She loved him. Her Stefano. He always made things better. She would find it hard without him.
And then his older sister crept into the room and lay in bed with her mother, followed by Nina, who crawled in and lay beside Stefano on the floor, snuggling against him like she had done when they were small.
Stefano dozed. At some point someone switched off the light, and he could hear sniffling. Despite Teresa always being angry with him about something, Stefano knew she was sad he was leaving, and that she loved him. Then Nina began crying, too, and then his mother, the crying like a disease that spread quickly through the room. He knew no one would get any sleep that night so they could be together, all of them, for one more night at least. His thoughts turned morbid then at the thought of war, at the thought of leaving them.
Present-day 1945
“Did you know her well?”
“Who?”
“Monique.”
“Not very.”
“You were neighbors. I imagine you would have spent time together at some point.”
Erich paus
es, eyes narrowing slightly, and Stefano wonders if he has gone too far.
“You seem very interested.”
Stefano shrugs. “A girl missing. Someone you knew—”
“Briefly,” Erich says, standing and moving to look from the window over the sink. “I spent much time away. Did Rosalind tell you much else?” He asks this with his back turned.
“Not much. I saw she had damage to the house.”
“Did you see Georg?”
“No.”
Erich doesn’t turn. Stefano can see his profile. His jaw square, his chin slightly forward as if he were gritting his teeth. He turns the tap, which coughs and splutters, and waits for the water to run clear so he can fill his glass.
“I should warn you again,” he says finally, his back still turned, “that Georg is very ill, that he doesn’t know what is going on around him. You should stay away from him. And Rosalind’s nerves are frayed. I wouldn’t believe anything she tells you either. She is unpredictable.”
“How so?”
Erich turns then. He did not expect a question. He is unused to being questioned.
“She says things . . . She acts strange. She sees things, too. Things that aren’t there.”
“Ghosts?”
“Sort of,” he says. “I brought you these.” He puts some cigarettes on the table in front of him along with a packet of matches.
Stefano looks at them offhandedly, but it is an effort not to take one out immediately.
“How did you know I smoke?”
“Some things are more obvious than you think . . . but I must get some sleep, and you look tired. It has been a long day, and there are long days to come. Good night, Stefano.”
Stefano suspects it was his questioning about Monique that called an early end to the conversation.
Erich has already reached the bedroom at the far end of the house by the time Stefano commences to climb the stairs wearily. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rewraps his hand with the clean bandage from Rosalind and replays Erich’s earlier words, still curious that Monique’s disappearance does not appear to be felt by either of the Germans.
The squeaking of the back door, followed by the faint crunching sounds of footsteps on gravel, interrupts his undressing. He crosses the hallway to the room where Michal is sleeping soundlessly, closest to the noises. Murmurings in the yard below draw him toward the window.
Erich is standing near the back of Rosalind’s house, talking with her in terse, hushed tones, the clarity of their words lost through the glass of the closed window. Rosalind faces the house and the window where Stefano is standing. Her face is tilted upward slightly, to speak with Erich, who is a head taller. Stefano does not think he can be seen, but he takes a step back from the window just in case.
Rosalind shakes her head and speaks rapidly before Erich interrupts her. The argument lasts less than a minute before Rosalind rushes away back to her house.
Erich stands tall in the dark. His fair hair catches the silvery light that turns the strands to white. He turns his head sideways to survey the wood up the hill beside him and the rise that peaks thirty yards from the back of the house then falls back down to the main road that can’t be seen.
Erich turns his head farther, looking back over his shoulder, not quite in the direction of his house but close, and Stefano has the feeling that he knows he is being watched. Stefano draws carefully back from the window and returns to his room.
He leans back against the cold steel bars of the headboard and lights a cigarette. It rests between his lips while he unfolds Monique’s letter from inside his shirt and switches on the torch to read it quickly. When he is finished, he returns the letter to his shirt.
He thinks of Erich then, of the coldness in his eyes, which conflicts with the warmth of his generosity, and of Rosalind and the many hidden truths that lie here, that he wishes to learn.
At some point in the night, when he has tossed and turned himself to sleep, Michal enters and climbs into the bed beside him. It is cramped, and Stefano’s sleep is broken oftentimes by the movement of the child, and thoughts of Monique: words on a page, a voice without sound.
17 April 1937
Dear Papa,
I have decided that since I can’t see you, I will write to you and tell you about my life. And if we learn where you are, I can send all the letters to you, so you can read about our missing years.
I think about you all the time. I worry that Mama died without you, that she was alone. I have had nightmares about it, but Rosalind tells me that I need to calm down, not think so much.
Last year, when Uncle Max first told me that Mama died, I cried for weeks. I felt like it was my fault. What if I had stayed with you, Papa? What if I had told the police who sent me away that I wanted to stay with you and Mama? But I did what they wanted, and I won’t do that again. If I find you, I will never let anyone separate us again.
I miss you more and more, and the more time we are apart, the more time I have to think of you and wish you were here, making me laugh at the funny things you say. And I miss Mama so much, too, but I believe she is always watching us, Papa, and that makes me feel that things will be all right.
Uncle Max and Aunt Yvonne are not like you and Mama. They are nice enough, though Yvonne is hard to talk to. She is much colder, and I don’t think she likes me here all that much, though she is sour at everyone, even Rosalind. And Max says very little, perhaps because he is afraid to. But he told me that you used to fight with Oma. That Oma did not want you to take Mama away to live a gypsy’s life. (She called you a gypsy, which I found rather romantic anyway.) I don’t think Oma liked me at first, either, because of you, because she blames you for Mama’s death. But I told Oma last summer that you were the best father a girl could have, that you helped everyone, and you showed me how to be brave. And I think she believed me then, because I saw her eyes start to water.
And, of course, there is Rosalind here, always telling me what to do. Always fussing about the way I dress and speak, perhaps because Yvonne doesn’t. She can’t be bothered with either of us. And Rosalind is odd at times. Sometimes I think I know her, and other times it is as if I don’t know her at all.
Max’s house in Berlin is nice. It is larger than ours and has a garden, and there is lots of pretty china and silverware, but it doesn’t have as many windows, and the rooms are dark, and the furniture, too.
I have made new friends, but Rosalind doesn’t approve. She says if Hitler doesn’t approve, then I can’t have them. But I see them in secret, Papa. Emmanuelle is my friend, but she is scared, and she worries that we may not be able to see each other for much longer. Rosalind has also said that we must distance ourselves because Jews are not like us. It is so difficult to do. I love Emmanuelle. She is sweet and funny, but she says her parents are thinking they will emigrate to America if they can get the money. They worry about their future. These are all because of Hitler’s rules.
Rosalind knows I write letters, and she has cannily guessed that I express my true feelings. She is always telling me not to put things in writing. That if someone found the things I write, I would be put in prison. Hitler doesn’t like people saying nasty things about him.
We stayed with Oma at her river house again in the summer. It is so beautiful there. Georg, our friend, lives next door, and he is wonderful fun. We have so many adventures with him. He is a fast runner, and, Papa, you would not believe how fast I can run and swim now, too. Next year, when I turn seventeen, I will begin training in typing, and here in Berlin I will get an office job and still see Georg in the summers. And the whole time I will wish for your release and hope that they realize they have made a mistake by putting you in prison.
I will add this letter to the others that I write, and one day you will read them all, Papa.
I love you.
Monique
CHAPTER 13
ERICH
Erich has slept well since he was a child, can cleanly break the connection betwe
en night and day. But last night the transition took longer. He was thinking of Stefano in the room above. He was thinking of his eyes, frighteningly dark, that rarely blink, that examine everything around him and follow Erich as he moves.
He tried hard not to think of him there, tried hard not to think where he’s been, if he has killed, if he is capable. It is not like Erich to second-guess his own instincts.
But today in the bright light, clearer now, he accepts Stefano is nothing to be feared. Stefano is a soldier with a peasant’s heart, he concludes. Harmless, dragged into a war he was reluctant to join. He has lost, though Erich’s loss is worse.
He opens the drawer where he laid some clothes the day before, laundered by Marceline. He takes out a crisp white shirt and beige trousers. He does up the laces of his shoes given to him by the Nazi underground, until they are tight and exact. He combs his hair. In the small mirror he takes in his appearance, and just briefly he can see his sister in his face, in the shape of the jaw and the nose that is straight and thin.
He hears no movement upstairs and proceeds from the front door.
Collecting a shovel that rests against a tree at the base of the hill, he walks upward and through the sparse trees above the houses. Over the rise he can see the damaged hamlet that is now empty, the occupants dead, crushed into the earth, then shoveled out again and placed in communal death holes dug in the hills.
The tip of his shovel hits metal, and with his hands Erich dusts off the last remaining earth from a tin box he had buried earlier. He checks through the papers kept inside the container, unfolds another piece of paper to add to these, then commences to rebury the box.
He stops, sensing he is not alone, and looks along the ridge to the thick cluster of trees that bars entry to the deeper wood behind. The wind picks up, and the trees begin swaying, taunting, perhaps whispering their secrets, his secrets. There is nothing there, he tells himself, just the wind and a past he has made disappear.
1939
Erich stood on the sidewalk and watched his father in a small group of other uniforms behind Hitler, who had just arrived to make a speech. The crowd cheered and saluted. His sister, Claudine, was complaining about the heat, her shoes, the crowds, while his younger brothers stood still, disciplined like him. Only the baby, destined for a few more months of life, whined slightly like his sister, reaching for her, waiting for her to take him. With her he always got the attention he was seeking. The grief that would come from his death had lasted much longer for Claudine.
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