There was a reshuffling of the seating arrangement and just as they resettled, Rossella walked in with Beulah’s old bamboo tray. She had covered it in two of the lace cloth napkins so it looked quite pretty. On the tray were flutes of champagne. At least Betty Gibson was right here in the middle of it and would be less likely to tell half the congregation.
“Prosecco!” Rossella called proudly. She started with Woody and then went around the room, offering a glass to each. Everyone took a glass and when Rossella finally got to Beulah, it seemed the room fell quiet and waited. After a slight hesitation, she reached for the glass as the room went back to chatter.
Let it not be said I was an ungracious host.
Rossella took the last glass for herself and then lifted her glass. “Salute!” Then she took a sip and they all followed. It was fizzy, but not sweet like a soda.
Rossella disappeared and then was back with a tray of small pieces of sliced bread with chopped tomatoes on top. “Bru-sketta,” Rossella said, again with great pride, and then carried the tray around to each person and offering one of Beulah’s cloth napkins along with it.
For the next minute, there was only the sound of crunching. Woody dropped half his tomato topping on the floor and bent to pick it up with her white lace napkin.
“Sure is crunchy,” Joe said and everyone laughed. There was nothing to do but drink more prosecco, she realized, since the flaky crumbs had to be washed down.
After they had all eaten the bread, Rossella ushered them into the dining room. The room was even more enchanting with the chandelier dimmed and the votive candles lit. It looked like they were walking into a fancy restaurant.
Everyone took a seat and Rossella brought out two plates of thinly sliced meat, one for each end of the table. Had she brought that down with her from New York? It must have been in the suitcase of food, for it certainly wasn’t anything out of Beulah’s pantry.
“Antipasto. Prosciutto, salame, mortadella, and olive.”
Rossella disappeared into the kitchen again and she realized there was no seat at the table for her. Jake noticed at the same time and when Rossella came back in the room, he stood and offered her his seat.
“No, no, I do for you tonight,” she said and then removed the prosecco glasses and opened the bottle of red Chianti. Jake sat back down at Rossella’s urging and so Beulah did nothing but allow the Chianti to be poured and take a sip in gratefulness for the gift Rossella was offering. The realization was humbling. Here she was, being resentful and stubborn. It was the old sin of pride rearing its ugly head once again.
Beulah was surprised at how much the prosciutto tasted like their own salt-cured country ham. In fact, it was so much like it she took a second portion.
“This is one thing I would like to do eventually. Learn how to cure pork like the Italians,” Jake said.
“What’s involved in the process?” Tom asked.
“I would need a barn dedicated to the curing, and the other equipment depends on the types of curing we might do.”
Rossella removed the empty plates and then brought out the noodles. “Primo piatto. Tagliatelle with lemon.”
“What does primo piatto mean?” Betty asked when Rossella left the large bowl to be passed around.
“It means the first course, generally pasta,” Jake said. “In other words, there is another coming,” he said, his eyes twinkling in amusement.
“First course? We’ve already had bread and ham,” Woody said. “I thought the meat was all there was to it, so I had a big ‘bate’ of it.”
“This is delicious,” Tom said.
“I taste the lemon and cream,” Evelyn added. “It’s wonderful.”
“Everything is good,” Lindy said.
“Are these the noodles what she had hanging in here on Sunday?” Woody asked.
“She called it tagliatelle, so it must be,” Beulah said.
“You can tell the difference in homemade pasta,” Lindy said. “It’s so light.”
Rossella walked in and there was a verbal explosion of appreciation while Rossella glowed under the compliments.
“I now bring you secondo piatto,” she said, picking up the nearly empty bowl of noodles. She hoped Rossella had dished some out for herself before bringing it to the dining room, or else she would have slim pickings for her own supper.
Rossella entered carrying the Rhode Island Red on a platter, roasted until the skin was golden brown, and sprinkled with an unidentified herb.
The tray was passed around, everyone taking a bit. She was thankful the chicken wasn’t too large with all the food they had already consumed.
“This chicken is delicious. I wonder where she got it,” Jake mused, obviously savoring the meat.
“You ought to know, Jake,” Beulah said. “You and Annie picked them up.”
He raised his eyebrows. “One of Annie’s laying hens?”
“I found her plucking it in the kitchen sink this afternoon,” Beulah said.
“Well no wonder it’s so good,” Joe said, and then chuckled. And then Beulah chuckled. And then the whole group burst into laughter.
There was a sound of clinking dishes and running water in the kitchen while they finished the meat. Rossella was not only cooking for them, but cleaning up as well. In a few minutes, she entered the dining room and cleared away the meat and all the plates. Evelyn and Lindy both tried to get up and help, but she shooed them back into their seats. Once the dishes were off the table, Rossella brought small dessert plates and set the stack on the corner of the table. Beulah was stuffed and would pass on dessert.
Rossella entered with a clear glass pan and held it for everyone to admire.
“Dolce. Eez tiramisu.”
She then put it on the table and dished servings onto the dessert plates.
When a dessert plate landed in front of her, there was nothing to do but taste it. Never had she savored such a creamy delight. It was both custard and cake in layers. She ate every crumb on her plate and noticed everyone else did, too.
“I’m foundered,” Joe said, and pushed back from the table.
“Me too,” Evelyn said. “But it was such fun,” she said, glancing at Tom.
“It sure was,” he said, and looked at Evelyn the way Jake gazed at Annie.
Everything Beulah suspected was confirmed in that one look.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
BUTTERFLIES DANCED IN Annie’s stomach when she and Janice walked up the hill to the village at ten the next morning. As long as someone answered the door at 14 Via Coppoli, they would finally know something, one way or the other. They passed the restaurant where they enjoyed dinner the night before, down the street beyond the pharmacy, and then arrived at the address. Annie took a deep breath and reached in her purse for the picture of Elena and the letter, just to make sure they were still there. Janice used the iron knocker first. When no one came, she pressed the button and waited. Finally, the speaker buzzed and a voice said, “Si?”
In Italian, Janice explained they would like to see Benito Gianelli.
“Benito non e qui. Posso aiutarla?”
“Si,” Janice said.
Janice went back and forth with the voice in Italian, and then whatever Janice said made the door click and open for them.
“Benito’s not here,” she said. “I think this is his wife. She said we can come up and he should be back any minute.”
Inside the wooden door, stone steps led up to the living area. An attractive woman with gray hair greeted them and ushered them into a living room with slipcovered couches.
Smiling at Annie, she turned to Janice and asked a question.
“Si, grazie. Due,” Janice responded.
Annie looked around the room for framed photographs that might lend a clue to Benito’s identity. They were in the more formal room decorated with antique furniture, lace table coverings, and ceramic figurines. She caught sight of an adjoining room and she was about to step into it when footsteps sounded on the stairs
and their hostess called out in Italian.
A man’s voice responded.
Janice looked at Annie and raised her eyebrows as if to say, Here we go.
Footsteps, more Italian conversation, and then the man came around the corner and into the living room. When she saw him, Annie’s eyes filled with tears. The man who must be Benito smiled at them and she recognized the familiar gray eyes and her grandmother’s nose, straight and with a slight turn down at the end.
Benito had a shock of salt and pepper hair, his skin was weathered and there were deep lines around his eyes and his mouth. But they were pleasant lines, as if they had been earned through lots of laughter. He looked at both of them, but his eyes lingered on her. Annie wondered if he recognized something familiar or maybe it was simply because she was on the verge of tears.
“Hello,” he said. “Sorry, no English.”
Janice responded in Italian and he smiled and nodded.
“Americano,” he said and nodded, looking again at Annie. He motioned for them to be seated as his wife brought in a tray of espressos with sugar and milk.
“Grazie,” Annie said.
“Angelina,” Benito said and pointed to his wife.
They sipped the espressos and then Janice said to Annie, “I told him you will explain why we’re here and I’ll translate.”
Annie nodded and put down her cup.
“Benito, I have a picture of a woman. Do you recognize her?” she handed the picture to him while Janice translated. Benito’s eyes were wide and wondering when he looked up at her with a question on his face that transcended language.
“Si, é mia madre,” he said, his voice rising in a question.
Janice spoke again.
“Elena Caivano,” he said.
“E tuo padre?” Janice asked.
“Roberto Gianelli,” he said. “Perché hai questa foto di mia madre?”
“He wants to know why you have the picture of his mother,” Janice said.
“We found this picture among letters from my great-uncle Ephraim May, who was an American soldier stationed here in Italy. In Naples.”
Annie paused to wait for Janice to translate, but she noticed the color had drained from Benito’s face when she mentioned her great-uncle’s name.
“Ephraim May?” he said, in a heavily accented whisper.
Janice translated the rest. Angelina went to her husband’s side and put her arms around him as he put his head in his hands. Annie wiped her own eyes and waited. When he composed himself, he looked up and spoke in Italian.
“His stepfather was Roberto Gianelli, but he adopted him and raised him as his own. His biological father was Ephraim May. He wants to know how we are connected to this man.”
Janice spoke in Italian while he nodded, then stopped to speak in English to Annie.
“I told him you are Ephraim’s great-niece and how you and your grandmother just learned Ephraim had a son.”
Benito was shaking his head in disbelief while Angelina’s forehead was creased with worry. Then Annie waited while he spoke in slow and halting words and then again while Janice translated.
“He says, ‘I never knew my father. I always knew his name and he was an American soldier. We do not know what happened to him. When I was just three years old, my mother married my stepfather and we moved here, to his hometown.’”
Annie said, “I am sorry to tell you he was killed in the Battle of Anzio, in 1944. Only recently, we discovered this picture and,” she said, pulling out the copy of the letter written from Lilliana Caivano, “this letter.”
Janice translated as Annie handed the letter over to Benito.
They waited while he read the letter. “Mia nonna,” he said, shaking his head, and handing the letter to Angelina.
“My great-grandparents received the letter, but we believe they had no way to translate it and never knew they had a grandson. They hid the letter and the picture away in a box we just found a couple of weeks ago when we were fixing up the house they lived in many years ago.” Annie waited while Janice translated.
Benito responded and Janice translated.
“My mother believed him to be dead and she was right. I always thought he might be living and come back one day. My stepfather was good to me, but of course, I always wanted to know my father.”
Benito paused and looked at Angelina, grasping her hand. He turned to Annie.
“But, now, I find you are my cousin,” Janice repeated and Annie saw a smile breaking through the sea of emotions on his face. Angelina relaxed at this and dropped her arm.
“Yes,” she said. “And my grandmother is your aunt, although she is only about thirteen years older than you.”
Janice translated and the smile grew wider.
“I have a picture here on my phone.” She showed him a picture of Beulah in the garden next to her tomato plants.
“Bella,” he said. “E bella i pomodori.”
“Beulah, my grandmother, wanted me to come here when she knew about you, but we had only the address in Naples,” Annie said and then asked Janice to explain how they found him.
His eyes lit with understanding and he went back and forth with Janice, while she explained how they had tracked him down to Montefollonico.
“Bene, bene,” he said in approval. “Molto bene.”
“And Elena,” Annie said. “What happened to her?”
Janice translated. “He says he will take us to see her,” Janice said. Benito stood and spoke to Angelina.
“She’s still living?” Annie said.
“He just said he would take us,” Janice said.
“Si,” Annie responded.
“Okay,” Benito said and spoke again to Angelina in Italian.
“Before we go,” Annie said. “Can I take a picture of you both?”
After Janice translated, Angelina smoothed her hair and Benito put his arm around her and they both smiled. She could not wait to e-mail the picture to Evelyn for Beulah.
“Allora,” Benito said. Angelina carried the coffee cups to the kitchen. Angelina called “Ciao” and did not follow when they went down the steps, out the wooden door, and up the street and back to the piazza. Annie and Janice walked with Benito down the cobblestone street and outside the city wall. They were all quiet, each processing the fullness of what had been revealed in the last hour. On they went, down a paved road, until they saw a sign: “Cimitero.”
Benito pointed to the sign and looked back at them, a great deal of meaning passing through his watery eyes. Annie and Janice exchanged looks, but somehow, it seemed disrespectful to talk.
The cemetery was made up of three walls of vaults in a U-shape, with the cemetery gates closing it in to make a rectangle. Burial sites filled the center. Each grave was marked by a white marble square in the wall with the name, birth and death date, along with a picture of the deceased and a vase with real or artificial flowers. Benito led them to a vault two squares up from the ground and near the middle of the wall.
“Mamma,” he said and pointed to a square that said Elena Caivano Maggio Gianelli. Nato 5 Settembre 1924 – Morto 17 Gennaio, 2000.
“No way,” Janice said.
“What?”
Janice pointed to the name Maggio in Elena’s name. “This means May in Italian.”
“They were married?” Annie asked.
Janice spoke the question in Italian.
“No, no,” Benito said. And then he spoke for quite a while before Janice translated what he said.
“He said, no, they were not officially married, but Elena said she married him ‘in her heart.’ They would have married, had the war allowed it, but just as he recovered from malaria, he was shipped off to Anzio. Elena wanted the name on her tombstone since Roberto preceded her in death and it could no longer dishonor him. Benito said his two half-brothers were not very happy about it, but they understood it was her wish.”
Annie leaned in and studied the picture of an older Elena. Benito then pointed to the
vault next to Elena’s.
“Roberto Gianelli, Nato 16 Marzo 1920 – Morto 26 Guigno, 1995.” A picture of Roberto showed a handsome man dressed in a suit. Benito spoke again.
“He still misses his mother and his stepfather,” Janice translated. “After his stepfather died he posted on the site dedicated to reuniting occupation babies with their biological parent. Benito loved Roberto and would not have done it had he still been living. He told his mother and she agreed for him to do it. She knew of the letter her parents had written and knew there had been no response. But she held no bad feelings since there were many possible reasons why no letter ever came back to them,” Janice said.
Annie nodded, humbled by Elena’s forgiveness and grace. Annie took a picture of the vault and one of Benito standing next to Elena’s stone. Beulah would want to see everything.
As they walked back to the village, Annie said, “Ask him about his children and his grandchildren.”
Janice translated and Benito spoke.
“He has a son, Vincenzo, and a daughter, Paola. Vincenzo is married and lives on a farm in the valley near Montepulciano, just a few kilometers away. They have two teenage grandchildren, Luca and Rosa. Paola is not married and lives in London. He wants to take us to meet his son tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course,” Annie said.
“And ask Benito if he and Angelina would like to be our guests for dinner tonight at the hotel restaurant.”
After Janice translated he nodded and smiled. They set the time and Benito kissed both of them, first the right cheek and then the left in the Italian way, before they parted ways.
Annie’s heart was full. It was the beginning of a new relationship, one they hopefully had years to cultivate. With technology, the distance across the water need not be far. Annie would send the story over email this afternoon; she only wished she could deliver the news in person.
***
Later that evening, a table for four was set on white linens under the shade of two horse chestnut trees on the patio of the hotel’s restaurant. The view was of the distant hill town of Montepulciano, and in between, the Val d’Orcia. The daylight faded to dusk and then dark as they sat around the candlelight and enjoyed a slow meal while Benito filled in the events of his life and Janice translated.
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