Tuscan Rose (34 page)

She turned on her side and pressed her cheek to Antonio’s. His morning stubble prickled her skin. He murmured, kissed her, then fell back to sleep. She remembered their tender lovemaking of the night before and the way Antonio had looked into her eyes. They were passionate lovers but Rosa had not fallen pregnant again. She had obviously been fertile to conceive a child by Osvaldo, despite her terror and the deprivations of prison, and then to bear twins to Antonio so soon after their marriage. Why was her body suddenly refusing to bring another child into the world? Did it know something she didn’t? And why, after all these years, had she dreamt of Luciano?

Later that morning, Rosa and Antonio sat at the breakfast table with the children and Giuseppina. Sibilla and the twins were eating boiled eggs while the adults nibbled rolls with marmalade and drank coffee. For some reason the newspaper hadn’t arrived and so Ylenia had gone in search of a paperboy. Rosa was glad to have a break from the news. Tensions had been escalating in Europe since Germany had invaded Czechoslovakia.

The twins were laughing as they placed the salt and pepper shakers, bread basket and milk jug in order of size. Sibilla looked on with a benevolent smile, bending down every so often to pat Allegra and Ambrosio who were sitting near her feet. Suddenly she turned to Rosa.

‘Mamma, was I born at home like the twins or in a hospital?’

‘In a hospital, darling.’

‘Which one?’

Rosa glanced at Antonio. Sibilla was seven years old and she liked to ask questions. Unfortunately, those questions were often about her birth and origins. She understood that Antonio was not her natural father, although she was now his legal daughter. Rosa would not have revealed that fact to Sibilla if she could have avoided it. Adoption was a rare and highly suspect event in Italy,
where blood ties were everything. But it would be written on Sibilla’s legal documents and Rosa and Antonio had decided it was better to tell her sooner rather than later. Luckily, Sibilla had taken it in her stride and called Antonio ‘Babbo’ anyway without prompting. But what could Rosa say about the father listed as ‘unknown’? Sibilla was already showing signs of hypersensitivity. She would cry at the slightest reproach or if she couldn’t do something perfectly. Her daughter’s harsh self-criticism made Rosa want to protect her all the more. She couldn’t tell her that she had been conceived from a rape.

‘Well, it was a very old hospital,’ Antonio explained. ‘It’s not a hospital any more. They use the building for something else now.’

‘Where was it? I want to see where I was born,’ said Sibilla.

Rosa knew Sibilla wasn’t being difficult and was only exercising her natural inquisitiveness. But she wished her daughter would quell her curiosity, just as she had suppressed her own longings to know her origins.

‘Well, maybe one day,’ said Antonio. ‘But, Sibilla, you are very busy. You are starting your ballet lessons soon.’

Sibilla clapped her hands with delight and began twirling around the dining room. Rosa sent a grateful look to Antonio. The mention of the much-anticipated lessons had proved a perfect distraction. Rosa guided her daughter back to her chair.

‘Ballet takes a lot of strength, so you’ll need to eat your eggs,’ she said, kissing Sibilla.

Antonio had to leave early to go to an auction. Orietta was minding the store for the day. He kissed each of his children then embraced Rosa. ‘Don’t worry about Sibilla,’ he whispered. ‘It is natural for her to ask questions. It will soon pass. When she’s older she will deal with it better.’

Rosa saw Antonio to the door and embraced him again. She was about to return to the dining room when the telephone rang. Ylenia hadn’t returned yet so Rosa answered it herself. It was Orietta.

‘Can you come and see me at the shop?’ she said. Her voice was choked with tears.

A sick feeling gnawed at Rosa’s stomach. She remembered her bad dream. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

‘Carlo returned last night. He has some terrible news…’

Orietta broke down into sobs. Rosa waited a moment to hear if she could say anything more, but it was clear that she couldn’t speak.

‘I’ll come straightaway,’ Rosa told her.

She asked Giuseppina to mind the children and ran to the shop. She couldn’t think clearly. Carlo had returned but not Luciano or Piero. Rosa could only anticipate with dread what Orietta’s terrible news might be. In January, Franco’s troops had defeated the Republican army in Barcelona. At the end of March, Madrid had fallen too. Despite Churchill’s advice to Franco to show moderation in victory, thousands of supporters of the Republic were being summarily shot. Mussolini had told Franco to show no mercy to any Italians who had fought on the opposite side. Some had escaped into France, but were being interred under terrible conditions in camps that were riddled with disease. Many were dying.

When Rosa turned into Via Tornabuoni, she noticed people were spilling out of the cafés or gathered around radios inside the stores. But the blood was pounding too loudly in her ears to hear what they were saying. She arrived at the shop and found Orietta sitting with her head on the desk, sobbing. She steeled herself for the worst but knew that she would crumble when she heard it.

Orietta looked at Rosa with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Piero and Roberto are dead,’ she said. ‘They were killed in Barcelona.’

The words hit Rosa like a blow to the chest. She covered her mouth with her hand and almost swooned. Piero! Kind-hearted Piero. She couldn’t believe it. She saw in her mind the man who had been like a brother to her, saw him holding Sibilla on his lap and singing to her. Impossible! And Roberto too. Rosa hadn’t liked him but she was sorry for his death. He had given his life for a noble cause.

Her eyes met Orietta’s tear-stained ones. ‘Luciano?’ she asked, her lips trembling. The moment she spoke his name, she felt his warm flesh brush against her arm. She saw him standing by the Arno with the sunlight dancing around him. All her memories of him were imbued with life. It wasn’t possible that he was dead.

Orietta shook her head. ‘Carlo doesn’t know. They were separated.’

Rosa took Orietta’s hands and they sobbed together. At least they could mourn Piero and Roberto and be grateful for Carlo’s return. But to have no word about Luciano was torture. From what Rosa had heard, a soldier in Spain would be better off dead than captured. The two women were still grasping each other when a customer walked into the shop. He started when he saw their stricken faces.

‘So you’ve heard the news?’ he asked.

Rosa recognised the man as Signor Lagorio, a friend of the Trevis. She couldn’t comprehend what he was saying.

Signor Lagorio shook his head. ‘This is the end of all Europe. Germany has marched into Poland.’

Rosa was in too much pain to take in anything more. She was stunned for a moment before she realised what Signor Lagorio had said. The British and the French will not stand for it, she thought. They had allowed Hitler to get away with Czechoslovakia but they would have to stop the tyrant now.

‘Are we at war then?’ asked Orietta, wiping her face.

‘Not yet,’ answered Signor Lagorio. ‘Mussolini has declared Italy as non-belligerent.’

‘But what about all the pacts Mussolini has been making with Hitler?’ Rosa asked. ‘It’s impossible for Italy to remain neutral if Britain and France declare war on Germany.’

Signor Lagorio gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? But no, that is not the nature of our leader. All this military posturing has been to bolster his ego. It’s clear that Italy is not equipped to go to war. I’ll tell you what he will do. Once the
fighting begins, he’ll look at which side is winning and join them just before victory is declared.’

Rosa was shocked that the world was collapsing into war, although she understood now that the domino effect had been occurring for years. But she was even more shocked that Signor Lagorio derided Mussolini openly. When she ran errands in the afternoon, she heard similar sentiments voiced at the post office and the bank.

‘The Germans are a brutal lot,’ she overheard one woman whisper to another in line at the post office. ‘We are better off siding with the British and French. At least they are civilised.’

People cited Hitler’s policies towards the Jews. They thought the British were better fighters and that Italy had more in common with France. The Italians had wanted glory, they had wanted an empire. But they did not want an alliance with Germany.

When Rosa reached the tranquillity of her home, she slipped into the drawing room before going to greet the children. She sat on the sofa and covered her face with her hands. She cried so much for Piero, Roberto and Luciano that her sides felt bruised and her throat became parched. She knew that she had to expend the grief she had inside her before Antonio came home. He would be understanding that she was upset about the unknown fate of her former lover and the death of her friends, but Rosa felt somehow that it would not be respectful and would hurt him even if he didn’t show it. He had his pride, after all.

‘Luciano!’ Rosa wept. ‘How foolish we have all been!’

Luciano and Roberto had been right to try to get rid of Mussolini all those years ago instead of waiting until disaster was on Italy’s doorstep. But few people had supported the anti-fascists. Many had informed on them in the days when they had seen Mussolini as a god who was going to elevate them all. Now it was very clear that Mussolini was a devil, intent on dragging his people into hell.

I
n April 1940, Germany invaded Denmark and Norway, and the following month entered Holland, Belgium and France. As Signor Lagorio had predicted, these rapid victories enticed Mussolini to declare war on the side of Germany in case he missed out on any of the spoils. Despite their abhorrence of Hitler, the Italian people took to the streets and cheered:
‘Duce! Duce!
War! War!’

Rosa and Antonio watched the nightmare unfold from the seats of the Cinema Veneto in Florence. The newsreels had been sent from Germany and dubbed into Italian. Rosa wept at the sight of Belgian refugees fleeing in their cars or pushing wheelbarrows loaded up with frightened children and forlorn-looking pets. She couldn’t help thinking of her own children as well as Allegra and Ambrosio. She and Antonio held each other as a Dutch child, no more than four years old, was shown searching amongst the ruins of her house for her family. ‘The German people can be grateful that because of the Führer nothing like this will happen to us,’ the commentator announced.

‘My God!’ cried Rosa through clenched teeth.

Antonio squeezed her hand. ‘I know,’ he said, tears choking his voice.

Rosa understood what he was trying to tell her. There were probably spies in the cinema, looking out for sympathetic reactions.

‘Is feeling compassion for that child unpatriotic?’ she whispered.

‘Unfortunately, in Italy’s eyes now, she is the enemy.’

On their way home, Antonio linked his arm with Rosa’s and said, ‘You know, many years ago I read an article about Mussolini and how heartbroken he was when his daughter contracted polio. He moved his office next to the bedroom where she was being treated and was unable to sleep or eat. I thought of Sibilla and how we suffered when she was ill. For a while there, Mussolini seemed almost human. But a human being with feelings couldn’t do what he is doing.’

‘How can he feel love for his own child and nothing for the children being killed or left as orphans because of his greed?’ Rosa replied. She didn’t understand that sort of coldness. Because she loved her own children and animals, she felt compassion for
all
children and
all
animals.

When they arrived home, Rosa and Antonio sat together in the drawing room. Giuseppina had put the children to bed and she and Ylenia had retired for the evening. Rosa was grateful. She was in shock, and being alone with Antonio meant she could give free rein to her fears.

‘So it begins?’ she said. ‘We are in league with the Germans. We have blood on our hands, like them.’

‘Mussolini is nothing more than Hitler’s dupe,’ said Antonio. ‘He only introduced the laws against Jews teaching in universities and marrying Christians to please Hitler. I wish somebody had assassinated Il Duce before this.’

Rosa thought of her friend Sibilla. Brave people had tried and they had suffered for it.

‘I’m worried,’ she said. ‘Your grandparents were Jewish and so was Nonno.’

‘I’m not a Jew by anyone’s definition,’ said Antonio. ‘My cousins only went to Switzerland because there was no intermarriage on their side of the family. They are pure Jews.’

‘But the Germans are forever broadening their definition to include more people,’ Rosa said. ‘Conversions are not considered valid because it’s about race not religion. What will Mussolini do next now that we are allies with Germany?’

Rosa could see in the way Antonio hunched his shoulders that he was concerned too, despite his attempts to reassure her.

‘I’ve heard that in Germany, instead of having three Jewish grandparents, now one Jewish grandparent is all that is necessary to be outcast,’ she continued. ‘By that definition, not only was Nonno Jewish but so are you and the twins.’

Antonio sighed. ‘If it comes to that, Enzo has said that we can stay with him and Renata in Lugano. It’s a shame you never had a chance to meet my cousins. They are good people.’

Rosa stood up. Doing things sooner rather than later was the wisdom she had learnt from Luciano. ‘I don’t want to wait until it’s too late, Antonio,’ she said. ‘I want you to go to Switzerland as soon as possible.’

‘Not without you,’ he replied. ‘I’m not separating the family. If the children and I go, we all go.’

Rosa steeled herself. ‘I will come later. We will need money. Who knows if we can get work in Switzerland, and Enzo and Renata will be in the same situation. They are older and we might have to support them. If the laws get worse, thousands of Jews will flee to Switzerland. The government there might close the borders. If I stay here, I can keep the shop going as long as possible and send more money to you.’

‘No!’ said Antonio, rising to his feet. ‘It’s out of the question! I’m not leaving you here on your own. Even if nothing happens with the Jewish laws, it’s only a matter of time before the British start bombing Florence.’

Rosa rubbed her forehead. There was another reason she wanted to stay. She took Antonio’s hands. ‘We have to put the children first,’ she said. ‘Because of my record as an enemy of the state, it is unlikely they will let me out of the country. They will think I’m intending to join Giustizia e Libertà in Paris.’

Antonio shook his head. ‘Then we’ll obtain a false passport.’

‘Please,’ begged Rosa, swallowing the lump in her throat. ‘I will jeopardise everyone’s safety. You go with the children. I will do my best to follow you.’

Antonio walked to the window and stared out at the street. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he turned back to Rosa. ‘I will take the children to Switzerland. But as soon as I have settled them and organised their schooling, I will return to Florence. Whatever we face, Rosa, we’ll face it together.’

Rosa had no choice but to agree. She didn’t want Antonio to return because he was in danger as much as the twins. But perhaps she could persuade him to stay once he was in Switzerland.

Antonio pressed his palm to his forehead. ‘Who knows, this might be all for nothing. The war might be over in a month.’

When Rosa watched her husband and children board the train for Switzerland that hot August day, she knew that her dream of a peaceful family life had vanished. No one could guarantee anyone’s safety. Giuseppina had agreed to go with them, and was trying to balance Ambrosio in one arm while carrying Allegra in her cane basket in the other. The twins, who were under the impression they were only going away for the day, itched with a sense of adventure.

‘Lugano!’ said Lorenzo, pretending to be holding the reins of his rocking horse. ‘We are going to see a big lake!’

Antonio had bought everyone a gelato at the café, which had been full of soldiers bidding farewell to their loved ones. Giorgio, always the slowest eater, was still licking his ice-cream. ‘Lugano!’ he said, beaming at Rosa.

Sibilla, in contrast to the twins, looked stricken. No matter how gently Rosa had tried to explain it, Sibilla understood they were going away because of the war and that she would not see her mother for some time. Rosa knelt down to straighten her daughter’s skirt.

‘Zia Renata is a very kind woman,’ Rosa told her. ‘She will look after you well and you must do all that you can to help her. Babbo
will organise a piano and ballet teacher for you. It will be fun. I’ve heard the city is beautiful. How fortunate you are to be able to see it! You must write to me and tell me all about the Swiss: what they are like and what foods they eat.’

Sibilla’s chin trembled and then, with her characteristic self-mastery, she suppressed her tears. ‘Yes, Mamma. I will do all that I can to help Zia Renata and I will work hard on my music and dancing.’

Rosa’s heart ached. At what point did children learn to hide how they felt? Surely this was when they became adults; not when they reached adolescence?

Once the children, Giuseppina and the animals were on board the crowded train, Antonio turned to Rosa. ‘The trains are running on slow timetables. I will send you a telegram as soon as we arrive. If anyone asks after me, say that I am away on a business trip and will be back soon.’

Rosa nodded. Antonio took out his handkerchief and dabbed at her tears before embracing her.

‘I’ll come back as soon as I can. We will get through this together.’

The train whistle sounded. Antonio held Rosa tightly to him then broke away to climb aboard the already moving train.

‘Bye-bye, Mamma!’ Giorgio shouted, waving his teddy bear out the window.

‘Lugano!’ cried Lorenzo.

Giuseppina waved and held Ambrosio to the window. Antonio blew another kiss from the train door. Rosa caught sight of Sibilla standing next to him. She looked bereft. Sibilla’s self-control had vanished when the train started moving. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Rosa almost doubled over with the pain of saying goodbye to them all. She had done everything she could to keep her family safe but, when the train disappeared from sight, she was enveloped by a feeling of dread.

Rosa’s suspicion that Mussolini would intensify his persecution of Jews after entering the war was correct. He had been openly friendly with the Jewish population in his early days, welcoming them as members of the Fascist Party and flaunting the Jewish mistress who had helped him rise to power. Suddenly he was claiming that Jews were anti-fascists and enemies of Italy. Even so, the country was still removed from the horrors taking place elsewhere in Europe.

Orietta arrived at the shop one day, looking pale.

‘Are you all right?’ Rosa asked her.

Orietta shook her head. ‘I’ve heard the most appalling news.’

‘Is there any good news these days?’ Rosa asked. ‘What’s happened?’

Orietta checked there were no customers in the shop before answering. ‘The Croatians have been slaughtering the Jews…in the
thousands.
Men, women, children, old people. Everyone. Some Italian officers have been trying to help refugees into the Italian-occupied zones to protect them from the Ustaše.’

‘How do you know so much?’ Rosa asked. ‘Are you listening to the foreign radio?’

Orietta shook her head. ‘Carlo told me. He heard through his contacts with Giustizia e Libertà who got their information through British intelligence.’

Rosa sat back, trying to take in the news. This wasn’t a war about territory. It was about race. It was going to be a bloodbath.

‘Are Giustizia e Libertà still active in Florence?’ she asked. ‘Do they still need people to pass out pamphlets?’

‘No, Rosa!’ Orietta said, guessing what her friend was going to ask next. ‘You have to think about your family. That’s why Carlo won’t come near you. Someone might recognise him from Spain and it would compromise you because of your record.’

‘But I’m alone now,’ said Rosa. ‘I want to help. I wish I had done something sooner. I wish I had supported Luciano better.’

‘No!’ insisted Orietta. ‘Luciano never asked that of you, and I’m not letting you get involved now.’

‘But
you
are?’ Rosa said. ‘I know you are up to something. I can see the circles under your eyes. You’re not getting much sleep.’

‘I’m a single woman,’ Orietta said. ‘I’m not placing anyone else at risk.’

Rosa sighed. ‘I
can’t stand
being one of those people who complacently wait, doing nothing to help others and hoping that the war won’t affect their lives too much.’

‘You’re not getting involved, Rosa,’ Orietta said firmly. ‘They don’t send political dissenters to prison any more. They shoot them on the spot. I don’t want your children growing up without a mother.’

Despite Rosa’s protests for Antonio to stay in Switzerland after helping the children to settle, he returned to Florence at the same time the Italian army launched its blitzkrieg against Greece.

‘The whole thing is a disaster,’ Antonio told her. ‘The Greeks have forced the Italian army back beyond their own territory. The British have been sinking our navy, and meanwhile the Ministry of War still closes two hours every day for a
siesta!’

Rosa heard from Orietta that Mussolini had jumped into the war without a plan or preparation and was now leaving the battle strategies up to his generals. Meanwhile, he was romping around with his new mistress and was frequently out of contact because he was translating the novel
I promessi sposi
into German.

‘You know,’ said Rosa, ‘I finally understand what the slogan “Mussolini is always right” means. If things go well, Mussolini takes the credit. If they don’t, he blames the Italian people.’

To Rosa’s amazement, despite the shortages of food and petrol that were growing worse, she and Antonio were able to keep the shop running. They weren’t selling the large items of furniture but the smaller, luxurious ones: bronze and ormolu candlesticks; mosaic picture frames; majolica chargers; Murano glass hand mirrors; statues of angels and cupids. They were things people could fit into a car, a trunk or even a pocket. All the antiques on display in the store were Italian. Antonio had stored away the
French trumeau mirror, the Louis XV side tables, the English walnut chest. It wouldn’t have seemed appropriate to be admiring the enemy’s craftsmanship.

‘It’s like I’m trying to hold onto the last bit of beautiful Italy,’ one customer told Antonio and Rosa. She had purchased a magnificent Italian faïence urn with scenes of people in flowing robes sitting near a river. The handles were a pair of satyr figures. ‘If I’m killed in the war, I want to be buried with this.’

Rosa showed the customer to the door and watched her walk down Via Tornabuoni. She had beautiful golden hair and skin like alabaster. In her gold brocade dress she was a piece of gilded art herself. What she had said reminded Rosa of a subversive cartoon someone had painted on the wall of the post office. In it, British aircraft were bombing Florence and the Italian people were rushing to the Uffizi gallery and crying over the paintings.

‘Rosa?’ said Antonio. She turned around and saw that he was holding up an empire-period charger with doves in the centre and an arrow and wheat motif border. ‘I saved this for you,’ he said. ‘It’s an anniversary present.’

Rosa took the platter in her hands. Peace in the midst of war and starvation, she thought. Then, looking at Antonio, she said, ‘It’s beautiful. You know what I like so well. But it’s not our anniversary yet.’