The Golden Hour (17 page)

I
had been watching the marchesa closely ever since I had begun working at the clinic. For someone in her position, she seemed not to care about what she wore or how she presented herself; she was utterly absorbed by the demands of the work she had to do. Yet she was also the kindest, most generous person I had ever met. She always took the time to stop at each bedside and chat with the patients. And I knew from Violetta that she also welcomed meetings with the volunteers one on one, to encourage them and give them any help they needed.

So I was not surprised when she approached me as I wheeled my bicycle into the thicket later that afternoon. Beaming, she threw her arms out wide. “Isn’t it a beautiful day? It’s so good to see you here, Giovanna. I can’t tell you how appreciative I am.” Her face darkened, took on a more serious air. “How is it going for you, my young friend? Is there anything you need? These are hard times, and we all need to support one another.”

“Oh, no…everything is just fine, thank you.” I smiled politely. “I’m just glad to be able to help.” I wanted to trust her. In fact, I admired her so much, something made me want to show her
I was a person who took herself seriously, who had a role in this war just like she did.

“You can’t fool me, you know.” She moved closer to me. “I pride myself on having better than average intuition. Do I detect a tiny hesitation in your response?”

I tucked the bike under a big branch. Dared I prod her a bit? She knew so much about the area, and, no doubt, she understood all aspects of the war. I turned to walk beside her. “Well, actually, there is something I’ve been wondering about.”

“What is that, dear?”

“I know you have been so generous with all the escaped prisoners of war who have come through here—the English and the Americans especially.”

“You know my mother was American and my father English. It seems right for me to help them.”

I hesitated. “Have you ever had any…” I forced myself to say the words. “Have you had any Jewish people ask for your help?”

She took my arm and turned so that we were walking away from the clinic toward a bench that sat next to the entrance of the chapel. She said nothing until we were sitting down. “Giovanna.” She spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. “You know that we are in great danger here, taking in these prisoners and wounded soldiers.”

“Of course I do.”

“And I am dedicated to the work we are doing.”

“I know. I have so much respect for you.”

“But the Jews. That is a risk of a different order. There is something so sinister, so
beyond
war, in the threats to them. I just don’t know what to make of it.”

“But have you had any come here?”

“I will tell you that yes, I have.”

“Are they here?”

She looked away from me. “No.” She shook her head a little, as if reassuring herself. “They are not. I just didn’t feel—how should I
say this?—that I was the right person to deal with their situation.” She combed her curly hair back from her forehead with her fingers. “I was in enough danger with the work we were already doing.”

“But what did you do?” I said. “Where did you send them?”

There was a pause before the marchesa looked directly into my eyes.

“Giovanna, where are your sympathies in all of this? How do you feel?”

“Oh,” I said quickly, “I believe they should be helped in any way possible.”

“In that case, I’ll tell you.” The marchesa took a deep breath, then continued. “I referred them to the Church. Believe it or not, it is the Church that is doing the most work in this area.”

I nearly fell off the bench. “What do you mean exactly by ‘the Church’?”

“There are several priests in the region, both in the countryside and in Lucca, who are involved—who refer people to citizens who will hide them, who even hide them themselves on church property. I’ve heard there are convents too, that many nuns are proving to be heroines in this thing.”

Nuns? Could it be that Sister Graziella and her compatriots were housing any Jews at the convent of Saint Agnes? How could I have managed to damage the one relationship that could possibly help me?

I stood up. I had to talk to Sister Graziella right away. “Thank you, Marchesa. I appreciate your trusting me with this information. I need to get back to the supply room.”

She reached out her hand. “Is there a specific reason you wanted to know?”

“Oh, well, no, I…” I started to lie to her, but I knew I owed her more than that. I owed her at least the same dignity and openness with which she had treated me. “Let’s just say that I know of a situation in which some shelter might be necessary,
but”—I started walking back toward the hospital—“this is something I can handle on my own.”

“Good for you, Giovanna. You’re a woman of heart and courage.” She put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me to her. “Just know that you can come to me anytime if you need advice—or even just encouragement.”

I didn’t want to appear at the convent empty-handed, so I persuaded Rosa to sacrifice a jar of her lavender honey. I took a small cracked pitcher from the larder as well, gathered a bouquet of roses, cornflowers, and dahlias from the garden, and laid them in my bag.

On my bicycle the tree-lined driveway seemed longer and much steeper than it had in the horse-drawn cart. I could feel my anxiety mounting. At the top of the hill, next to the gravel courtyard, I spied a rusted pump in the corner of the garden. I filled the small pitcher with water and arranged the flowers as artfully as I could. All the while, I rehearsed lines of contrition, of gratitude, of devotion, as I fought down the fear that Sister Elena would be there and somehow haunt and spoil the upcoming reunion.

At last, I rapped three times, my knuckles making only a faint sound on the great door. After a moment or two, the same compact little nun raised the latch on the inside and swung it open.

“Oh, yes, Giovanna. Graziella is expecting you. What lovely flowers!”

There was no one else around. The air was stale, and the walls gave off a faint odor of mildew. Our footsteps echoed as I followed the little nun down the corridor to the same parlor where Sister Graziella and I had met before. She ushered me in, then closed the door, leaving me alone to wait. I set the bouquet of flowers and the honey on a low table and perched on the arm of one of the soft chairs. My hands were cold. I folded them in my lap, then crossed my legs and pressed my fingers between my thighs to warm them.
The small desk with its drawer of stationery loomed in the corner. Filmy drapery billowed at the open window, and a rooster crowed somewhere nearby.

This room was so formal and elegant. The whole place reeked of
righteousness
. It was impossible that the nuns were hiding Jews anywhere within its cloistered walls. What a silly notion, a preposterous idea. The marchesa must be mistaken, I thought.

There was a firm double rap, and the doorknob clicked. “Come in!” I said, more brightly than the occasion warranted. I stood up quickly.

Sister Graziella did not smile. Her habit swished as she walked purposefully over to the armchair beside mine. “Sit down, Giovanna. Please.” No mention of the honey or the flowers.

She sat there without speaking, her hands in her lap and her eyes closed. Was she praying? The rooster crowed again. More silence. Her face, her mouth and cheeks, sagged in utter relaxation; her breath became even and slow.

Slowly my own eyes closed, and I too began to resign myself to this shared silence. My head was full of questions, and my brain bounced like a tennis ball from one to another: Was she angry with me? Did she even know about the note? What had Sister Elena told her? Why had she not acknowledged the gifts I had so carefully brought along? A beam of sunlight from the window behind us moved slowly, creeping gradually across my shoulder, warming my back. My own breath calmed, dulling my nerves. Soon my questions faded; there was only the warmth of the sun, the breathing, and silence.

At last—after maybe fifteen or twenty minutes—Graziella’s arm lifted, made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” she murmured. “Amen.” We opened our eyes together. She studied me for a moment or two.

“Tell me who you are, Giovanna.”

“Who I am?” What was I to make of this question?

“Yes.” She was serious, patient.

“Well, let’s see.” I giggled a little. “I am the seventeen-year-old daughter of Natala and Enrico Bellini….I am the younger sister of Giorgio….I am a friend of Violetta…a keeper of the supply closet at the marchesa’s clinic. I am—” I stopped, not sure how to go on. None of that seemed to matter right now—to me or to her. I tried again.

“I am a person who…hates this war.”

“Go on.”

“I am someone who sees the huge injustices of it—the Germans’ tactics, their evil goals. I want to make a difference, to do what I can to stop them.”

“And?”

“My brother is fighting for a just cause, and I want to support him. And I have just learned what they are doing to the Jews, and I want—”

She held up her hand to stop me. “All right. So you, Giovanna, are a child of God. You are here to do God’s work in the world. You know that.”

I nodded.

“You need to listen carefully to what comes from deep within your heart. And you must act from that source and no other. Do you understand?”

I nodded again.

She stood up and began pacing back and forth. “Sister Elena showed me the note you wrote to Lieutenant Eisenmann. I would guess that you regret doing that, but I am afraid, Giovanna, that you must nonetheless make restitution for it. You deceived me and your parents; you used our convent stationery for your own devious ends. Is that correct?”

I nodded, staring at the floor. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are. I truly do. But that does not change the need to make amends. Do you know how to use a broom?”

And so it was I learned that each morning for the next three
weeks I was to show up at the convent and sweep the floors. I was to do it prayerfully, Sister Graziella explained. I was to focus on only the task at hand, the rhythmic back-and-forth of the broom, the growing pile of dust, the gradually gleaming stone or shining tiles. Worse, I was to tell my parents exactly where I was going and why. “Tell them about the letter,” she instructed.

My encounter with Sister Graziella stayed with me. I felt as if I had taken on a kind of internal ballast. I thought often of the interval of shared silence until it became a refuge of sorts. If I began to worry or become anxious, I would try to recapture the calm and centeredness of our time together, breathe deeply, and let her words echo in my head:
Listen carefully to what comes from deep within your heart. You must act from that source and no other
….