The Golden Hour (32 page)

“I had lived in Italy for most of my life. I was married to an Italian. I felt so shamed and embarrassed that I nearly burst into tears.”

I stood up, enraged all over again at Father. “God, that is so like him. I’m so sorry. Leonardo must have been furious in your defense.”

“He tried to laugh it off, to pacify Enrico with humor. ‘I sometimes feel like I’ve got Churchill under the covers with me,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘But don’t worry about Lily. She’s with us, not against us.’”

She paused, remembering. “I decided soon after, since I lived in Italy, to abide by its laws. I would do what I could in my own small way to alleviate suffering—which I’ve been able to do with the clinic. And for years now England has been fighting for our liberation.”

I nodded. “And Father. You’ve obviously learned how to handle him.”

“Oh, Enrico and I understand each other. He and I don’t see eye to eye, but we just give each other space. I decided long ago not to try to confront him directly.” She rose to her feet. “Which is why, my dear, I have so much respect for what you’ve just done.” She walked over to the garden doors with her back to me. “Violetta has moved back to the village with her family now that the evacuation’s over. What would you say if I gave you her room for the time being?”

“What about my parents?”

“Why don’t you let me talk with them? I think it’s my turn to show some courage.”

I was elated. I had a place to stay, at least for the moment. I jumped to my feet and gave the marchesa a kiss on both cheeks. “I’ll never forget this—you’ve done so much for me. How can I ever repay you?”

She waved the air again. “Why don’t you go pay a visit to your friend? Take him some
panettone
.” She winked. “It won’t kill him to commemorate Easter with us, now, will it?”

Balbina fixed me a platter of lamb, pasta, and cake—enough for both Mario and me to stuff ourselves in celebration of my own personal resurrection. I headed out across the fields to the tower, my heart leaping with expectation, filled with visions of a life opening up for Mario and me, however it might eventually unfold. I ran the last hundred feet or so as fast as I could, taking the stone treads two at a time. “Mario! Guess what! I’m here. I’m free. We can be together forever now.” But there was no answer. I reached the top of the stairs and found the tower room empty. He was gone.

I
ran back down and around the building, searching in the mill spaces at ground level, frantically pushing aside the underbrush that surrounded the tower. Back upstairs, Mario’s clothes were there; his books were left lying where I had last seen them. The diary he’d been keeping was there too. I opened it with shaking hands and thumbed to the last page, but there was no entry for Sunday. In fact, there was little notation at all for the last week or so, save occasional notes on the weather and his meals. He had vanished like a firefly—glowing one minute, gone the next.

I sat on the floor, my knees drawn up, leaning against the wall as we had done so often together. What could have happened? I considered the possibilities. Could Father have somehow discovered Mario’s hiding place? Could he have come looking for me there, found only Mario, and—in his anger—taken him off to the authorities? Or might the Germans have found him on their own and turned him over? Could Mario have gone looking for me at home, knowing it was Easter and wanting to share our celebration, and possibly been apprehended along the way? Or was he there
even now with my parents, facing their anger and rejection? Had Mario grown frustrated and tired of hiding and gone after Giorgio and his band? Had he sensed my confrontation with Father from afar and thought to remove himself from my life as quietly as possible? It even occurred to me that Easter Sunday was April first,
Pesce d’Aprile
—was this someone’s idea of a cruel joke?

None of these options was in the least bearable. I was sure this was a punishment for the moments of doubt I had had after I left home. If only I had come directly here, I might have found him, and we would be together now as we were meant to be. I got up and grabbed Mario’s pillow, hugged it to me, then beat it against the wall in an alternating fit of sadness and frustration. I curled on his bedroll, crushing the pillow to my face and sobbing into it, begging him to come back.

Both the marchesa and her husband did their best to comfort me in the days that followed. Together, we went over and over the various scenarios, gauging the likelihood of each, doing what we could to follow up, to learn the truth. The marchesa telephoned my mother early the next day, telling her that I was living there for the time being, and reassuring my parents of my safety. She said Mother had been frantic and was much relieved to hear from her. She decided not to mention Mario then, but instead urged Mother to come for a visit as soon as possible. She had no idea, she said, what my father’s state of mind might be.

The marchese began working his network of contacts—both trusted Italians and Allied troops—to see what he could learn. It was difficult, he said, because he had to avoid alerting the authorities to Mario’s existence or putting him in any more danger than he already was. But nothing turned up.

Then, two days later, on Wednesday, April 4, Leonardo went into the village as usual. When he returned, he had an anxious look
on his face and a letter clutched in his hand. He passed me a plain envelope, stamped and addressed to Villa Falconieri’s post office box, but clearly marked to be delivered to me personally. My heart jumped when I recognized Mario’s handwriting. The letter was hurriedly written, the paper creased and wrinkled with pitted holes, as if the pen had pierced it from writing on a rough surface.

I stared at the piece of paper, assaulted by wave after wave of feeling. I was terrified now, knowing he intended to throw himself right into the action, probably to seek out Giorgio and his partisan band, to head for the front lines and do what he could to help. But, in equal measure, I felt so proud of him, in awe of his courage, his nerve, his openhearted nature.

I handed the letter over in silence to the marchesa and to Leonardo and let them read it, the two of them hunched over the paper side by side. They took their time, holding the letter together.
Then they looked briefly at each other, and the marchesa released it into her husband’s hand. “Oh, Giovanna, I’m so sorry.” She wrapped me in her arms and held me to her.

“But damn it, he’s a hell of a man, your friend,” the marchese said. “I don’t know if I could do what he’s doing if I were in his situation.” He shook his head. “Life’s a lot more certain, reading books up in the tower.”

“But if he’s captured or killed, then what’s the point?” I said.

“But if he’s not, he’ll always know he contributed to their defeat, that he pulled his weight,” he retorted.

“But if he puts the partisans at extra risk by being there?”

“You just can’t worry about that at this point, Giovanna.” His tone was careful and solicitous. “The Germans are on their last legs. They’re basically in retreat. Maybe they won’t have time to worry about the Jews anymore; they’re so desperate to save themselves.”

“And maybe they’re so vindictive and angry they’ll shoot him on sight.” My words hung there like a bubble about to burst. We were standing in silence, looking at one another, not sure what to say next, when there was a knock at the door.

The marchesa gave me a sidelong glance. Then she lifted the latch and pulled it slowly open. “Natala,” she pronounced in a measured tone. “Won’t you come in?”

I stood against the opposite wall, watching silently as the two of them embraced. “I’m glad you decided to come,” said the marchesa, gently ushering Mother into the hall with an arm about her waist.

“I’m sorry to show up unannounced like this,” said Mother, “but Enrico left for town, and I just—” She stopped, midsentence, at the sight of me standing there.

“Hello, Mother.” My voice surprised me, sounding icy rather than sad.

“Oh, darling, it’s so good to see you.” Her face quivered into a
little smile, but her eyes were wary and guarded. She did not move toward me.

“Listen,” the marchesa broke in with an artificial lightness. “Why don’t you two come into the library? I’ll leave you alone and have Balbina fetch some coffee.”

“No, please,” I protested, but she propelled us down the hall toward the library’s carved wooden door.

“I’ll see you later,” she insisted with a bright tone, “but now you need some time together, just the two of you.” She closed the door behind us, and we settled stiffly into our seats. I chose the chair where the marchesa normally sat, and Mother perched on the sofa—a move that gave me an unexpected shot of confidence, a kind of psychological edge that tipped the balance between the two of us.

“What a delightful room.” I knew Mother was trying to break the ice. “The daffodils are so lovely out there, like little clumps of sunshine, aren’t they, dear?”

I did not respond, so Mother crossed her legs and leaned back against the cushions, staring out at the garden. Just then there was a rap at the door; Balbina pushed it open with her hip and bustled in, laying a tray with a pot of espresso, some hot steamed milk, and two cups on the low table in front of Mother. “Shall I pour it for you?” she asked.

“No, no. I’ll take care of it, thank you,” said Mother, sounding grateful for something to do.

Balbina excused herself, and Mother set about pouring us each a cup of coffee. “Sugar, dear?” she murmured absentmindedly, but then added quickly, “No, of course not. How silly of me. You never take it, do you?”

She sat again, and we sipped quietly, the clink of the cups against their saucers the only break in the silence. At last Mother put down her cup and looked right at me. She looked scared, which surprised me. “We miss you, Giovanna.”

“
We
, Mother?”

“Yes, of course, dear. We both do.” She stared out the window again for a moment, as if considering carefully her choice of words. “We love you very much.”

“I think that when you love someone, you want her to be happy.”

“Well, yes. Of course we want you to be happy. But”—she shifted a little on the couch and slid her hands under her knees—“you’ll understand this better when you have children of your own. Sometimes…” She hesitated. “Sometimes what you know will make your child happy is not the same as what she might imagine.”

“And by that you mean that you know better than I whom I should fall in love with?”

“Oh, no. I don’t mean that. Your father—that is,
we
…don’t have any particular person in mind. No.”

“But you know it’s not the person I love now.”

“Oh, dear—you’re making it sound so negative.”

“Well, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

“I’m only saying that in our judgment you would be happier without certain…impediments to deal with.”

“You mean life might be easier, but that doesn’t make for happiness, does it? Just because two people’s backgrounds are the same doesn’t mean they’ll necessarily be happy—far from it.” I thought for a moment. “Mario has warmth, a certain kind of spirit I love…Maybe it’s even caused by all the religious discomfort he’s faced. I’m talking about qualities I just didn’t see in the boys I grew up with.”

Mother picked up her cup and sipped, staring out the window.

I added, “Papa came from a very different background from yours. Why did you fall in love with him?”

She glanced away, and I thought I noticed a slight flush rise on her cheeks. “Well, he had a certain kind of…energy I liked.”

“Energy. You mean drive, don’t you? A kind of hunger that he couldn’t have had if he’d grown up rich like you?”

Her lips pulled together in a tight line. She shrugged. “Maybe. But we’ve never had to face the kinds of barriers you would have with Mario.”

“Mother, I don’t want to get into this again. You’re not going to convince me to forget about Mario. I love him. I want to marry him.” I put my cup and saucer down on the table. “That is, if I ever see him again.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t he hidden away somewhere near here?” Her eyes darted around, as if she were expecting him to pop out from behind a chair or the window drapes.

I shook my head. “Not anymore. He’s gone.” I told her about finding him gone on Easter Sunday, about the letter I had just received, about the marchese’s efforts to learn something. “I have no idea where he is.”

Mother sighed with a note of finality. “Well, then, dear, let’s go home. You have no more reason to keep up this silly separation from your father and me.” She stood. “After all, there may no longer be a problem.”

I stared at her, my mouth hanging open. “What are you implying? You mean because he might die?”