The Golden Hour (9 page)

Rosa had been our kitchen maid for many years. She and her husband, Geppe, raised four children on our land, living in a small apartment in the lower part of the villa. In the years we lived in the city all winter, they would look after the main house. Three of their children were still at home. But the Germans had captured their oldest son, Gigi, only fourteen, in one of their roundups after our surrender to the Allies last September. In fact, German soldiers were still frequently driving through the villages, combing the area for able-bodied boys to send to Germany or northern Italy to work; boys were constantly on the lookout, living in fear of being snatched up. It had been almost ten months since Gigi had disappeared. Rosa was worried sick about him, but she and Geppe stayed on, working faithfully, now forced to wait on the officers living downstairs. She loved Giorgio, and I hoped that, like Catarina, this might give her something positive to focus on.

Rosa was a tender soul, discreet and unobtrusive, who moved about with the stealth of a furtive rat. A smile rarely graced her lips, and she carried herself like a court aristocrat, her posture proud and correct. Her face was chiseled, its sharp features casting deep shadows that gave her a hollow, somewhat wasted air. As if to spite her name, her complexion was a sickly olive drab. Her waved, glossy coiffure might have been carved in marble, so consistent was its outline, so rarely a hair out of place. She wore a blue-and-white uniform starched to stiff perfection, and rubber-soled shoes that allowed her to approach without a sound, to come and go without interrupting whatever discussion or activity was happening around her.

Her kitchen, larder, and cellars were immaculate, everything in its place—piled, stacked, stashed, and labeled so that not a square inch of space was wasted. Rosa knew to the ounce or teaspoon how much of anything she had; she anticipated the shelf life of every ingredient to the day, and she ensured their use well before they spoiled by rotating recipes. That was why I had avoided raiding our own kitchen for the first week’s supplies. Rosa would have noticed something missing the minute it disappeared. No, there was only one option now: I had to bring Rosa into my confidence, make her a partner in the enterprise.

I tentatively poked my head around the corner of the first-floor kitchen when I arrived home. Rosa stood at the counter, her back to me, kneading a pile of flour and eggs into pasta dough for supper.

“Rosa?” I was keenly aware of the value of her time. As children, we had learned to keep our distance, to respect her territory. She turned her head briskly, her white-powdered hands still hovering over the emerging dough. No answer. She turned back to her task.

“Rosa, may I speak with you a moment?” I waited a beat. “It’s important.”

“Not now, Giovanna.”

I came up next to her, as if to examine the pasta dough, and stood there for a few minutes. I took a deep breath. “I’m in touch with Giorgio.”

Her hands froze. I knew what was going on inside her. If Giorgio was alive, if he was safe, then maybe there was hope for Gigi as well. “Tell me.” She took up the kneading again, leaning her weight into it, turning and pressing the elastic mass.

So I stood there next to her as she worked. In a low voice, barely looking at her, I brought her up-to-date. She took it all in, asking no questions, her face unmoving, her eyes trained on her task. Once she looked up. “Does your mother know?”

“Oh, no, she mustn’t. She would tell Papa, and he might force me to reveal their location. No, this must be kept a secret between us. I just know I can trust you.” I didn’t tell her about Catarina being in on the secret.

She mulled it over as she slowly turned the crank of the roller, feeding the long strip of flat dough carefully into the mouth of the hand-cranked machine. Minutes passed. I helped her catch the soft, pliable strips of dough, draping them over my arms, setting them aside to be cut into long noodles.

At last she stopped working and turned toward me. Her face showed no emotion; her eyes seemed not to blink at all. “There are two rules.”

I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to jump for joy.

“You will never—ever—take anything I have not prepared for you.”

“Of course not, Rosa.”

“And you will not tell Giorgio or anyone else I am involved.”

“If you like. I promise.” I knew better than to hug her or even take her hand. “You won’t regret it, Rosa. That much I know.”

R
osa—dear, trusted, dour Rosa—became my touchstone, the axis around which my new world revolved. Every afternoon after working at the school, I would stop by and check in with her. I was never sure how she managed to spare such quantities of food, but one day she handed me a whole sack of dried beans, the next a dozen potatoes and a kilo or two of rice. There were onions from the garden, some garlic and shallots, and dried pasta in various shapes and sizes. We exchanged few words. I simply took the food, loaded it into the bag I carried daily, and then—either on the way to school the next morning or over the lunch hour—traced the well-worn path to the Santinis’.

Life there had changed in recent months, and—I’m sorry to say—it worked to my advantage. Luigi’s mother was very ill, spending more and more time in her second-floor rooms with their heavy velvet curtains pulled tight against the light. It was perhaps because of her illness that, at least until now, they had been spared from German occupation. Signor Santini was in residence, overseeing his vineyards and wine-making operations, but he kept
regular hours focused on the winery and the new caves, far from the old cellar.

I could approach from the rear adjoining property, skirt the potting shed, and approach the trapdoor virtually unseen. There was a rusted iron ring attached to the door that lay barely visible in the long grass. I always held my breath, anticipating the loud creak of the loose hinges as the door swung up and back. Down a few earthen steps was a hollowed-out room lined with rotting wooden shelves that once held small barrels of aging wine. They stood empty now, laced with cobwebs. The dirt floor was littered with droppings, small bones, and tufts of rodent hair. I had taken over a couple of the cleaner shelves and quickly learned to be in and out, depositing the new supplies in less than a minute. I worried about Luigi and his brother and sister, but they never seemed to be about, so I soon forgot about them as I gained rhythm and confidence in the routine.

I would watch the pile grow to a satisfying stash, and then, a few days later, I would find the cellar empty. I presumed that Giorgio or one of his comrades had come and retrieved it all during the night. I left that day’s offering with a full heart. But one Friday, everything changed.

I was feeling useful in my new venture and right as rain, as if I were a legitimate soldier in a patriotic movement. That wholeness and sense of purpose carried over into my life at school. Working with the children was no longer my only role in the war. In fact, when I thought of them and their silly games, I couldn’t help but feel that they were keeping me from a higher calling, that I was superior to the work. The fact that I was risking myself to deliver crucial supplies to the partisans gave me a margin of moral capital that I felt I could spend as I wished. In retrospect, it explained why I decided to take the initiative with Klaus, to tempt both myself and him in a way that I knew was dangerous.

Wednesday morning I had left home very early to drop off a delivery. When I arrived at school, no one was around. So I scribbled a note—
I’ll be in the kitchen after lunch today. See you at two p.m.?
—folded it several times, and left it on Klaus’s desk with a sprig of pink bougainvillea. After it was done, I agonized, but there was no getting the note back. I had the option not to show up, but that felt even more dangerous. I didn’t want to anger him in any way.

At two o’clock there I was, self-consciously wiping the counters and appliances as if to be simply tidying the place. He came in quietly, having left his jacket behind. We were alone. This time he put an arm around my waist right away, led me into the corner, and kissed me before either one of us could change our minds. I felt molten metal oozing into the far reaches of my lower body. I ran my hands down the thin shirt over his back, lodging them into the tight place under his belt at the back of his waist.

“Giovanna.” His breath was uneven. “I have an idea.”

“You do?” I smiled up at him. “What kind of an idea?”

“Of how we can have some real time together.” He kissed me again, on top of my head, then on my ear. “You would like that?”

I nodded, not sure whether to give in to the excitement I felt or listen to the fear that gnawed at my stomach.

“We’ll have a picnic here at the school on Friday—in the evening after work, when everyone has gone. I’ll arrange it all. You need only to find a reason to stay late and not to go home for supper.” He smoothed my hair back down around my ears and rested his hands on my shoulders. “I promise it will be safe. You will come?”

Over the next couple of days, I avoided Klaus as best I could. I either pretended it hadn’t happened at all, that we didn’t have a plan, or that I was planning when and how to call it off. Yet I was
afraid he would change his mind. It was insanely dangerous; I knew that. Nevertheless, in my mind I had managed to separate Klaus from his compatriots, the rough-talking occupiers who lived in our house, who I knew were threatening the lives of our friends and acquaintances, who were making life miserable for us in every way.

With great excitement Violetta agreed to let me sleep over on Friday. I didn’t tell her about Klaus, only that my family expected me to stay home for supper and that I would come after that. To complete my cover, I needed now only to work on my parents.

I came into the tiny parlor. Papa was sitting hunched over the radio, which was turned down very low. He put his finger to his lips and gave me a little wave of his hand, so I stood there waiting and listening with him. The announcer was broadcasting from newly liberated Rome, detailing the progress of the Allies, now working their way into eastern Tuscany.

That was all far to the south of us and all the way across Italy, but my heart leaped with excitement and hope. There had been steady progress reported each day, but it never seemed to change the heavy blanket of occupation that lay suffocating our own beleaguered region. At last Father looked up. He was distracted, his face creased with worry and confusion.

“They are coming, aren’t they?” I offered tentatively.

“Who knows,
piccola,
who knows?” He pinched the top of his nose between his fingers. “The Germans have doubled their defenses south of us. They are strong and determined. We must never let them see that we are looking toward Allied victory. You know that.”

I looked away from him at the floor.

“Did you want to ask me something?”

“Yes, Father, I…” He looked suddenly so vulnerable, so
reduced,
perched on his chair, hemmed in by war. Love and concern flooded over me, and I felt a stab of shame that there was so much about my life at that moment that he didn’t know or have any part
of. But I pressed on. I heard my own voice, coming from some source beyond me, casual and upbeat. “I wanted to let you know that Violetta and I want to spend tomorrow night at her house in the village. It’s been so long, and I need a little change of scenery.” I looked him straight in the eye, and I even felt a little smile lift the corners of my mouth.

He looked at me. “Well, I don’t know why not.” He stood up, leaned toward the radio, and turned it off. “There’s a curfew on the streets, of course.”

“Oh, I know that, Father. We’ll be inside.”

He nodded. “I’ll let your mother know. She’s gone to bed early.”

I rushed to him and threw my arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, Papa.” As I held him, my own duplicity pressed up in my throat and made me step back and turn away. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

After Friday’s lunch, I set off from home, lugging an overnight satchel that was heavier than usual. It concealed, in addition to my change of clothes, at least a dozen potatoes and a kilo of rice, which I dropped through the trapdoor on my way back to school. As I reached the school’s gate, I ran into the two sisters coming the other way.

“Going somewhere?” Sister Graziella looked down at my bag with a curious smile.

“Oh, Violetta and I are planning a night together at her house,” I said lightly, avoiding her eyes.

“How nice, dear. Give her my best, won’t you?” She patted me affectionately on the back. I stole a look at Sister Elena, who paid no attention to the exchange.

Then everything fell into place as easily as a perfect game of solitaire. We had an extra-large number of compositions left at the
end of the day, so I volunteered to stay late and finish correcting them.

“Are you sure Violetta isn’t expecting you?” asked Sister Graziella.

“No, Sister. She lives close to the school, so I’ll have some extra time. It’s no problem.” I watched both her and Sister Elena leave by the front gate.

Shortly after that, as the soldiers began quitting too, the air was alive with loud laughter, slamming doors, jeep engines starting up. Otto was the second-to-last to leave. He clipped the leash onto Panzer, calling a bit of something in German to Klaus. Had Klaus asked him to take the dog home that day? Then he was gone as well, and I knew it was just the two of us.