The Incident at Montebello (5 page)

“They're full of tricks. They change their names, take up fake identities, and use special invisible ink in their letters. Prefetto Balbi warned me. I'd be careful if I were you. You can't be too cautious around strangers especially from the North.”

“Yes, of course, I'll be careful,” she said. But in truth, she was more curious than afraid. Years before, her Zia Lucia was one of those strangers.

“And tell your papà we didn't miss him at the card game the other night. For once the lucky devil wasn't there and I won.”

With a nod, she tucked the letter in her pocket. Taking a bite of her apple, she stepped back into the sunshine crisscrossing the piazza. Up ahead, Blackshirts elbowed through the crowd and gathered around the fruit seller, pushing and shoving him until one of them drew back his fist and smashed it into Tiberio's chin. After a flurry of punches, Tiberio fell with a thud. Seizing his cart and upending it, the Blackshirts sent the fruit skittering over the cobblestones, and then walked off, laughing and whistling.

With a cry, Isolina ran towards Tiberio and grasped his arm, helping him to his feet and over to the fountain, his nose dripping blood. Wetting her handkerchief, she wiped his face and made him sit on the wall rimming the pool of water.

The barber's wife glared at him. “How many times do you have to get kicked in the head? You're a stubborn son of a bitch.”

“I know, I know,” Tiberio said.

“You're an old man. Who do you think you're kidding? Sign the paper.”

“I can't.”

“Then I have no sympathy for you.” With that, she walked away.

Tiberio shrugged, but Isolina saw fear in his eyes. Nearly all the men in the village had signed the oath of allegiance to the Fascist Party, but Tiberio had stubbornly refused. He held up a battered orange. “See this, Isolina? To them we're no more important than this. They squash us whenever they feel like.”

“Shh,” Isolina said. “Someone's going to hear you.”

“What does it matter? Once they start, they won't be happy with a little blood. You'll see. They shipped off the policemen who witnessed the accident and they'll make sure I keep quiet one way or another. Mark my words.”

Isolina shuddered, “It can't be true.”

“Why? That crazy driver killed your cousin, didn't he?”

“Who is he? And what does he have to do with our
fascisti
?”

“Open your ears, child, before it's too late.” Tiberio staggered over to his cart, stubbornly rearranging the fruit into pyramids.

She was bending down to pick up an orange when Rodi squatted beside her. “Meet me at the Scaminara's as soon as you can,” he whispered. When she straightened up, he had already plunged into the crowd. She stared after him, her heart pounding.

At the top of the hill, she caught her breath, startled that in her headlong dash she had already reached the gates of the Scaminara estate. The iron bars squeaked open. Once the showplace of the town, the regal gardens and pebbled paths lined with hedges were admired by the select few who were allowed in. But recently, the baron was forced to surrender to economic necessity and allow ordinary folk, for a small fee, to wander through his gardens, eat their cheese and salami lunches and doze off under his trees. Even in its wintry state, the barren flowerbeds and rows of oaks, their knobby branches outlined against the opalescent sky, comforted her with their stark beauty.

Sitting on a bench, she cradled her knees and glanced at the marble statue of Bacchus with a chipped nose that presided over a brackish fountain. As the cold air whirled around her, she shivered thinking of all she had lost—Sofia, Lucia's friendship, her happiness—gone. As much as she wanted to run to her parents and tell them everything, she knew she had to bear it all alone. But the terror of it made her eyes fill with tears and her chest ache. To struggle alone, to be so alone, that was the hardest of all. She needed help. But from whom? Tiberio, who could offer little more than a few whispered words of advice? Better still, Rodi—if he had the courage.

At last, he sauntered towards her in his postman's uniform, his face pinched with worry and sadness. He rested his hands on her shoulders. “I had to see you.”

“Why?” she said, with an impatient twitch of her shoulders. “Nothing you can do or say can bring Sofia back.”

“I know. I'm sorry. It's my fault. I talked you into it.”

“Tell that to my Zia Lucia.”

He hung his head. A moment later, he murmured something so softly that she had to lean close to hear him. “But I-I love you,” he stammered, daring to state those forbidden words reserved for people on their deathbeds or husbands and wives who had weathered decades of marriage.

He loved her. Despite everything, her heart beat faster, bringing warmth to her hands and face. She brushed his cheek with her palm in wonder, in gratitude. He loved her. Everything would be all right now, she was sure of it. Together, they could face anything, anyone. Jumping up, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his jacket, which smelled of wood smoke. Lifting her chin, she kissed him on the lips and his arms tightened around her. As she leaned into him, she felt it again—that steady hum of need and desire echoing between them in the slim space between their hipbones. She told him in a rush, “It's my fault too. I should have never said yes. But I had to see you because I love you so much.”

In reply, he kissed her, harder this time. She looped her arms around his neck, drinking in his breath, his warmth, hoping he wouldn't let go. But he pulled back and said, “Listen to me, Isolina. There's trouble coming. The OVRA is in Castellammare.”

Just the mention of Mussolini's dreaded secret police sent a shiver through her. “Why would they come all the way down here?”

“It must have something to do with the accident.”

“How could they know? Who could have told them? Not our policemen. They were transferred. And Tiberio isn't talking.”

“I don't know. But I'm going to find out. Someone in the car had to be big shot. Why else would they send out the OVRA to silence all of us?”

“Silence?”

“Last night a dozen anti-Fascists were arrested in Castellammare. A prisoner was killed.”

Horrified, she shook her head. “Tombolo told me that Prefetto Balbi is calling in everyone for questioning. My father got a letter today.”

“So did mine. What does your father know?”

“About us? Nothing. I lied. I said I fell asleep by the stream and the children wandered off. But I saw the car, Rodi. It passed right in front of me.”

He stared at her, his eyes wide with fear. “Does anyone else know?”

“Only you and Tiberio.”

“Good.” He pulled away from her and started pacing. “If Prefetto Balbi asks me, I'll say I was with Manfredo. He'll believe that.”

She nodded. The mechanic was Rodi's best friend. Everyone knew it. Nearly every day, he drove Rodi to Castellammare to pick up the mail.

Rodi was still walking and muttering, “I wouldn't put anything past the
fascisti
.” He clenched his fists. “I swear to you, Isolina. I'm going to find out what they're up to.”

She grabbed his sleeve. “If Balbi catches you, he'll arrest you.”

“I've got to do this. I have to protect us. Don't worry. I'll be careful.”

Her confidence ebbed. Even as he promised, she shivered as if a cloud were passing over her.

Following a tip from the
caffè
owner, Elio Sardolini knocked on the door of the Widow Cantù, whose husband had died years before and left her nearly penniless. The door creaked open and Sardolini was pinned under the fierce gaze of the widow—her hazel eyes, hawkish nose, and nearly toothless mouth framed by a black kerchief.

“What do you want?” she demanded, scrutinizing his wrinkled suit and frayed shirt as he explained his predicament. The widow shrugged when he admitted he was an architect and a writer with a degree from the Università di Firenze. She was interested in one thing—a year's rent paid in advance. As for food, she'd share whatever she was cooking for herself—nothing fancy—if Sardolini did some work around the place. What kind of work? The widow had a long list—fixing the latch on the chicken coop, leveling the pantry shelves, repairing the stone wall at the edge of her yard, and so on.

“I don't believe in charity,” she declared, her arms folded tightly beneath her sagging breasts.

“I'm sure you don't,” he said. “But can I see the room?”

The cottage was set between the barn and outhouse, not an ideal location in the summertime when the windows were open, but the large room, used for storage and family parties, gave him privacy and space. It had a stove with a rudimentary kitchen at one end and views of the valley. He'd wire his family immediately and have them send the money from his dwindling bank account.

“You have a new tenant,” he said, extending his hand. The widow gripped his fingers.

She let him drag a bed, wardrobe, small table, and chairs from the main house and move the soap crates stacked along one wall. It wasn't much, but it was better than his cell in Regina Coeli prison in Roma, where he breathed the bitter stench of men, bloodied and terrified. But that was behind him, he hoped.

Still, at night, he pulled out Lià's postcard. A shepherd from Sestriere had found it in her pocket along the mountain road and had mailed it. As Sardolini pressed his thumbs along the dog-eared edges of the card, tears filled his eyes. One year later, he was still blaming himself. He should have insisted that she stay home, but in his feverish state, he had done little more than stare at her as she bent over him, kissed his hot forehead, and said, “Chaim told me to take your place.”

“I don't want you to go.”

“You're sick. I have to go.”

“I don't like it,” he said, meeting her gaze. Her green eyes, the color of sea glass, were startling against her creamy skin.

Frowning, she shoveled her sinuous black hair under her beret. “You act like I've never done this before. I'll see you in two days. I left you some soup on the stove. I want you to rest. Can you manage it?”

“I'll try.”

She smiled as she buttoned her coat. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Of course not.”

Four days later when she still hadn't returned, he heard the news on the radio: Sion, Chaim and ten others arrested. A week later, her postcard showed up and hope flickered inside him. The next week, he tracked down their car abandoned near the Italian border, and the shepherd who had found her while clambering after his flock. A scrap of black cloth fluttering in the wind had caught his eye. When he tramped closer, he realized it was hair.

His throat tight, Sardolini pressed the card to his lips and slipped it into his pocket.

For the first time in months, he slept deeply. In the morning, he shaved, dressed, and strolled to the piazza, where a crowd had gathered to hear the news broadcast from the mayor's radio, strapped to the balcony of the town hall. The men listened and smoked, their chins raised, their eyes half-closed as news about crop yields and production schedules tumbled down from the sky. They nodded to him but said nothing.

Hungry for news, Sardolini listened eagerly. While in jail, he was allowed only a few issues of
La Gazzetta dello Sport
each month. Political news was banned, of course, but still, the prisoners managed to scrabble together bits of information smuggled in from outside—most notably that Il Duce was using more violence to consolidate his power and squelch the opposition. The news in the piazza that morning was routine, but something else was going on. In groups of two and three, men gathered, speaking in whispers.

He glanced at his watch and swore.
Oca.
He should have signed in first with Prefetto Balbi. When he dashed into his office, the police chief was smoking and sipping coffee at his desk. Balbi said nothing as Sardolini signed in and pulled envelopes from his pockets. He simply seized the letters addressed to Sardolini's relatives in Boston and Siena, pulled them out of the envelopes, and held the crinkled onionskin pages to the light.