Chapter 5

FIVE

SEPTEMBER 1943

Emilia spent a fitful night, waking often and finding it nearly impossible to fall back asleep. The mattress was soft but not too soft, the pillows were plump, and the covers were the perfect weight for mid-September. But this wasn't home.

Still, when morning finally broke, she was reluctant to rise. There were answers out there, answers from Signora Jorelini about all that had changed since she and her sisters had left town, and overnight she'd grown scared to hear what they might be. She remembered how her town had started changing, subtly but unmistakably, way before she and her sisters snuck off on that warm summer night in search of medicine for their father. Some longtime customers had stopped coming to her father's shop—not many, but enough to notice. Although no one had said it to her directly, she'd sensed that they no longer wanted to support a Jewish business.

That was why Annalisa had decided they would move to America. Things would get worse, she'd told them, although she hadn't wanted to be any more specific. She'd said Emilia was too young to know more. Always so organized, Annalisa had repeated her plan to Giulia and Emilia as they quietly packed clothes and then tiptoed downstairs: they'd go to Parissi Castle, a beautiful Gothic structure off the Mediterranean Coast, where they'd heard that scientists were working on a host of inventive discoveries; they'd get their hands on a new medicine to bring home to Papa; and then they'd travel down the coast to Naples to board a ship to New York. They wouldn't give up the house or sell it, Annalisa had assured them. They'd keep it, so it would be there for them when things finally returned to normal.

Emilia had found the plan to move to America thrilling, the way she'd felt when she was little and would imagine that she was the heroine in the fantasy stories Papa would read her at bedtime. It seemed so exotic, spending days upon days on a huge ship crossing the ocean. She had no idea what New York would be like. Her only hints were the occasional photographs she'd seen in Giulia's magazines, with fancy restaurants and Broadway theaters and skyscrapers like the Empire State Building dotting the background of a crowded spot called Times Square.

But all that was in the past, a fantasy like Papa's stories. She was alone, Papa was dead, and there'd be no possibility of feeling at home again until her sisters came back to get her. She closed her eyes, wishing that when she opened them again, she'd be back in Parissi Castle, back in the beautiful bedroom she'd been given, with a huge, canopied bed and a view of the turquoise sea out of the arched windows. Or if not that, then back in her childhood bedroom in her own home down the street, in her cozy bed from where she could see Annalisa at the desk reading a library book on molecules or rock formations or some other topic that only Annalisa could understand. Where she could hear Giulia, who loved to sleep late, softly snoring in her bed by the window.

Emilia looked ahead at the closed bedroom door across the room. Papa wouldn't want her to cower beneath the covers like this, she told herself. He would urge her to face whatever was on the other side of that door. To be bold. They'd had a system for sharing messages, something just between the two of them. Papa had been a cartoonist among his many talents, and from the time she was young, he'd put small scraps of paper decorated with his cartoons in her lunch box. If she was scared about an upcoming spelling or math test at school, or had been assigned to speak before the class, he'd draw a small lion with the word "courage" hidden in its mane. Or else he'd draw an arm with a bulging muscle, penning the word "strong" in tiny letters near the elbow. A kitten with the words "forgive" hiding along the fur was what he'd leave for her on days when she and Giulia had quarreled. And a picture of a short, stout candle with a vibrant orange flame—that was the picture that showed up each year on April 6th, on the anniversary of her mother and baby sister's passing, the word "remember" hidden in the blaze.

Emilia had loved having a secret language with her father. A code that no one else would crack because no one knew to look for those hidden words. Finding the drawing when she sat with her friends at the long lunch table at school, she'd felt so loved. She was special, the youngest daughter, the baby who'd survived.

Courage , she whispered to herself, picturing her father's penned lion. Courage, courage . Say it three times, her father would sometimes tell her. Three is a good number.

She rose from the bed and carefully made it, smoothing out the bedcovering and plumping the pillows. Then she put on a skirt and blouse from the box of her things in the closet. She laced up her new shoes and slipped the letter she had written to her sisters last night into her pocket. Then she left the bedroom.

The sun was streaming through the windows, bathing the small rooms and the hallway with golden light. The other two rooms on the second floor were empty, the beds neatly made. She paused for a moment, wondering which one her father had been in when he'd taken his last breath. Fall had always been Papa's favorite time of the year. He loved when neighbors brought in clothes to be lengthened or let out to accommodate growing bodies. He took pride in knowing that his creations, his craft, were part of the foundation of this small community. He loved playing a part in the way families grew and changed, remaking clothes to be handed down to a new baby, a grandchild, a niece or a nephew. He loved when people told him the reworked garment was more beautiful than it had been when it was new.

Grasping the letter in her pocket, she went to the staircase and down the steep, narrow steps. As she approached the kitchen she could see sunlight filling the room, the white poplin curtains on the window parted. A lone onion sat in a ceramic bowl painted with vines of green ivy on the countertop. She remembered sitting in this kitchen with Corinna, doing her homework. That same ceramic bowl had always been filled with gorgeous fruit—cherries and plums and bright-yellow lemons.

Then she heard Signora Jorelini's voice coming from the other side of the room, where the table was.

" Dio mio ," she was saying, evidently talking to someone else at the table. "I never thought I'd close the restaurant. But there's nobody to serve. And ingredients, even basics—so hard to find."

Emilia held her breath, waiting to hear more. She hadn't known Signora Jorelini's restaurant was closed. They'd been planning to go there for Giulia's eighteenth birthday, which was just a few weeks away.

"Some people can get word from family about how the war is going. But nobody really knows much these days," Signora Jorelini continued. "Newspapers rarely showing up, and the radio reports unreliable. We do get some news from our meetings at the Possano house. But that's about the new people…on their way…where they need to go next…"

Again, Emilia was surprised at what Signora Jorelini was saying. She hadn't realized news was hard to come by. She remembered the Possano family. They lived a few houses away from here. But the other thing Signora Jorelini had said, about the new people—what did that mean?

"It's very bad in Rome," a younger voice responded. "The streets are so dangerous. They are arresting people all over the city. They are beating people in the streets…"

Suddenly Emilia recognized the voice. Corinna, Signora Jorelini's daughter! She must have come back from Rome late last night or early this morning. Emilia longed to run into the kitchen and wrap her arms around Corinna's waist. If she couldn't have her sisters here right now, then Corinna was the next best thing. But she stifled that impulse. The women sounded serious, and she suspected they were talking about things Signora Jorelini had refused to talk about last night. Pressing herself against the wall, she strained to hear more of their conversation.

"I had to come back, Mama," Corinna said. "I was so scared. I couldn't concentrate on school or anything. There are German soldiers on the streets."

"You were right to come home," Signora Jorelini said. "Now's the time for families to be together."

"How's Signor Sancino? Is he feeling better?"

"He died three nights ago, cara mia ."

"Oh, no." There was silence for a moment, and Emilia knew Corinna was sad. Corinna's own father had died when she was young, so Papa had tried to help look out for her.

"And the sisters, do they know?" Corinna asked. "Any word from them?"

"I haven't had a chance to tell you—Emilia has returned. I put her in your room. I didn't have the heart to make her sleep where her poor papa died. She's been through so much."

"And what of Annalisa and Giulia?"

There was silence.

"Does she know about what happened?" Corinna asked.

"You mean her father's shop? No, I don't think so. But she's seen the De Luca family in her house."

"And she didn't ask about them?"

"She did. It was late last night. I told her we'd talk in the morning."

"Poor Emilia," Corinna said. "What a world. Her father forced from his house and her sisters missing…"

Still pressed against the wall, Emilia felt her limbs start to tremble. She was freezing, her toes almost numb. Who was the De Luca family? She knew she shouldn't be eavesdropping. She'd been taught not to. But how could she turn away? What did that mean, her father forced from their house?

"Emilia? Is that you?" Signora Jorelini called.

Emilia took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen, thinking of her father's lion cartoon. Courage .

"Oh, you're awake!" Signora Jorelini said, her upbeat tone sounding forced. She rose and put an arm around Emilia. "Look who came home this morning. How's this for a surprise?" She pointed across the room to Corinna, who was sitting at the table.

Emilia couldn't help but smile. It was so good to see beautiful Corinna. She was pretty as always, with her light-blonde hair gathered at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were a pale blue that reminded Emilia of the waves that would crash against the shore of Parissi Island, a sight she loved to see from her bedroom in the castle. Corinna's time in Rome had changed her. She looked older than her twenty-one years, in her brown suit and matching hat. There was rouge on her cheeks and red lipstick on her lips, and her eyelashes were long and curled.

"Emilia!" Corinna stood, her arms outstretched, and Emilia wrapped her arms around her waist. Without warning, tears started spilling down her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry about your papa," Corinna said, lifting Emilia's chin with her slim fingers. She reached for a handkerchief in her handbag and gently wiped the tears. "I know how you're feeling. I lost my papa, too, when I was young. You probably don't even remember my papa, do you? I know how hard it is to lose a parent. Your papa was a wonderful father. He loved you and your sisters so much."

Emilia nodded.

"He was so very sick," Signora Jorelini said. "There's nothing anyone could have done. He knew you and your sisters were coming back with medicine. He just couldn't make it any longer.

"He knew you all loved him," she added. "And he loved being your papa."

"Don't worry about a thing," Corinna said. "We will take care of you, as he would have wanted us to."

Emilia looked up at her. The words were jarring because they sounded so permanent. "That's okay. Thank you, I mean—but my sisters are on their way back for me. And then we will go to America, like we planned. They're still going to want to do that. Papa would be glad about that. And Annalisa is very determined."

She'd tried to make her voice sound firm, but she saw the two women exchange glances. What were they thinking—that Annalisa and Giulia weren't coming back? That they'd abandoned her? Or forgotten about her?

"They are coming back," Emilia repeated. "Somebody had to go back to take care of Papa, so they sent me on ahead. But they're coming, too. As soon as the medicine was ready, they said. They promised."

"Of course," Corinna said. "You will only need to be here for as long as you like."

"I have a letter for them." Emilia patted her pocket. "To tell them about Papa and let them know where to find me. Signora Jorelini," she added. "You said letters can be sent, remember? So they would reach my sisters, if they haven't left Parissi Island yet? They need to know about Papa. That there's no reason…" She looked down. "…To wait for the medicine now."

There were a few silent moments.

"Yes, I remember," Signora Jorelini finally said. "Corinna will post your letter, won't you, Corinna?"

"Certainly," Corinna said. "I'll send it this morning. And I'll send any others as soon as you've written them."

"And they'll receive them, right?" Emilia asked.

Signora Jorelini licked her lips. "We'll do our best. Now, who's hungry? I made some bread—with barley since it's so hard to get wheat, but there's a little jam, or you can soak it in milk. And I have some cheese, some figs. Some coffee, although as I'm sure you both know, it's not like the coffee we once used to have…"

Emilia looked at the two women, who were now setting the table. She didn't quite trust what they were saying. It was as though they were speaking in a code that only they understood, a code as secretive as her father's hidden words in her lunchtime cartoons.

"What does that mean, your best?" she asked. She knew she was being rude, but she couldn't help it. "What does any of this mean? Why are there strangers in my house? Why are my clothes and my family's things in boxes? You have to tell me. I'm not a baby," she added, even though at the moment she felt very, very young.

Signora Jorelini paused, forks and spoons in her hands. "Of course you're not," she said. "But Emilia, do you not know what has been happening? Did you not hear anything of the war when you were there on the island? Were there no news reports at all?"

Emilia knew Signora Jorelini was asking out of concern, but it sounded as though she was being accused of something. Maybe she and her sisters should have been more aware of what was happening. But did that mean she should feel ashamed?

"Sit, Emilia," Signora Jorelini said. "We will tell you."