Chapter 12

TWELVE

SEPTEMBER 1943

Pietro's study was adjacent to the living room, up three wide steps with decorative black iron balustrades at either side. Giulia followed him up the stairs, grasping the handrail and leaning heavily on her cane. On the second step, Pietro paused and turned back to support her by lightly grasping her elbow. It was the doctor in him, the healer, she thought, that compelled him to do that. And while it was a generous gesture, she didn't sense generosity in his manner. Mostly he made her feel nervous and under suspicion. Though she had met Luca only a few hours ago, she wished he were here, too. He was charming and friendly. He made her feel safe and at ease. As though he were merely a guest in this home in the middle of the Mediterranean, looking for a peaceful interlude on his way to wherever he was headed next.

Although the intensity of Pietro's eyes, as he'd looked at her during dinner, told her this wasn't some happy waystation for carefree travelers.

The study was dark, even when Pietro switched on the lamps that sat atop two end tables on either side of a sand-colored upholstered sofa. There were two brown leather armchairs across the room from the sofa, both facing a large black desk with a high-backed chair. Behind the desk was a window, the shutters closed. On a tall, square table sat a radio, brown with big black dials, the same kind that her father had kept in the kitchen. There'd been no radios at the castle; her uncle, Patricio, felt that news reports were intrusive and disruptive to the creative process. He allowed only Rome's main daily newspaper to be delivered to the island along with food and other provisions that the supply boats brought over.

Pietro gestured for his guest to sit in an armchair, as he took his seat at the desk. Giulia maneuvered to the chair and sat down, then placed the cane on the floor next to her.

"Are you comfortable?" Pietro asked her. "Any pain?"

"No, Dottore ," she said. "Not at all. I'm very grateful. I was in so much pain when I got here."

"Call me Pietro. Please," he said. "It was quite an injury. The cut was deep. How did you injure yourself so badly?"

"It happened as I was getting onto the boat. I tripped on a loose board."

"I see," he said. "Well, the seawater made it worse. It could have been catastrophic if an infection had been allowed to spread. You could have lost your leg, or your life. We will check it every day and change the dressing. But I think you're out of danger."

"Again, I… I don't know how to thank you." Giulia watched him, hoping for some sign that his distrust was easing. But he still looked guarded. Almost hostile.

"So… Marilene seems quite taken with the stories you told her about Parissi Island," he said.

"I didn't tell her much, really." Giulia felt defensive. Judging from dinner, she recognized that this man liked to know what information others were feeding his daughter. "She knew a lot already—about the guests and the castle. She told me about seeing the dancing from her window. But it was a wonderful place. So many artists and writers and musicians having the time to devote to the creation of the most beautiful art. My uncle built something truly unique there."

"Yes, I know. I have quite a lot of admiration for your uncle. I never met him, but I appreciated all he did. It was horrendous, what happened. We were shocked and horrified. It must have been terrifying to you."

She looked down at her hands. "We knew that the Nazis had invaded, and there was word that they planned to overtake the island. Everyone was getting ready to leave. People were being ferried to the mainland as fast as the supply boats could go and then come back. We all had plans for where to go once we arrived on the mainland. But the Nazi soldiers came sooner than we expected. And there was panic."

"And you were able to escape on that rickety little boat? How did you manage that? We heard that no one still on the island was able to leave once the Nazis came ashore."

She thought back on that awful morning, how things had been orderly and then, without warning, they weren't. Her sisters were already gone, as was Vincenzo. Giulia had been able to secure passage to Argentina with the painter she'd been apprenticed to at the castle, and he'd told her that from there, she could easily travel to New York. She'd packed her suitcase and was ready to say a final goodbye to her luxurious bedroom, the gorgeous ballroom, and the welcoming kitchen. To the beautiful castle that she'd foolishly believed she'd someday return to. Then came the screaming, and then gunshots and the sound of marching boots and ugly German commands. The grand staircase was jammed, the people forced together, too many for anyone to make it down. She didn't remember the sequence of events after that, because she'd felt a sudden, overpowering urge. For what, she didn't know. Maybe self-preservation? She'd never known that she had such a deep desire to live. Maybe everyone did .

"There were too many people on the grand staircase, and the Nazis were shoving them back," she said. "But I knew… I'd been shown… there was a hidden staircase at the other end of the castle that led through the kitchen pantry and alongside the dining room, then down to a small boathouse. I grabbed some food and water on my way out. That boathouse—that was where they stored the pattino ."

She held back tears, thinking of the day Vincenzo had shown her that little staircase, the dock, the funny-looking boat . She'd met him there as often as she could, sometimes three or four days a week, so they could paddle around the adjacent inlet. She remembered how fast he could make the boat go, how she wanted to be able to do that, too. Taking the oars, she felt the mist that rose as the boat gathered speed, then threw her head back and shook her hair, the cool droplets bathing her shoulders. Oh, the fun she'd had that afternoon with her friend, competing for who could row fastest. On that endless day, the world seemed to have been created with her in mind.

"And so you are… the middle niece, right?" Pietro said, his firm tone pulling her out of her reveries. "The daughter of Patricio's sister and the Jewish tailor she married?"

She caught her breath and stared at him. How could he know that? She remembered that Marilene had said her father liked to know about the visitors who came to their island. She wanted to be honest. But she felt defensive and slightly ashamed, as though she were a lab specimen being examined and proving not up to standards.

Pietro smiled gently. "Please don't be alarmed. We recognized you from your picture. It was in the newspaper. We get the Anzalea newspaper here with our weekly supplies. The Rome paper, too, for that matter."

"I was in the newspaper?" she asked.

"Both papers. They carried your pictures," he answered. "It was important news when Francisco Parissi disowned his daughter for marrying a Jewish tailor years ago. That was your mother, Olivia, yes? So it was news again when you and your sisters reunited with your uncle Patricio. Especially since he became the head of the Parissi family after Francisco died…"

He reached to the side of his desk and picked up a newspaper, which had been opened to an inside page and folded back. He leaned over to hand it to her, and she studied the large, grainy photograph. There she was, Giulia with her sisters in the splendid ballroom of the castle, dressed in gowns, with jewels around their necks and in their hair. She didn't remember anyone taking a photo. But she did remember what a glorious night it was. The last concert performed at the castle before the news of the Nazis' imminent arrival broke. She'd felt so joyous that night. Surrounded by such beauty and luxury. How na?ve, to think it would always be that way for her.

She turned her head. It was absurd, and she might even have laughed wryly if the mood here wasn't so tense. How many times had she admired her reflection in the mirror when she was growing up, after she'd styled her hair into perfect curls that framed her face and hugged her shoulders, wishing for the attention of a photographer? But it had never occurred to her that as the niece of Patricio Parissi, she might end up as a person worthy of such coverage. Parissi Island had felt so private.

And yet, perhaps she shouldn't be surprised. Her older sister, Annalisa, had frequently gone to the library to read about their uncle in newspapers and magazines. That was how she'd learned he was inventing medical devices. As head of the Parissi dynasty, he'd always been big news.

"Where are your sisters now?" Pietro asked softly.

Giulia handed back the newspaper. "I'm not entirely sure," she told him. "My older sister, Annalisa, had passage to New York. She intended to go with Aldo, the boy she planned to marry. My younger sister, Emilia, had gone back to our village to take care of our father. Although we got word that he died just before the Nazis arrived."

"I'm very sorry," he said.

"Thank you," she murmured, her gaze downward. How she wished they'd had a chance to tell their father goodbye. She and Annalisa had hoped to come back with a cure for his heart. They never meant to leave him forever. To never see him again.

"We heard Emilia went into hiding because the Nazis were planning to round up Jews in and around Rome," she continued. "Which is where our town is. My uncle, Patricio, was going to find her. And my…" her voice caught in her throat as she thought of Vincenzo, "…our friend was going to try to find her, too. We were all going to meet in New York."

"And you don't know where any of them are right now?"

She shook her head. "I only know where they intended to go."

He nodded slowly, making her feel uncomfortable anew. Like a chess piece he was contemplating, trying to decide where to move it. But even though he was in control of his family, she decided, he wasn't in control of her. She'd told him what her plan was, and while he very likely had saved her life, that didn't give him the right to determine what she did next.

"Anyway," she said. "My foot is feeling much better, so I will be happy to take my leave tomorrow and continue on my way to reunite with my family. One of the artists on the island arranged passage for me to Argentina. He said my ticket would be waiting for me in Anzalea if we got separated."

Pietro seemed not to have heard the last part of what she said. "You left the castle on your own, then?"

She nodded. She wasn't proud of it. So many people had been trying to get down the front staircase. It hadn't occurred to her to bring anyone else along with her as she was running. She was thinking only of survival.

"With no one else?"

"No, sir."

"And no one would have been waiting for you somewhere in the castle? No one would have taken another pattino to try to follow you?"

"There was only the one."

"And no one would be following you on another boat? No sister, no…" he paused. "Not even this… friend you mentioned?"

"I told you, they all left before me. None of them would have known how I got out." She felt herself starting to get angry with his interrogation. She wasn't the type of person to confront or challenge those in authority, especially men. Her experience with men was limited mainly to younger men, and her strategy had always been to win them over with her charm and appearance. But so much had changed, and she had to change, too. Annalisa would never let a man get away with intimidating her like this. It was time she took a page from her older sister's book.

"So as I said, I will be leaving tomorrow," she said.

His face remained impassive. When he spoke again, it was as though he hadn't heard her.

"It's a nice house we have here, don't you think?" he said. "Not the best construction, not the fanciest furniture. But you see, it was never meant to be lived in as a permanent home. It was designed as a summer place. We came here to escape the heat of Rome when I was a little boy, and when I inherited the island, I thought I would use it the same way my father did.

"But now everything's different," he said. "My childhood friend was a newspaper editor in Salina and he wrote a column criticizing Mussolini's racial laws. The day after it was published, he was found dead in the street."

He let out a small "Mmmm," as if he was reliving that moment now. Giulia knew about the racial laws. They had started to be enacted when she was twelve. She remembered, because that was the year when some of her father's customers stopped coming to his store. Not many; their village was small, and people liked her father very much. But it was the beginning. A trickle. His Jewishness—not his skills as a tailor or his kindness when people couldn't afford to pay—suddenly was becoming his most relevant characteristic.

"I don't want to subject my children to a government I cannot believe in," Pietro continued. "A government that hires assassins to kill people who speak out. A government that unites with vile animals who round people up and send them to camps to murder them. I brought my family here. It is my intention to protect them until the war is over and Italy's sovereignty—its sanity—is restored."

She nodded because she didn't know what more to say or why he was telling her this. She wasn't very knowledgeable about the Fascists or politics, other than the changes she'd experienced at her father's shop. Their father had tried to protect her and her sisters from the hatred he'd started to feel. And after they'd left their village, the castle had been quite isolated, too. Then, suddenly, the Nazis were invading Italy, occupying Rome, and storming Parissi Island among other places. These were events nobody in the castle ever thought about. Everyone had been too busy creating art and music, writing glorious poems and novels, living in a world that was far more fragile than they ever imagined.

She waited, but he said nothing. She wondered if he was thinking of his murdered friend. Finally she felt she had to break the ice. She was sorry for him, but she had friends and relatives of her own to worry about.

" Dottore… Pietro… is there something you want from me?" she asked.

He sighed and took off his glasses, then massaged his forehead with one hand before looking back at her. Without his glasses, he looked softer to her. His eyes were sunken, the skin underneath them like small, delicate pouches. But his gray hair was neatly combed back, his beard neatly trimmed. He seemed the kind of man who took command of what was under his power and didn't waste time on things he had no chance of controlling.

"My dear," Pietro said. "I know you want to leave. But you've come here and now you are to stay. At least for a while. That foot is in bad shape. I didn't dress your wounds to have you lose a foot?—"

"But it's healing, you said. And I'll have it taken care of. I'm sure there are doctors on the mainland I can contact before I board the ship to America.

"I'm not your responsibility," she added. "I can take care of myself from here."

"But it's not just your wounds," Pietro said. "It's who you are. You are well-known. If we recognized you from the papers, others will, too. They will find you and arrest you."

"Me?"

"Of course, you. They came after your uncle, didn't they? They came after all his guests. They thought he was harboring spies. They would love to capture his family, too.

"And don't minimize the fact that you're the daughter of a Jew," he said, his voice cold. "That, too, would put you in great danger, now that the Nazis occupy northern Italy."

"I can change my appearance. I'll cut off my hair. I'll wear boys' clothing—I can sew some up very easily from whatever fabric or old garments you can spare. All I have to do is get to the mainland, and there's a ticket waiting for me."

"A ticket with your name on it?"

"Well, yes, of course, and…" She paused, realizing what he was getting at. It wouldn't matter that she'd changed her appearance if she had to use her real name once she reached the port. "I'll figure it out," she said. "My uncle gave us all some cash, I can bribe the ticket agent if necessary."

"It's not that simple?—"

"But it's my problem, isn't it? What does it matter to you? I promise I won't tell anyone where I've been if that's what's concerning you. I won't tell anyone that you helped me or took care of my foot.

"They'll be expecting me in New York," she added, her voice low and firm. No matter how nice they'd been, nobody was going to keep her against her will.

She watched him looking at her, as though he were deciding how to proceed. And it bothered her, this manipulative, controlling way of his. At that moment, she remembered the conversation she'd overheard between him and Luca just before dinner, and what Pietro had said: Her presence can be helpful, but it also puts us at great risk . What was that all about? What was going on?

" Dottore , is there something you want from me?" she repeated.

He stood and put his hands in his pockets. "Giulia," he said. "You are here, and you are alone, and you can help us do something very important. This string of little islands south of Parissi—we are not just landowners. We are part of an organization that's working to undermine the Nazis. The more we can disrupt their operations and take out their leaders, the easier it will be for the Allied forces to succeed.

"You know every inch of Parissi Island, where senior Nazi officers are now stationed," he said. "You can help us infiltrate that castle."