Chapter 16

SIXTEEN

SEPTEMBER 1943

When Giulia awoke the next morning, fog blanketed the air outside, tinting the bedroom gray. There was a small alarm clock on the nightstand that said it was eight a.m.—the latest she'd slept since she'd left her father's home. She'd had trouble sleeping last night and kept replaying in her head all that the doctor had said after he'd told her that he needed her help: that having high-level Nazi officers a boat ride away was both an opportunity and a danger; that the landowners along this string of islands were determined to take advantage of the opportunity instead of waiting for the Nazis to come for them as they'd come for Parissi and everyone staying in the castle; that their mission all along had been to garner information about the enemy's plans and intercept messages to forward to the Allied forces coming north from Sicily.

"Many of your uncle's staff were members of the Resistance," he'd told her. "The head housekeeper, Signora Russo? Did you know her?"

"Of course," Giulia had answered. Signora Russo had been in charge of all the kitchen and household workers. She was a beautiful, impeccably dressed woman, with blonde hair she styled in rolls away from her forehead, the rest gathered in a ponytail and tied with a red ribbon. She'd been the most wonderful baker—Giulia and her sisters, and everyone in the castle, had craved her tarts and chocolate pastries. She'd been generous and welcoming when the sisters had arrived on the island looking for work, before it was revealed that they were Parissi's nieces, and Parissi insisted they be treated like royalty. "She was lovely and kind," she told Pietro.

"And dead, no doubt," Pietro had said, his voice a mix of anger and cynicism. "She was the leader of the spy network on Parissi Island. We think that's why the Nazis were so brutal when they stormed the island. They wanted to make an example of you all."

Giulia's lungs seemed to twist in her chest at his words. She felt the ache deep inside, as she raised a hand to her temple, suddenly feeling light-headed and dizzy. "I don't think I can take much more tonight…" she'd murmured.

But he hadn't let her off the hook. "I'm sorry to make you face this now. But there's no turning away. You've come to us at a pivotal time. And though the situation in Europe may get worse, we have the means to make a difference. Because now we have something we haven't had before, at least not in the work I've been doing. We have an inside track into a building that now houses some of the most important Nazi officers in Italy."

She withstood the weight of his attention, as he studied her. Her usually sharp brain felt muddled. Still, she grasped what he meant.

"And that's me," she said, finishing his thought. "I'm the… inside track."

"You've been there, you know it," he said, his firm voice tinged with the excitement of recognizing a stroke of luck in an otherwise hopeless situation. "You know where the stairways are, the doorways, the private entrances. Where the closets are, the pantries, the storage areas. You know how the kitchen is arranged, where the knives are, the meat shears, the tools we can use. You know how to find Patricio's private tower, where we're sure the most senior officers have their desks and living quarters."

"But… what does that?—"

"With your help, I can create a map of the castle that will guide the Resistance fighters now masquerading as mechanics, boatmen, and guards," he said. "We want to level the castle—or as much as possible. And take down as many officers as we can."

"Level it? You mean to destroy it?"

His eyes fixed on hers.

"But… but this is my family's home…"

"Giulia," he said. "This is war. And we need your involvement. Do you understand me? There's no other choice. This is going to be our project, starting first thing tomorrow. You're going to tell me every aspect of the castle, from the tiniest nooks to the biggest ballrooms. You're going to tell me, and I'm going to draft the map, and you're going to make sure I get it right."

She'd tried to leave at that moment, looking around for her cane and then grasping the arms of her chair. "Please, Dottore ," she said. "I have to lie down?—"

"Of course," he said, although he made no effort to rise. "But just a few more things you must know. Rules, if you will, that are necessary for the smooth running of this household. First, there is to be no discussion of the Resistance outside of this study. My children are to be shielded from any mention of it. Cellina and I are determined to protect our children. We don't want them to grow up knowing how close the threat of war is. For now, it's more of a game to them, especially the boys, who see the Nazis as little more than evil characters in a storybook. I will not have my children growing up terrorized. Their childhood will not be taken away from them. Is that understood? "

She nodded.

"That's the rule for the entire household," he told her. "Because it's not merely us. Signor and Signora Brambilla ostensibly help with the upkeep of the house, but they are fighters, too. As is the children's tutor, Signorina Ottavia. And you should know that the house often serves as a waystation for members of the Resistance who are injured and require medical care, or who need to hide out between operations. To the children, they are merely guests."

"I see," she said, when she recognized that he was waiting for a response.

"Luca, too," he added after she'd spoken. "He tells the children stories about the vineyard to explain why he comes and goes so often. He is our liaison with Rome. He travels there for meetings and reports back when he returns. As far as the children are concerned, he is a family friend who is helping with research for a medical book they think I am writing. That's how we explain why he and I are in my office so much. They think we just use that"—he pointed to the radio—"for news. But we use it for communications. Now, we will have to assign you a job, to explain why you are staying after your foot heals sufficiently for you to leave. You will convince the children that you are glad to be working and living here. Is that clear?"

Is that clear? Even now she heard his threatening tone, as she sat up in bed, shivering from the dank chill of the foggy morning. Didn't he understand that she was a child, too? Only seventeen, at least until her birthday in a few weeks. Only a few years older than Marilene. But he didn't see her that way. And she supposed he was right.

She felt so much older than her years, after what she'd been through at the castle on that horrible morning. Word of the Italian surrender to the American forces in Sicily had spread, and it was rumored that the Nazis, who had invaded Italy from the north, planned to set up an operation on Parissi Island. The guests and workers began packing up, wanting to make sure they left before the Nazis arrived. How foolish they'd all been, to think they could outsmart the Nazis and circumvent the war. They were no different from Pietro's children, the little boys who saw the Nazis as merely storybook villains. But Marilene and her brothers were children, and their father was intentionally shielding them from the truth. She and Annalisa and all the others at the castle had no such protector. No, they'd all been too wrapped up in their lives, their vision too clouded by their beautiful work and their gorgeous surroundings, to see what should have been obvious. That they had waited too long. That they'd been shielded by their own na?veté.

Stepping out of bed, Giulia limped to the closet and saw that someone had left more trousers and tops for her. She also noticed some bolts of fabric in the closet—mostly cotton and linen, but also wool and silk in a range of colors. She wondered who had ordered them and for what purpose. At another time, in another situation, she'd have loved to pore through these fabrics. To feel their texture, to drink in their colors. To create something beautiful out of them.

She dressed and combed her hair before clipping it back with a barrette. Then she stopped at the small writing desk by the wall and looked inside the single drawer. As she'd hoped, there were some blank pads of paper inside, along with a few pencils.

She took out one pad and a pencil and brought them to the bed. Wanting to forget the doctor's harsh voice and sobering directives, she sat and began to sketch a sundress for the beach. Drawing fashions always made her feel good. Alive and creative. At the castle, surrounded by people who were attending to their art and pursuing the most wonderful and ambitious of dreams, she'd begun to think of becoming a fashion designer. She was meticulous in her work and had an observant eye, her mentor, Savio, was always telling her. Big cities had large, thriving fashion houses that would be thrilled to take on someone with her talent, he said. Especially New York, he'd said. Having been trained at Parissi Castle, she'd be in high demand.

She paused as she considered the sundress she was sketching, then tore the page off the pad. With a fresh sheet before her, she found herself drawing the wedding dress she'd sewn at the castle. She'd always loved garments with intricate constructions, and this wedding dress, which she'd made for Savio to study as he sought to enhance the realism of his paintings, was the most intricate garment she could ever have dreamed up: with hard materials like buttons and stays and beads alongside soft materials like silk and tulle; and with a stiff, form-fitting bodice above a romantic, drapey skirt. She'd worked so many hours on it that the construction was seared into her brain, and she reproduced it now on paper—the scalloped neckline and gleaming closure made of dozens of tiny opalescent pink pebbles from the shoreline of Parissi Island; the expansive skirt, the silk reflecting the light as it flowed.

She continued to draw, but it was hard to focus with the uneven light coming in from the windows. Still determined not to think about her meeting with Pietro last night, she decided to go downstairs and outside to sketch, where natural light could bathe the page.

She pushed herself up off the bed, then limped out of the room and downstairs, the pad and pencil in one hand and her cane in the other. The house was still. She walked slowly, placing her bad foot gingerly on the steps and using the banister to keep her balance. Remarkably, she didn't feel much pain at all. Yesterday, she would have hardly imagined she could feel this good, but now she felt stronger and refreshed. A hot meal, a comfortable bed, and the doctor's ministrations had already had a good effect.

She thought back to what Pietro had said. He wanted to help end the war and save lives. And save his homeland. And that was noble. But his family was here, and they were safe. Not so her sisters, Giulia thought with a pang of dread. They were out in the world, two Jewish girls trying to make their way to America and likely venturing into Nazi-occupied areas, their faces as recognizable as hers. After hearing all that Pietro had told her last night, she was certain she understood the danger more than they did. She had to make sure they were safe.

She reached the kitchen. It seemed she was the only one awake. By now the fog had started to burn off, and sunshine was streaming through the windows. The kitchen was beautiful, with big windows, a large wooden table, and chairs sporting yellow floral cushions. In another life, she might have been happy to stay in this house, with this family, for weeks or even months. But this was the life she had, the life where she wouldn't feel herself again until she was reunited with her family.

She looked out through one of the windows. The outdoor space behind the house was pretty, with a patio featuring stone benches and a trellis that led to a woodsy area with thick bushes and greenery. Finding the door, she stepped outside and paused, feeling the cool morning breeze on her arm. It had been on a day like this, she remembered, when Vincenzo had brought her down to the dock at the rear of the castle to show her the pattino . It had seemed such a silly conveyance to her. Whimsical, with its sides painted in blue and white stripes. Big enough for just one person, or maybe two if you squeezed together tightly on the narrow bench.

Just try it , he'd said. She knew her older sister, Annalisa, would scold her if she knew what was going on. Annalisa always complained that nothing but boys filled Giulia's head, and she needed to learn not to fall in love with every fellow who smiled at her. But she couldn't help it. She was good at flirting. She liked falling in love. Not staying in love but falling in love. She'd loved being around men who found her beautiful and irresistible. She liked when boys smiled at her. She'd kept her hair brushed and shiny and always painted her lips and then waited for smiles—from students at school, from boys she passed on the streets of their town, from customers at her father's tailor shop. She knew that plenty of boys came there not because they needed their pants hemmed or repaired, but because they wanted to see her.

And Vincenzo, the young boatman who had taken the three sisters from Anzalea to Parissi Island—he was cute, with long, golden hair and thick, soft-looking lips, and she liked sneaking off with him. What was the harm? She was seventeen and every day was an adventure. And besides, she'd thought, Annalisa wasn't the be-all and end-all. Sure, she was the older sister, but only by a year. And even more important, they were both Parissis. And Parissis were rich and invincible. The world was full of possibilities now that they knew just who they were.

"It's easy. It's fun," Vincenzo had said the first time he'd brought her out to sail. And so she'd giggled and stepped onto the rocking and rolling raft-like boat, and he climbed on and sat down alongside her. He'd used an oar to push them off away from the shoreline, and then he'd placed her hands on the oars, putting one arm around her shoulders. She'd loved the feel of his hands, strong and rough. She'd loved the way his arm felt so warm and exciting along her upper back. Together, they'd paddled out a bit into the small lagoon, and then she'd turned her head. His lips were right there, and impulsively she kissed him. A delicious kiss that said we are young, we are free, we are amazing! All she wanted to do was fill her days with such pleasure. With frivolous rides on a colorful boat with a lovely boy.

How she would have scoffed if someone had told her that one day soon, she'd be using the pattino to escape Parissi Island. That what Vincenzo had taught her about the rear dock and the way to paddle the flimsy boat would save her life. That the life she had on Parissi Island would dissolve like this morning's fog. That Nazi officers would be taking over her uncle's beloved castle with his private, cherished tower. That so many of the people who'd shown her kindness and given her such encouragement—including her dear mentor, Savio—were very likely dead.

And that she would be asked to participate in the destruction of her uncle's castle. That the knowledge she had gleaned in those storied walls was now seen as a valuable tool of the Resistance.

She sat on one of the stone benches and began to sketch more of the wedding dress, remembering the way the folds of the fabric encircled the skirt. The sketch drew her closer to her memories of her family. Where were they—Vincenzo, Emilia, Annalisa and Uncle Patricio? She begged them in her head to be safe. To believe they would all be together again, just as they'd planned. Please keep trying , she thought. Please keep trying, and I will, too…

"That is lovely," a voice said from behind her. She was startled and turned to see a figure standing behind the bench, holding two steaming cups on saucers. "May I offer you coffee? Are you a coffee drinker?"

It was Luca.