Chapter 19

NINETEEN

SEPTEMBER 1943

Giulia nodded at Luca and thanked him, then took the cup and saucer he was offering. She breathed in, expecting the delicious aroma she remembered from the castle—strong and slightly floral, with a slight hint of chocolate. But this coffee smelled nothing like that. And it tasted thin and watery, not at all like the rich espresso Signora Russo used to serve. Giulia winced at the memory of that beautiful woman, and what Pietro said had happened to her.

"Not very good, is it?" Luca said, misinterpreting Giulia's expression.

"No, it's not that?—"

"Because it's been impossible to get coffee beans during the war. Your Signora Russo must have been some kind of magician, if you had real coffee at the castle. Roasted barley is a sorry substitute, I know. But it's not so bad once you get used to it."

"No, you misunderstood," Giulia said, not wanting to appear rude. "It wasn't the coffee I was reacting to. It was… I was only thinking… "

"Sad thoughts?" he asked.

She smiled at his kindness. "I suppose."

"Unfortunately, there seem to be a lot of those these days," he said. "That's why I love coming here. The kids, they… they entertain me. They know so little, so they can be exactly what kids should be. I never grow tired of them."

She nodded, thinking of what Pietro had said last night, how he wanted to protect his children from any knowledge of the war and the danger. Luca was right, they were entertaining because they were so carefree. As children should be.

"May I join you?" He gestured toward the space next to her on the bench. She shifted over, then watched him as he came closer and sat down. He had lovely eyes, she thought. Such a stunning green. But serious eyes, too. Eyes that had seen a lot. He appeared older than Vincenzo and the boys in her class back home, but maybe that was an illusion. He might have been a young man, but he clearly had an old soul.

She noticed that he was gazing at her sketchpad, which was resting on her lap. "You are an artist," he said.

"I'm… I'm a dressmaker. I work with fabrics, not paints."

"That looks like a wedding dress."

"It is. It's from memory. Something I sewed. At Parissi Island."

"It must have been beautiful."

She moved the sketchpad to the bench and put her cup alongside it. "It was."

"Where is it now?" he asked.

"Hopefully on its way to New York. With my older sister. It was for our future, that I gave it to her. In America."

"I see," he said and took a sip of his coffee and then set his cup on the bench, too. "And how is your foot this morning?" he asked.

"Better," she said. "I'm anxious to get this bandage off."

"I don't blame you, it must feel very uncomfortable," he said. "But listen to Pietro. He will tell you when it's safe to remove it. He's a brilliant doctor. He trained at the University of Bologna and practiced at some of the best hospitals in Italy. He's performed complex surgeries and published many papers. He was very well-known in medical circles before he left for here. Three years ago this December."

She felt her lips press together and turned her head, not sure if he noticed her discomfort at the mention of Pietro. She couldn't ask him about last night. That was one of the rules, that she could talk about what Pietro said to her only when she was in his study. Still, this news about the doctor surprised her. She'd thought he was a small-town doctor, like the one they had in her village when she was young. She couldn't help but think that it must have been a hard decision, to give up such an important career. But he did it for his family, his children. He loved them so much.

They were silent for a moment. Then Luca spoke. "Did he upset you when he spoke to you last night?" he asked. "I thought he should have waited a day or so. You'd been through so much. But he was worried you'd start asking questions and upset the children. Or leave before he had a chance to tell you everything."

She looked at him and scowled. "I'm under the impression we are not supposed to talk about what goes on in the study. He made that very clear. Along with everything else."

"I think perhaps his words were too strong," Luca said. "He's only trying to do the best for his family. And his children's future. I think one can understand that."

"I don't like being pressured to do something that feels…"

"Feels what?" he asked.

"If I do what he wants, I'm only digging myself further into this place and putting myself more in danger. And making it harder to leave. The more I help with all his plans, the more I'll be stuck here and unable to help my own family. He has his family, and I want mine. And you want yours, too, I imagine. It's what everyone wants."

"Sometimes there are things bigger than oneself," he said.

She looked down, thinking of Signora Russo. The poor woman who was among those brutally murdered, according to Pietro. Giulia remembered that she had had hopes for her future, too. She had told them often that she was going to work for a few more years, save up money, and then move in with her son's family in Switzerland. She was excited about that. Of course, some would say she was a hero for what she'd done, the messages she'd relayed about the Nazis. But was this the way she'd wanted to end up? Did she want to be a hero, if it meant dying like that? Was that what her son wanted to have happened?

"You have to understand, Giulia," Luca said. "Not everyone is clear-headed. The war has done damage. Everyone is in pain. In so many ways."

He leaned over to pick up a long blade of grass. He studied it between his fingers. "Pietro was my father's closest friend," he said. "They were boys together. They had big dreams. Pietro always wanted to be a doctor, and my father wanted to be a writer. He grew up to be an editor. Everyone read what he published. Then he began writing editorials against fascism. He thought he was safe, that newspapers were safe. He published three and was writing a fourth, but that one never made it into print. He left his office one night, and the next morning he was found shot dead on the street."

She raised her hand to her lips, startled. This was the story Pietro had told her last night. His friend who'd been killed. It was Luca's father. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"I was thirteen when it happened," he said. "And afterward, Pietro and Cellina made it their business to take care of the family he left behind—my mother, my sisters, and me. They were profoundly anti-Fascist, as my father was, and became even more so after that. Pietro had inherited this island, which his family had used as a place to stay in the summers, an escape from the city. But when Mussolini sided with Germany—that was all Pietro could take.

"Of course, he doesn't plan to stay indefinitely," he said. "Just until the end of the war. It was good news when Italy surrendered to the Allied forces. Now they are making progress from the South. For Pietro, it was a decision between leaving the country entirely or withdrawing to this place temporarily. He chose to come here."

"And you did, too? What about your family? You said you have a mother, sisters? Do they know where you are?"

"No. I don't want to put them in danger. My mother and her brothers are still running the vineyard in Tuscany. I will reunite with them all… when this nightmare is over."

"Vineyard? I thought that was just a story. That's what I understood from Pietro."

"No, that is true," he said. "It's been in my family for a long time. Although I'm no longer involved. We supplied Parissi Island with wine, by the way. We would send cartons on one of the supply boats a few times a month. My parents named different varieties after their children. Luca, that was the wine we sent to the castle for years. We were told that Patricio loved it. The label had an image of a house and a tree swing. Did you ever have any?"

She smiled. "I remember that wine. They served it at all the special events. It was delicious." She couldn't help but feel warmth for him now. How wonderful it had been, to see that deep-red color as the wine flowed into her glass, to take that first sip, the flavor bold but not overpowering. How sweet, that his was the tree swing on the label. She felt a new connection with him, deeper than his handsome eyes and strong build. They both were tied to Parissi Island. And now they were both here.

"I'm sorry about your father," she repeated. "I lost my mother when I was young. Not because of anything like that. She died giving birth to my youngest sister. Who died, too. I know what it's like, to grow up without a parent."

"You never recover," he said. "And I've always been aware that my father could have prevented his own death. He could have kept quiet like many people did. But that wasn't his nature. He hated the Fascists. He couldn't stand by idly while Italy lost its way. I'll never stop regretting that I didn't know him better. I was just a boy when he was killed."

She looked down. "So you know why I have to leave," she said. "For family. I'm not political. I'm just a sister looking for her sisters."

"Ah, but you have to be political these days," he said. "You have to care. How can you not care what happens to Italy? This is everything. You can't run away. This country is your home, the home of generations who will appreciate all we sacrificed."

"But this family ran away. Pietro ran away. You said so yourself."

"Well, in a sense. But in another sense, they're fighting even harder. They take in Resistance fighters who are injured. They transfer messages to the mainland to thwart the Nazi plans. It's brave work, and it's dangerous work, because it can't go on forever. Something will break. Either the Nazis will be defeated or they will find and kill us here. It's only a question of which and when."

"Then we should leave. We should all leave."

He dropped the blade of grass and turned to look at her directly. "They are quite brave, Pietro and Cellina. They put up a good front, but they know they are in danger and time is running out. That's why he sees you as so valuable. He needs you, now more than ever. The Nazis are so close, right there on Parissi Island. They could come here at any time. They could start to wonder what other activity is going on here in this string of little islands. They could suspect the work we are doing."

Giulia shook her head. "I don't even want to hear this," she said. "I told you, I'm not political. I'm just a person?—"

"A Jewish person?—"

"A person who needs to leave. I need to go. My family is expecting me."

"Giulia, don't be na?ve. There's little chance you'd ever get to America. I'm sure Pietro went over this. Don't you see? You are Parissi's niece, and you are your father's daughter. The Nazis would be delighted to find you. You have a target on your back."

"Exactly," she said. She heard her voice rising in tone and growing shaky. She couldn't listen to any more of his words, even if they were true. "My whole family is in danger," she said. "I have to help them?—"

"And there's something else you haven't taken into account," he told her, ignoring the growing panic in her voice. "If you leave and they find you, if they see how your foot was treated, they will know that you had help. They will track you back here. They will find this family, and that would be the end of them. And of the good work they're doing."

"What are you saying?" she asked. "That I have to stay here to save them? To save you? To save all of Italy? I'm just one person."

He was silent.

She started to protest further, to say that her concerns weren't small at all. But then she let out her breath. This was exactly what Annalisa always accused her of, thinking only of herself. And here the stakes were bigger. The lives of all the people on this island were at risk. Did she still have it in her to think only of herself? And her own family?

Just then the little boys came running out.

"Luca! Luca, more candy!" they cried.

"More candy?" he asked, feigning insult. "What about what I gave you last night after dinner?"

"It's gone!" they told him.

"It's gone? Well, maybe it's just lost. Here, let me see if I can find it!" He dashed after them and they ran away, circling the trees. She couldn't help but smile. So innocent, these children. They had no idea what was going on in the world. Her heart ached for them, growing up this way. Her heart ached for the whole family, having withdrawn here so the children wouldn't need to know about the war. Her heart ached for the people of Parissi Island who were arrested or killed. And for Italy, the Italy Pietro had known, the Italy Luca's father had tried to save by writing editorials against the Fascists.

Pietro was asking her to help keep his family and the others on this island safe. And, in a way, to keep others safe—all the others, all the Jews who were in peril now and would continue to be until the Nazis were defeated. And what he needed from her was information about the layout of the castle, to help the Resistance do its work. Was that so much to ask? If she left, she'd be putting these brave people in danger. And the children, too. Shouldn't she be brave as well? Wouldn't her family understand, if she took a little longer to come home? Wouldn't they agree that she did the only right thing?

Did she even have a choice?

Luca came back to the bench. "What is it?" he said.

"I'm thinking…" Looking up at him, she shrugged in resignation. "I'm thinking that my sisters are smart and capable, and they will be alright. And if I'm delayed, if I take a little longer to follow them to America, they will understand."

Standing before her, he reached out a hand and gently touched her shoulder. She felt herself blush and looked down, as he went back to playing with the boys. She would stay for now, she thought. She would think of bigger things—Italy, this family, the Jews of her country, the future of the world. She would give Pietro the information about the castle. And she would leave when it made sense to go.

She only hoped it wouldn't be too long. And that when she got to America, she would find that her family had arrived safely, too.