Chapter 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

OCTOBER 1943

"The Nazis are getting desperate," Luca said. "They are rounding up Jews in towns around Rome and beyond, and deporting them to the camps. They are growing bolder and more determined as the Americans and British make strides from the South."

It was the night after Luca had returned, and Pietro had whispered to him and Giulia to join him in his study once the children were asleep. Pietro was seated behind his desk, and Giulia and Luca were in the chairs opposite him. The shutters were closed but still, the lamps stayed unlit, for extra security. Two candles on Pietro's desk were the only lights he'd allowed.

The news about Giulia's family had hit them all hard, and lately, smoke could be seen rising from Parissi Island through the rear windows of the house, the very windows where Marilene had seen the beautifully dressed castle guests dancing. Small explosions also sounded from that direction, loud and disarming, especially since Pietro had no idea what all the noise and smoke might mean. Giulia remembered how the twins had greeted her on the first night she'd come, asking her between giggles if she was a Nazi. Life had been growing more somber for the family ever since she'd arrived, and Luca's disturbing assessment would only make things worse. The children were no longer allowed beyond the small patio off the kitchen now, and could only be there for short periods of time so they could get some fresh air. The twins no longer giggled. Despite their parents' best efforts, the children sensed their growing fear.

"What did you hear in Rome?" Pietro asked.

"It's still in the initial stages, but we are planning a strike at an officers' quarters in late October. Grenades and handguns. The bullets that were dropped off here before I left need to be smuggled both to Parissi Island and to Rome. I'm to go back to Rome in two weeks to help complete the logistics. The group on Parissi Island has the map you and Giulia drew and will be ready to receive the ammunition."

"How are we to transfer the bullets?" Pietro said.

"It needs to look innocent," Luca told him. "A shipment or delivery that won't seem suspicious. That's how ammunition is being moved across Italy. Messengers on bicycles, women on foot—people they would least suspect. In baskets of fruit, sacks of letters. Everyday goods being transported to Rome…"

"Like dresses," Giulia said.

Both men looked at her.

"Children's dresses," she said. "The clothes I make, they have smocking and seams and hems and trim. I'm a skilled seamstress, and I can hide the bullets so they're undetectable. And I can transport them to Rome. I'll cut my hair and comb it differently so no one will recognize me. And besides, they won't be looking for me anymore. The Nazis believe all the Parissis and their guests are dead. That's what you told me, Pietro. That means they think I'm dead, too."

Luca looked at her, his eyebrows raised. Then he shook his head. "It's too dangerous. You can't be sure they won't recognize you. No, I can do it. "

"But you're leaving soon. Before I can get the sewing done?—"

"We'll find someone else?—"

"No, it has to be me," Giulia said. "I know how to handle and transport garments. No one will look more like a dressmaker than me. Because I am one."

"She's right," Pietro said softly.

Luca shook his head. "But no?—"

"Luca!" Pietro said harshly. "This is exactly what I dreaded would happen when Giulia arrived?—"

"What did you dread?" Luca asked.

"You know what I'm talking about," Pietro scolded. "Don't make me spell it out and embarrass you both."

He looked hard at Giulia. She felt her face redden and lowered her gaze.

"Now, we need to keep focused," Pietro said. Giulia could tell his attention was more on Luca than her. "We need to make the best decisions. This is about my children, the next generation. If we let our emotions get in the way, cloud our intentions—Luca, the Nazis are hardly more than a stone's throw away from this house. Have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten your father and all he stood for?"

"Of course not!" Luca stood, and from the corner of her eye, Giulia saw his fists clench. "How dare you?—"

At that moment, the door to the study opened and Cellina appeared. "Luca! Pietro! Please," she hissed. "Keep your voices down. You will wake the children. It's enough for tonight. You can talk more tomorrow."

Pietro rose and walked around his desk with heavy footsteps. "Cellina is right," he said. "We will have cooler heads in the morning."

He grasped Cellina's elbow and the two left the study. When they were gone, Luca sat back down. He reached over and touched Giulia's hand. "I don't want you to do this," he said softly.

"But I have to," she told him. "For my family. And for all the others, all who have died. It's what you said when I first met you—there are things bigger than oneself. I was selfish. You were right."

He shook his head. "But we talked about this. You're not a fighter. You don't have it in you."

"But I do," she said. "I do now."

The next two weeks passed quickly, and Giulia was busy almost around the clock. During the day she carried on as Pietro wanted her to, pretending to be the family's dressmaker and a companion to Marilene. She continued to teach Marilene how to sew, helped her with her lessons, and listened to her discuss her history readings or recite the poetry that Signorina Ottavia required her to memorize. But after they'd all had dinner and the children were asleep, she devoted herself to perfecting the art of hiding bullets in the hems and seams and trimmings of children's party dresses and gowns.

It was easy to hide the sight of the bullets, she found, by wrapping them in the folds of the fabric. Harder, she realized, was disguising their weight. But she found that if she used the heavier buttons and closures that Cellina kept tucked away with the extra fabric she stored in the bedroom closets, the weight of the bullets wasn't so detectable. She also used beads and stones for decorating the bodices of some of the dresses, a skill she'd learned when she made the elaborate wedding dress while at Parissi Island. Again, the weight of those adornments would help draw attention away from the hidden bullets.

And late each night, after Pietro and Cellina were sure to be asleep, she would find Luca in his bedroom. It was only then, in his arms, that she would talk about her family. About her grief. And her guilt. Because she knew he heard her. One night, lying next to him, she recounted a story about her younger sister, Emilia, the baby, with the long hair, round face and big, puppy dog eyes.

"I must have been around twelve, and she was ten," she said. "And she bought this little necklace for herself. It had these silly beads in garish colors, but she was so delighted with it, and she asked me what I thought. I don't know, I guess I was in a bad mood, I used to get so jealous because she adored our older sister, Annalisa, and that made me mad. So that day I told her the necklace was ugly and cheap. And she didn't say anything, just took it off and never wore it again.

"Oh, I feel so bad about that now," she said. "Why did I hurt her like that? Why was I so mean?"

"You were twelve," Luca said. "You were young."

"But I wish I could tell her I'm sorry. I remember her face, that stunned look as she picked up the necklace and studied it. She got hurt so easily. I know I was only twelve, but that's no excuse. I didn't realize I would think of it now. It was a foolish thing to say and it will haunt me forever."

He turned on his side to face her. "Everything we say can last forever, if it happens at a certain time or in a certain way. But we live on. We change and we do better."

"But I didn't do better. I didn't save her. We made her go back to take care of our father. We sent her off to be murdered. She was only fifteen." She thought she might cry but didn't. She felt almost too sad for tears.

"You didn't know what would happen. How could you? You made the best decision you could."

"How do I live with it now?"

He took her hand. "You live a life that matters. That will be her legacy. You are the one who holds all their lives in you. You will be the way they live on. As I will for my father.

"Remember that saying you taught me?" he added. "Choose life? You have to choose life, too."

"But how? My whole family is gone."

"You do. You do what would make them happy. You do what would make them proud."

Later, she snuck back to her room before anyone in the house was awake, as she continued to do each morning. And before she knew it, two weeks had passed, and she was saying goodbye to Luca again. This time, by the light of the full moon, she walked him down to the waiting boat, where Pietro and Cellina were standing. She no longer saw the need to hide how she was feeling, as with every stitch of a hem or seam, she was proving her worth to Pietro.

As they walked, Luca reviewed the plans. Giulia would have the next month to finish all the sewing. And then she would go to Rome, posing as a dressmaker delivering garments to operatives posing as store owners. At that point, Luca would find her. And they would receive instructions either to leave Italy or to return to Ciani Island, depending on how the operation unfolded.

They were a team now, she knew. And they were doing exactly what they needed to do. Because while the world was ugly and cruel, it was only for now. He'd convinced her that it didn't have to stay that way.

Giulia spent the next four weeks finishing up her work and getting ready to leave for Rome. She cut her hair short and noticed, with some relief, that being inside so much had made her hair darker. She made herself two trim suits, one gray and one navy blue, with pencil skirts so she'd look like a chic fashion designer when she arrived in Rome. Then she began packing up the doctored children's dresses. From time to time, she'd feel dizzy, her stomach unsettled, her body feeling not at all like her own. But she convinced herself that she was just scared, tired, overwhelmed, grieving.

Three days before she was to leave, she sat down for a talk with Marilene. "You have to go, too?" Marilene complained. "Why does everyone have to leave?"

"I know it seems unfair," she told her. "But it's for you. To make the world a better place for you to live in someday."

"First Luca, now you. I hate that you'll both be gone. I'll be so sad if you don't come back."

"I will come back. We both will."

"Life used to be fun here."

"And it will be again. I promise, sweet girl."

"Don't you love me? Like one of your sisters?"

"Of course, I do."

"Then don't leave."

"I have to. But I will be back. I will come back to you, Marilene. You can trust me."

On the morning she was to leave, she finished packing and went to her bedroom window to look outside. The beautiful Mediterranean showed no indication of the violence and brutality enveloping the world. But there was more on her mind than the scenery. Because standing there, anticipating the task she'd been preparing for since learning of her family's death, she finally had to face what was happening inside of her.

She was pregnant.

She returned to the bed and sat down, clasping her hands together to help her concentrate. What was she going to do now? She was alone, without her family. She was living in a home that was not hers, with people who were essentially still strangers. She'd been ready to sacrifice her life if necessary to help destroy the Nazis and guarantee the future of her beloved Italy. She had come to believe that was the best way for her to live. It was the best role she was meant to assume: Warrior. Resistance fighter. Partisan.

Yet even that decision wasn't simple. Now she had another life to think about. The child she'd made with Luca.

She didn't want to let Luca down. She knew he was depending on her. All the operatives in Rome were depending on her. She tried again to convince herself that she was mistaken. Maybe something else was wrong with her. Her body had been through a lot. Maybe she was ill. Maybe she was unable to deal with the recent humidity or the rich foods that Cellina and Signora Brambilla served. Maybe her body was catching up with all the changes. Maybe she was simply very tired.

But she knew that wasn't the case. Her body hurt in ways she'd never felt before. She was constantly dealing with nausea but was also very hungry. Her chest was growing, and her waist was thickening. She'd been around pregnant women back when she was young. Women in the neighborhood were often pregnant—two, three, four times. She even remembered when her mother had been pregnant, before she'd died in childbirth, along with the baby, the little girl who would have been her third sister. It had become easy to tell when a neighbor was even in the early stages of pregnancy. She recognized in herself what she'd seen in them.

Two hours later, she was seated in Pietro's study, having asked Pietro and Cellina for a word. Pietro had looked at her warily, and she suspected he was worried that she would say she was too scared to complete her task and wanted to back out. And the truth was, he was partly right. She wasn't scared, but she was backing out. There was no choice. She was feeling weak and ill, and she knew that made her a danger to the others on this mission. If she couldn't be in top form, she needed to withdraw.

But it had to be her secret alone. She could never let Luca know the truth. At least not for a long time. She knew he would worry about her, and that would distract him and compromise his safety. She couldn't tell Pietro or Cellina the truth either, because they might try to reach Luca. They might feel he deserved to know. And she feared, too, that Pietro would be furious with him, for letting this happen. Giulia didn't want to do anything to damage the relationship the two men had. She knew that Pietro had been like a father to Luca, after he'd lost his own.

They finally arrived in the study, Pietro taking his place behind the desk and Cellina sitting in the opposite chair.

"You are to leave this evening," Pietro said. "What's on your mind?"

She looked at him straight in the eye. It was as Luca had said when she'd told him about Emilia and the necklace—there was nothing to do except go forward. In the way she felt was best. And she had a good way forward, she thought. The timing worked. And nobody would be hurt by her lie. Because the person she would name as the father was dead.