Chapter 8

EIGHT

SEPTEMBER 1943

Marilene left to help her mother with dinner, and Giulia was alone in the bedroom once more. Pushing away the quilt, she sat up in bed and lowered her feet toward the floor. The bandage on her bad foot was indeed huge. It looked like a boulder soldered to her leg just beneath her ankle. Gingerly, she rose onto her good leg, holding onto the edge of the nightstand for balance. Bracing for the kind of throbbing she'd felt down at the shore, she tested putting some weight onto her bad foot. It was awkward to walk, but surprisingly there was no pain. Luca was right: Marilene's father was a very good doctor.

She limped over to the wall to pick up the cane Luca had left her, thinking of what he'd said when he put it there—that Marilene's father sewed people up and sent them back out. What did that mean? Why would people come here if they were injured? Just to see Marilene's father—was he so well-known? And what Luca had said about sending them back: Back where?

Along the same wall as the cane was a doorway that she now saw opened into a bathroom. She limped closer and looked in. It was clean and bright, with marble fixtures and a large white tub. She vaguely remembered being in here earlier today, when she'd bathed and then changed into the nightdress she was wearing now. That lovely woman who'd helped her—Marilene's mother, most likely—had run the bath and left her with fresh towels and beautifully scented soap. She remembered how the bathwater turned gray from the dirt and sand caked on her skin. The towels she'd used and left on the brass hook behind the door were nowhere to be seen. Nor was the dress she'd been wearing. Instead, there was a fresh set of fluffy white towels on a white wooden shelf.

She splashed some water onto her face and used one of the clean hand towels to dry off. She folded it and placed it on the marble counter alongside the sink. On the other side of the sink, she noticed a small hairbrush with a comb stuck into the bristles and a ceramic dish with hair barrettes of various sizes. This family, she marveled. They'd thought of everything. They were evidently accustomed to having guests and wanted them to feel at home. And yet, she knew that nothing could replace her own family. Looking in the mirror over the sink, she pulled her hair, now clean and dry, into a low bun and brushed her unruly bangs toward the side. What a change from a few days ago. How attentive she'd been then to her shoulder-length waves, which Annalisa would help her set at night after braiding Emilia's long hair. When she undid the rollers in the morning in front of the ornate, gold-trimmed mirror and gently brushed out the curls, she looked just like Rita Hayworth or Gene Tierney, those beautiful Hollywood starlets from the American movie magazines. But now, Marilene's compliments notwithstanding, her reflection was grim. She stroked her fingers along her once-round and dewy cheek. Her skin looked gray and felt rough, gritty. Her eyes were sunken.

Putting her appearance out of mind, she limped back to the bedroom. A fresh yellow blouse and a pair of cotton pants with buttons on the side, similar to the ones Marilene had been wearing, were neatly folded on an upholstered stool near the foot of the bed. She assumed those had been left for her to change into and slipped them on. The pants were a little snug but not too bad. There was also a pair of blue, silky slippers.

It was all so odd, she thought as she returned to the bed to put one of the slippers onto her good foot. It was as if this family had anticipated her very arrival. But their home was so remote. How could they have anticipated and gathered what she would need? And if all this preparation wasn't for her, then who was it for? Who were these people—this girl, this family? Why were they here, in what seemed to be the sole house on this little island? How did they survive? Growing up, Giulia had lived in a small but bustling town with neighbors and markets and cars and a library and a post office and even a movie theater and plenty of restaurants. How did this family get by?

She turned toward the window, where the sun was lowering. She had no idea if she was facing Parissi Island or not. She didn't know what direction her boat had ultimately turned toward. She thought that possibly she could see the mainland in the distance, but she wasn't at all sure—maybe it was Parissi Island or even another island in the region. She'd never been a strong student, certainly not in geography. Back when she was in school, she'd avoided textbooks whenever she could, preferring glossy magazines and romance novels. The ladies who'd come to their father's shop to drop off clothes for mending or hemming or resizing always complimented her looks, as she gathered the clothes they'd placed on the counter. They'd say she resembled her mother, whom they remembered as a beauty, inside and out. Giulia believed that her mother was all that, even though she knew her mainly through stories and the photos their father kept upstairs by his bed. She'd died when Giulia was five.

But in time, the compliments hadn't seemed enough. Giulia had been sure she was destined for big things. Maybe even a life in America and a Hollywood career. She had the face and figure for it, that's what everyone said. And the sparkling personality, too. She'd reveled in the fact that nearly all the boys at school had crushes on her, which made her sister Annalisa call her shallow. But she didn't take the insult seriously. She knew Annalisa loved her, and she loved Annalisa in return. That's why she'd been so excited when Annalisa suggested they secretly light out for Parissi Island. They were both ready for something new, something bigger than their small town, their small life. Annalisa dreamed of being a scientist and finding a cure for the heart ailment that plagued their father. She'd learned that Patricio, their estranged uncle and the owner of the island, was inventing a medical device that could cure heart disease. Once they'd decided to go, and to bring Emilia along as well, Annalisa had crafted a note to send to their father, assuring him that they were safe and would be returning before long.

And so they'd taken off. Annalisa, who was one year older than Giulia and far more mature than her eighteen years. Sensible and smart, a leader. Emilia, a little bit spoiled and babyish but affectionate and eager to please, even funny when you gave her a chance. And her, the middle sister. Yearning for dreams so big, she almost couldn't articulate them.

How exciting it had been to leave their village for such a big adventure. How sure they'd been that they'd return home to their papa within a few short weeks, with stories to tell and a cure for his sick heart. Although they'd been scared, as they'd never traveled away from home before, they'd been confident, too. Because they were together. Yes, they bickered—all the time before they left home. They bickered about who worked faster, who had harder chores, who was being lazy. But they stuck together. With no mother around as they were growing up, they needed one another.

How she wished she could speak to them now .

Dressed and with her cane to help her, Giulia made her way out of the bedroom. She knew the family was expecting her, and she wanted to see them, too, to ask them to help her find her way to the mainland and ultimately onto the boat that would take her to New York.

Tightly grasping the wooden banister, she went down the curved staircase, taking the steps slowly. Reaching the landing, she surveyed the first floor, as she had barely been conscious when she'd arrived. Just like her bedroom, the rest of the house looked welcoming, clean and pleasant. The evening sun streamed in through the windows. There was a rug by the front door, the color a deep muted blue like the sky at twilight, and inviting sofas in the living room. The ceilings were high, and the rooms were spacious.

From deeper in the house, she could hear two men's voices, one that sounded older and one younger, arguing. Moving closer, she saw them and realized who they were. The older man was Marilene's father, and the younger one was Luca. And quickly she realized they were talking about her.

"She must have been followed," the older man said. "Why didn't they catch her?"

"Perhaps they didn't notice her. Or maybe they didn't care. One little rickety boat?—"

"But she's a Parissi?—"

"But they wouldn't have known that. And besides, they probably expected her to capsize and drown. It's quite a feat. Others wouldn't have made it."

"Sounds like she's made an impression on you."

"I'm only saying that she defied the odds to arrive here."

"Yes, and now she's our problem. Her presence can be helpful, but it also puts us at great risk."

"You can't blame her for that. She didn't intend to be here. She wanted to get to the mainland?—"

"Luca, be careful. You can't allow yourself to feel for… well, well, well, see who's joined us," the doctor said as he looked her way.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to interrupt…" She hadn't realized that by coming here, she would put these people at some kind of risk—although the conversation suggested she'd done exactly that.

"No, no. We're glad to see you up and about," the doctor said. "You look much better. Doesn't she look better?"

"She looks remarkable," Luca said. Giulia felt herself blush.

Just then Marilene walked in from the kitchen alongside the woman who had drawn Giulia's bath and helped her change out of her wet, dirty clothes. The woman had long limbs and a strong bearing, with sharp cheekbones and a firm jaw. Her hair was short and straight, tucked behind her ears, and she was carrying a platter with what looked like a dish Giulia remembered from home, pollo alla Romana, which their next-door neighbor used to make for them every few weeks. It consisted of braised chicken pieces with tomatoes, peppers and spices, and it smelled just as heavenly here as it had when her father had dished it out for them. Behind her, Marilene carried a serving bowl with cooked potatoes and a loaf of golden-brown bread.

"She does indeed," the woman said. "Hello, Giulia. We are very glad to have you as our guest. I'm Cellina and this is Pietro, my husband, in case you didn't quite hear us introduce ourselves earlier today. I know you've already met Luca and our daughter, Marilene. Are you ready for something to eat? I hope so, you are looking still so weak."

"I'm better," Giulia said, feeling comfortable with this warm woman even though the circumstances were so strange. "Thank you for all your hospitality."

"Our pleasure. Now let's get this meal started. Boys!" she called. "It's dinner time! Please, Pietro, please help me serve."

The little boys came running in. "Luca! Luca! Didn't you bring us any candy?" one of the boys asked .

"Candy?" Luca exclaimed, putting on a dramatically confused expression. "You must have me mixed up with someone else!"

"No! No! It's you!" the other boy shouted, grabbing and shaking Luca's arm. Luca scooped him up and turned him upside down, holding him around the waist.

"Me too, me too!" the first boy sang out, and Luca lifted him with his other arm and turned him upside down, too, holding both boys like sacks of laundry.

"Oh, Luca!" Cellina cried. "Be careful, they are not playground toys!"

"No? I think they are!" Luca said and shook them again. Watching him, Giulia unexpectedly felt her eyes tear up. With all that had happened over the past few days, it was good to see some sign of normalcy. Joy, even. It made her think of her father, her sisters, her home. She missed her life back at the tailor shop so much. More than she'd ever expected to when she and her sisters had left home. How were these people able to laugh and tease, considering what she and her sisters had learned—that Italy had surrendered to the Allied forces in Sicily and the Nazis had invaded the country in response? Rome was now occupied, and if what had happened on Parissi Island last night was any indication, the world was falling apart all around them.

"Luca, please. It's time to eat," Cellina said.

"Okay, okay." Luca righted the boys and put them down. "I have candies for you, but after you eat your dinner?—"

"No! Now!" the first boy shouted.

"Later," Cellina said. "Giulia, I believe you've met our boys. This is Massimo and Matteo." She pointed first to the stouter one, who had short, dark hair parted neatly on the side, and then to the smaller one, whose hair was lighter and finer, his elbows and knees protruding from gangly limbs.

"Yes. They're adorable," Giulia said.

"They're monsters! " Marilene exclaimed.

"Marilene!" Cellina scolded. "And boys, please sit down."

The boys both found their seats, and Luca reached behind the breakfront. "And here's some special candy for your parents," he said. He displayed a brown wine bottle and handed it to Cellina. "The best of the year. You will love it."

"Oh, Luca! Aglianico! My favorite!" She studied the label, then put it on the table. "Thank you. Now sit, everyone. Let's eat."

Giulia remained standing, not sure where to go. Noticing her, Luca pulled out the chair next to him and offered her his hand. "Please?" he asked.

She limped forward and he took her cane and hooked it over the back of the chair. She grasped his hand. It was strong and steady. She leaned on it as she sat down.

"Thank you," she murmured. She wasn't used to interacting with a stranger in this way, and it unnerved her. In the past, charming young men had offered her a chair because they wanted to please her, not because she needed their help.

He sat down beside her, with the children on the opposite side of the table, Marilene in between her brothers, and the parents on the ends. He uncorked the wine and poured some for the adults, then looked at her and lifted the bottle. She shook her head. She'd had so little to eat today, and her stomach was still unsettled. Though she adored wine and had tasted some of the most delicious varieties at Parissi Castle, it didn't seem a good idea to indulge tonight.

Meanwhile, Pietro picked up the serving spoons and portioned the chicken onto plates stacked next to him. Cellina added on potatoes and passed around the bread. They behaved as though it were the most normal thing in the world, to have a scared, injured stranger at the dinner table. Giulia reminded herself that Marilene had said the family often hosted strangers. "Thank you," she said and accepted her plate, wondering who those strangers were and what they all had in common.

"Let's eat!" Pietro said, and Giulia picked up her knife and fork. The food tasted fresh and well cooked, the chicken flavorful, the potatoes soft and well-seasoned, the bread fragrant and crusty. She'd gotten so used to multicourse, lavish meals at the castle, she'd forgotten how good a simpler dinner could be.

Pietro cut into his dinner, and Giulia could feel his eyes on her as he brought his fork to his mouth. It was as though she were some new gadget or tool, something recently delivered that he didn't know what to do with. She replayed in her head what she'd overheard him say to Luca as she walked toward the dining room: "She must have been followed… she's a Parissi…"

"So, Papa, Giulia did come from Parissi Island!" Marilene exclaimed. Giulia was grateful that the silence around the table had been broken. She only wished Marilene had brought up another topic. She didn't want to be the center of attention among these people, who evidently had concerns about her. But the possibility of Marilene raising any other subject was remote. The girl was obviously in awe of her for having lived at the castle, a place that had so clearly captured her imagination.

"So we've gleaned," Pietro said in a measured tone.

"She danced in that ballroom! The big one you can see from my window! With the ladies in their gowns and the men so beautiful in their tuxedos, and the music, and the hairdos, the jewelry…" She rested her chin on her palm. Then she lifted her head and looked at Giulia again.

"Oh, tell us more!" she pleaded. "What did the dresses look like? Did they shimmer? Did they float on air when the men spun them around? Did they wear tiaras on their head? And shoes with jewels on the backs of the heels? That sparkled as they turned and twirled? Diamonds, or?—"

"Enough!" Pietro said. "Cellina, where does she get this nonsense?"

"From the magazines, of course," his wife answered, as she nudged Massimo and then handed him his fork. "The ones they deliver with the newspapers."

"And how do you have time for this? What about your studies?"

"Papa, stop! I only read the magazines when I'm done with my assignments. Signorina Ottavia said I'm the best student she ever had. Ever, ever, ever! "

"Is that so?" he said, with a wink toward his wife.

"Of course it's so! You know it's so. You were there when she said it. Don't tease me, it's not nice!"

"Not nice! Not nice! Na-na-na-na-not!" Massimo said, and his brother giggled, causing a small piece of chewed chicken to burst from his mouth onto his plate.

Pietro took the boy's napkin from his lap and handed it to him. "So tell us, Marilene. "What did you learn today? When you weren't filling your head with thoughts of tiaras and beads?"

"I learned about the American Revolution," she said. "And the Declaration of Independence."

" Liberté, égalité, Fraternité! " Massimo shouted, punching the air with each word. Matteo giggled, his hand over his mouth.

"No, that's the French Revolution!" Marilene groaned. She rolled her eyes and looked at Giulia. "Ignore them. They are so ignorant."

"They're only five," Cellina said. "They are good students, too."

"I knew that was French when I was five." Marilene rolled her eyes.

"I'm not sure that's true," her father said.

Giulia took in the banter, trying to make sense of this family's household. Signorina Ottavia, she figured, was a tutor. But why were these children living here and learning privately in their home? That seemed straight out of the nineteenth century, when wealthy families had governesses and such—or so she'd thought, from the novels she liked to read. Why weren't these three in a real school, meeting other kids and being normal children?

"Let's move on. What are you reading?" Pietro asked.

" Don Quixote ," Marilene answered.

"And for what reason did Signorina Ottavia choose that?"

"Signorina says it set the stage for the evolution of the modern novel," Marilene explained.

"I see. Then it's a good choice," Pietro said. "We learn who we are by studying where we've come from. That's a lesson you will need to remember, children. We planted the seeds of today long ago—the seeds that brought us to where we are as a country. We are here because the seeds were allowed to go bad. You must plant better seeds so that when you are adults, Italy will be different."

"Signorina Ottavia said the same thing," Marilene said. "She was talking about Mussolini and the way the church leaders bent to his will, which helped him amass all the power, which led to where we are now…"

Giulia continued to listen, fascinated by the conversation. She was sure this teacher, Signorina Ottavia, was right, and Marilene was an excellent student. And the whole family seemed smart, too, even the little boys, as silly as they were. She hadn't grown up in a family that discussed politics and literature, as this family did. Her father was clearly less educated than Pietro. He knew one thing: how to sew. Or maybe, two. He also knew a lot about being Jewish. He'd taught her and her sisters about that. But it wasn't book learning, his Jewish knowledge. It was stories. He knew many Jewish stories that he loved to tell. Sometimes they reduced him to tears because they meant so much to him.

"Pietro, can we change the subject?" Cellina said. "We have two guests tonight. Let us talk about something lovely. Luca, tell us about the wine you've brought us. Tell us where it comes from and where you found it, how you chose it. Tell us about your childhood in the vineyard. Such beautiful memories…"

The meal continued, and Giulia listened as attentively as she could, but Luca's calm, harmonious voice allowed her mind to wander. As he spoke about being a young boy running barefoot through his father's vast vineyard, seeing the red grapes growing in bunches, each one covered in protective netting, in fields that seemed to stretch to the horizon, she thought again about her own childhood. Though they'd been raised without a mother and in a modest home—only two bedrooms, which meant that Emilia slept on the sofa in the living room—she and her sisters had grown up comfortable and happy. They were loved by their ever-present father and cared for, too, by the many neighborhood women who checked on them and brought food and cakes, who gave them clothing their children had outgrown, which Papa would transform into fresh and well-fitting garments.

As Giulia grew older, she was the only one of the three who fell in love with Papa's craft, who learned to adore dressmaking and considered it an art as wonderful as painting or sculpture. By the time she was Marilene's age, she was studying the fashions in her movie magazines and teaching herself how to make similarly beautiful dresses, blouses, and skirts for herself and her sisters.

Giulia turned her head toward the far window, in what she thought was the direction of the cove where she'd arrived earlier today. This was all well and good—feeling warm and clean, eating nice food, listening to pleasant conversation. But she had no intention of staying. Hopefully by tomorrow her foot would be healed enough for her to proceed to the mainland. If she needed more treatment, surely she would be able to find a doctor there. Or maybe she'd consult one on the ship to America. Her ticket was paid for. All she had to do was find the ticket office where it was waiting for her. She just needed help getting there.

"Hmmm-mmm," she heard—the sound of Cellina clearing her throat. She turned to see husband and wife exchange telling looks.

"Giulia looks tired," Cellina said. "We're keeping her up, and she needs her rest. Did you have enough to eat, dear?"

"Oh, yes," Giulia said, nodding. She felt full, even though her plate was far from empty. "Plenty. It was all delicious. I can't even begin to thank you for all you've done for me today."

"Cellina, why don't you take the children into the kitchen for some dessert?" Pietro said. "Maybe a taste of the treats Luca brought?

"And Giulia…" he added firmly. "I know you are tired, but would you join me in my study for a little chat before you retire? I went down to the shore to take a look at that conveyance that brought you here. Maybe you can tell me a little more about it? I have a keen interest in small craft construction."

She looked at him, knowing that his words were more of a demand than a request or invitation. And somehow she was sure they weren't going to talk about her boat.

"Of course," she said as he handed her cane to her.

She took one last glance out the window.

She wondered when she'd be aboard her little boat again.