The Garden of Letters (22 page)

From the moment he received the telegram, Angelo felt as though his heart had been torn from his body. Every motion he performed was done without reason or emotion, but by a primitive instinct that kept his body moving toward the sole task at hand: to get back home.

“Three weeks and you can go back,” the head of the camp told him. “We’re sorry for your loss, but we need to get a replacement here first before you can return.”

“They can’t wait that long to bury . . .” His voice choked in his throat. “Sir . . . please . . .”

“I’m so sorry, Angelo. We feel terrible about what’s happened. But I have my orders. There is nothing I can do.”

When the replacement finally arrived, it was Nasai who helped Angelo pack his bags and organize his things.

They moved between themselves, without speaking. Nasai the fatherless boy, Angelo the widower and childless doctor.

Angelo still couldn’t comprehend the contents of the telegram; the reality was too much for him. And now he would be leaving this boy who felt more like family than friend.

He had wanted to tell Nasai that he wished he could take him home with him. But he knew how unkind the villagers would be to this gentle boy from the desert plain, just because of the color of his skin.

Still, in the midst of his grief, Angelo looked straight into Nasai’s eyes and told him: “I’m so sorry to have to leave you here.” He knew this would be the last time he saw Nasai, as his foot injury had rendered him technically disabled and he would almost certainly remain in Italy once he returned.

Nasai smiled. “You are needed back home. You will save others just like you saved me.”

Angelo fought back his tears.

“I will see you again soon,” he told the boy. “You’re my only son now.”

But Nasai simply smiled, his eyes shining with tears. “You are here,” he said, clutching his heart. “And at night, I will look up into the sky and know we are both looking at the same stars.”

Angelo embraced the boy.

“I’ve left you all my books,” Angelo told him. “You will find them near my cot.” He struggled to remain composed. “And I have given Amara extra money to ensure you always have enough to eat. She didn’t even want the money. She promised me she would always look out for you, that you can even come live with her family, if you like.”

Nasai smiled. “Thank you,
Dottore
. You have given me so much already. I do not want you to worry.”

Nasai stood there for a second, looking one more time at the doctor who had saved his life.

“I’ve made you something to remember me by . . .” Nasai opened up his palm and revealed a small wooden carving of a lion.

“To protect you, while I’m not there.”

Angelo took the small piece of wood, which had been carefully carved, oiled, and smoothed by this young boy’s hands.

“Thank you, Nasai.” And he embraced him one more time.

“
Dottore
, we must get going!” the driver called out to him.

Angelo nodded. He went toward the truck, threw his crutches into the back, slid onto the seat, and took one last look toward the camp, where all the men had lined up to see him off.

And as Angelo’s jeep began its way down the road, the last image he saw was Nasai running as fast as he could just to stay with him a bit longer.

Portofino, Italy

S
EPTEMBER
1936

It took Angelo another ten days to finally reach home. His foot was still shrouded in bandages and he walked with crutches.

It was his father who met him at the port. The old man looked ancient. His face like driftwood, his eyes cloudy as fog.

His father embraced him without speaking. Then he pulled back to look at his son, who appeared completely ravaged by the tragedy. Angelo was rail thin, his face unshaven, and he was bent over on crutches with what looked like a club foot bandaged in a ball of linen strips.

“My son,” his father finally said, the words escaping from parched, lined lips. “I am so, so sorry.”

The family had wondered if they should prepare Angelo for the sight of the room, which they now called “the Shrine.” But there was no correct way to do it gently. He would have to discover it for himself.

He was first greeted by his mother, his sisters, and then his brothers, everyone hugging him and whispering words of condolence.

“It will heal,” and “Yes, I will walk again . . .” became rote replies to the siege of inquiries about his foot, which he handled without emotion, his heart too battered to care.

After a long family meal, all the others departed, as his mother instructed. She stayed with him alone.

“I think I need to lie down now, Mamma. I’m so tired . . .”

“I know, Angelo,” she said sweetly. She took her brown hands and clasped them over his cheeks, and kissed him as if he was her small, sweet child again. “I am so sorry this ever happened.”

“I know, Mamma. I know.”

“We did everything to save her and the baby. We did. Marina said it was unforeseen . . . a
vasa previa
, but I don’t know what that means.” Her eyes were overflowing with tears, and she looked up to the ceiling to try and make them stop.

Angelo shook his head. “Let’s not talk about this now, Mamma. I can hardly stand it.”

She nodded. “I will sit in the garden while you sleep.”

Angelo told her that she should go home.

“No, I will wait there,” she said. “In case you need me.”

He watched her as she walked to sit in the garden. Then he made his way to the room where he and Dalia once lay.

There was nothing that could have prepared Angelo for seeing the room Dalia had created with so much care and love.

From the moment he stepped through the arched doorway, his mind became a whirlwind of images he could barely comprehend. It wasn’t just the sight of all his letters papered throughout the room, but the realization of what she had undertaken just to be surrounded by his words.

He stood there for several seconds, his entire body hunched over his crutches. He craned his neck to see the ceiling. He turned in circles to see the letters he had sent to her and written with his own hand. He saw the shapes she had created through her scissors, the careful way she had used her small, nimble hands to paste together what looked like an intricate, flowing puzzle. The pockets of blue and white paint that shimmered in certain places, as though she had added her own magic to the pigment. It was as if Dalia had created her version of heaven before she died.

Angelo’s mother had remained in the garden, expecting him to call out her name. But it wasn’t “Mamma!” that he called out. It was Dalia’s name chanted over and over, like a begging, a supplication, a hopeless wish for her to return.

He threw his crutches to the floor and fell to the bed weeping.

“Dalia. Dalia. Dalia.” He said her name so many times that his own mother had to take her hands to her ears to block out a pain so intense and heart wrenching, it pierced like lightning through the air.

Verona, Italy

J
ULY
1943

On July 25, the newspapers and radio stations report Mussolini’s arrest in Rome. Still everyone in the north knows that even though Mussolini is no longer in power, the threat still exists that Hitler may use this opportunity to invade Italy and restore power to his old ally. Yet even with all the political uncertainty, life within the Liceo Musicale remains unchanged.

Lena tells Elodie she is considering dropping out of the music program.

“How can I play when tanks could be invading our streets any minute?”

Elodie shakes her head. “No one says you can’t be an anti-Fascist and also play your music.”

She looks at Elodie. “I told Zampieri I will sell my viola to pay for the Morettis’ fake papers. He promises he’ll have them within a few weeks. What’s the point of a piece of wood and strings when it could save three lives? I’d sell it in a minute if it could get them out of here.”

“Do you really think they’re not safe here? They haven’t rounded anyone up yet. This is Italy. It’s not Germany, and certainly not Poland.”

“The minute the Germans enter Italy, the Morettis and every Jew here will be on a truck to Poland. You mark my word.”

“And what about Brigitte? The Lowenthals are Jewish.”

Lena shakes her head. “Berto clearly knows she’s at risk, but I don’t think she wants to leave him. And her parents trust him. Her father is supportive. After all, Berto is anti-Fascist and against the Nazis. It doesn’t matter to them that he’s not Jewish.”

Elodie nods. “Perhaps it’s even an advantage in these times.”

“Exactly,” Lena agrees.

Elodie knows so little about Brigitte. The woman strikes her as elusive, like a night cat; her movements almost skulking, her dark eyes piercing and suspicious.

“She seldom speaks to anyone except Berto.”

“It’s true,” Elodie agrees. “I’ve never even seen her speak with Luca.”

“Ah, Luca,” Lena teases. She immediately notices that Elodie blushes at the mere mention of his name. “There’s a meeting tomorrow at the bookstore. Will you be coming?”

It has been a few days since she last saw Luca and she is happy for any excuse to be near him.

“Yes, count me in,” she tells her friend. But when Elodie returns home, she finds something far worse than she could have imagined.

Plodding up the stairs to her family’s apartment, Elodie discovers the door ajar. There are two distinct voices: the desperate and tear-filled voice of her mother, and the careful and compassionate voice of Doctor Tommasi.

She does not hear the voice of her father, a fact that causes Elodie to be seized with alarm.

“Mamma . . .” She pushes the door open farther and enters the salon. She places her cello down by the desk.

In the hallway, she sees her mother’s back, her shoulder blades visible through the silk of her dress. She has her palms to her face and her head is turning from side to side, as if insisting she will not believe what the doctor is telling her.

“Mamma . . .” Elodie approaches the two of them slowly, as if she knows she is entering a place where there is no joy.

It is not her mother who first turns to her, but Doctor Tommasi. His is a face she has known since she was a child. His white hair. His handlebar mustache. Everything about him is familiar and kind.

“Elodie, my child.” He extends an arm to touch her shoulder gently, the first gesture in a dance that is informed in grief.

“It’s your father . . . I’m . . .” He stops for a second. “I’m sorry.”

She hears her mother’s whimpering, the notes of anguish hanging in the air. Despite the precision of the doctor’s words, she cannot believe what he is telling her.

“An embolism. Yes, I’m sorry . . . He went in his sleep. It would have taken him in seconds . . . I’m sure it was very peaceful. He felt no pain . . .” All the information is punctuated in staccato.

Elodie feels the floor fall out from underneath her. Her throat tightens and she can hardly breathe.

Her mother turns and embraces her violently, her tears soaking through Elodie’s shirt.

For the first time in her life, Elodie hears no music in her head. The space in her heart and mind that used to be occupied by melody and song, is now replaced with the weight of sorrow. Not the kind of sorrow she is used to channeling into her cello, but a sadness that sweeps through her and takes with it every note.

Elodie and her mother receive the guests who come to their apartment to pay their respects. Every student and every professor her father knew from his years at the school come to kiss Orsina’s hand and to tell her how sorry they are for her loss.

Elodie sits in the salon, her hands crossed and her eyes staring straight ahead. She sees her mother standing like a ghost, the black dress hanging on a frame of bones. She clasps the hands of people whose names she cannot recall and numbly whispers a few words of gratitude.

On the day of her father’s funeral, when Pietro’s prized violin students serenaded his casket with Bach’s violin solo partitas, the reality of his absence strikes Elodie and Orsina. They can feel Pietro in every note. They can see his smile, his eyes closing as the music rises and swells within the church’s vaulted space. Elodie can sense his hand moving alongside his students’ bows, bringing their music to life. Hearing the music floating through the church, filling the air with both beauty and emotion, the two women are struck by the devotion and talent of his students. But their sorrow is all consuming, and the two women cannot stifle their sobs.

A week after her father’s funeral, Elodie reluctantly returns to school. She had not seen Lena since the funeral, and she senses immediately that her friend is uncertain how to act around her.

“I’m sorry,” Lena says embracing her. “Your father was the kindest man. Everyone who had him as a professor adored him.”

“Thank you, Lena.” It is difficult for her to speak. Elodie grips the handle of her cello case in order to stave off the tears.

“I have a message from Luca as well.” Lena pauses for a second, as if to weigh whether it was inappropriate to mention his name in the midst of Elodie’s grief. “He wanted to come to your home to pay his respects, but he was concerned you’d think it was an invasion of your privacy. . . . He wanted to make sure I conveyed his condolences.”

Elodie is relieved to hear the message from Luca. She had been wondering if he had heard the news of her father’s death, and the fact that he had been thinking of her touches her deeply.

“I’m glad he and the others know . . . I wouldn’t want them to think I had abandoned them. It’s just been too hard to leave my mother and the house until now. We’re still in such shock.”

“We all know you need to take your time . . . But the Germans are approaching. The word is they will be here by the end of the summer. I’m just grateful Zampieri made good on his word and got fake papers for the Morettis. They will be leaving any day now. He’s even found a smuggler to get them through the mountains, into Switzerland.”

“It’s nice to hear a bit of good news in all of this,” Elodie says quietly.

“Yes, that’s probably the only good news any of us will be hearing for some time.” Lena sighed. “It’s going to get a lot worse here once the Allies start bombing . . .”

“Bombing . . .” Elodie feels the word stick in her throat. “Don’t they know we hate Mussolini as much as they do?”

“I don’t think the people in charge care what we think. In the meantime, all we can do is get organized and prepared.”

“I can’t imagine things getting any worse than they already are.” Elodie sighed. “Nothing seems real to me anymore, Lena. It’s like I’m in a hideous dream and I can’t wake up.” She bites her lip. “I can’t even move without thinking of the consequences to my mother . . . I feel trapped.”

Lena nods her head. “We all live within cages, Elodie. The only way to survive is to find a way to navigate through the wire. You are a resilient girl.” She takes Elodie’s hand and squeezes it.“Are you still in the September concert?”

“Yes. It’s September third. We’re lucky. We’re getting a chance to perform at the Teatro Bibiena in Mantua . . .”

“The Bibiena . . .” She smiles at Elodie. “You’re going to be the evening’s star.”

“I need to practice more,” Elodie says quietly.

“Luca seemed interested in learning if you’d still be playing at the concert . . .”

“Yes, very much so . . . but I really have to get my playing back. The fact that Professor Agnelli hasn’t cut me is a small miracle. He must feel indebted to my father.”

“Everyone’s in shock over your father. Your absence is completely understandable.”

“Yes,” she answers. “But I still should be practicing.”

“I’ll tell Luca that we spoke.”

“Tell him I’ll come to a meeting as soon as I can.”

The approaching concert forces Elodie to refocus her grief and channel it into her cello. Just opening the case and peeling off the scarf reminds her of her father. She touches the wood, tilts the instrument, and applies the rosin to her bow. All these simple rituals, which she has performed nearly every day for years, are steeped in thoughts of her father. She closes her eyes and begins to play.

She finds him deep within the notes of the sarabande from the Bach cello Suite No. 6. There, her sorrow, stifled like a sob within her chest, is again released.