The Garden of Letters (33 page)

The girl who calls herself Anna is now sitting across from him in his garden, her eyes closed, the wind slightly moving her hair. She didn’t remind him of Dalia. No, his wife had been a book of abundant fresh pages, with eyes that were always hopeful and full of light. This girl was different. She reminded him of an old secretary desk he had once seen in his professor’s office in Genoa, with its tiers of small drawers, its veneer like an intricate puzzle created out of an inlay of several different exotic woods.

Even her torso, which she always protects with two folded arms, was like a cabinet of secrets, brimming with stories yet untold. He already suspects why she covers her belly, and why she has no appetite in the mornings and sleeps for much of the day. That was an easy diagnosis for him, one he had concluded within her first few days at his house.

But there was something far beyond this feminine vulnerability that drew him closer to her. It was as if he felt not like a doctor, but rather like a watchmaker who wanted to open the back of the dial to reveal all the mechanisms, where he knew the true beauty and intricacy lay.

After she has been with him at the cottage for a few weeks, he begs her not to call him
Dottore
, but by his given name Angelo. They no longer move through the house as strangers, but as two quiet souls who have grown to understand each other’s rhythms.

When his sisters questioned Anna’s arrival, he insisted that she was a daughter of one of his old friends from medical school, another one like Simon or Guido who temporarily needed shelter during the war.

It was Vanna who was the most suspicious of Anna. One afternoon in November, she stopped by the house to find her brother gone. Anna was sitting alone in the living room, her blouse untucked from her skirt and her gaze focused on her belly. Within an instant, Vanna felt certain about what she had suspected for the past two weeks: that the girl was pregnant. She was so thin in her arms and legs, but with each passing week she seemed to grow thicker in the middle.

Elodie heard the sound of Vanna’s footsteps on the tile and looked up. Immediately she tried to tuck in her shirt and smooth down her skirt. But Elodie knew that Vanna had already seen her.

There was a part of Elodie that no longer wanted to lie, and with every day it became more difficult to conceal. She had been reading one of Angelo’s books when she felt the first fluttering inside her. That was why she had untucked her blouse and placed her hands on top of her belly. It was so faint, so gentle, almost like a butterfly’s wings caressing her from within, but she felt it and it took her breath away.

So when Vanna had caught her in this moment of discovery, Elodie soon gave up her efforts to conceal her pregnancy and simply rose to stand before the woman.

“I’m sorry,” Elodie said, her eyes glassy with tears. “I just felt a flutter for the first time.”

Vanna, who was between the age of a mother and an older sister to Elodie, remained silent for what seemed like several minutes. She looked at the girl standing in her brother’s living room, her hands now covering her belly, and it awakened her own maternal instincts to protect someone vulnerable. Elodie was pure despite her condition. And so there was no judgment in Vanna’s voice when she came closer to Elodie and whispered, “I know.”

Vanna had birthed three children herself and knew well the marvel of having a life growing inside you. It was hard to believe that it had been nearly fifteen years since she gave birth to her first child. Since then she had watched as her brother returned from Ethiopia, his heart broken, and wife and child already buried in the cemetery on the cliff overlooking the sea.

It would have been easy for Vanna to dismiss the young girl in front of her as a fallen, as someone who had no right to ask for shelter from her all-too-giving brother. But Vanna had seen the effect the girl had on Angelo. For the first time in years, he had begun to smile.

“Anna,” she said, “how many months are you?”

“A little over three.”

“So you have your energy back now?”

“Yes, too much. I want to clean everything for Angelo and show him how grateful I am for letting me stay here.”

“And what about the father?”

Vanna could feel a shift in the room as soon as she asked.

“I see you don’t have a wedding ring . . .”

Elodie shook her head.

“I have no ring.” Her voice quivered. “I have many things from him. I have his sweater. A medal on a chain. A book with his words inscribed into it. But I have no ring.” She paused. “And I won’t be getting one.”

She lowered her eyes and then raised them to meet Vanna’s. She knew she should feel ashamed by this fact, that it revealed her immodesty, her lack of religious fortitude, and her inability to control her own desire. But how could one be ashamed for carrying something inside them that was conceived solely by love?

Vanna nodded and kept her face neutral and without judgment. She scanned Elodie to discover the girl’s eyes flickering again. Without needing to ask, Vanna knew immediately that Elodie had felt another kick.

Vanna smiled and walked closer to Elodie. It made her feel young again to see this girl experiencing all the wonder and beauty of carrying her first child. Vanna had never stopped being amazed by every stage, but those initial movements were the first symbol that a mother and child were eternally entwined.

She had been relieved by the girl’s honesty. Had Elodie tried to lie to her, Vanna would have been unable to trust her. But now she felt her heart warming to her. She knew the Virgin herself had been unwed and in need of shelter. What this girl needed now was kindness and nurturing. Her brother’s life had already had so much sadness and loss, and she knew he was smart enough to already realize the girl was pregnant. It would be a blessing for him to have the opportunity to see life brought into the world after so much heartache.

“How old are you?”

“Nearly twenty.”

Vanna smiled. “I was the same age when I had my first son.”

The two women were now only a few feet apart. Against the backdrop of the garden, Elodie looked beatific.

“I’ll try and help you. Anna, you can trust me. I will be your friend.”

At that moment, Elodie wanted to tell Vanna her real name and her whole story, have it pour out of her like a stream of water that wished to run free.

But instead, she took Vanna’s hand and placed it on the center of her belly, then placed her own hand on top.

The two women waited in perfect silence until the sensation of a small foot fluttering inside an invisible, watery world sealed them to each other.

Verona, Italy

S
EPTEMBER
1943

The same way she had heard music as a child was the way she remembered her last moments with Luca. It came to her like a drowning.

She had been in the camp with Luca and the others for only two days. But within that short time, the north of Italy had exploded into war. The mountains, which had only known the sounds of birds before, were now shaking with the echo of explosions from the bordering cities. Elodie grew cold as she saw the plumes of smoke rising from the center of Verona. Even the sky had changed. The clouds were cut by the razor-sharp blades of airplane wings. And the sound of the engines was deafening.

She had left Orsina alone in the apartment to pack for Venice. She was supposed to have come home the following evening, but the incessant bombing had prevented her return. Elodie was sick with worry. She could only imagine how her mother must have been feeling alone in the apartment.

The first night she had slept in a small tent with Rita Rosani, on old sacks stuffed with straw. The schoolteacher’s blonde hair looked angelic, but joined to her body, like another limb, was her rifle. During the night, Elodie saw Rita’s hand reach for her musket like it was a lover whom she was afraid might leave her side.

On the second day, Luca was told to go farther into the mountains to look for a place to move their camp. Elodie insisted she would go with him.

She had not bathed for several days now, not since the morning after her recital, and she was self-conscious about the soot and dirt on her skin. She looked like a wholly different person from the girl who previously had been so resplendent on the stage. Gone was the taffeta silk, the tight chignon—all of the elegance of her debut.

The others looked like time-worn partisans. Rafaelle with his broad shoulders, his brown skin, and hands that looked large enough to be weapons themselves. Even the other women, Rita and Jurika, had a solidity to them that was foreign to her. Their backs and shoulders were stronger. And their breasts, so much bigger than Elodie’s, gave the impression that they were wearing armor.

She had not been thinking when she jumped on her bicycle and pedaled to meet Luca. She regretted not having worn trousers and a sweater, something that would have protected her skin while she walked through the bramble and thatch.

Luca was standing next to a small fire, speaking with his brother and drinking from a small cup of boiled acorn coffee.

“Want some?” he had asked her. “It’s awful but it’s warm.”

She put her hand up and shook her head no.

He walked over and wrapped a single arm around her. “If I had known that you would get stuck up here with me in this dirty camp, with the Germans swarming the area, I would never have let you come.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “I’m glad I’m here with you . . .”

He shook his head. “Your poor mother must be sick with fear. She expected you home yesterday.”

“My mother is strong.”

“We need a new camp.” Rafaelle came over and interrupted them. “We’ve been here too long. Luigi discovered a German bunker last night, two miles east. I want to move our camp before we attack them.”

Rafaelle pulled out a map and showed Luca where the Germans had been sighted. He moved his finger in the opposite direction and tapped a section of the map. “Try to find a safe place over here.”

He started to walk away, but then returned. “And take Elodie with you,” he instructed. “She shouldn’t be left alone here, it’s too dangerous. If we know about the German camp, they know about ours. I can’t ensure her safety if she stays here.”

Luca nodded. “Yes, you’ll come with me,” he said, looping his arm around her.

They began walking in the direction Rafaelle had indicated. There were no pathways, just spaces in between trees and vines. The smell of chestnut husks and oak leaves was heavy in the air.

After some time, there seemed to be a clearing in the woods. “What’s that over there?” Elodie asked. In the distance, she saw what looked like an abandoned farmhouse.

Luca nodded. He, too, saw what looked like an old house. “If it has a roof and four walls, Rafaelle and the others will think we’ve found a palace for them.”

Elodie smiled and reached to find Luca’s hand.

They went over to inspect the structure more closely. When they arrived, they discovered that it was nothing but a skeleton of charred beams and stone. As they moved through what must have been the living room, their feet stepped over pieces of some family’s former life: a child’s cradle, a raggedy doll, four broken kitchen chairs, and a table covered in rubble and bits of the fallen roof. They trod on a carpet made of broken pottery and glass.

In the reflection of one of the old cloudy windows, Elodie saw her face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever looked this tired . . . this dirty,” she said as her fingers tried to adjust the strands of black hair that had fallen over her eyes.

She then extended her arms and showed the smudges of dirt and soot that at first glance might have looked like a series of bruises.

“What I would do for a warm bath right now . . .”

Luca nodded. He, too, was covered in a thick veil of gray.

He wanted to give her what she wanted, a beautiful bathtub like the English had in their manors. Deep, white porcelain, bear-claw feet, and steaming water up to her chin. The thought of her emerging from it was in itself a heady dream for him.

Through one of the broken windows, he saw a large washing basin in the backyard, certainly deep enough for a girl Elodie’s size to bathe in. In the kitchen were several copper pots. Luca was sure he could make a fire, with sticks and the pieces of scattered wood around the house.

“Do you see a water pump, Elodie?”

Elodie shrugged. “No, but I’ll check outside.”

They both found their way to the outer garden, where they discovered a pump buried in the tall grass.

“You’re going to get your bath,” Luca said. He had begun to grow a beard over the past few days, and through the shadow of his stubble and dirt-smudged face, his eyes were shining. In the sunlight, they were the color of honey.

“But how?”

“You’ll see,” he said. “Just wait.”

“Let me help,” she protested. She lifted her hand to move her hair from her eyes.

“No, just go inside and rest until I call for you.”

Luca looked up at the sun and saw it was midway in the skyline. They still had time before it got dark and cold. Still, he moved quickly and with great efficiency. He gathered small, dry twigs for the kindling and searched for larger pieces of dry wood, knowing they wouldn’t create any smoke.

When he was satisfied, he took out his lighter and shoots of fire soon flickered in front of him.

He took the copper pot to the water pump and washed it, then the larger, deeper washing bin as well. After each was clean, he filled the copper pot with water and brought it over to the fire, and fashioned some old rope over the makeshift harness, so that it could be heated from underneath. He lugged the large washing bin closer, so he could eventually pour the hot water into it.

When he had finally heated enough water, he called to Elodie in the farmhouse.

“Here is your bath,
carissima
!”

She stood there shaking her head and lifted a single hand to cover her smile. “Luca, how did you manage such perfection?”

“Come on, quickly now!” he said. “I want you to tell me that I got the temperature of the water just right, too!”

She smiled coyly. “If you insist.”

Elodie walked to the corner of the garden and, with her back toward Luca, slowly began to remove her clothes.

She started with her blouse. Unbuttoning the row down her front, she slipped it off her shoulder. And although it was already quite dirty and not expensive at all, she couldn’t bear to put it on the ground. She found a tree branch and carefully draped it across. Then, she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of the material, placing that, too, on the branch.

With her body sheathed in nothing but a simple cotton slip, Luca could feel his heart pounding. She seemed to wait an eternity, standing there with only the angles of her shoulder blades revealed above the backline of the slip, her lithe arms reaching to undo the already loose pinning of her hair.

She then turned around to face him, walking over to the steaming basin of water he had prepared for her.

When she had gotten so close that he could touch her, only then did she lift up her slip and reveal her nakedness in its entirety to him.

He could not believe his eyes. This was the first time he had seen her naked. In the bookstore he had discovered her under the canopy of her clothes, his hands finding her underneath the curtain of her skirt and the cotton veil of her blouse. But now she stood in front of him, completely revealed.

It was as if he had been given a gift; the rare glimpse of something that had never been exposed before. She was porcelain white, opaque and luminous at the same time. Her breasts were two small globes of perfection, her buttocks like the curve of a mandolin.

He watched, transfixed, as she lifted a single leg and entered the makeshift bath.

Elodie now stood knee-deep in the water, her arms crossed to cover her breasts. She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. A thin ribbon of hair fell over one of her eyes, and she smiled at him in a way that paralyzed him.

“Did you see that pitcher by the old stove?” she asked. “If you bring that here, it would be helpful . . .” The small ribbons of muscle in her back sprung up in high relief.

Again, he could barely breathe. She looked like a living sculpture.

“Yes, of course . . .” he stammered. “I’ll get it right away.”

Luca returned quickly with the pitcher and dipped it into the water. He stood up and poured it over her body, long, fluid streams reflecting off her glistening skin.

Neither of them could remember who kissed the other one first. She knew he had placed the pitcher down. That he had stood up and taken a step closer to her so that the length of his body was parallel to hers. She, still naked in the tub, he standing just against her, his shirt becoming wet as he pressed into her. She felt herself shiver and reached to touch his chest. She sensed the rhythm of his heartbeat, the music just beneath his skin. She fingered the amulet and leather cord around his neck before he reached for her fingers, pulling her closer, bringing her mouth slightly upward toward his own. In her nakedness, she wanted him to cover her with his body, his touch. And so she waited for him to come to her fully.

He took his hands first to her hair, then to the bell shape of her shoulders, and then up again to cup her face in his palms. When he held her cheeks in his hands and kissed her, he felt himself weaken as if there wasn’t an ounce of fight left in his heart or body.

With every touch, she shook slightly in his arms, like a small bird that was trying to take flight in the cradle of his hands. His thumb felt the contrast between her breast and nipple, his fingers the narrow of her waist, then on to to the curve of her hips. She was now out from the tub and against him, drawing her with him to the ground, pulling himself so close into her that he heard her expel just the faintest, smallest cry.