Tuscan Rose (36 page)

Rosa didn’t want to talk about Vittorio. He had been driven crazy by the previous war. It was his sister who should have taken responsibility for him. I want to be myself as I am now, she thought. I don’t want to be dragged back to the past.

Sadness flickered in Signora Corvetto’s eyes. Rosa was surprised to see it. Out of the two of them, Signora Corvetto was the better at hiding her emotions. As a mistress she must have practised it for years: seeing the man she loved—and then her daughter—possessed by another woman. But when it came to Clementina, she could not hide her love.

‘Clementina has grown into a lovely young woman. Your influence on her has remained,’ she said. ‘She misses her father. He is commanding a division in Africa.’

The Marchese Scarfiotti was in Africa? That was one of the hardest-fought battlefronts of all. Rosa realised that Signora Corvetto felt herself every day what the women in the waiting room were going through. Did she see the Marchese in every list she received or package that passed through the office? Was that the secret of the zeal of her mission; the reason why she was so empathetic?

‘Signora Corvetto, I can’t talk about the Scarfiotti family without jeopardising all that I have gained in my life,’ Rosa said. ‘I want to work with you but only if we can leave the past behind.’

Signora Corvetto met Rosa’s gaze. She hesitated a moment before she spoke. ‘We won’t talk of the past, you and I,’ she said. She sat back and indicated the files on her desk. ‘We’ll have too much work to do anyway. Please say that you will help. I need someone with your fortitude.’

Rosa agreed that she would return the following day to commence work, but she knew in her heart that it would not be that simple to forget everything that had happened. The past was not something that could be wiped away with the wave of a hand: for either of them.

R
osa’s hours at the Dead, Wounded and Missing section were from eight o’clock in the morning until lunchtime. But there was so much to do that she frequently returned in the afternoon and worked until the evening. Her most difficult task was when the cases of deceased soldiers’ belongings arrived and she had to pack them, along with a translation of the hospital chaplain’s note, before sending them to the family. Occasionally a uniform was included, sometimes mud-caked and stiff with blood, but most often the items returned were Bibles and photographs. Rosa sometimes found notebooks, decks of cards, sheet music, rosaries and sketches. There were never compasses or binoculars unless they were broken; those were in short supply back on the battlefield. When Rosa touched the objects, visions and feelings flew through her. She saw the soldier on his wedding day, as a child in his mother’s arms, running across a battlefield with cracks of gunfire in his ears. More than she liked, Rosa experienced their feelings at the moment of death: resignation, or cold, stark fear—like the hunted animals she sensed when she touched fur or skin. When the soldiers had died in a hospital rather than on the battlefield there were often feelings of relief or regret.

Whenever she considered it appropriate, she included a note of her own along with the official letter: a verse from a poem she thought might bring comfort or a quote from the Bible. Sometimes the soldier’s death had been so tragic, the only thing she could think of to send was a pressed flower. By the end of each day she was drained, and yet somehow the following morning she found the strength to return to the section, ready to spend another day doing whatever small act she could to alleviate a woman’s pain.

Some of the packages contained letters written by the soldiers to their families that had never been sent. Rosa was required to read them in case anything had slipped by the censor—quite often things had, whether by accident or on purpose. She learned more about the progress of the war from the correspondence of the deceased than she did from the censored press. She pieced together a war where Italian soldiers were being slaughtered because the army was badly equipped.
We don’t have trucks to transport us,
penned one soldier.
We carry our supplies on mules.
A young officer wrote to his father that only two of his men understood Italian. When he ordered them to fight, the order had to be translated into several regional dialects.

It became the habit of Rosa and Signora Corvetto to sit together at the end of the day and unload their burdens to each other over a cup of tea.

‘One widow has been coming to me for months for news of her son,’ said Signora Corvetto one evening. ‘She has cancer. Today I found out that he was killed in Greece. He’s her only child.’

Rosa had thought all the tragic stories would make her numb after a while. But she never stopped feeling the terrible things that were happening.

‘Italy wasn’t prepared at all for this war, was it?’ she asked.

Signora Corvetto threw up her hands. ‘We are an agricultural country,’ she said. ‘We never had France’s or Germany’s industrial capacity. We can’t produce planes, tanks or automobiles as fast as they can. At harvest time, the Italian army had to send the conscripts back to bring in the crops otherwise the army as well as
the civilians would have starved.’ She poured them both another cup of tea. ‘My late husband owned a merchant shipping fleet. No-one informed his company that Italy was about to enter the war. So when the declaration was made, the ships docked in Allied ports were immediately impounded. Those ships could have been used in the war effort. Instead, they are being used against us.’

Signora Corvetto glanced at the world map on the wall. Rosa followed her gaze to the outline of Africa. It was the one place that Italy had experienced some success. Everywhere else the war was a disaster.

‘Italy is going to have to surrender,’ said Signora Corvetto. ‘There is no other way out of this.’

‘Surrender?’ A shudder ran down Rosa’s spine. ‘I’ve never believed Italy had a good reason for entering this war. But if we surrender what will the Allies do to us?’

Signora Corvetto bit her lip. ‘I don’t know.’ She indicated the files scattered on her desk and the new crate of returned belongings that had arrived that day. ‘But could it be worse than this?’

Rosa and Antonio had hoped to visit the children for Christmas. But, as Rosa had feared, as soon as the government official at the passport office reviewed her documents, he refused her request.

‘Please,’ she begged him. ‘My children are very young. I haven’t seen them for months.’

‘Why did you send them to Switzerland?’ the official asked her.

‘So they would be safe.’

The official’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well,’ he said, loudly enough for the people in the waiting area to hear, ‘you obviously doubted Italy would win this war, so you are two times the traitor.’

He slammed down the shutter on his window and put up his ‘closed’ sign. It was still a quarter of an hour before lunchtime.

Rosa turned to leave. The people in the waiting area stared at her. Rosa remembered the times she had suffered public humiliation for being an unwed mother. But on this occasion she looked each of the people in the face.

‘Was I wrong?’ she asked them. ‘Are we on our way to glorious victory?’

The onlookers averted their eyes. Rosa’s subversive comment could incriminate them all, but she suspected that there was a stronger feeling prevailing among them than fear. They knew what she said was right and they were ashamed.

Rosa and Antonio argued that evening over whether he should go to Lugano without her.

‘The children will feel abandoned if you don’t go,’ Rosa said. ‘And I want you to see personally how they are.’

‘Perhaps it’s time to get that false passport,’ suggested Antonio.

Rosa shook her head. ‘That’s one risk we will keep for when we know we are leaving and not coming back,’ she replied. ‘People are still buying from the shop. There seems to be a certain class of Florentine that doesn’t realise there is a war on.’

Antonio nodded. ‘The city does seem oddly safe. Perhaps the Allies are as sentimental about the birthplace of the Renaissance as we are.’

Rosa hid her heartbreak at not being able to visit her children by busying herself sewing clothes for them. She wrote each of them a long letter, asking Sibilla to read the one for the twins to them.
I’m so proud of you, my darling, amazing and lovely girl,
she wrote to Sibilla.
I hope you know that although I can’t see you, I carry you and the boys in my heart always.

Rosa wrote to Lorenzo and Giorgio about happy things—the change in the seasons, what Ylenia was cooking for them, what the neighbours were doing. But all her feelings could have been summed up in three simple words: I miss you. It hurt her to think of all the special moments with her children that she had been deprived of and could never have back again. She only hoped that when they were older the children would understand why she had been unable to see them and forgive her.

The night before Antonio was due to leave, Ylenia made them polenta with nettles and wild mushrooms. She’d had to piece together what she could from the rations, and Rosa refused to eat
hedgehogs or guinea pigs. But they ate on their finest china and drank a bottle of the French champagne they had ‘subversively’ kept for a special occasion.

When they had finished dinner, Antonio leaned back in his chair and touched the rim of his glass. ‘Do you ever think about him?’ he asked.

‘Who?’ responded Rosa, looking up. Antonio had an unfamiliar expression on his face and she realised that he had meant Luciano. Antonio had never been the jealous type. Why was he bringing Luciano up now? She lowered her eyes. ‘He’s dead, Antonio. No-one has heard from Luciano since Spain. He would have contacted Orietta or Carlo if he were still alive. Yes, I think of him when I light my candle in the church, but I don’t think of him the same way I once did. I pray to God every day that I may have half his courage and determination.’

Ylenia came in with some dried figs for dessert. When the maid left, Rosa asked Antonio, ‘Do you still think of
her?’
She meant Signora Visconti.

It was Antonio’s turn to be surprised. He shifted in his seat then looked Rosa in the eye. ‘Every day.
Every day
I think of her.’

Rosa felt herself pale. She knew that Signora Visconti had been the love of Antonio’s life, but ever since they had last seen her on the Day of Faith, Rosa had hoped that he’d forgotten her. It was a shock to hear from his own mouth that he hadn’t.

‘I see,’ she said, trying to disguise her hurt feelings by holding Antonio’s gaze. ‘I guess she is rather unforgettable.’

‘Exactly!’ said Antonio, a smile dancing on his lips ‘That is why I remember her every day when I see you and think,
Thank God I married Rosa!’

It took Rosa a moment to comprehend Antonio’s meaning. When she understood, she blushed with embarrassment but felt happy too. ‘It’s not nice to tease your wife that way!’ she said, affecting an irritated tone.

Antonio stood up and placed his hand on Rosa’s shoulder. ‘Then suggest a nicer way for me to tease my wife?’ he said.

In January 1941, the British launched an attack against the Italian strongholds in East Africa. After Keren fell, so did Asmara and Massawa. The Ethiopian capital was captured by the British. The Italian casualties were heavy. The Red Cross rounded up more volunteers for the Dead, Wounded and Missing section to help with the workload of informing relatives about the fate of their sons and husbands.

Rosa arrived one morning with the lists from the army telegraph office. She felt the unsettling presence around her that she experienced whenever she was reminded of the Villa Scarfiotti. Only she hadn’t been thinking of the villa at all; rather, she had been disturbed to learn by letter from Antonio that the twins had colds. Still that presence was there—breathing, rippling and moving the air around her. The sensation grew stronger when she walked into Signora Corvetto’s office to find the head of the section slumped over her desk and weeping. It was the first time Rosa had seen Signora Corvetto give way to her emotions but she understood. All the volunteers in the section were burnt out. Rosa was starting to see the faces of the women in the waiting room in her sleep. A human being could only deal with so much grief.

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea with sugar,’ she said to Signora Corvetto. ‘You’re trembling.’

Signora Corvetto looked up. She had changed from a fresh-faced beauty to an old woman overnight. There were shadows under her eyes and grooves around her mouth. ‘The list,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Give me the list.’

‘The list can wait another five minutes,’ Rosa told her. ‘You can’t help anybody if you aren’t feeling well.’

Signora Corvetto sat back in her chair. ‘He hasn’t written,’ she said, touching her fingers to her brow. ‘Why hasn’t he written?’

She was repeating the same lament Rosa heard every day from the women in the waiting room. For a moment she wondered if Signora Corvetto was suffering a breakdown. Then she
remembered that the Marchese Scarfiotti was in Africa. ‘I’ve already scanned the list,’ Rosa told her. ‘His name is not there.’

Signora Corvetto placed her hands on the desk as if she were trying to steady herself. Rosa pulled up a chair and sat beside her. She thought about all the women Signora Corvetto had comforted. Who would be there for Signora Corvetto now that she needed support?

‘You have worked yourself into the ground,’ Rosa told her. ‘You know that you might not hear anything for months. There is no way that anything other than priority war correspondence will get through now.’

Signora Corvetto opened the desk drawer and took out a handkerchief from the plentiful supply she kept there. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘When Rodolfo passed away, I thought Emilio and I could see more of each other,’ she said, looking into the distance. ‘We were happy together.’ She lost her composure again and gave way to a new wave of tears. ‘This damn war!’ she cried. ‘This damn war!’

‘If he’s not been on any of the lists so far, then that’s a good sign,’ Rosa said. ‘Those in command are the first to be noticed missing.’ But she was clutching at straws. Both she and Signora Corvetto knew that not being on the list did not necessarily mean a soldier wasn’t dead. The Marchese and his unit could have been blown to bits, identity discs and all, and then no-one would know what had happened for months, maybe never.

That evening at church, while lighting her candle for the anti-fascists, Rosa said a prayer for the Marchese Scarfiotti as well. She had not been particularly fond of him, but two people she cared about were suffering over him. If Signora Corvetto was feeling the anxiety of not having heard any news, then Clementina must be in torment too. Rosa had tried to shut Clementina out of her mind for many years and lavish all her love and attention on her own children. But now her heart was breaking for Clementina.

One morning in early summer, long after Antonio had returned from his visit to Lugano, Signora Corvetto was called away to a meeting of the heads of the Red Cross volunteer divisions. Rosa
and two of the new volunteers, an elderly couple by the name of Daria and Fabrizio Bianchi, sat at the front desk together. They were checking letters to be forwarded to Italian prisoners of war when the hospital librarian arrived with a box.

‘This was sent to us by mistake,’ he said. ‘I thought it was some new books so I didn’t look at it until now. But it’s for your section. It’s the belongings of a commanding officer.’

The Bianchis turned to Rosa; she dealt with the belongings to be returned because she could translate the Allied chaplain’s notes. She stood up and took the box from the librarian. As soon as she touched it her heart plunged. The Marchese Scarfiotti is dead, she thought. Without even having to look at the contents she knew that they belonged to him.

‘Excuse me,’ she said to the volunteers. She took the box to Signora Corvetto’s office and closed the door.