Tuscan Rose (60 page)

Rosa sank to the floor. She noticed that Nerezza’s notebook had been used to balance a bed that had a wobbly leg. It seemed bizarre that her mother’s notebook was the only thing that had been left intact in the apartment. She covered her face with her hands, about to give way to tears, but then rallied herself. This was the last battle, wasn’t it? The battle to rebuild her life and the lives of her children. To not let what had happened destroy them. She lifted her eyes and looked around the apartment the way she had once examined burns patients—seeing what was savable beyond even the most horrific injuries. She had to make a home for her children again.

Rosa walked into the bathroom. The putrid smell sent her reeling. The toilet was brimming with excreta. She turned on the taps and found one relief—there was still hot and cold running water. She filled a bucket and decided that she would start with the kitchen.

‘Signora Parigi?’

Rosa turned around to see Ylenia standing behind her with a broom and mop.

‘I was coming to clean the apartment,’ she said, looking like she had seen a ghost. ‘I had to flee when it was taken over. I’ve been staying with the neighbours.’

‘The Nazi bastards,’ said Rosa, shaking her head.

‘Oh, they were bad,’ agreed Ylenia. ‘But this damage was done by the Goums. They seem to think that looting and raping are their rewards for fighting in Italy. I suggest that you and Signor Parigi get the door fixed and reinforced as soon as possible.’

Rosa’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t know where Antonio is.’

Ylenia frowned.

‘He was taken away to Germany,’ Rosa explained. ‘And I’ve been in the mountains since last August.’

Ylenia gave a little cry. ‘No, Signora Parigi, your husband was here this morning, looking for you. When I saw you here just now, I assumed that you had found each other.’

Rosa’s heart leaped in her chest. It hurt her. It must have been weakened by the war. ‘Antonio was here?’ she asked, her voice rising with excitement. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ said Ylenia. ‘He gave me money to buy bread and vegetables and he asked me to mind your flute.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

Ylenia shook her head. ‘He said he’s been going to all the hospitals searching for you.’

Luciano’s words filled Rosa’s mind.
You have to trust your husband, Raven. You have to trust him that he loves you enough to do anything to survive, so that he can come back to you.

‘Where has he been?’ Rosa asked.

‘He was taken away by train the day you were to collect him from the prison,’ she said. ‘But the train was bombed. He escaped and came back to Florence to find you but you had disappeared. He worked with the underground here but eventually had to flee north to join the partisans,’ Ylenia said.

Rosa thanked Ylenia and went running out into the street.
Hurry! Hurry!
she told herself, heading in the direction of Via Tornabuoni. But her heart ached and she had to stop every so often to catch her breath. It seemed to her that the air was echoing with the sounds of rebuilding: scraping, chiselling, hammering. Some of the shops were untouched while others had been badly damaged. Rosa saw the sign for Parigi’s Fine Furniture and Antiques. The grille was still over the window but when she looked inside she saw that, like the apartment, nearly all the furniture was gone. There was no sign of Antonio.

‘Rosa?’

In the reflection of the window, Rosa could see Antonio standing behind her. He was wearing his favourite trench coat and hat and looked the way he used to when he went to work each morning before the war. It was such a beautiful vision that she was afraid to turn around in case she was dreaming.

‘Rosa?’

Slowly she turned. Her eyes met Antonio’s. He leaped towards her and clasped her in his arms. ‘Rosa!’ he cried, kissing her lips
and face. ‘Rosa! Is it really you? They told me you had been taken away by the Germans!’

‘I heard the same thing about you!’ she said.

Antonio stepped back, taking her face in his hands. He gazed at her as if he were holding a precious treasure. His skin was darker than Rosa remembered. He was still handsome but had a haggard look of exhaustion about his eyes.

Antonio gazed at her with wonder and then embraced her again. ‘The children are safe,’ he told her. ‘I made contact with them when I was up north. As soon as the Germans are routed, we will go and collect them.’

For a moment the world stood still while Rosa took in the news she had yearned for. She saw a picture of her treasured children playing with Ambrosio and Allegra. The image of Sibilla and the twins was like a flame, thawing her loneliness. How she longed to be with them again—to watch them sleep, to hear their laughter, to comfort them: all the joys of motherhood that the war had denied her.

The door to the shop was warped from having been forced when the looters entered it. Antonio kicked it open and took Rosa’s hand, helping her inside. The shop had not been vandalised the same way that the apartment had been, but still the missing furniture and the smashed vases and light fittings brought back the feeling to Rosa that her life had been violated. The only item the looters had left behind was the eighteenth-century walnut dining table that had been too large for Antonio and Rosa to hide. She remembered how beautiful the shop had once looked and how hard Antonio had worked to build his dream. Tears she had held back began to fall down her cheeks.

‘Rosa,’ said Antonio, squeezing her hand. ‘We have each other. We have the children. We have everything. We can start again!’

Rosa wanted to embrace that optimism but a dark feeling overcame her. Like a nightmare, it all flashed before her: the people she had seen killed; her assassination of Emanuele; the terror in which she had lived. Even the one light she had known in the past
year—her love of Luciano—pushed her further from her husband. How could she ever explain that to him? She thought of the way Antonio had said her name: as if she were still his graceful, sweet-hearted wife. He had searched for her in the hospitals, but that person didn’t exist any more. She was a stranger. Rosa stepped away from Antonio.

‘What is it?’ he asked, his eyes full of concern.

Rosa tried to gather her thoughts. The pain in her heart was engulfing her. ‘I’m not the same person,’ she said, struggling to get the words out. ‘I’m not the Rosa I was before the war…I’ve seen and done things…terrible things.’

‘None of us are the same after the war,’ replied Antonio. ‘Not one of us is unblemished.’

Rosa tried to say something but tears choked her voice. Then she confessed it all. She told Antonio everything that had happened to her during her time with the partisans: the things she had done and the people she had killed. She told him about Luciano. If they were to begin again, then Rosa couldn’t build her new life with Antonio on lies. She dared not look him in the face when she recounted the story of the Marchesa and how she had been her mother. Would Antonio still want her after all she confessed? She glanced up at him, expecting to see at least reproach, if not resentment, in his eyes. But Antonio was looking at her with the same loving regard he had always shown her. He stood up and went to the walnut dining table, feeling for its quirks and faults.

‘Do you remember when you first came to work for me what I taught you about antiques, Rosa?’ he asked.

She stared at him, not comprehending. He smiled and continued. ‘The patina is the history of an object and shows what has happened over time. A crackled finish, a nick, a scratch—all these things give a piece character. The patina is what makes the piece truly valuable. The Germans didn’t see this table for what it is. They left the rarest and most expensive piece of furniture behind.’

Rosa covered her mouth with her hand. Her heart was too full to speak.

‘I want you, Rosa,’ Antonio said, turning to her. ‘I want you with your scars and your suffering. You are my wife and everything that has happened to you only makes you more precious to me.’

Rosa felt a wave of pain rush through her. It was as if she were suffocating. A burning sensation radiated out from her chest, causing her shoulders and arms to ache. The agony was so overwhelming she thought her heart might seize up with it, that she would stop breathing. She looked at Antonio standing in the ruins of their former life, beseeching her with his eyes to find the strength to begin again.
Despite all that she had confessed, he still loved her
. Could she do it? Could she draw up the strength when she felt she had none left? The pain in her heart subsided. It was replaced by a feeling of tenderness. She saw Luciano in the tunnel, his eyes full of love. He had died to save her. What would that sacrifice mean if she didn’t do something with her life? Her calling had been to live.
Find Antonio, for I know that he is out there somewhere looking for you. And when you find him, love him with all your heart—but sometimes, when you look at the stars, think of me and smile.
Rosa knew what she had to do and that she would find the courage.

‘Yes!’ she said, rushing to Antonio and throwing her arms around him. ‘Let’s bring back the children and then decide what to do next. It doesn’t matter where we live as long as we are together.’

Antonio brushed his fingers down her cheek and looked into her eyes. ‘We’ll be all right, Rosa,’ he said. ‘Whatever we face in the future, we will face it together.’

Rosa saw that was the truth. There was so much to be conquered, so much suffering to be overcome. But she and Antonio had each other. They had their family. It was all that they needed.