A Harvest of Secrets(18)
On one wall of his upstairs study, her father kept keys, two dozen of them, to the doors of various closets and rooms in the manor house and elsewhere on the property. As a child, she’d thought the rusted pieces of metal belonged to just another display of things that had been handed down from earlier generations, like the framed sepia photos on the living room sideboards, or the elegant quilts that were brought to the beds in wintertime. But these, too, were labeled. After her conversation with Paolo, she went immediately, in a kind of waking dream, to her father’s study, took a particular key from its nail, and handed it to Eleonora. Fifteen minutes later, Eleonora brought it back—both exchanges wordless—and soon it was hanging in its usual place.
The next morning, from the minute Vittoria opened her eyes, all she could think about was what Old Paolo had told her. German deserters hiding in the barn! Partigiani fighting the Nazis in the hills! Their sweet Eleonora involved in the secret battle! She’d never heard anything about partisans, but the truth was, since the Germans had started pouring more men and matériel into the country, with the exception of weekly visits to the cathedral in Montepulciano for Mass, she’d had almost no contact with anyone outside the house, and the word had never been mentioned in the conversations her father had with Massimo, the village priest, and the estate’s few other visitors. Partigiani! Old Paolo, Eleonora, and that same priest among them! Those thoughts crossed her mind again and again like a troupe of dancers crossing back and forth on a stage. Twirling, somersaulting, disappearing behind the curtain, reappearing. Partigiani!
What, she wondered, would Carlo think of them? They were, in fact, fighting on the opposite side. But Carlo had been the most reluctant of soldiers, completely open to her educated criticisms of Mussolini and Italian fascism, perfectly willing to agree with what Vittoria told him of her mother’s radical opinions. He’d be a partisan himself, if he could manage it. She was sure of that.
She sat with her father at the breakfast table, caught in a swirl of emotions. Worry, guilt, confusion. Germans in the barn. War on Italian soil. Partisans in the hills—men and women both, Old Paolo had said—fighting the Nazi war machine. Her small act—the passing of one key—made her feel as though she were taking off the clothes and jewelry she’d lived in all her life, the silks and satins, the sapphire earrings and diamond bracelets, and walking out into the world unprotected by the SanAntonio wealth and privilege. The world was wrapping its cold arms around her. The real world. A place of risk and death. A place where honor and courage mattered more than money.
But, if the deserters were captured, wouldn’t they turn in Paolo and the others to save their own lives? Change their minds, fight with their countrymen again, murder Italians in the streets? For a moment, her doubts extended even to Paolo and Eleonora. Were they people she could trust, or ones who’d betray her and her father to save themselves if the Germans discovered what they’d been doing?
To complicate matters, there was a piece of news—a confirmation of weeks of rumors—that seemed strong enough to shake the grapes from the vines, to shatter the red-tile roof and send cracks running through the stone manor house walls: Benito Mussolini had disappeared! Now even his own radio was saying so—his Fascist Council had surprised him with a vote of no confidence, and he’d been deposed for bringing the war to Italian soil. Reports claimed that the king and General Badoglio had taken Mussolini prisoner, left Rome, and were ruling the country from a secret location.
That news fed the strange new excitement in her, made her wonder if Italy might surrender now that its murderous leader had disappeared, if Carlo might soon come home.
At dinner she waited for the right moment—her father seemed absolutely distraught at the disappearance of Il Duce—and then, honoring Paolo’s request, said, “Father, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and while I don’t ever see myself marrying Massimo, I do agree that I was rude on his last visit. I only wanted to say that to you. I hope he’ll visit us again.”
Her father had his wineglass halfway to his lips. He held it there for a moment, then set it down without drinking and looked at her more closely. “Could you possibly be learning how to become a woman?” he said.
Instead of reacting to the remark as she would have in the past, Vittoria only tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. Amid all the other emotions, she felt a twist of thrill inside her, something shocking and different and exciting: the ability to disguise her true feelings, the ability to put on an act, to fib. She had no idea where this new talent had come from.
Twelve
For the first few days, Carlo stayed in the barn, leaving only to use the outhouse and, once, to clean himself at an outdoor spigot while Ariana’s father chased away the children who wanted a peek. The face and shoulder were a constant source of pain, but day by day, gradual as the deepening of a season, the pain receded. His body began to heal.
It seemed he’d been blown far up into the air by the Allied shell and had landed in the embrace of the kindest family on earth. Bruno and Miracola were the names of Ariana’s parents, and, as he healed, Carlo became aware of a flock of black-haired children, boys and girls from ages four to fourteen, some of whom seemed to be part of the family, and others—neighbors, he guessed—who wandered in and out of the barn, and across the arid land, curious to catch a glimpse of the wounded soldier. He’d always loved being around children—he and Vittoria had talked about and looked forward to raising a large brood—and he welcomed their company now, let them stare at his face, even touch a finger gently to his scarred cheek. He told them how he’d been hurt—they listened with mouths open and dark eyes fixed on him—and he let them follow him every morning when he went to pray at Pierluigi’s grave.