A Harvest of Secrets(27)

Until that moment—she must have been seven or eight—the servants had been her babysitters; in the case of Carlo, her playmate. She thought it exotic and wonderful that he and the others lived in a barn. The men who labored in the fields and worked the vines were creatures from a fable, as happy as anyone else in her child’s world. To her father and perhaps to Massimo, as well, the workers still weren’t quite human. Her father had next to no interaction with them, as if they spoke another language, or worshipped an alien god.

She had a handful of memories of her father’s parents, who’d been alive and living here—it had been their house—for the first years of her life. In a country where people touched constantly—hugging, kissing, lifting children onto their laps—she couldn’t remember a single gesture of physical warmth from her paternal nonno and nonna. Proper, rigid, rule bound, accustomed to their wealth and privilege, they were like statues on high pedestals, unreachable. Her father must have grown up that way, in a desert empty of love, unable even to imagine real affection. She wondered what being married to such a man had been like for her mother.

“I’ve enjoyed the dinner,” she said, folding the napkin and setting it on the table. “I’ll leave you, Father, to your complicated manly discussions.” She kissed her father’s cheek, and reached out a hand to Massimo Brindisi, who held it in both of his for a moment.

“So beautiful,” he said. “You should visit me at Lago di Como. There are people there I’d like you to meet. I’m leaving for the lake directly from here. Tomorrow morning. Would you join me?”

“Not this time, but thank you for the invitation.” She felt slightly unsteady on her feet.

“Are you sure? A two-night visit, perhaps? A small vacation? You could take the girl, Eleonora, if you wish. For company. As a chaperone.”

“No, grazie.”

In her room, Vittoria washed her face and changed into her nightdress, and, less worried about another intrusion, half-heartedly moved the armchair so that it blocked the door. She spent a few minutes writing in her diary, then set the book aside, switched off the light, and prayed, as she always did, for her mother’s soul and for protection for Carlo and the other men off at war. She tried to picture Massimo’s lake house—her parents had taken her and Enrico there several times, many years ago. She remembered the view down over the blue water, tile-roofed houses dotting green hillsides on the opposite shore, and the pink-tipped mountains behind them at sunset; she remembered fireworks displays on summer nights, and riding the commuter ferry from town to town, her father keeping a tight hold on Enrico as if he might fall overboard and drown, her mother buying a set of ceramic plates in one of the villages they visited, Massimo showing her proudly around the grounds and even swimming in the lake with them one time, on a burning hot day. Tonight, he’d seemed so different, offering to let her take Eleonora “as a chaperone,” a strange gesture for a man with evil intentions, if, in fact, he had such intentions. So there must have been some other meaning to his You don’t know who I am when he burst into her room. There must be complications she couldn’t see or imagine. As she’d done hundreds of times, she wished her mother were alive so she could confide in her, ask her what she knew. She wished she could talk about it with Carlo. Lacking a formal education as he did, Carlo nevertheless had an excellent understanding of people, and a quick mind. She thought of getting up and writing him a letter, but where would she send it? Her head was gently spinning, and she was exhausted in a way that often happened after she’d come close to an argument with her father. She rested her head on the pillow, closed her eyes, and was instantly asleep.

Next morning, after a breakfast of coffee and pastries, Massimo said his goodbyes, went out into the courtyard, started his car, and then seemed to change his mind. As if the cost and scarcity of gas meant nothing to him, he left the engine running and returned to the patio, where Vittoria was standing with her father, ready to wave farewell. “Please reconsider,” Massimo said to her, and she peered into his eyes as if she might discern the man behind the act. “The weather is fine now, at Como. There’s no bombing there. You can swim if you like. I can take you and Eleonora up to Cadenabbia for a meal with a spectacular view of the lake. My friend owns—”

“I’m so grateful,” Vittoria said, summoning all her own acting skills. “But now is not the right time for me. Please travel safely.”

Massimo hesitated, as if he were trying to read her voice, clutching to a thread of hope. He held her in a light embrace, bathed her in his smile, shook her father’s hand again in a kind of gratitude, sat behind the wheel of his black Ford, and drove out of the courtyard.

He’d gone only as far as the gate at the top of the first rise when the American car exploded with one tremendous boom, sending tongues of flame into the cool morning and showering the road with shards of metal and glass.





Sixteen

Paolo was working the wheat, sweating through his shirt—they were within five or six days of finishing the harvest—when he heard the explosion. Gennaro Asolutto, Marcellina, Costanza and the children, every one of them reacted the same way: jerking their faces up and sideways toward the sound, and then, after a few seconds, staring at a thin plume of gray-black smoke as it lifted into the sky beyond the crest of the hill.

“The barn!” Marcellina shrieked. “It’s the barn! It’s the Americani bombing our barn!”