The Tuscan Child(60)

I was halfway up the stairs when she appeared, definitely wearing her Sunday best. She wore a red skirt, a white lace blouse, and a black fringed shawl over her shoulders. She looked startled when she saw me. “You needed something, my little one?”

“I was just wondering if you were all right or if you had overslept,” I said.

“No, of course not. Not on a day like this. I just take more time with my preparations. This is the costume of our region, you know. It is fitting to wear it on such a day. These items belonged to my mother.”

I told her she looked very nice.

She smiled. “So, are you ready for church?”

How could I ask about breakfast? My stomach was growling. “Do we not have coffee first?” I asked.

“Before Mass? Oh no. We must fast before receiving the Blessed Sacrament. Fast from midnight onward. Do they not do this in your church?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, my spirits falling at the thought of there being no food for quite a while.

Paola shook her head in disgust. “Angelina. Make haste!” she yelled up the stairs. “We do not want to find ourselves sitting in the back pews where we can see nothing of what is going on.”

Angelina appeared, also looking very pretty in a simple flowery dress with a shawl around her shoulders. In one arm she carried the baby, in the other a large bag. The baby was in a white robe trimmed with lace and had a dainty little lace bonnet on her head. She was sleeping and looked like an adorable china doll.

“Here, let me take that for you,” I said, retrieving the bag from her.

“Thank you.” She beamed at me. “So many things are required for such a small person. A shawl if it grows cold. Another dress if she spits up over this one. And nappies. So many nappies.”

We set off, walking side by side up the dusty track. The morning was windy and brisk. Paola had to hold her shawl firmly around her shoulders. “I do not like the look of the sky,” she said. “I hope it does not bring rain later. The weatherman on the wireless was saying it would rain later today, but what does he know? He is in a little room in Florence. We will pray to Saint Clara that the weather remains fine. She is always helpful about the weather.”

“So tell me, Signora Rossini,” I said, holding up my wrist. “What saint is on this medal?”

She held up my wrist to see the medal better. “I believe that is Saint Rita,” she said. “She is good at healing, especially wounds. Where did you come by this?”

“It was among my father’s things,” I said.

“Then your father was wounded?”

“Badly,” I said. “His plane was shot down. He managed to parachute out, but his leg was damaged. He always walked with a bit of a limp.” I had to mime this last part, not knowing the word.

“Then this saint cured him.” Paola looked pleased. “And your father was a believer in the true faith, then.”

“I don’t think so. I believe someone must have given him the medal.”

She looked at me long and hard. “You believe it was Sofia Bartoli who gave it to him?”

“Yes,” I said. “That is what I believe.”

“She was a kind and good woman, that is how I remember her,” she said. “Such a shame it ended so badly—betraying her village by running off with a German.”

What if she didn’t go willingly? I thought. But one of the men said she had been seen getting into an army vehicle with a German in the dead of night. Just the two of them. No armed escort to make sure she didn’t escape.

As we reached the town piazza, I saw that long trestle tables had been set up. Flags draped the buildings, and lines of smaller ones fluttered from the church. The bells were still ringing loudly enough to make speech impossible. From all sides people were streaming toward the open church doors. The men looked uncomfortable in their dark suits with stiff white collars. The women were dressed beautifully, some in similar costumes to Paola’s, but all in what was clearly their best finery, their dark, glossy hair piled on their heads. Children in their best clothes skipped beside adults who did their best to restrain them by the hand.

Just as we reached the church door, a collective murmur went up from the crowd. “Father Filippo! Father Filippo!”

We stopped and looked back. A frail old man in a black priest’s cassock was being assisted up the steps by two strapping men.

“Good to see you, Father. God bless you, Father,” people greeted him as the crowd stood back to let him pass.

Paola was smiling and nodding. “Our former priest,” she said. “He was our strength and spiritual guide throughout the war years. They say he stood up to the Germans and kept the town safe. A spiritual giant when he is such a small man.”

“Has he retired now?” I asked.

“Oh yes. Years ago he had bad health problems, and now he lives in a home for retired priests not far away. So good that he can still join us for the feast day. It wouldn’t be the same without him.”

We were swept up with the crowd into the dark interior of the church. As we neared the doorway, Paola produced a mantilla and put it on. I saw all the other women had covered their heads, and felt horribly visible. I was glad that we were off to one side and I was behind a pillar! When all were seated a procession entered: little boys in dark suits and little girls in white dresses and veils, looking like miniature brides.