The Good Left Undone(111)

“It’s a small farm. That’s all. My lack of ambition before the war kept them away. There wasn’t enough here for them.”

“They did terrible things to the Fontazza family. And that way, over the mountain, they murdered the people in the village. There was no plan. The evil drifted around us.”

Emos led Speranza to the springhouse. The shallow, indoor pond was hemmed in fieldstone and filled with cold water from an outdoor spring. In the dark, the surface of the water appeared black. Emos removed a stone from the floor near the wall. He pulled a sack out of the hole and handed it to Speranza.

“There are dollars and lire and drachmas. And a pearl. I sell the eggs and save the money for you.”

Speranza found the pearl among the coins. He rolled it between his fingers and held it up to the sliver of light from the half-open door.

“I was told it was valuable,” Emos offered.

“It’s not.”

Emos smiled.

For the first time in a long time, Speranza smiled too. “It’s all yours, Emos.” Speranza gave Emos the sack.

“No, this is the rent. I have lived here for seven years.”

“You took care of the farm.”

“We have all we need. Food. A house. A garden. Our children.”

“A man with children always needs money.”

“I will hold it for you. The bank in the springhouse,” Emos promised. “We will take care of you now.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You must let us care for you.”

“You are welcome to stay, Emos. I don’t think I have the strength to farm the land any longer. I’ll stay in the house, but you are not to take care of me.”

“You don’t understand, Signore. I promised Signora.”

Speranza nodded. “You did? Va bene.” Speranza was peace. Agnese was still the boss. They would do as she requested. They would follow her instructions.



* * *





Speranza sat down at his kitchen table for dinner. Eva had prepared a fine Venetian polenta with mushrooms and asparagus. The tomato gravy was tinged with cinnamon, as was the local custom. He cut a strip of the polenta and swirled his fork in the gravy. He took a bite, closed his eyes, and allowed the flavor of Agnese’s recipe to flood his senses.

He did not remember a single meal he took in Berlin when he was a prisoner. He tasted nothing. Food was a way to survive and push through the workday, nothing more. Speranza was Jewish, but he was also an Italian. He did not know where one aspect of his identity started and the other ended, but the world no longer perceived him that way.

After he ate, Speranza went through the house, room by room. Every object he touched connected him to Agnese, and oddly, he was comforted. Speranza was an intelligent man. His wife, however, had been more curious than he; she had been an avid reader. As he perused her collection of books, he promised himself he would read them.

Speranza climbed into bed. He had dreaded going to sleep alone in the house they had built and the bed they had shared, but he shouldn’t have. For the first time since the day they were deported from Italy, the country of their birth, Speranza slept deeply through the night, and he didn’t wake until the sun rose the next morning.


VIAREGGIO

Now

Nicolina brought the bowl of paglia e fieno to the table. She tossed the fresh yellow and green noodles with parmesan and basil. Olimpio poured the wine. Anina placed salad on small plates. Matelda watched her family serve the meal as she used to do. “I feel useless,” she said.

“Mama, enjoy it. Let us wait on you.” Nicolina lifted the lid off a serving platter. “It’s the season. Agnese’s artichokes. I found the recipe in your box.”

“Agnese taught my grandmother how to make them. I never met Agnese, but my mother loved her. They’d clear a floor of the house for them when they visited so they’d have plenty of space. The men worked in the shop, and my grandmother and Agnese would cook together.”

Nicolina tasted the artichoke. “Pretty good.”

Matelda was pleased that Nicolina knew how to make the dishes Agnese had taught Netta. Maybe she hadn’t done such a terrible job of sharing the past with her daughter. “Speranza enjoyed his visits here after the war. My grandmother would make all his favorite dishes, as Agnese had taught her. He appreciated that his wife’s cooking hadn’t been forgotten after she was gone. It gave him back his ambition in a way.”

“Nonna Domenica told me that Speranza was talented and good-looking. Evidently many women in the Veneto set their caps for him, but he didn’t want another woman after Agnese.”

“She told you that?” Matelda asked.

Nicolina nodded. “Bisnonna Netta told Nonna everything and she told me.”

“I’m glad you talked.” Matelda was pleased that her daughter had felt close to her mother. “Around 1949, Speranza began cutting gems again. He and my grandfather even collaborated on some projects for the church. Speranza was like family. I remember when we went to see him in Venezia too.”

“What was he like then?”

“I was a teenager, and I wasn’t paying close attention. In the mid-1950s, our little country was suddenly popular around the world. Italy had the Ferragamos, the movie stars, the Agnellis, and the cropped haircuts. All I wanted to be when I was sixteen was older. I wanted to sit at an outdoor café and drink espresso and smoke a cigarette. Of course, I couldn’t smoke—my father would have had a fit—but I did have the espresso and the attitude.”