The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(31)
He explained that his father, who was a prisoner in a Russian war camp during World War II, learned to play music so he could be part of the troupe that entertained the Russian soldiers. When he returned home to Germany, he taught his young son to play the accordion, the guitar, and the violin. Young Erich was a natural, and soon he was teaching his father new songs.
Rico stood before me, his foot propped on the bench, his chin tucked into the violin’s body. It was mesmerizing, the sound that he created, as if by magic. An old man passing by took notice. Then a smartly dressed couple.
In no time, we were surrounded by thirty, maybe forty people—local merchants and children and English tourists. The energy from the crowd seemed to ignite Rico. He walked among the people, the ballad merging into a chirpy melody. The bow swept over the strings, faster and faster at a dizzying speed. People cheered and laughed and clapped. Rico didn’t miss a note! He finished with a flourish of the bow. The applause and whoops and whistles were deafening.
When the admirers finally disappeared, we couldn’t believe what they’d left behind. Coins . . . so many of them! More than he made in an entire day at the factory.
“You are a star!” I told him as I helped gather the coins.
He gently closed my fist when I tried to hand him the money. “It is all yours, Poppy. I was only trying to impress you.”
He leaned down and kissed me for the first time. It was slow and gentle and exceedingly provocative. My heart erupted like Mount Vesuvius. Make no mistake, I’d been kissed by a boy before. But not by a man, and never with love.
“You accomplished your goal,” I told him, my head still spinning. “I am impressed.”
“All my life I’ve dreamed of being a musician. Thank you for making me feel like one today.”
“You must quit that job at the factory,” I said calmly. “You must spend your time making music.”
“People may grow tired of my violin. The leather factory is solid work.”
I shrugged. “Failure is an option. A far better outcome than not trying at all. This instrument, Rico, it is your gift, your passion. You must not deny the universe of your music.”
And that was the start of his new career.
He carved out a little spot in Piazza della Signoria, in front of the Fountain of Neptune. And just as I predicted, he became quite a figure. The crowds went bananas over the happy yellow-haired man who could make his violin weep. He performed three, sometimes four times a day. But between the hours of four and six thirty, Rico was mine.
At this point, we’d been secretly meeting for four weeks. I knew all about my Rico, how he was a young boy at the time of the war and how his home on the edge of Dresden had been bombed beyond recognition. How his family escaped to another village, called Clausnitz, and found shelter in a sawmill. How memories of Jewish prisoners being marched down the icy road, and shot when they fell, still gave him nightmares. How he and his sister would sneak bread to the American soldiers who were imprisoned across the street. How he loved sausages and cheese.
It was Rico’s father, the owner of a small auto repair shop, who encouraged Rico to leave the Communist-controlled German Democratic Republic. His older sister was in love with a man who worked at a waffle factory, and refused to leave. His mother would go nowhere without her daughter. The family was stuck . . . but not Rico.
“You must go,” his father had told him eighteen months earlier. “Opportunities in East Germany will only get worse. Escape, without a word to anyone. Take three things: your temporary travel permit, your bicycle, and some marks to pay for the train. When you reach the station, purchase a round-trip ticket to Munich. The guards must think you are returning. But take nothing else, not even a change of clothing. If the guards catch you with so much as a toothbrush, they will know you are trying to escape.
“When you reach Munich, transfer trains to Mindelheim, a small Bavarian town in the Allg?u. Present yourself to the West German authorities. You will be welcomed and given a West German travel permit, along with voucher stamps to use for food and lodging at the youth hostels. The East German mark is nearly worthless. Then, with your bicycle, you will travel to Austria. From there, you will be free, Erich, free to go wherever you choose.”
His father’s eyes glistened with tears.
“Tell no one of your plan. When you fail to return to East Germany, the authorities will grow suspicious. They will come here and question us. You will be considered a Republikflucht—an escapee. The punishment would be brutal, should you be caught. Do you understand?”
Rico nodded, the gravity of his decision bearing down on him. “And what about Mother? And Karin? Surely I must tell them good-bye.”
His father grabbed his face and held it in his calloused hands. “No, my boy. Not even them.”
“But they will think I deserted them.”
“I will take care of this.”
Rico turned to me then, his beautiful eyes misty. “I pray one day my mother will understand.” He looked down, hesitating a moment. “And Karin, too.”
“Your sister?” I asked.
He shook his head. “My fiancée.”
My heart plummeted. All spirit drained from me. The blessed curse had caught me at last. All along, I was certain the family myth was nonsense. But here I was, the second daughter, in love—yes, in love—with a man who was engaged to be married.