The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(74)

Light dawns on Lucy’s face. “Yeah . . . I get it now. I was choosing fancy purses, when all along I’ve been a backpack kind of girl.”

“You’re becoming the woman you were meant to be.”

“You really are,” I say to Lucy as I clink her glass.

“Me? Look at you. You stood your ground with Daria. And you drove across the flipping country.”

A surge of pride comes over me. For a decade, I’ve lived within a walking-distance little bubble. I allowed myself to be manipulated by fear, and that really was a curse.

“And what’s more,” Poppy says, tapping her glass against ours, “Emilia survived her first real heartbreak.”

I groan. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“Finally, you can write your romance novel.”

“I was already writing my novel.”

“An artist’s most important tool is right here.” She points to my heart. “And you’ve finally uncovered yours. Until now, you were writing from your head. At last, my dear, you will write from the heart.”

I want to be angry. I want to play victim a bit longer. But as always, she’s right. I’m an insider now, rather than one with her nose pressed against the window, watching and wondering what it is to feel love.

Our waiter slides a huge Neapolitan pastiera onto the table. Poppy is the first to plunge her fork into the creamy molded cake. She closes her eyes.

“Deliziosa!” She pats her lips with the napkin. “Legend has it, a woman once left a basket on the seashore, filled with eggs and ricotta, candied fruits and orange blossoms. It was her sacrifice to the gods, to ensure that her husband, a fisherman, would return safely from the sea. When she came back to the shore the next morning, she discovered that the waves had mixed the ingredients. Her husband arrived home safely, and she had a beautiful pastiera for him to eat.”

“Sweet,” Lucy says, licking her fork. “But we’d rather hear your story. You left us with a cliff-hanger.” She elbows Poppy. “Your wedding night.”

Poppy giggles and waves her off. “Suffice it to say, it was stupendous.” Her smile fades. “But as they often do, things changed.”





Chapter 37




Poppy

1960–61

Ravello, Amalfi Coast

It was a cloudy Friday in November, just four weeks after our wedding. Rico and I strolled the market, buying melons and fresh tomatoes, when someone called out.

“Erich? Erich Krause? Sind Sie das?” The accent was unmistakably German. My heart began to race. I could sense Rico’s alarm, too. Though people were escaping East Germany in large numbers, in all of his months in Italy, he’d never once seen a familiar face. Now I could see the toll it took on him, being an escapee. He looked stricken, as if the border guards had finally caught up with him.

His grip on my hand tightened, and slowly he turned around. Before us stood a round-faced young man with rosy cheeks and an infectious grin. Rico let out a sigh, the tension easing from his shoulders.

“Fritz Kuhlman!” he cried. The two clasped hands and slapped each other’s backs. “How long have you been in Italy?” He spoke in German, but I was able to understand most of what he was saying.

“I escaped last month. I arrived here just one week ago.”

“Darf ich vorstellen?” Rico said, drawing me near. “Meine Frau.”

A flush of pride warmed me. He was introducing me as his wife. Whatever else might happen, we were united, until death do us part.

Fritz looked at me, then back to Rico. “Frau?” he asked, his brow creased. He began speaking so rapidly that I couldn’t keep up. But I recognized one word. Karin. He used her name several times, along with Verlobte. Fiancée.

Rico flinched each time her name was spoken. “Nein. Nein,” he said, shaking his head. “I do not love her. She knows this.” He turned to me, no doubt trying to change the subject. “Fritz is from my city of Radebeul,” he said. “He was in school with my sister, Johanna.”

I listened as Fritz told of the food shortage back home, the tightening at the border, the way the Communist government was taking over private businesses. My hands trembled and a knot formed in my stomach. Fritz had invaded our little bubble, and I was certain he hid a needle in his pocket.

“My family,” Rico said, stepping forward and letting go of my hand. “Is my father’s business still safe? How is my mother? Is Johanna well?”

“You do not know?”

“Know what?” Rico asked. “What news do you have?”

Fritz looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. “Your father . . . he suffered a stroke. He’s . . . he’s . . .”

“My god!” He grabbed Fritz by the arms. “Is he alive? Spit it out!”

“Yes, last I knew, he was alive. But he is a changed man. It is only a matter of time before the VEB takes over your father’s repair shop. If they haven’t already.”



* * *





We sprinted to the post office. It had been weeks since Rico had called home. His family knew nothing of me, or his new life in Ravello. We’d been so caught up with our love and our life together that everyone else seemed superfluous. Now we recognized how selfish we’d been.