The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(75)

He spent three hours trying to place a call to his family’s shop. I stood beside him, rubbing the knots from his shoulders, bringing water in paper cups, listening as he chastised himself. Finally, at four p.m., the call was connected. We held our breath as the phone rang once. Twice.

“Krause Autoreparatur.” I huddled beside him, close enough to hear the woman’s voice through the receiver.

“Johanna,” Rico said, his voice so thick he could barely speak.

They spoke in German, Rico and his sister, a rapid-fire volley of questions and answers. Again, words and phrases jumped at me.

“Komm nach Hause.”

“Du musst.”

“Wir brauchen dich.”

Come home now.

You must.

We need you.



* * *





We left the post office, my beautiful world suddenly out of focus. Rico sat me on the edge of Villa Rufolo’s concrete fountain. Clutching my hands, he told me of his father’s condition.

“His right side is useless. He cannot lift a fork, let alone a wrench. He has lost his speech and sits all day in a wheelchair. My mother feeds him, bathes him, like a small child. It has made her very weary, Johanna tells me.”

He looked away. I rubbed his back until he could speak again.

“Johanna is trying to keep the business going, but how? She knows nothing of auto repair. Her husband tries to help, but they are losing business. The authorities have come twice. They are pressuring Johanna, and my mother, too. They demand to know where I am, why I have not returned. My maximum travel permit expired long ago. The authorities threaten Johanna. They tell her if I do not return, my father’s shop will be turned over to the VEB—the Volkseigener Betrieb.”

A shiver ran through me. If Rico didn’t return, his family business—the one his father built and loved—would be owned and operated by the government.

“We must go,” I said softly. “At once.”

He shook his head. “No. My home is with you. Here, in Italy.”

But I could see the future. His soft heart would never recover if he didn’t try to help.

“Family is first. You told me this much. We will go. You will work in the shop until your father is healthy.”

He took a deep breath and then let it out, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his decision. “You are right. I must go.” He looked me straight in the eyes. “Alone.”

I rose like a shot. “I am your wife. I will go with mein Ehemann.”

“East Germany is not a place for a holiday!” He had never spoken so firmly, and I blinked quickly to keep back tears. He softened his voice. “You will return to your papà’s house in Trespiano.” He stroked my cheek. “I love you, Poppy. I will always love you. But I must go home. And so must you. Once my father is well, I will return, this time as your husband, not your suitor. Your papà will not stop us.”

Though he tried to sound positive, his eyes were shrouded with grief. I wanted to help ease his pain. But I was too selfish.

“No. I cannot live without you.”

“You will never be without me,” he whispered, and he kissed my forehead. “When I return, I will build you a grand house. We will have children. They will have your eyes. They will live in freedom.” He cupped my face. “And on your eightieth birthday, we will walk the steps of the Ravello Cathedral, I promise you.”



* * *





That evening, I found his old leather satchel. From our closet shelf, I removed the jars of coins we’d been saving, surprised at how heavy they’d become. In a few years, we might be able to purchase that small home we’d dreamed of. But that wish seemed so far off now.

I was placing the jars in his satchel when Rico entered the room. “No,” he said. He opened the first jar, pocketing just enough to get him through his journey, and handed it back to me. “You will need the money for your train ticket to Firenze.”

Terror gripped me. How would I be greeted when I returned home? Rosa would be my ally of course. But my father hated me. My mother would make my life miserable. Even so, going home would be easy compared to what my Rico would be facing.

When he left the room, I removed enough money from the jars to pay for my train ticket and some essentials from the market. The rest I dropped into an envelope, along with a note.

Come back safely, my love. Until then, please know that I love you, that I pray for you, that I long for you, every second of every hour of every day.

I swiped the tears from my cheeks. For as certain as I tried to sound, I was terrified for him. I taped my luckiest coin to the note, the one I’d found on the steps of the Ravello Cathedral. I’ll see you very soon. And remember, we will be together at the cathedral on my eightieth birthday.



* * *





We shared our last sunset on the rooftop, sipping wine until the saffron sky faded to black. The next morning, I helped him finish packing. Already I felt empty, vacant. My eyes pooled as I wrapped bread and ham in waxed paper for his long journey ahead. Would he be imprisoned when he eventually arrived home? Would he be beaten by the guards?

His plan was to travel by train to the border of Italy. From there, he would rely on his bicycle, or the generosity of passersby to give him a lift. When he arrived in West Berlin, he would use his return train ticket, the one he had purchased almost two years before and never intended to use, to take him back into East Germany, the prison that was once his home.