The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(78)

* * *





She remains undeterred throughout the damp morning. She loiters on the stair steps in her yellow slicker, ducking inside the cathedral only once, to “powder her nose.” I take off my sweater and create a cushion for her on the top step, insisting she sit. Why hadn’t I thought to bring a chair, or even a pillow? She’s reluctant, but finally she agrees. It takes both Lucy and me to lower her onto the step, and I briefly worry that we won’t get her back up. Though she doesn’t complain, I see her grimace. I hear the rattling in her chest. She’s not well.

Behind us, the cathedral door opens. A white-haired man with a long, thin nose steps out of the church, wearing a clerical collar. He stops when he sees Lucy and Poppy and me, perched on the top step like a trio of pigeons.

“Father,” Lucy says. “Would you please take our picture?”

“I’d be happy to.”

I hand my phone to the priest, who tells us his name is Father Benedetto, while Lucy helps Poppy to her feet.

“Bei sorrisi!” Father Benedetto says. “Beautiful smiles!”

He hands me the phone. While I check out the picture, I notice Poppy inching closer to the priest. She studies his face, peering closely at his nose. Her hand flies to her throat.

“You,” she says. “You married my husband and me. Fifty-nine years ago, right here at Ravello Cathedral. My husband was German. Surely you remember.”

His lips tighten and he shakes his head. “No, signora. I have been the priest in Ravello only forty years.”

“But . . .” Poppy’s voice drifts off.

He turns and makes his way down the wet steps.

“It must have been a different priest,” I say, rubbing her back.



* * *





By the time the bells chime twelve times, the clouds are spitting rain and my stomach is growling. “How about we break for lunch?” I suggest.

“There is no room for food. My stomach is packed with butterflies. I’m about to see Rico.”

“C’mon. Let’s stretch your legs.”

Poppy won’t hear of it. “You girls go ahead. I wouldn’t want to miss Rico.”

“He’ll wait for you,” Lucy says.

“Yes, but why make him? He’s waited much too long already.”





Chapter 39




Poppy

1961

Ravello, Amalfi Coast

The room was out of focus, and a wet washcloth bathed my forehead. Where was I? I had a vague memory of lying in the stairwell. I tried to sit up, but a firm hand was holding me down.

“Lie still,” a voice from far away called to me.

I was too weak to fight. I closed my eyes and drifted off again. In my dream, Rosa was calling to me. “Open your mouth.”

Suddenly, something hot seared my lip. I flinched and opened my eyes.

Rosa sat beside me on the edge of the sofa, a steaming bowl in her hand. She lifted a spoon to my lips. “Eat,” she demanded.

The weak broth tasted of salt and burned my throat as it made its way to my stomach.

“Another,” she said.

I ate, obedient, until the bowl was empty. Then she held a cup to my lips and made me drink water. When I’d swallowed twice, I found my voice.

“What are you doing here?” My words were hoarse.

She set the cup down on the table. “A letter arrived last week.” She removed an envelope from her pocket. “From Germany.”

I let out a cry of relief. “Thank God. You came all this way. Grazie, Rosa.” I reached for the letter, but she held it from my grasp.

“Lie still. I will read it.”

My dearest Poppy,

I pray that you are reading this letter, and that you are well and safe in your parents’ home. Perhaps you’ve read other letters I’ve sent. Perhaps not. As I warned, mail from East Germany is likely to be intercepted or even confiscated altogether.

I am home now, though it feels nothing like it should, or once did. My heart is in Ravello, in our tiny flat above the bakery. My home is wherever you are.

I had hoped that upon my return, I would find my father much improved. I hoped I could say good-bye, once again, and make my way back to you, my love.

Sadly, this is not the case. My mother, who was always fragile, has aged two decades. She cannot finish a sentence without breaking into tears. She is so thin I fear her bones will snap. She refuses to venture beyond the house. She will not leave my father’s side.

Johanna is the only strength in our family, but she alone cannot keep our family business intact. Her husband is useless. Johanna must go to town each day, where food is scarce and lines are so long it can take hours to receive a loaf of bread. Yesterday, she was able to get a tiny can of mango juice. It came all the way from Cuba, one of our Communist trading partners. A sip of that sweet nectar was a bit of heaven in this place I call hell.

I have rolled up my sleeves, and already a dozen cars are waiting to be repaired. I lie beneath them, changing oil, exchanging fan belts. With my head inside the hood, I daydream of you, my beautiful wife. The image of your face is what gets me through these endless days of darkness.

I have thought of nothing else since I left, and I have come to the conclusion, you must go to America.