The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(86)

I’m out of breath when we reach room 301. A nurse flags us down, handing us each a paper mask. Jan offers Poppy a hand, but my proud aunt rises from her wheelchair independently. Once on her feet, she pats her head, as if to smooth her hair. But today, of all days, she opted not to wear her wig. Her hand goes still upon her bare scalp, partially covered with the scarf. She sucks in a breath, and I can almost hear what she’s thinking. Her beloved will see her bald head.

“You’re gorgeous,” I say through my mask and point her toward the door.





Chapter 44




Emilia

Salerno, Italy

The blinds are closed, and the dusky room smells of disinfectant and decay. Machines blink and hiss. Elene, Lucy, and I stand aside as Poppy steps up to the hospital bed. She clutches her throat.

“Rico.”

He wears a veneer of silent agony on his lifeless gray face, a patchwork of age spots and yesterday’s whiskers. An IV needle punctures his arm, and an oxygen tube fills his nostrils. Poppy leans in over the bed rail and cups his face. Tears well in her eyes. “Rico, it’s me, Poppy.”

The old man in the bed—Rico—doesn’t move. A shiver runs over me. Is he even breathing? Poppy smooths his hair, still thick but gray and coarse looking now. Wiry hair sprouts from his nostrils and ears. But I can still detect the strong jawline Poppy described, and somewhere in my mind’s eye, I see the handsome man who played the violin in Piazza della Signoria.

“Rico,” Poppy says again, her voice strained. “Wake up. It’s me, mein Ehemann.” Desperation clings to every syllable.

Rico lies motionless. From the other side of the bed, Jan calls to him, each word loud and deliberate. “Opa, you have company.”

“Poppy,” she says, her voice quivering. She lowers the metal bed rail. With shaking hands, she removes her paper mask. Slowly, she bends down to kiss his sunken cheek. “It’s me, Poppy.”

She adjusts Rico’s hospital gown, smoothing the green fabric. A ghastly scar appears on Rico’s shoulder. She runs a finger over the thickened skin.

“What happened to you, my love?”

“Bullet wound,” Jan says. “My grandfather tried to escape from East Germany in 1961, and again in 1963.”

Poppy drops her bald head onto the old man’s chest, and I can almost see the pride, the vindication, the regret pouring from her. “I knew it. I knew you would try to come back for me. I should have waited for you. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

She finally straightens, and Jan presses a wet washcloth to the old man’s cheek. “Poppy is here. Wake up, Opa.”

“Please, Rico, I have so much to tell you.”

The room goes silent. From the hallway, muted Italian voices call from the PA. We wait, wishing, hoping, praying, he will respond. Poppy strokes Rico’s hand, his cheeks, her eyes pinned to his hollow, vacant face, whispering her love over and again. Despite the ache in my heart, it was worth the four-thousand-mile journey just for this—Poppy’s one last glimpse, one last touch, of her beloved Erich.

A tiny movement startles me. I inch closer.

Ever so slightly, Rico’s eyebrow twitches.

“Rico!” Poppy cries. “It’s me. Poppy. Wake up, mein Ehemann.”

Rico’s forehead creases. Shivers blanket me. My heart batters in my chest. Please, open your eyes! In all of my life, I’ve never wanted anything more. I will every ounce of my strength to this man.

Softly, Poppy begins to sing. “Que será, será. Whatever will be, will be.” Her voice is craggy and she sings off-key. I’ve never heard a more beautiful rendition.

Rico’s lids flutter. I can almost feel the strain of each muscle as he battles to lift his eyelids. Poppy moans and leans in, stroking his cheek.

“It’s me, Rico,” she says, her voice breaking. “I came here. To Ravello. To see you. On our anniversary. All day, I waited.”

His right eye cracks open for an instant, then slams shut again.

“Yes!” Poppy’s laughter gets tangled in a sob. “It is me, my love, your Poppy!”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if using every bit of strength he can muster, his eyes strain to open.

“Opa!” Jan cries. Quickly, he fumbles to place a pair of glasses on his grandfather’s face. Rico stares blankly through the lenses. From over Poppy’s shoulder, I gaze into rheumy eyes the color of aquamarine.

Poppy sobs. “Mister Blue Eyes. I love you, my sweet man. I love you.” She bends over and presses her wet cheek to his face. She whispers her love, her undying love, all of the tender words she’s longed to share with him for the past fifty-nine years.

His eyes fall closed again.

“I never gave up on you, Rico. I never stopped loving you.”

I wonder if he hears her, or if he’s drifted back to sleep. But very slowly, his eyes lift again. A leathery hand rises, the one that once so deftly held a violin bow. He touches his fingers to my aunt’s face.

“Poppy,” he mouths. When his crusted lips move, they carry no sound. But the words are unmistakable. “Mio unico amore.”



* * *





For the rest of the day, Rico’s eyes remain closed, as if he’d spent his last drop of energy to profess his love and the effort left him drained. Maybe it’s my imagination, but the earlier agony etched upon his sleeping face seems to be replaced now by a contentedness, a serenity. I like to think the glimpse of his love, after all these years, was the missing peace he’d been searching for.