nonsense now? Don’t you play German with me.”
Bora smirked despite himself, because of her misunderstanding. “It’s not suicide I had in mind, Donna Maria. I want to be sent west to the front.”
“To Anzio?”
“As soon as possible. General Westphal can’t use health reasons to hold me back. I’m fine. I feel fine.”
“And you’d do this to your mother? She’s already lost the other one, your stepfather’s own. This is all nonsense.” More patiently she looked him up and down. “Do you at least have a lover? If you don’t have a lover, these days must be really hard for you.”
Bora had a great desire to crumple in the armchair, to let go. And yet fear of losing control held him sitting straight, unrelenting in the effort to keep check on himself. Slowly, Countess Ascanio shook her head. Propping herself on cane and tea table, she stood. As she left the room, she said, “I’m not coming back for an hour, Martin.”
Bora held in his grief until she pulled the door shut behind her.
9 FEBRUARY 1944
Francesca asked for a ride at breakfast, as they made the best of thin bread slices and watery coffee on the starched linen cloth Signora Carmela laid out every day. Guidi stared at her, and so did the Maiulis, who had hoped the two of them would get along amiably. The professor buried his nose in the cup, and his wife reached for the horn-shaped charm under her shawl.
Her careworn youthful face looked white behind the swatch of dark hair, so much more delicate than the tone in her voice. “It’s cold today, and I have a delivery to make at Piazza Venezia.”
Guidi frowned. “The piazza is closed to civilian traffic.”
“I know that. Why do you think I asked you? ”
The Maiulis were trying so hard to be inconspicuous, they seemed to be sinking in their chairs. Impatiently Francesca pulled her hair back. “I have to take a batch of envelopes to one of the offices there. I figured that since you have permission to travel freely, I could take advantage of it. I guess not.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t take you.”
Outside, frost laced the windshield of Guidi’s little Fiat. While he scraped the glass with a piece of cardboard, Francesca stood by in her long shapeless coat, sniffling in the cold. They first drove by the store, where she picked up a mid-sized parcel, and then she directed Guidi to take Corso Umberto toward Piazza Venezia. Halfway down the wide Corso, they were stopped by German guards, who looked at Guidi’s documents and let them go.
After Francesca delivered the package, Guidi offered to drop her by the store. Because in his awkward attempt to make conversation he mentioned his mother, whose birthday it was, “Your mother was a schoolteacher? Mine is a model,” she carelessly spoke back. “There isn’t much to it; all you have to do is take your clothes off and let painters look at you, not necessarily because they want to paint you. She’s a whore, really.”
Guidi was certain he had mistaken her words. “What?” he mumbled.
She laughed. “Why, does it scandalize you that I call my mother a whore? Well, she is. She sleeps with men for money. Germans, mostly, because they have the money, and when it comes to getting into something warm, who cares if the whore’s Jewish?”
With an eye on her bitterly amused face, Guidi found himself driving at a snail’s pace. He said, “Your father?”
“He put me through school. Sends checks now and then. Turn at the next corner, there. No, there. I met him a couple of times, when I was younger and he passed himself off as an uncle. He’s a handsome man. A man of God. But I’d rather take his money than Mother’s, all things being equal. I make barely enough for room and board.” She relaxed her shoulders, with a hand on her belly, palm spread. “And it’s too late to do anything about this, so – well, it’s got a right to be born in this wonderful world of ours – I’ll have to go through with it. I didn’t
Bora smirked despite himself, because of her misunderstanding. “It’s not suicide I had in mind, Donna Maria. I want to be sent west to the front.”
“To Anzio?”
“As soon as possible. General Westphal can’t use health reasons to hold me back. I’m fine. I feel fine.”
“And you’d do this to your mother? She’s already lost the other one, your stepfather’s own. This is all nonsense.” More patiently she looked him up and down. “Do you at least have a lover? If you don’t have a lover, these days must be really hard for you.”
Bora had a great desire to crumple in the armchair, to let go. And yet fear of losing control held him sitting straight, unrelenting in the effort to keep check on himself. Slowly, Countess Ascanio shook her head. Propping herself on cane and tea table, she stood. As she left the room, she said, “I’m not coming back for an hour, Martin.”
Bora held in his grief until she pulled the door shut behind her.
9 FEBRUARY 1944
Francesca asked for a ride at breakfast, as they made the best of thin bread slices and watery coffee on the starched linen cloth Signora Carmela laid out every day. Guidi stared at her, and so did the Maiulis, who had hoped the two of them would get along amiably. The professor buried his nose in the cup, and his wife reached for the horn-shaped charm under her shawl.
Her careworn youthful face looked white behind the swatch of dark hair, so much more delicate than the tone in her voice. “It’s cold today, and I have a delivery to make at Piazza Venezia.”
Guidi frowned. “The piazza is closed to civilian traffic.”
“I know that. Why do you think I asked you? ”
The Maiulis were trying so hard to be inconspicuous, they seemed to be sinking in their chairs. Impatiently Francesca pulled her hair back. “I have to take a batch of envelopes to one of the offices there. I figured that since you have permission to travel freely, I could take advantage of it. I guess not.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t take you.”
Outside, frost laced the windshield of Guidi’s little Fiat. While he scraped the glass with a piece of cardboard, Francesca stood by in her long shapeless coat, sniffling in the cold. They first drove by the store, where she picked up a mid-sized parcel, and then she directed Guidi to take Corso Umberto toward Piazza Venezia. Halfway down the wide Corso, they were stopped by German guards, who looked at Guidi’s documents and let them go.
After Francesca delivered the package, Guidi offered to drop her by the store. Because in his awkward attempt to make conversation he mentioned his mother, whose birthday it was, “Your mother was a schoolteacher? Mine is a model,” she carelessly spoke back. “There isn’t much to it; all you have to do is take your clothes off and let painters look at you, not necessarily because they want to paint you. She’s a whore, really.”
Guidi was certain he had mistaken her words. “What?” he mumbled.
She laughed. “Why, does it scandalize you that I call my mother a whore? Well, she is. She sleeps with men for money. Germans, mostly, because they have the money, and when it comes to getting into something warm, who cares if the whore’s Jewish?”
With an eye on her bitterly amused face, Guidi found himself driving at a snail’s pace. He said, “Your father?”
“He put me through school. Sends checks now and then. Turn at the next corner, there. No, there. I met him a couple of times, when I was younger and he passed himself off as an uncle. He’s a handsome man. A man of God. But I’d rather take his money than Mother’s, all things being equal. I make barely enough for room and board.” She relaxed her shoulders, with a hand on her belly, palm spread. “And it’s too late to do anything about this, so – well, it’s got a right to be born in this wonderful world of ours – I’ll have to go through with it. I didn’t
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