movement and she would put on her shawl and leave the room and cross the courtyard to the toilet next to the well. For that matter, grandfather never tried to approach her; he lay stiffly on the other side, though he was a large man, and he, too, often fell off, and they were both always covered with bruises. Alone—that is, in the bedroom—they never spoke. Grandmother said her prayers at night, grandfather didn’t, because he was an atheist and a Communist. And then one of them said, “Good night,” and the other, “Good night to you, too.”
In the morning my great-grandmother wanted her daughter to prepare coffee for grandfather. The coffee of that time was a mixture of chickpeas and orzo toasted in the hearth with a special utensil and then ground. “Bring your husband his coffee,” and so grandmother carried the gilt-edged violet cup on the glass tray with floral designs, placed it at the foot of the bed, and immediately ran away, as if she had left a bowl for a mad dog, and she never forgave herself for this, either.
Grandfather helped with the work in the fields and he held up well, even though he was from the city and had spent his life studying and working in an office. He often did his wife’s share, too; she now had kidney stones more and more frequently, and he found it shocking that a woman should have to do such heavy work on the land, or carry water from the fountain in a pitcher on her head, and yet, out of respect for the family that was his host, he spoke of these things generally, referring to Sardinian society of the interior. Cagliari was different; there people didn’t take offense at a little nothing and didn’t find evil everywhere, relentlessly. Maybe it was the sea air that made them freer, at least in certain respects, though not politically, because the Cagliaritani were bourgeois who had never felt like fighting for anything.
Apart from grandmother, who couldn’t care less about the world, they listened to Radio London. In the spring of 1944 they learned that in northern Italy six million workers had gone on strike; that in Rome thirty-two Germans had been killed and, in reprisal, the Nazis had rounded up and shot three hundred and twenty Italians; that the Eighth Army was ready for a new offensive; that in the early hours of June 6th the Allies had landed in Normandy.
4.
I n November Radio London announced that military operations on the Italian front would be suspended and recommended that the partisans of northern Italy stall for time and use their energies only for sabotage actions.
Grandfather said that the war would continue and he could not be a guest forever, and so they came to Cagliari.
They went to live in Via Sulis, in a furnished room that looked onto a light well and had a bath and kitchen shared with other families. Although she never asked, it was from the neighbors that grandmother learned about grandfather’s family, destroyed on May 13, 1943.
Except for him, they were all at home, that terrible afternoon, for his birthday. His wife, a cold, rather plain woman— leggixedda —who wasn’t friendly with anyone, had that very day, in wartime, made a cake and gathered the family. Who knows when she had bought the ingredients, a martinicca , on the black market, gram by gram of sugar, poor woman, poor all of them. No one knows how it happened, but when the alarm sounded they didn’t leave the house and hurry to the shelter under the Public Gardens; the most ridiculous reason, but in essence the only one possible, is that the cake was half baked, or was rising, and they didn’t want to lose it, that marvelous cake in a dead city. Luckily they didn’t have children, the neighbor women said—a wife, a mother, sisters, brothers-in-law, nephews and nieces can be forgotten, and grandfather had forgotten quickly, and it was obvious why, you had only to see how pretty the second wife was. He was a lighthearted man, full-blooded, a womanizer; the
In the morning my great-grandmother wanted her daughter to prepare coffee for grandfather. The coffee of that time was a mixture of chickpeas and orzo toasted in the hearth with a special utensil and then ground. “Bring your husband his coffee,” and so grandmother carried the gilt-edged violet cup on the glass tray with floral designs, placed it at the foot of the bed, and immediately ran away, as if she had left a bowl for a mad dog, and she never forgave herself for this, either.
Grandfather helped with the work in the fields and he held up well, even though he was from the city and had spent his life studying and working in an office. He often did his wife’s share, too; she now had kidney stones more and more frequently, and he found it shocking that a woman should have to do such heavy work on the land, or carry water from the fountain in a pitcher on her head, and yet, out of respect for the family that was his host, he spoke of these things generally, referring to Sardinian society of the interior. Cagliari was different; there people didn’t take offense at a little nothing and didn’t find evil everywhere, relentlessly. Maybe it was the sea air that made them freer, at least in certain respects, though not politically, because the Cagliaritani were bourgeois who had never felt like fighting for anything.
Apart from grandmother, who couldn’t care less about the world, they listened to Radio London. In the spring of 1944 they learned that in northern Italy six million workers had gone on strike; that in Rome thirty-two Germans had been killed and, in reprisal, the Nazis had rounded up and shot three hundred and twenty Italians; that the Eighth Army was ready for a new offensive; that in the early hours of June 6th the Allies had landed in Normandy.
4.
I n November Radio London announced that military operations on the Italian front would be suspended and recommended that the partisans of northern Italy stall for time and use their energies only for sabotage actions.
Grandfather said that the war would continue and he could not be a guest forever, and so they came to Cagliari.
They went to live in Via Sulis, in a furnished room that looked onto a light well and had a bath and kitchen shared with other families. Although she never asked, it was from the neighbors that grandmother learned about grandfather’s family, destroyed on May 13, 1943.
Except for him, they were all at home, that terrible afternoon, for his birthday. His wife, a cold, rather plain woman— leggixedda —who wasn’t friendly with anyone, had that very day, in wartime, made a cake and gathered the family. Who knows when she had bought the ingredients, a martinicca , on the black market, gram by gram of sugar, poor woman, poor all of them. No one knows how it happened, but when the alarm sounded they didn’t leave the house and hurry to the shelter under the Public Gardens; the most ridiculous reason, but in essence the only one possible, is that the cake was half baked, or was rising, and they didn’t want to lose it, that marvelous cake in a dead city. Luckily they didn’t have children, the neighbor women said—a wife, a mother, sisters, brothers-in-law, nephews and nieces can be forgotten, and grandfather had forgotten quickly, and it was obvious why, you had only to see how pretty the second wife was. He was a lighthearted man, full-blooded, a womanizer; the
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