The Golden Hour by Margaret Wurtele Page B

and my old dusty pink blouse—a size too small, with a child’s puffed sleeves—clinging tightly to my breasts, its tails on one side not tucked into my skirt. Father glanced at me, then looked away as I took my place between them and whisked the napkin into my lap without unfolding it.
    No one spoke. I fixed my gaze on the small terra-cotta pitcher in the middle of the table that Rosa had filled with a fistful of herbs: spiky rosemary, leafy sprigs of oregano, and three stiff swords oflavender crowned with violet tufts. Then I slowly began running my finger down the curved handle of my fork, as if I were stroking the silky spine of Valentino, my favorite cat. The walls pressed in, squeezing the tension in the room, making the space seem more confining than it already was.
    Rosa broke the ice by coming in with a steaming platter of
spaghetti con pollo e pomodori.
The pungent smell of garlic and tomato sauce filled the room and forced us all to breathe a little easier. Mama lifted a birdlike portion onto her plate. “Oh, Rosa, this smells delicious,” she said. I piled a generous helping onto mine, and Papa emptied the platter. When Rosa had gone, Mother cleared her throat. She never launched into a conversation without delicately announcing herself first.
    “Now, Giovanna, I know this is difficult, but let’s talk about what’s next for you. Your father and I do not want you to continue at the School of Santa Maria.”
    I stiffened but said nothing.
    “I wonder, dear, if you’ve heard about the nursery school group that has been started at the Church of Santa Clara. I know they have a dozen or so children—just the very young ones.”
    I took a quick swallow of water from the thick tumbler and set it down so heavily a little sloshed on the table. “Mother, please.” My jaw was tense and barely moved. “I
hate
working with children. I really do.” I shook my head. “Frankly, I’ve been thinking anyway of not continuing at the school. They drove me crazy, if you really want to know.”
    Father laughed. “Well, now you tell us.” He looked at Mother and added sarcastically, “We thought you were enjoying your work all this time, but I guess it wasn’t the children that kept you interested, eh?”
    Mother shifted in her chair and concentrated on winding spaghetti around her fork.
    “So, now that you don’t like children,” he added, “I have justthe solution. Harvest is coming up in the next few weeks, the grapes ready for crush. There’s plenty to do around here. How about if I put you to work helping me? No children in sight—guaranteed.”
    God help me. That was the last thing I wanted to do, to be tethered to Father all day long. In desperation, I piped up. “No, Papa.” I looked from him to Mother, then back again. “No. The harvest is one thing, but I really want to be part of the war in some way. If I can’t fight against the Nazis, I just want to be part of it. Violetta tells me they need help at her clinic. I thought that might be a good idea, and I could pick up some medical skills that I could use for the rest of my life—”
    Father broke in. “Well, damn it, who says making wine and olive oil isn’t helping the cause—” But Mother cut him off, her mouth still full of food.
    “Is that the one Marchesa Falconieri is operating on her property? They say there are more POWs and wounded partisans every day.” She looked across the table, almost pleading. “Enrico, she does have a point. And maybe Giovanna could pick up some news of—”
    I knew whom she was about to mention. I focused on my now empty plate, bracing myself for a round of tears, but none came. Only silence. I saw Rosa come in to clear the plates, and then I looked at Mother. She was pale and staring straight ahead—wide-eyed—holding her hands to her throat. I froze.
    Father stood up. “Jesus! She’s choking; we’ve got to hit her on the back.” He lunged in her direction, but Rosa stepped coolly in his path and