The Italian Villa: An emotional and absolutely gripping WW2 historical romance Read online

  “Not anymore. It’s over now. It’s time for forgiveness. It’s time for you to forgive yourself. If this is the reason why you’re always saying you’re not a good person, that you don’t deserve Marco, Firefly House, or anything good… if this is why you punish yourself, it’s time to stop now.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Then Flora let out a big sigh and fell asleep.

  November 19, 1945

  Caro Diario,

  Mamma looked at me sitting at the window, just staring outside. Idle, like I never am. I’m tired to my bones. “Elisa. Come here, my love,” she said. She laid a hand on my tummy and pressed gently.

  “You’re late, aren’t you?”

  It occurred to me for the first time. “I don’t know.”

  “Elisa, you are with child.”

  Of course, she was right. She could tell before me, the doctor.

  A little life is growing inside me.

  The child of love, or the child of violence.

  And I might never know which one.

  May 23, 1946

  Caro Diario,

  I can now safely say that helping someone giving birth and giving birth yourself are two entirely different things. It was like being split in two, but I wasn’t afraid, because Mamma was there, and she knew what she was doing. Yes, I’ve seen many situations where even the most straightforward of births went wrong; but even in excruciating pain, I felt calm. I was young, I was strong, the baby lay headfirst. It would be fine.

  I still screamed. So loud that I thought even the Conte in his castle would hear me.

  In my mind and my heart, two prayers:

  Please God, let it be healthy.

  Please God, let it be Leo’s.

  Mamma held my hand while Zia Costanza kept watch. Dottor Quirico, who we’d asked to be there, just in case, knew his place in a room full of women who’d had generations of birthing wisdom passed on to them.

  When the pain became unbearable, a thought hit me – still calm, still serene, as if I was looking at myself from somewhere far away – I’m dying. What a shame, I will never see my baby, I will never see Leo again. But at least I can say goodbye to Mamma.

  The pain was so intense I lost consciousness – there, I’d died.

  But it only lasted a moment, because seconds later I was awake, the agony was gone, and the cry of a newborn filled the room. Mamma had it in her arms, wrapped in a sheet she’d woven – I could see the baby’s head, still encrusted with my blood, our blood.

  Mamma was smiling as she gave me the child. “There. It’s a girl.”

  Tears of joy ran down my cheeks and the feeling of inner calm was gone. I sobbed and shook, holding my daughter tight and studying her perfect little face, her scrunched-up fists. Oh, my love, may you be Leo’s – but if you’re not, still I love you, I love you, I love you.

  Her name is Alba. Her eyes were dark blue when she was born, like all newborn babies; I prayed that they would turn black, like Leo’s. But they didn’t. They’re ice blue, like nobody in both our families. They are the eyes of the soldier.

  I see my parents and Zia Costanza looking at them, but they say nothing.

  Elisa gave birth to Alba, who gave birth to Rosa, who gave birth to Flora and Malva, who gave birth to me – I repeated Flora’s list in my mind. My female ancestors stretched behind me in an unbroken chain.

  Almost subconsciously, I searched for my reflection in Flora’s dressing table.

  My eyes, light blue. The color of ice…

  A low noise came from Flora’s bedroom, and I put down the diary to go check on her. Images of little Alba and her ice-blue eyes danced in my mind. Flora’s forehead burned beneath my hand still, and a sheen of sweat covered it. I gave her some paracetamol and a spoonful of the cold medicine she’d made herself, and then sat by her side.

  “Forgive me…” she mumbled. Her hair was sticking onto her forehead, so I swept it back gently. Her light eyes, in my mind, mixed with Alba’s – both were ice blue. And mine too.

  “There’s nothing to forgive. We’ve sorted it, remember?” I wasn’t sure if she was referring to what happened between her and my father, or if she was somehow delirious because of the temperature.

  “No, no. It’s not okay. I have to tell you…” she began, but her words trailed away. Her cold medicine must have begun to work its magic, because her eyes closed and she drifted away to sleep, her whole body relaxing and letting go.

  I made another cold compress, laid it on her forehead, and sat in wait, reading Elisa’s diary. The tone of her writing had changed so much – from enthusiastic, to anxious but still full of life, to almost… robotic. Like she was living in suspended animation, somehow. Yes, she was suspended in hope, waiting for Leo to come back. Would he? It was unbearable to think that he’d been killed somewhere far away, never to see his home again. But still, it had happened to so many…

  “Flora, I’m just going into the village for a bit. I’ll get you some food. And I have to check something.”

  I walked up to the village square and to the monument. The names I’d tried to avoid reading for a long time… Lorenzo Pigna; my heart squeezed once again. Pietro Scotti… of course, the women take the name ‘Stella’, but the men keep their father’s name. It wasn’t an Italian tradition as far as I knew, just a quirk of the Stella family.

  I held my breath, reading until the very last one…

  No Leo Bordet. I checked and double-checked, going over the names of those poor young men and boys. There was no Leo Bordet.

  Was there still hope?

  16

  I texted Tommaso that I was staying at Flora’s – thankfully her house had Wi-Fi. She had a rough night, and I resolved to call the doctor the next morning; but by dawn her fever had broken, and she was cool again. She looked strangely young and vulnerable, and so pale, with her hair so black against the pillow.

  “Do you feel better?” I said, stroking her hair.

  “Yes. Thanks for looking after me.”

  “I though you didn’t need looking after?” I teased her.

  “Maybe sometimes.”

  “Zia, there’s something I never told you. Malva left me a diary. It was in the box my parents deposited for me at the lawyer’s.”

  “A diary?”

  “Elisa’s diary.”

  “My great-grandmother… I never saw it. I never saw the diary… What’s in it? I’d love to read it.”

  “Of course! You must! It’s amazing. She talks about how she became a doctor, and she saved somebody’s life – this girl who was dying from malaria! And everything that happened during the war, Alba’s birth… The things Elisa went through. And the whole family. Us Stella women are so resilient,” I said, and Flora smiled.

  “Including you,” she said and took a deep breath. “Callie, I need coffee.”

  “You need more sleep.”

  “That too. But first I need caffeine, because I need to be awake. I need some energy. I think the time has come to tell you all,” she said.

  I put the caffettiera on.

  “You might hate me by the time I’m finished.”

  “I won’t. I promise,” I said, and squeezed her hand. She closed her eyes for a moment.

  “I adored my sister Malva. I looked up to her. She was everything I wanted to be. Your grandmother, Rosa, didn’t keep good health, so Malva was like a second mother to me. We’d known Paolo forever, Malva and I. And we knew what he was up to, what kind of person he was. Gambling, wheeling and dealing… some of his stuff is still up at Firefly House. I never had the stomach to go through it because I knew what he’d been up to. Malva never thought in a million years she would get involved with someone like that. And then our parents’ health got worse. She was… vulnerable. And so was I.

  “Paolo Caporale hunted her. And he got her. I can’t begin to tell you the things he did to her.”

  My poor mother, my poor Malva!

  “I tried all I could to separate them
. I was so young. Fifteen, when they first got together. I couldn’t face seeing my sister in that situation. They got married so fast… I thought I would prove to her what a bastard he was, and so I provoked him. This would show Malva that he was no good. But he wasn’t stupid, you know? He was a clever man. Very, very clever. And I was so young. I set out to seduce him, but he seduced me. When I look back, I don’t even know how it happened, how he did it. I thought I was in control, but he was. I fell for him… It wasn’t love. No, not that. It was—”

  “Brainwashing.” I lowered my head. I had that man’s blood in my veins. I was ashamed. But then, you are who you decide to be. I’d been brought up by good people. If my father was evil, well, it began and ended with him – it didn’t continue with me.

  “I can’t say it was brainwashing. If I say that, it puts the whole responsibility onto him. And it was me who did it. It was me who betrayed Malva.”

  “He manipulated you. And, yes, you made a horrible, horrible mistake. But we already established it’s high time you stop berating yourself.”

  Flora looked straight at me. “I got pregnant after she had married Paolo.”

  “You…”

  “Yes.”

  I paused. Stumbling over the words. “That would make you…”

  “Yes.”

  “My… you’re my mother?”

  A sob came out of me. My chest was heaving, and I thought I was dying, there and then. I thought my heart could not take it. “You are my mother! And you hid it from me!” I whispered. “Why lie? Why say it was Malva? Why did Malva write that letter? You both lied to me.”

  “Feel free to hate me,” Flora said, and her face was drenched with tears. She was as white as her pillow. “But first let me finish. I was pregnant by my sister’s husband. Malva hated me. Paolo said it had been me who had seduced him, and Malva believed him. They forced me to go to America with them so that people wouldn’t see my tummy growing. I gave birth to you there, and Malva took you away. I was devastated, Callie! I wanted to keep you! I never wanted to give you away! But I felt I owed it to her.”

  “What? You didn’t owe her, you owed me!”

  “I know. But back then, I just felt I had no choice. I was so confused. Soon after, Malva got sick and died. It was so quick. Paolo disappeared. I thought I would have you then, but I found out that Malva had arranged to give you up, to an Italian couple in America.”

  “My mom and dad.” By now, I was crying.

  “My parents – your grandparents – knew nothing about all this. I guess Malva just didn’t want you to have anything to do with me.”

  “So… it was Malva who kept us apart.” That was the reason for Flora’s outburst on the night of the chocolate festival. This news now compounded my gut feeling that there had been more to Malva’s sweetness than met the eye.

  “Yes. Malva was the sweetest, kindest person. But she never forgave me for what I did. And she kept us apart even after her death.”

  “You didn’t look for me even then.”

  “I thought you’d be happy and settled in America with the Italian couple. I didn’t want to destroy your life. And I thought I didn’t deserve you… I hated myself for what I had done.”

  “Oh, Flora.”

  “I couldn’t get married or have children. Not after you. Not after Paolo. When I fell for Marco… I pushed him away. I don’t deserve anything, for what I did to Malva and for what I did to you.”

  “I’m here now. And we’re together again.”

  She looked me straight in the eye.

  “Callie. Can you forgive me?”

  “Mamma,” I allowed myself to whisper, and threw myself into her arms.

  “My daughter. My daughter!” She teared up, and we were both crying, our tears mixing together.

  Some time later, I sat on Flora’s bed, holding her hand. “Who named me Callie?” I asked.

  “Me. Malva wanted to change your name, but for some reason she allowed you to keep the name I’d given you.”

  “Why Callie? It doesn’t sound very Italian.”

  “Calendula.” Flora smiled. “Passiflora is the flower of passion, and it can be poisonous. But calendula is the healing flower. That’s you, Callie.”

  17

  Tommaso and I lay together in the cabin, snuggled under a soft blanket, my head on his chest.

  “So, she is your mother.”

  “Yes. She had me when she was only sixteen.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe they managed to keep it a secret. It’s almost impossible to keep secrets in Montevino.”

  “I know. And Paolo was my father. Nice. He went from Flora to Malva and back, and ended up destroying Malva and almost destroying… Flora.” I struggled to call her “my mother.” I’d gone from giving that title to my adoptive mother, to Malva, now to Flora. Confusing, to say the least. Now I knew the truth – but all that mattered was the present. I wanted to leave all ghosts to rest; everything that had been done to my family and to me – the injustice and the separation – all we had was now. “But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

  “No. The past is past,” he said. “But sometimes… well, some wounds don’t heal.” I knew he was talking about himself, not me. “The Caporale family cast a shadow on me too. But… this helps.”

  “What?”

  “This, as in… you and me. This way I don’t have to fight alone.”

  I smiled. “You’ll never have to fight alone for anything, Tomma— Wait a minute.” I sat upright.

  “You okay, Rissi?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I need to check something back at the house.”

  I strode down through the woods, almost running, followed by Tommaso. Once inside Firefly House, I ran upstairs and barged into the master bedroom and opened every drawer in the cabinet, laying its contents on the wooden floor. Flora had said that Paolo’s stuff was still up at the house, that she hadn’t had the stomach to go through it. It was a mess of papers, folders, envelopes with old stamps and scribbled addresses. The color of the paper ranged from cream to yellow and brown, some crumbly and stiff, all smelling musty, old. The smell of memories.

  I started going through each and every one of them – postcards, letters, old documents, tiny prayer books, cards for Christmases and birthdays past.

  “What are you doing?” Tommaso asked.

  “Looking for something. It’s a long shot…”

  “Okay. Want coffee?” People in Italy were addicted; perhaps I was now too.

  “Yes, please. This will take me a while.”

  “Are you sure I can’t help you?” he asked when he returned with a steaming espresso.

  I shook my head. “No. Don’t worry, just go home. This could be endless,” I said.

  “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll hang around.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t want to tell Tommaso what I was looking for, because if I didn’t find it, which was likely, he’d be disappointed.

  I suppose Tommaso came to regret the offer to stay, because over an hour later, I was still sitting among piles of documents, now with a crick in my back and the beginning of a headache.

  “Listen, time is getting on,” he said. “I need to dash and buy some groceries for my mamma. I’ll get stuff for you as well if you want?”

  “What?”

  “Groceries? For you.”

  “Yeah. Yes, sure.” I kept searching frantically, unwilling to stop.

  An hour later, Tommaso was back, and I was deflated. There was no sign of any document. “You okay?” he asked. “My mum is desperate to meet you, by the way.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t seem very keen.”

  “Oh, no! Of course I am! I can’t wait to meet Alice. It’s just… Well, I thought I would find the document. Your document, the one that would get your vineyards back. But no sign of it.”

  “I see. So that’s what you were looking for.” He smiled.

  “You don’t seem disappointed,” I said, surprised.

>   “Maybe it’s time I stop looking back. Maybe it’s time to look ahead. Like you’re doing. Like Flora is doing. Because I saw her at Leone’s, you know? She and Marco were holding hands under the table like two teenagers.”

  “Oh, that’s great!”

  “Which makes me think.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  I smiled mischievously. “For what?”

  “Oh, well…” he said, and took my hand, leading me to the little pink bedroom. Was it possible, to be so happy? He began to kiss me, and we fell onto the bed. I closed my eyes as he covered my face in kisses, and then a thought hit me.

  “Tommaso… Get off me!”

  “Oh. Oh, sorry, did I… was I—”

  “No. Not at all. Just… the box.”

  “What box?”

  I shot up and opened the door of the closet. I picked up the box underneath the dresses – the one marked ‘PC’… Paolo Caporale. I emptied the contents onto the floor and once again began searching.

  “Rissi, what are you—”

  “Oh my God.”

  “What?”

  Without a word, I handed him the piece of paper.

  “Let me see… Oh, mio Dio. ‘I, Antonio Caporale, commit myself to handing Carpentieri Vineyards and all its dependencies to Raffaele… Signed, Antonio Caporale.’ It’s signed, Rissi. Signed and dated. That’s what the lawyer said it should be.”

  “I know!”

  “Oh, mio Dio,” he repeated.

  “Don’t faint!” I said, and took his hand. Both Tommaso’s hands were shaking. I was half stricken, half touched to see that his eyes were full of tears.

  “Want to know something strange? It was in this envelope,” I said, and handed him the yellowed, rectangular envelope the document had been stored in.

  “Per garanzia…”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means something like an insurance… an insurance for what? Or against what? Clearly somebody needed this document, otherwise it would have been a lot easier just to get rid of it.”