Toronto, Ontario, Canada
November 1939
Olivia Rosetti turned up the volume on the radio in the empty parlor. Thankfully, her parents had gone out to a church meeting tonight, giving her the rare gift of a few hours alone. With her older brother out for the evening as well, she could listen to the radio on her own for as long as she wished, without Leo and Papà arguing, and Leo getting so angry that he’d snap the machine off. Ever since Leo had failed the army physical due to a heart murmur, he hated all reports of the war. Especially since their brother Tony, one year younger than Leo, had passed all the tests and was headed overseas. Her youngest brother, Salvatore, safely cocooned at the seminary, was likely oblivious to the fact that the world was embroiled in conflict.
Olivia twisted the dial until the static lessened and the deep voice of the broadcaster boomed through. Surely there would be news of the war at the top of the hour. Not that it would give her any details of her fiancé Rory’s fate. Or Tony’s. But listening to reports of the Canadian troops and their whereabouts helped her feel closer to both of them. In those moments, she could picture Rory in his uniform aboard the deck of a ship, heading to Britain to fight for freedom from Hitler’s tyranny.
Oh, Rory, why did you have to join the war so soon? If you’d known about my situation, would it have stopped you from going?
She ran a hand over the slight swell of her abdomen, a sick sense of dread rising through her. Last night, with no options left, she’d finally divulged her secret to her mother, who, despite Olivia’s protests, had immediately told her father. As expected, Enrico Rosetti had not taken the news well at all.
Olivia’s hand instinctively went to her cheek, still tender from her father’s blow.
“Did you ever consider how your sins would affect the family? That it could jeopardize your brother’s calling?” he’d shouted, eyes wild. “Taking up with an Irishman was bad enough, but this? You are a disgrace to the Rosetti name.”
Only her mother’s tearful pleas had stopped Papà’s tirade, half in English, half in Italian. Then, with a last curse word, he’d slammed out of their apartment over the store and stomped down the stairs, off to drown his sorrows with his comrades. Olivia prayed he hadn’t told them the reason why he was drinking that night.
Static from the radio crackled over the room. Olivia fiddled with the tuner, attempting to get a clearer signal.
“Eight people were killed and sixty-two injured in Munich last night in a failed attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler. The German leader, who had been speaking only moments before the bomb went off, was unharmed.”
She twisted her fingers together at the mere mention of the dictator’s name. Would the war have ended if the assassin had been successful? She breathed a prayer for forgiveness for wishing such a thing. Yet it seemed this one man continued to wreak havoc on the entire world, and she couldn’t really blame someone for trying to eliminate him.
On some level, Olivia was proud of Rory for wanting to defend his country against such a despot. But on the other hand, she wished he hadn’t been quite so patriotic. Quite so willing to leave her behind.
A loud knock sounded on the door. Olivia’s heart began to race. Who would be coming here at this hour? Everyone in the neighborhood knew the store was closed, and most of her parents’ friends would be at the church hall. Leo was at the local tavern playing pool with his friends and wouldn’t be home until the wee hours.
She clutched the threadbare arm of the chair, a shiver of foreboding racing through her. “Who is it?”
“Toronto Police. Open the door, please.”
The police? What did they want? Had someone been in an accident?
Heart in her throat, Olivia smoothed her hair and removed her apron, draping it over the armchair. Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room and opened the door.
A large man in uniform stood on the landing. “Are you Miss Olivia Rosetti?”
“Y-yes.”
A flicker of emotion passed over his granite features. “I’m here to inform you that you are under arrest.”
“Arrest? For what?” Her hand flew to her throat. Was this a joke? There had to be some sort of mistake.
“You are charged under the Female Refuges Act with being incorrigible. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”
“What does that mean? I don’t understand. . . .” Her legs trembled so hard beneath her pleated skirt that she grasped the hall table for support.
A glimmer of sympathy shone in the man’s eyes. “Your father has taken out a warrant against you. He claims that you are unmarried, under the age of twenty-one, and . . .” He hesitated, his gaze sweeping her slender form. “. . . with child.”
Heat flooded her face, but she held her head high. “That may be undesirable, but surely it’s not a crime.”
“I’m afraid it is. Granted, it’s not a law I’ve had to enforce very often, but when a complaint is made, we must act.”
Her mind spun, still unable to grasp what the officer was telling her. “My fiancé left for the war, otherwise we would already be married.” A tiny but desperate fib. “As soon as he comes back, we’ll . . .” She trailed off at the immovable set to the man’s jaw.
“I’ll give you a minute to get ready. Then I have to take you down to the police station.”