When the dread dinner hour approached, Enrica prepared to submit to the unfailing assault with stoic patience.
Not that she had any shortage of that quality. Indeed, patience was one of her most noteworthy traits, perhaps the most intimate and evident quality she possessed. It could be sensed in everything she did: the tone of her voice, her gaze, the gestures of her hands. Enrica was patient, and everyone said so.
Patient but also stubborn.
Since the two characteristics were in sharp contrast, they could lead a person to misjudge her. Her gentle sweetness, the fact that she was a young woman of few words the smile that she presented to anyone she encountered, and her good manners were not, in fact, evidence of a submissive nature that someone thought she had glimpsed in Enrica.
Someone whose maiden name had been Maria Tritone, before taking Colombo as her married name. In other words, Enrica’s mother.
The last two months had been difficult for Enrica. Scenes and tantrums were followed by long, sulking silences, cascades of innuendo, sarcastic asides, and hidden resentments lurking behind every allusion. A small-scale domestic and private inferno, and one that was a real burden to tolerate. At first Enrica had been forced to bow her head and place her hopes in her father’s feeble but heartfelt support. Even though he had few enough arguments to deploy, her father had done his best to defend her.
But this time, objectively speaking, Maria was right. Manfred was a perfect catch. A young and handsome gentleman, charming and well-to-do; loving and thoughtful, gallant to his future mother-in-law and respectful to his future father-in-law; merry and amusing with the children, likable and comradely with her sister’s husband; careful not to run afoul of Enrica’s father on political matters. Her father, after all, was an old-fashioned liberal, with little patience for Fascism and the Nazis, the German cousins of the Italian Fascist party, increasingly close, a movement to which the major, in fact, subscribed enthusiastically. Manfred, a Prince Charming out of a fairy tale, the ideal man that any young woman could only dream of finding.
Any young woman, but not Enrica.
And in fact, on the very day of her twenty-fifth birthday, she had had the nerve to reject him, as if he were an unwelcome gift, thereby officially sanctioning her transition from eligible blushing bride to intractable old maid. She was no beauty, the Colombo family’s firstborn daughter. She was tall, unbecoming, and she wore spectacles. She had no interest in makeup and she stubbornly refused to have her hair styled in a pageboy, the fashionable cut. She also avoided the fashionable brightly colored line of modern apparel. What’s more, when night fell, she had no interest in going out with groups of her girlfriends to the theaters and movie houses that were so popular with soldiers, successful professionals, and bachelors as a group.
Enrica heaved a deep sigh and made her entrance into the kitchen. As usual, the conversation then underway came to an abrupt halt, leaving not even a shadow of doubt as to what the subject had been. Alongside her mother, those present in the kitchen and frozen in the act of gossiping about Enrica, were her younger sisters: Susanna, already married and the mother of a son, even though she was two years younger than Enrica, as Maria never failed to remind her on a daily basis, and Francesca, who might have been just a teenager but who made it more than clear that she had no intention of reaching Enrica’s advanced age without finding a husband. At the stove was Fortuna, the elderly housekeeper who had raised her and who was the only one, aside from Enrica’s father, willing to defend her from that tribunal of hostile women.
Enrica approached the table and put on her apron. Among the tasks she was responsible for in those days leading up to New Year’s Day was the preparation of the sautéd broccoli: a recipe that might seem simple at first glance but remained crucial and not without its challenges. Somewhat like Enrica herself.
There was a massive quantity to prepare, because this dish wasn’t just eaten during the New Year’s Day dinner, but also in all the meals that preceded it. Her sister Susanna sighed, and stared at her: “You’d think that broccoli was easy to make, but no one cooks it like you do, Enri’. My husband says that you have golden hands in the kitchen, whereas whenever I’m the one cooking things, he makes a face and says nothing.”
Enrica smiled as she drained the vegetables.
“Oh, no, Susi, you know he’s just teasing you. You’re a good cook, too, in fact, you’re an excellent cook. Plus you’re a mother, too, right? It can’t be easy.”
Turned toward the stove, as if keeping an eye on Fortuna’s cooking, Maria said: “There you are, in fact: a mother. And someone like you, who loves children, spends time with them, and helps them with their lessons, ought to have children of her own.”
Francesca, who had sliced the garlic and was pouring olive oil out of a large tin and into a glass, burst out laughing.
“It’s true, though, Enri’. You of all people, the way you are with children, you’d think you’d already have a dozen of your own. In another home, though, because we’re already full to bursting here. But I think there’s no real problem, because you’ll be living with Mamma and Papa for many long years to come.”
Fortuna scolded her, roughly: “Shut your mouth, France’, and worry about yourself. People do things in their own good time.”
Enrica ventured one last, desperate attempt at changing the subject: “I bought these from Tanino. That young man has turned a little strange, has anyone noticed? He seems less cheerful lately, and who knows . . .”
Her mother turned, stung, to look at the housekeeper.
“Don’t talk to me about people’s own good time. I’m the only one who knows how much work it is to raise a respectable young woman, teach her all that she needs to know in order to become a good wife and a good mother. And all that, just to find her still here at home, a grown woman now, without so much as a prospect on the horizon, and most likely bound to remain an old maid for the rest of her life.”
Enrica sighed.
“Mamma, you have no idea of what life might bring. It’s true, I’m alone now, but . . .”
Maria glared sternly at her and hissed: “You know how badly you hurt me on the day of your birthday. An enormous wound. And you did it on purpose.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Mamma, I had no intention of causing you pain.”
Her mother slammed her hand down on the table, making a cutting board bounce into the air.
“Oh, you didn’t? Then would you explain to me why you rejected the most eligible bachelor you could have hoped for? That poor major was deeply hurt!”
Francesca chuckled:
“He turned red as a chili pepper and kept muttering who knows what in that language of his . . .”
Maria glared daggers at her.
“Don’t you dare, young lady. We don’t joke about serious matters in this household!”
Enrica shook her head, eyes turned downward at the vegetables ready to be popped into the pot.
“Mamma, we’ve already discussed this. I never thought he was going to pop the question, it was the last thing I was expecting . . .”
“What do you mean, you weren’t expecting it? Do you seriously think that a man asks for an invitation to dinner on the day of your birthday, brings flowers and presents, and dresses up in his fine uniform just because he thinks of you as a friend? And anyway, even if you hadn’t been expecting it, why did you turn him down?”
Beneath the full weight of her sisters’ eyes, and face to face with a fiercely inquisitorial mother, Enrica behaved no differently than ever: patient but stubborn.
“Mamma, I didn’t feel up to it, that’s all. Maybe it wasn’t the right time, maybe . . .”
“But now you’ve had the time to think it over. And what do you say now?”
What can I tell you, Mamma? That I’m in love with the kindest and most handsome man on earth? That I’ve waited and waited for him, and precisely because of that refusal you criticize so fervently, I finally had the joy to see him come to me? That we spent time together, telling each other the stories of our lives? That we stood, holding hands, in a narrow lane not far from here, an alley that’s become our secret paradise? And that as I gazed into his green eyes, I envisioned my future with him, even though we haven’t yet spoken of it?
“I don’t know, Mamma, maybe . . . I don’t want to make anyone suffer.”
“Then would you explain to me why you were so decisive that you didn’t even leave him a glimmer of hope?”
Because there never really was any hope, Mamma; that’s why. If a woman is in love, she can’t even think of shaking hands with another man, much less kissing another man’s lips.
“Mamma, please, stop torturing me. I’m not in love with Manfred, and it hardly seems fair to him, either . . .”
Maria slammed her hand down on the table once again. Susanna’s and Francesca’s heads both bowed at the same moment.
“Who’s talking about love? A woman needs to get settled, she needs a home and children! Love comes later, the important thing is to find your place in the world! Your father and I aren’t going to live forever. When we’re no longer around, would you tell me who’s going to take care of you, look after you, protect you and keep you?”
He will, Mamma, because I know that he loves me. He just needs time to find the courage to come here and ask Papa for his permission to take me out, unaccompanied. Then he’ll kiss me in the movie theater, just like what happens to all the other girls and . . .
“In any case,” Maria went on in a decisive tone, “the important thing is that you understand what a foolish mistake it was. That it was only because you weren’t expecting it, as you’ve confessed, and that you understand that a catch like Major von Brauchitsch doesn’t come along every day.”
Susanna stared at her mother blankly.
“Well, anyway, Mamma, what’s done is done. Enrica has already turned him down.”
Maria replied while staring at her eldest daughter with a defiant glare.
“That’s absolutely not the case. I’ve written to the major myself, explaining that Enrica’s words were dictated by a high state of emotion, that she never meant to turn him down, that I know my own daughter, and she’s not the type to turn him down. That all she needed was a chance to think things over, and that now she’s ready to see him again.”
Enrica couldn’t believe her own ears. She stared at her mother’s mouth in disbelief, as if she were speaking some alien, incomprehensible language.
“I don’t understand, Mamma: you wrote to Manfred? You’ve . . .”
The woman replied, firmly: “That’s exactly what I’ve done. I’ve invited him here to dinner on the last night of the year, and I’m delighted that I’ve done so.”
Enrica felt herself die inside.