FORTY
Francesca
Early July 1944
The noonday sun pressed heavily on their shoulders. Francesca sat on a bench on the terrace, sweating in her blouse, watching Lucia and Matteo.
“Like this?” Matteo asked. He swung a full watering can up toward the lemon tree’s pot. The water sloshed as he poured it, and Lucia bent beside him, steadying the canister. “Sì. Exactly like that, piccolo. And if you help me water it once a day, it will give us fruit. Now, can you make a design over its roots with these pebbles?”
He blinked up at his mother, eyes lively. His freckles had darkened in the sun, splashing his nose and cheeks. “Just to make it pretty?”
Lucia tousled his curly hair. “Just to make it pretty, love. Later on, when it cools down, we’ll go see Lidia and you can play with Rosa, sì?”
Matteo nodded and knelt at the pot’s rim in his short pants, his little fingers moving rocks around, busy so Lucia could take a rest. Francesca smiled, but her heart smarted at the mention of Lidia. Lucia’s childhood friend had still heard nothing about her husband and missing family members, but she carried on as well as she could. Because what other option was there? Lucia visited her often, taking Matteo so the children could play and the mothers could talk.
“Is it too hot?” Lucia asked, moving to the bench. “We could go back downstairs.”
“No.” Francesca pulled her hair over one shoulder, cooling her neck. “It feels good to be out.”
Lucia nodded, sitting back and closing her eyes. A companionable silence descended as Francesca lifted her gaze to the sky. She’d been living with Lucia and Matteo since liberation. They’d never discussed it, really. She’d just drifted home with them, taken the spare room, and settled into the rhythms of their lives. It seemed the entire city was trying to find new routes forward. Battles still raged up the peninsula, and Rome rocked like a ship in a storm, charting its course in changing seas. The day after liberation, the Allies had launched another, more distant invasion, entering France through Normandy. They fought now on French soil, and Francesca and Lucia listened to their progress each night on the wireless, breathless. The war was far from over in most places, but Francesca had found her faith. It would end, and it would end with Germany’s defeat. She believed this now.
And she’d just decided what she’d do with her life when it was all over. “Lucia,” she ventured, breaking the silence, “I made some inquiries yesterday.”
Lucia rolled her head sideways, squinting. “What kind of inquiries?”
Nerves tightened Francesca’s stomach. What would Lucia think? She inhaled, plowing forward. “I went over to the university, to see about classes. I’m planning to enroll.”
“You absolutely should.” Lucia straightened. “What would you study?”
Heat flooded Francesca’s face, but she maintained a steady voice. “Law.”
For a second, Lucia stared at her, thoughtful, her smile spreading. “Sì.” She reached out, taking Francesca’s hands in her strong grip. “An attorney! Certo—it’s a perfect fit.” She gave another squeeze. “Live here while you go to university. Will you?”
“I’d love to. You don’t think it’s too bold, a young woman studying law?”
“Santo cielo, Francesca. You were born to be bold. Anyway, I have a similar confession.” Lucia blinked, pursing the grin from her lips. “I’ve been thinking about the future, too. Promise you won’t laugh.”
“You know I won’t.”
Lucia glanced at Matteo, lowering her voice. “Rumor has it people are already talking about the new government. It’ll be a while yet—when the Allies leave us to our own devices, I suppose—but I’ve heard women are interested in leadership roles. Especially women who were active in the resistance. Things are changing for women, and I just thought . . .” Lucia looked down at her knitted hands.
Was Lucia considering a role in politics? Francesca smothered a bloom of surprise. She tried to picture it, and images rose in her mind. Lucia, with her charming smile, shaking many hands. Lucia, clever minded, studying the issues and crafting strategies. Lucia, speaking with the people, playing the right roles at the right times, maneuvering them toward a better future.
Francesca spoke decisively. “You’ll be perfect.”
“It feels so audacious to even think it. You’re not just saying that?”
“You know I never just say anything. It’s exactly what you should do, Lucia. We’ve shown that women are just as capable as men. Why shouldn’t you help rebuild Italy when the time comes?”
Lucia laughed. “Well, look at us.” She laughed more, and Matteo turned, examining her before bending back over his pebbles. “A single mother like me, and a country girl like you, shaping the future.”
Francesca grinned. She was about to ask more when footsteps sounded in the stairway, pounding up toward the terrace. Her heart started to pound as well, a reflex, and she pushed up to stand.
“Who could that be?” Lucia murmured, rising and cocking her head in concern. But before they had a chance to investigate, the door to the terrace creaked open.
A boy stood in the doorjamb, all limbs and tattered clothes, and it took Francesca a second to find her voice. “Roberto! What brings you here? Is your mother all right?”
“My mamma sent me. Sì, she’s fine.”
Francesca exhaled with relief. She’d visited her old neighbors several times, bringing Signora Russo flour from the market, a pair of hands to hold a baby, and conversation.
Roberto rummaged in his pockets. He pulled out a white envelope, smudged and crinkled. “Mamma said this came for you.”
Francesca froze. “It came to my old letter box in the building?”
“Sì. The new neighbors brought it to Mamma.”
Her pulse bounded in her chest, filling her with something like fear as she stared at the envelope, bright in the sunshine, suspended in Roberto’s hand. Francesca crossed the terrace, and she managed to murmur, “Grazie, Roberto,” retreating to her bench.
Her fingers shook as she flipped over the envelope, examining the handwriting, warding off hope. Lucia ushered Roberto over to play with Matteo, and the hum of their voices melted away as Francesca studied her previous address on the envelope, written in an unknown hand. The return address, printed out in blocky letters, was the American 23rd General Hospital in Naples. What did this mean? Her heartbeat stuttered, and she ripped open the paper.
Francesca, my love.
It was like being hit with a wave. She rocked on the bench, dizzy, pressing a palm over her lips. She tasted salt from her tears before she even realized she was weeping. Across the terrace, Lucia looked up, but she continued to occupy the boys.
Giacomo. The next wave to hit filled her with urgency. She blinked through her tears, eagerly reading the blurring words.
I’ve written you so many letters, despite not being able to mail them through the chaos separating us. I had the inspiration to send this one with an American friend who was headed to Rome on leave. I pray it finds you.
I’m sorry, so deeply sorry, for the agony I’ve undoubtedly caused. Ever since they took me, I’ve fought to come back to you. I fought, and lost.
In September, I refused to enlist alongside the Germans, so they sent me to a forced labor camp along the southern lines. I was lucky not to end up in Germany, but it was hell, nonetheless. They worked us from sunup to sundown with little rest. We were hungry all the time. But even more unbearable was the fact that they were using us to build fortifications against the Allies. Eventually, my friend Sandro and I resolved to escape. We were working on a hilltop, building bunkers, when we slipped away, but we were seen and shot at. Sandro and I fell as we ran, dropping down a rocky incline so steep it was almost a cliff. Our guards, likely assuming we were dead, didn’t come after us. By some miracle, we both found ourselves alive at the bottom of the cliff—battered, but alive.
We waited until darkness, and then we walked south. By morning, we stumbled upon a remote farmhouse, and there we found friends in an elderly couple who had refused to evacuate in the face of the war. They hid us in their cellar, helping us heal and gain strength until we were ready to offer our services to the Allies. I have many to thank for my life.
Later, Sandro and I volunteered with the Italian Liberation Corps, the Italian army formed to fight alongside the Allies. I worked in field hospitals along the Gustav Line as a surgical assistant, and Sandro was among the many, many men killed in that unending battle.
Since late May, I’ve been hospitalized, but please don’t worry. I’m recovering. I was both lucky and unlucky in taking a bullet to the leg. It hit my femur, shattering some bone, so I found myself evacuated to an American army hospital near Naples. Francesca, I count myself among the most fortunate. It all could have been so much worse for me. Still, my recovery has been slow and bumpy, probably due to the poor state of health that bullet found me in. Please don’t worry, my love. I’m nearly ready to come home.
I think about you every minute of every hour. Last month, they brought us newspapers here, and I saw pictures of Rome on liberation day. Like a fool, I studied the photos for you. I don’t know if you stayed in Rome or went back home. I’m terrified that you’re unwell, or unsafe, or worse. Because, Francesca, I can’t imagine my journey ending anywhere but with you.
Not long ago, I was afraid all the time, and many nights you visited my dreams. Always the same dream. Do you remember sitting in the olive trees when we were kids? In my sleep I’d be there, with you. We’d sit in those trees, over that feeble stream where I was always trying to catch a fish, and we’d talk. Your voice in my mind—it’s what got me through.
Soon as I’m able, I’ll travel north. Be safe. Wait for me.
Francesca was dimly aware of Lucia across the balcony, looking at her questioningly. But she couldn’t respond. She sat motionless, shocked through, afraid to blink, afraid to shatter this new, fragile truth. Giacomo was alive? She hadn’t dared to hope it, not for months. She lifted the letter, reading it again. And again. It took several reads for reality to sink in. He was alive. And he was coming home.
When Lucia finally crossed the terrace, she waved the boys downstairs. They tromped through the door and disappeared, a whir of elbows, knees, and thumping feet. Lucia stepped to the bench and sank down. Francesca was unmoored. She blinked at this woman who had become her dear friend, trying to govern her thoughts.
“I’m so sorry,” Lucia whispered, reaching out to grip her limp fingers still holding the letter. “It must be about your Giacomo.”
Francesca found her voice. “He’s alive.” She offered the letter, too stunned to elaborate.
Lucia bent, reading quickly. Her expression changed as she read, loosening from grief to surprise.
“Santo cielo, he’s in Naples?” She shook her head, laughing even as tears wet her eyes. “He says he’ll be able to come home soon. Cara mia, I’m astonished.”
Francesca found herself smiling, but as Lucia wiped her own cheeks, bending to read Giacomo’s letter again, sorrow poked at her joy. Lucia pursed her lips, tears beading her eyelashes, and Francesca’s heart ached.
“My friend, I’m so sorry. You deserved such a letter, too.”
Lucia’s dark eyes swung up, startled. “What do you mean?”
“Just that I understand.” Francesca cleared the pain from her throat. “I know you’re happy for me. But perhaps it’s difficult, with luck and life being so arbitrary, to see one man return and not another.”
Lucia was already shaking her head, eyes shining. “No. Your happiness doesn’t erode mine, cara mia. Quite the opposite. I’m overjoyed. To see you continue your life as it always should have been, with Giacomo by your side? How could such a thing sadden me?” She glanced down at the letter, folding it. “I’ll always grieve for Carlo, but I can be happy for you at the same time.”
They sat in silence, the sun high over their heads, hands clasped, before Lucia spoke again. “The spare room is still yours, if you want it. I understand if you and Giacomo would prefer privacy, but housing is so hard to find right now.”
“We’d be honored to stay with you.” Francesca’s mother rose in her mind, never far from her thoughts. “Eventually, we might bring my mother to Rome, if she’s willing to leave home to live with us. But for now—”
“You’ll live with me,” Lucia interrupted, grinning.
Francesca returned the smile and found her feet, standing. “But first I’m going to Naples, so I can bring him home.” The words emerged before she had time to contemplate them. And yet, the moment they left her lips, she knew it was what she had to do. She would leave as soon as possible.
Lucia stood with her, laughing a little. “I thought you’d go and find him. You’re not one to sit idle, waiting for things to happen.”
It was true: she’d rather not perch if she could fly. Francesca turned, looking around as though the world were new. Her eyes fell on the lemon tree, striving in its pot, then traveled past it, to the rooftops and bell towers spreading all the way to distant hills. Rome shimmered and birds floated over it, rising and falling in an eternal dance.
When Lucia spoke again, her voice was strong. “Go and find him, Allodola. Bring Giacomo home.”