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A light, steady rain fell on the grapes, just the kind for which Nicolas had been hoping. Growing grapes for wine was a delicate balance of heat and rainfall. Too much or too little of either one could be devastating. He stood at the window watching the drops fall onto the wide, green leaves, and drip down into rivulets that ran in the soil. The sound of the gentle rain on the roof was a welcome one, and he smiled at his good fortune – a healthy crop, a growing business, a savvy new partner, who would have thought?, and just the right person with whom to share it all. Of course, his father entered his thoughts several times a day, and Nicolas regretted not making the short trip to Florence more often over the past few years. Never did he imagine that his healthy, jovial father would suffer a sudden, fatal heart attack. It was simply unthinkable. But time is fleeting, our lives all too often end without notice, and it is up to each one of us to make the most out of what we’ve been given without squandering it.
“Alex,” Nicolas said suddenly, turning from the window, “let us take a ride.”
Maria and Alex both looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
“Nicolas, we have work to do.”
“No, we are good. The tours have been cancelled. I cannot work in the fields. Maria can answer the phones.” He looked at his cousin who nodded and smiled.
“Allora, go and leave me in peace. There are too many people inside this room today for me to concentrate.”
“Where are we going?”
“You will see,” Nicolas promised. “Let us go.”
Alex ran to the villa to retrieve her bag, a fine leather purse stamped “Made in Italy,” and Nicolas started his car. Managing to stay mostly dry, Alex climbed in and asked again where they were heading. Nicolas just smiled and put his silver Fiat 500X into drive.
In less than an hour, Nicolas entered a small, quaint city. Once parked, he walked around the car with an umbrella to shield Alex from the rain which was falling a little heavier now.
“Where are we?”
“Treviso, the closest place to us that the War came.”
Alex tried to look around as Nicolas led her through an empty piazza to a church that was quite modest compared to those she had seen in Florence. Once inside, he left the umbrella by the door and proceeded to a small window where he bought two tickets. Alex read the sign beside the window - Museo di Santa Caterina.
“I’ve never even heard of this place,” she said as Nicolas took her hand and led her inside.
“It is not on most tourist lists. It was once a church but is now an art museum. I thought you would like to see it on this rainy day best suited for indoor adventures.”
Alex looked at Nicolas and smiled. He seemed to know her so well. “Thank you,” she said and walked beside him through the cloisters, decorated with vivid frescos by the artist Tommaso da Modena. Nicolas told Alex the history of the artwork as well as the building.
“I can’t believe you know so much about art and history. I’m constantly amazed by your knowledge,” Alex admitted.
Nicolas smiled. “Marta,” he said. “Do not forget that she is much like you.”
Alex nodded. “Ah, sì.”
They continued their stroll through the gallery and then moved on to the archaeological section where Nicolas translated whatever signs Alex could not read. He was impressed by how much she understood without translation, as was Alex. She hadn’t realized how easy it had become to recognize words, phrases, and sentence structure.
When the museum closed at mid-day, Nicolas took Alex for lunch and panna cotta.
“If you keep feeding me these desserts, I’m not going to fit into any of my clothes.”
“Sì, I will need to put you to work in the fields.”
“Wait? What are you trying to say?” Alex wasn’t sure how to take his comment until he started laughing. She took another bite of her creamy dessert while trying to decide whether or not to be insulted.
Alex and Nicolas walked around the town for the rest of the afternoon, huddling under the umbrella and jumping over puddles. They hardly noticed the rain.
On the drive back to Belle Uve, Alex thanked Nicolas for the day.
“It was wonderful, but you never told me what you meant about the War? What happened in Treviso?”
“It was bombed by the Americans.”
“Oh,” Alex said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Nicolas shrugged. “It happened, and it is over. The Allies freed us from the Germans. It was not all good, but it is over, and we go on.”
“Were many people killed?”
“Around a thousand, I think. It was worse in other cities. Thankfully, the vineyard was not destroyed nor any of the other homes or small towns in our countryside.”
“I can’t imagine what it was like. I don’t remember 9/11, so I can’t really compare it to anything.”
“I do not have anything to compare it to either.” Nicolas said. “Perhaps Isa will enlighten us.”
When they arrived at the villa that evening, they settled on the couch in the parlor, and the last of the rain played light, staccato music to accompany their reading.
April 10, 1943
Father is displeased with me again, and I know I should be happy, but I weep with sorrow and fear.
My Dearest Isa,
My world is growing darker every day without you in it, and the fighting is more than I can sometimes bear. The Russians have assailed us night and day, and we are no match for them. I have seen many of my friends and brothers die. So few of us remain, and I fear that the Russians will close in on us any day. I am writing to you during the harshest winter I have ever experienced. I pray that I will return to you with all of my limbs, but I fear that I, too, will suffer the frostbite that seeps into the fingers and toes of so many around me and eats at them until they cry in agony and beg to have the appendage cut away from their body. I pray that I will return to you alive. I do not know how much longer we can hold on.
Always know that you are the light I seek in the darkness, the candle in the window that beckons me to come home.
Yours,
Roberto
“Winter?” Alex wondered out loud. “How long do you think it took for the letter to reach her?” She gently fingered the wrinkled, tear-stained paper, yellow and cracking with age.
“My guess is he was referring to the battle in Stalingrad, in January I think, so three months’ time. If I remember correctly, many of our men were captured there. Most of them never came home from the Russian battles along the borders and in the Alps. It was no better in the South. Mio nonno, Paolo, was sent somewhere in Africa and was believed to be dead for many months. He spoke very little of his time in the war. It was a very sad time for Italy.”
“How old was your grandfather when he went to war?”
“Young, very young, eighteen, the same as Roberto.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but,” Alex thought about how to phrase her question. “Wasn’t he kind of old to be your grandfather? I mean, my great-grandfather went to war as a young man, and they served in the same war.”
“Sì, it took many years for Nonno to find true love. The War, it changed him, I am told. It took a very special woman to find the good in him.” Nicolas smiled.
“I’m glad she did,” Alex said quietly. Realizing she was giving away too much insight into her own feelings, she shifted slightly so that there was a bit of space between them. She looked down at the worn paper and the water stains on the page of the journal.
“I can’t begin to imagine what she went through. What either of them went through.”
“It was a miracle she received his letter. Whoever this group was, they were very clever.” The reverence in Nicolas’ voice was notable, and Alex wondered what else the secret resistance did during the War.
“Shall we?” she motioned to the journal.
Nicolas nodded and turned the page.
April 20, 1943
There are so many rumors, but our government does not permit us to know what is happening outside of Italy, so we rely on our missives and put our trust in the unknown people who risk their lives to send us the news. The Americans have been under heavy attack by German submarines, but they are making gains in Tunisia, pushing the Germans farther north. There is no more fighting between the Russians and the Italian 8th Army as most of our men have died or been captured. We have been told that the Russians are sending many of them home because they are sick or dying, and the Russians do not want to deal with them, but we have not heard any more from Roberto. Papà has tried frantically to locate him as well as Paolo, sending me on almost daily missions to Signor Lombardi, but none of Papà’s inquiries have been answered. Though we have heard twice from Roberto, albeit not lately, there has been no news from Paolo, and we fear that he was captured or killed in Tunisia. My heart breaks for my brother and my parents but also for myself.
After an easy dinner of leftovers and bread bought in Treviso, they settled back on the couch to discuss what they had read earlier that evening.
“Paolo,” Alex spoke the name quietly. “How long did they believe he was dead?”
“I do not know, but I am sure it felt like an eternity.”
“You were very close to him. Your grandfather.”
“Sì, very close. It is because of him that I have such great love for this vineyard. This was my home more than the city.”
“I can see why. Florence is a beautiful city, and I look forward to going back, but out here,” she paused. “Out here, there is quiet and peace and something magical in the way that the moonlight shines on the grapes, the fruit of the gods.”
Nicolas looked at Alex, and, not for the first time, he realized how alike they were. Had Prozia Isa known that? How could she? She only knew Nicolas from letters and phone calls and perhaps things his grandfather and mother told her... What had they told her that prompted her to introduce this woman into his life?
Nicolas realized he was staring at Alex and that she was staring back. He reached over and laid his hand gently on her cheek. He curled his fingers and caressed her smooth skin with his knuckles and felt her sudden intake of breath. For several moments, his hand lay still on her soft cheek just beside her lips, and they looked into each other’s eyes. Nicolas watched Alex swallow and followed her motion with his eyes, noticing the glowing tan of the skin that trailed down into her t-shirt. He lifted his gaze back to her face, stopping at her lips and longed to touch them with his fingertips, his mouth, his tongue.
“I think it is time for bed,” he whispered.
“Sì, time for bed,” she agreed without moving.
With the restraint of all the saints and angels in Heaven, he looked away and took his hand from her face.
“Goodnight,” he said quietly as he stood and walked away without looking back. In his mind, he could still see her sitting there, the desire in her eyes, the blush on her cheeks, and her rosè lips. Did they taste as sweet as wine? He took the image of her with him as he climbed into bed and held onto it, knowing in his heart that it was not enough. He knew that tomorrow, everything would change.
By mutual consent, the following morning, they decided to take a break from reading for a few days. Eva was coming home, and Alex knew that Nicolas was anxious to see her; though her heart sank at the thought of their reunion after the intimate moments she and Nicolas had shared the night before. They grew closer each day, but Nicolas remained at a distance, and Alex knew that it was because he belonged to someone else. Her thoughts went to one of her favorite musicals, Wicked, and the haunting ballad “I’m Not That Girl” that Elphaba sings when she realizes that she will never be the one Fiyero chooses. Of course, as all love stories go, it was Glinda who sang the song’s reprisal after Fiyero listened to his heart and chose Elphaba instead.
“Fiction,” she mumbled to herself. “It’s based on a work of fiction. It’s always the Evas and Glindas of the world who are chosen in real life.”
Nicolas hurried through his work on Friday, filling orders and rushing through tours, much to Alex and Maria’s dismay, and left as soon as the last tour was over that afternoon.
Nicolas pulled back from their kiss and gently removed Eva’s arms from his neck. He felt her body go rigid and saw the familiar sparks in her eyes.
“So, this is the way it will be, then, no? You kiss me like a brother and push me away, and I am to just smile and say goodbye?”
“Eva, I’m sorry,” She held up her hand.
“No. You are not sorry. You are wretched. You used me for all of these years, and then you cast me aside when someone new arrives.”
“Eva,” Nicolas reached for her, but she backed away and turned from him. “Please, listen to me. I always imagined us together. I believed it was right, but I never felt,” he hesitated, not wanting to hurt her more. “It is that you and I are very different. We want different things. You want someone to take you away from your father’s house and spoil you with lavish gifts and trips to the coast. I want to spend my life on my vineyard, raising children who will love my work as I do. I have traveled, and I am content to now be at home and work until I die of old age, as mio nonno did. You would never be happy with that life.”
“And I suppose she will be?” Eva spat the words at Nicolas as if they contained venom.
“I do not know. I hope so.” Nicolas sighed and looked at Eva.
“Then you do intend to go to her?”
“Sì, if she will have me. I have not always been kind to her, but she has been nothing but kind to me.”
Eva rolled her eyes. “Do not lament to me about your failures and her virtues. She will not satisfy you the way I do. You will see.”
Nicolas did not respond. Eva had satisfied him in many ways, but he had only recently realized that none of them were the ways that counted. He thought it better not to add insult to injury.
After a few moments of silence, Eva waved her hand at Nicolas in dismissal. He was amazed at her composure. He had expected shouting and the hurling of objects at his head. He supposed that when he cancelled the plans to join her on the coast, she knew what was coming.
“Go, then. Be with her. She will never make you happy like I could. And like your nonno, you will have to work until you die. She will never be able to give you a life of comfort. You will come to regret your decision in time.”
“Perhaps it is so,” Nicolas said. There was no use in trying to explain to Eva that all of the riches in the world, all of the luxuries she could have provided for him, would never add up to the wealth he believed he could have with Alex nor the inheritance they could leave to their children. It was the kind of wealth and inheritance that Eva would never know or understand.
“Ciao,” was all Nicolas could say as he turned to leave. The heaviness in his heart was not for his own loss but for Eva’s. He knew that she would never truly be happy the way he knew he would be.
Alex awoke on Sunday with a heavy heart after thinking about the journal for the past two days as well as wondering what torrid things Nicolas had been doing with Eva to welcome her home. She had not seen Nicolas at all on Friday night or Saturday and assumed he was with Eva. He returned to the villa late Saturday night, just as Alex was falling asleep. She hated that her thoughts turned to him as soon as she awoke.
Rather than hurrying to get dressed and head downstairs, Alex stayed in bed until she heard the kitchen door slam and knew that Nicolas had gone outside. She was surprised that he had even come home both Friday and Saturday nights. On Friday, Alex and Maria had gone to see a movie (Maria told Alex it would help with her Italian, and truthfully, it did). When she returned to the villa, Nicolas’ car was in the driveway, and she assumed he had gone to bed, though she thought that it was odd that he was home early on the day that Eva returned. She had no idea where he was all day on Saturday, but she assumed he was with Eva.
On Saturday, Alex had a stroke of inspiration. She looked up a favorite recipe of Isa’s and headed to the market. She spent the day making Nonna’s Salse Marinara, a homemade red sauce that Alex and Signora made together one day the previous summer. The aroma of boiling tomato sauce still filled the house, and Alex wondered if Nicolas had tried any when he arrived home late that night.
She reached for her laptop and checked her personal email and the news from back home. Killing time, she opened her web browser and navigated to Facebook for the first time in weeks. The app’s inbox was full of messages from the people, who were never truly her friends, insisting that they missed her and would love to come visit. Apparently word had gotten around about her inheritance. Alex closed the browser without answering any of them except for the one from her friend, Cindy. She tried to keep up a correspondence with the only friend she retained from childhood. It was a quick note to say hello with the promise of writing again soon.
Too hot to stay in bed, Alex threw off the covers and headed to the bathroom. Knowing she needed to get ready for church, she took a much longer shower than she had a right to. Her thoughts were a jumble of misgivings about and yearnings for Nicolas, irritation with the people who assumed she would welcome them into her world when she was never welcomed into theirs, longing for her mother and a real family, sorrow for Isa’s family and all that they went through, and a nagging feeling that she was there for a reason and had no idea what that might be. Alex stood under the spray of water, her head bent and eyes closed. She cradled her forehead with her hand and sighed. Reaching for the wall with her other hand, she let the water wash over her until it ran cold and she was forced to turn it off and face her day. Certainly, God wouldn’t give her any more than she could handle on this, already, oppressively hot and perplexing day.
The church was cool, the music was soothing, and before long, Alex began to relax and push aside all of the negative thoughts that had haunted her all weekend. After Mass, she and Maria headed toward Maria’s car, arm in arm. Maria’s boyfriend, Pietro, walked and chatted with Nicolas, who had not said a word on the entire ride to the church, prompting Alex to tell him that she wanted to ride home with Maria. Just as Alex reached for the car door handle, someone grabbed her arm.
“Scusami,” said a familiar and unfriendly voice. “May I have a word with you?”
Alex turned to see Eva standing next to her. She was fashionably dressed, as Alex suspected she always was, and she was glaring at Alex with a look that could only be described as pure hatred. Alex stepped several feet away from the car with a feeling of foreboding, and Maria watched over the hood. Was Eva in church? Alex didn’t see her in her family’s pew, and she hadn’t sat with Nicolas and his family.
“What do you want, Evangelina?” Alex asked. Though she tried not to sound unfriendly, her words and tone were frosty. Truth be told, she was actually frightened by the look on the woman’s face.
“Why are you here?” Evangelina asked.
“I’m here,” Alex stated with what she hoped was annoyance and not fear, “because I own half of the vineyard and am going to help Nicolas run it.”
“Niki never needed help before. And you know nothing about running a vineyard.” Evangelina’s tone left no doubt as to how she felt about Alex.
“You know nothing about me,” Alex raised her voice, unaware that people were beginning to stare.
“I know everything about you,” Evangelina said in a low and all-knowing voice. “I know that your brother was murdered, your father died in an accident, and you and your mother do not speak. I know that you have been trying to claim Nicolas as your own. And I know that you befriended an old woman who was not in her right mind and convinced her to leave you everything. I would not be surprised if you poisoned her so that...”
The slap was fast and hard. Evangelina’s head snapped to the side, and Alex felt a throbbing in her hand. If not for that, she might not have believed that the action taken was her own. Evangelina let out a string of words that Alex recognized but would never dare repeat. In an instant, Nicolas appeared by her side, and with his hand on her back, led her to the car. Without saying a word, he opened the door and helped her slide onto the seat. Alex sat in shock and watched as he spoke to Maria in Italian, giving instructions to Maria to take her home.
As they drove off, Alex turned and watched as Nicolas unleashed his fury on Evangelina, and she wished she could hear what he was saying.
“Mi dispiace,” Nicolas apologized when he entered the kitchen some time later. “I do not know why Eva did that to you, and in front of so many people.”
“Ha,” Maria scoffed. “You do know, and so do I. In fact, Adrianna and Alex know, too,” she said, gesturing to the other women in the kitchen. “She wants to be the woman living here, not Alex. Better yet, she wants you to be living with her, spending all of her father’s money. She has always wanted that. The whole world knows that you’re to be married, but you lead Alex on like she has a chance. It is not fair to either of them. You are the one who should be slapped, and by both of them.”
“I made it perfectly clear to Eva a few days ago that I want nothing to do with her and that Alex belongs here.”
Alex looked at Nicolas in surprise. Maria stood speechless, her mouth agape.
“What?” Nicolas demanded.
“No more Eva?” Maria asked.
“No more Eva,” Nicolas affirmed.
“I don’t understand,” Alex said. “A few days ago? When? How?
Nicolas sighed in exasperation. “Eva returned on Friday. We were to have dinner, but when I arrived, I told her that it was over. That is all.”
Alex thought back on the past couple of days. She and Nicolas spent Thursday in Treviso, and that was the night she felt it, that Nicolas had finally recognized the obvious connection between them. Friday was a busy day at the winery with tours to give and orders to fill. She and Maria were out that night, and Nicolas was gone on Saturday. Alex’s assumption that he had been with Eva had been wrong.
“But why?” Alex asked. “I thought...”
“It was not right,” he said. “Eva is not interested in the life I want, and I am not interested in the life she wants. It is better this way.” He looked around the room and then asked in Italian, “Where is everybody? I am hungry.”
Maria went to the kitchen door and called for everyone else to come inside. The men walked over from behind the house with drinks in hand. It was apparent to everyone that they had cleared out when Nicolas drove up and were waiting for their cue to come inside. Alex and Adrianna hastily put the food on the table, and they all tried to pretend that nothing had happened, but Alex’s head was spinning with the news, and she replayed Nicolas’ words over and over, trying to figure out why he had broken off his engagement. Could he possibly have feelings for her? Was she reading too much into the way he had looked at her and touched her face that night? She tried hard to avoid catching his eye throughout the meal, but she felt him staring at her several times and had to force herself not to look back.
That evening, though it had been a long day, Nicolas asked Alex if she wanted to read together, but Alex could not push away thoughts about her encounter with Eva.
“I must ask you something first,” she said. “Does she really hate me?”
“Who? Oh, Eva? No, but she does hate me,” Nicolas replied with a wave of his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” Alex said. “It’s all my fault.”
“Mia bella,” Nicolas said, looking at her, “it is her own fault and mine for leading her on. She will move on, and so will I. We, you and I, have a business to run and,” he hesitated, “a journal to read.” He smiled at Alex, picked up the book, and opened the front door to the porch. She wished he would say more, but it was obvious that the subject was closed, at least for now. She imagined him taking her into his arms and telling her that she was the reason he had ended things with Eva. When he said nothing else, but just stood holding the door open for her, she walked onto the porch with a smile. “Sì, we have a journal to read,” she said casually and took a seat in her usual chair.
May 14, 1943
News has come at last, and it is good, and bad. We learned that Paolo has been in North Africa. Yesterday, our troops there surrendered to the Allies. Though they are now prisoners of war, we believe (is it too much to believe?) that they will be treated more humanely than those in Russia. There are still many in Italy who do not trust the Americans, but those of us who have been working underground trust them more than the Germans. We do not know when Paolo will be able to come home, but at least he is no longer engaged in the fighting. We are trying to learn more, but word from the front comes slowly here. We pray that everyone returns home soon.
May 26, 1943
Sicily has been bombed. The war has arrived in Italy. Though it is many hundred kilometers from here, I am afraid. The stories we hear from other countries are so bad. Entire cities are destroyed. People have been taken from their homes, not just Jews, but Catholics, too. No place is safe, it seems. Will this never end?
Alex wiped away a tear. “I feel so sad just listening to this. I can’t begin to imagine what they were all going through.”
“Sì, it is hard to imagine the fear that they all had to live with every day.”
“I visited the Holocaust Museum once,” Alex turned toward Nicolas. “That’s in D.C.” She paused and shook her head. “The piles of shoes, eyeglasses, and other personal items that were just discarded. It’s unbelievable that human beings could treat other human beings with such disregard. The faces of the children in the photographs.” Alex shuddered. “I don’t even want to think about their fear.”
Nicolas wrapped his arms around Alex, and the two of them sat in the dark lost in their own thoughts of sadness and despair.
The next morning, Alex and Maria found themselves hard at work in the kitchen. Flour dusted their clothes and clung to their hair while piles of cookies surrounded them.
“I had no idea we were going to be baking this many cookies when you told me that we had to bake for the festival.” Alex blew the hair from her face that had fallen from her ponytail.
“I told you that feast days are very important in Italy. We are to celebrate the feast day of St. Valens, our Patron.”
“I know, you’ve told me a dozen times. St. Valens was the Bishop of Verona, and he established Our Lady of the Roses Parish. I get that it’s an important date, but really, five pounds of flour? Won’t there be other food there besides our cookies?”
“Sì, but everyone likes our cookies the best. My nonna always told us,”
Alex chimed in, and with her best Italian accent, said with Maria, “This is a family recipe. If you make it, you will win a prize.”
The women were laughing when Nicolas walked in. “What is going on in here? I thought you two were going to be working hard.” Nicolas grinned and reached for a cookie.
“Do not think about it,” Maria said as she slapped his hand.
“Ahi,” Nicolas said. “That hurt. And I think I deserve a cookie since I gave you both the day off.”
“Excuse me?” Alex glared at Nicolas. “You gave me the day off?”
“I mean, I agreed that you could help Maria,” Nicolas said as he backed out of the kitchen.
“You should stop while you’re behind, Nicolas,” Alex called to him as he disappeared into the next room.
“Stop while he is behind?” Maria asked.
“I’ll explain later,” Alex told her. “Let’s just get these cookies baked.”
Later that evening, after all of the cookies had been packaged and the kitchen cleaned, Alex and Nicolas returned to their reading.
June 1, 1943
Roberto is home, but he is not well. I have not been allowed to see him. His younger brother appeared on our doorstep just now with a message, not even a handwritten one, for Roberto is unable to write. He is sick and hurt and may not live. I want to go, but Papà says no. It is too much for me, he says. He is going over there, and I must wait.
Papà has returned. He and Mamma talk, and I wait still. They speak in hushed tones, and I cannot hear what they say. My heart is being wrenched in two.
June 2, 1943
The pain is too unbearable to put into words, but my pain is nothing compared to Roberto’s. Mamma pleaded with Papà. If he is to die, she told him, she must say goodbye. And so Papà made the return trip to Roberto’s home, taking with him my mother’s healing soup, a bottle of Amarone, and his heartbroken daughter. The wounds are so deep that I almost did not know the face of my beloved. His hands and feet are bandaged. He has lost almost all of his toes and three fingers to the cold. Part of his face is gone and covered over with the hopes it will heal. He is malnourished and thinner than a grapevine. I wanted to hold his hand, to rub his cheek, to kiss his lips, but alas I could not touch him for fear of pain or infection. I tried to speak to him, to assure him of my love and faithfulness, but all that came were tears, and as it was, it didn’t matter. He only sleeps, lulled into a deep, death-like place where he should feel no pain, but still, he cries out when he is touched by the doctor, even though he does not wake.
I want to smash something. I want to scream like a banshee. I want to tear down walls and claw my way out of my imprisonment. But then I remember that my prison is one of mind, and his is one of body. My mother tried to comfort me when we returned, but there is no comfort. There is only pain and the smell of death that will never leave my hair or my clothes. He is more lost to me now that he is home than he ever was at war, for I know that the next time we say goodbye, it will be forever.
Alex covered her mouth and swallowed the sobs that threatened to push their way up and be released into the quiet night. Her tears streamed down her face, one after another, in an unceasing stream.
“Oh, God,” she whispered into her palm. “Isa, Signora, I never knew...”
“As I have said, it is not something they talked about, the pain of the War. It took Nonno many years to get over it.” Nicolas blinked back his own tears, and Alex noticed a slight tremble in the hand that held the journal.
“I wonder how long he was sick. I’ve only seen pictures, but he looked... normal,” Alex said.
“Ah, but what is normal after war? I can only imagine what he saw or did and how he felt, not just in body-”
“But in mind,” Alex finished the sentence and thought about the grief that they both must have felt. “How does someone recover from that? Not just the frostbite and the malnutrition, but the mental torture?”
“There is a word for it, Post Terror...”
“Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder. Sì, it is what my mother is diagnosed with. And she’s never even been to war.”
“Ah, but it is her own kind of war, no? She lost her son to violence and her husband to an accident that was someone else’s fault. Perhaps she fights her own war and cannot rid herself of the pain and smell of death, like mi prozia.”
Alex was silent. Could her mother be going through the same kind of thing, the same kind of feelings that Isa went through during and after the war – the loss of the life she knew, the death of friends and family? In the end, Roberto survived, and Paolo returned. But her mother would never have that relief, that gift of her loved ones returning. They were all gone except, of course, Alex.
“I think I will write to her. Again,” Alex said. “I need to tell her...” Her words trailed off and she blinked back her tears.
“Let us retire,” Nicolas said as he closed the journal. “You have your thoughts to tend to, and I have mine.”
“I’m so sorry, Nicolas, you must be hurting, too. You’ve just broken up with Eva, and you’re reading this sad, sad story about your family. Perhaps we should stop,”
“No,” he insisted. “We will keep reading, but not tonight. Tomorrow, we will hope that all things will begin to get better.”
Alex wondered about his words, but her thoughts returned to her mother. She said goodnight and went upstairs. She was in bed without even knowing how she got there, her teeth brushed and clothes changed. Yes, she would hope that tomorrow all things would begin to get better. She couldn’t stop thinking about her mother and about Isa. She drifted off to a fitful sleep once again, and in her dreams, she saw her mother, but she heard Isa.
I want to smash something. I want to scream like a banshee. I want to tear down walls and claw my way out of my imprisonment.
