Keeping an eye on the girls to make sure they were walking in line, Enrica thought to herself just how green that island was. She had occasionally gone to the woods around the Palace of Capodimonte and sat embroidering on one of the benches, especially in late spring or summer, but she’d never felt so completely immersed in nature as she did on Ischia.
Of course, at Capodimonte there was a constant awareness of the endlessly teeming city just outside the walls, while here what lay close at hand was the beach and a calm blue sea awaiting the children’s cheerful shouts, but Enrica was inclined to believe that the earth itself was somehow different, more innocent and authentic, less a product of happenstance: even the countryside must have a vocation, must not be limited to a scattering of green between buildings.
Green were the grapevines, stretching out over acres and acres of land, heavy with bunches of still-ripening grapes and broad velvety leaves. Green were the broom plants and the tamarisks, growing thickly even along the sides of the roads. Green were the leaves of the geraniums on the balconies, and green were the hydrangeas in the gardens of the villas inhabited by vacationing aristocrats. Even the small, new oranges and lemons tangled among the leaves were green, still waiting to assume their bright colors, and yet sweeter smelling now than they would be once they ripened.
The birds sang free in the sky, the canaries sang back from their cages on terraces and balconies; the air was rife with the smell of sulfur and powdered copper scattered by the peasants to ward off pests.
The summer colony where Enrica was working was housed in a large aristocratic villa not far from Casamicciola. Like many other buildings in the area, it wasn’t very old. In July 1883 an earthquake had razed nearly all the houses on the island, killing more than two thousand; it had been such an overwhelming catastrophe that it had become proverbial as a point of reference for unprecedented disasters. The memory of the earthquake, as Enrica had had an opportunity to learn for herself in the few conversations she’d had with locals, was vivid and painful. There was no one on the island who hadn’t lost a relative or a friend.
The villa belonged to an old woman who’d been widowed many years ago and was lonely in a home that was far too big for her. She had been favorably impressed by the directives issued by the Fascist Party concerning temporary stays in summer resorts, especially as a means of preventing tuberculosis. She had therefore decided to make the building available, and had even paid for the necessary renovations out of her own pocket. She had given herself the title of director of the summer colony, but she mostly kept to herself: she spent her days on the terrace, lying on a beautiful chaise longue, reading under a sunshade that billowed and fluttered in the sea breeze, while her housekeeper brought her endless cups of tea.
The rest of the colony’s staff consisted of two female teachers, one for the twenty-five boys and the other for the twenty-five girls; a rosy-cheeked Franciscan tertiary nun with enormous arms and an explosive laugh who served as the cook; a young and tireless female nurse; and two male attendants. Except for Enrica, who was in charge of the girls, they were all locals.
Since the little girls were easier to control than the boys, Enrica had some time to herself to read and tend to her two-sided correspondence: her official letters home, to satisfy her mother’s ravenous curiosity, and the other, secret letters that she sent to her father, confiding her actual thoughts.
By now she’d been on the island for almost twenty days and she’d become used to the rhythms of work: awake at seven, ablutions and, if necessary, medical examinations for the girls with serious health problems; breakfast, and then down to the beach. The walk to the water, with the little ones in their white caps chattering away, was one of the nicest parts of the day. Enrica’s heart seemed to be finding peace. At least as much as was possible, she thought to herself that morning, because that heart was nevertheless still wounded.
Her father had written to tell her to not think about it, to throw herself heart and soul into what she was doing; he urged her to focus only on the present day, then on the coming night and the next morning, without looking any further into the future; he had written her that time is the best medicine for all troubles, and time will pass if we let it. All very true, my dear papà, Enrica had written back, but every time I hope my heart is healed, it starts bleeding again.
In the meantime they’d reached the beach where the most daring boys, indifferent to the shouts of their elders, had already leapt into the waves that lazily slapped the sand. Enrica got the girls situated, warning the frailest ones to say in the shade of the rock cliff.
She looked up and noticed that not far off, on the nearby carriage road, someone was sitting on a stool and painting. Her nearsightedness, not entirely corrected by her spectacles, kept her from making out his features, but there was no mistaking the fact that he was a man. He wore a white, broad-brimmed hat from which his blond hair peeked, and a white jacket over an open-necked shirt. He seemed to be wearing a dark-red silk scarf around his neck. There was a canvas on the easel in front of him, and he was painting with rapid brushstrokes, dabbing pigments from a palette he held in his other hand.
Enrica studied the landscape and tried to imagine exactly what the man might be painting: the view really was magnificent here, with the pine grove sloping down to the sea, here and there white houses with red roofs punctuating the greenery, and the clean white sails of pleasure boats standing out against the pristine blue sky. She turned again toward the painter, and he stood up and tipped his hat in greeting. A blast of heat shot up to her face as she blushed for being caught in such an open display of indiscretion; instead of waving back, she pretended to be busy fastening one of the little girls’ outfits. Disappointed, the man went back to his painting.
The morning progressed. The sun grew hotter and hotter and the children began to show signs of weariness. The other schoolteacher, a dark-haired sociable young woman named Carla, did her best to keep the boys in line by shouting louder than they; Enrica turned her attention to her little girls, and her heart skipped a beat when she noticed that one was missing. She turned to look out to sea and saw a tiny head bobbing in the water. How could she have failed to notice that Bettina, the biggest troublemaker of the group, hadn’t come back from her swim?
She called her at the top of her lungs, but all Bettina did was wave back. Enrica waved for her to come to shore, backed up by her colleague Carla, who had come over; once again, Bettina waved back. Enrica begged her and threatened her, but to no avail. She was about to resign herself to the necessity of swimming out to get her when a white shape shot past her, dove in, and, with just a few powerful strokes, swam out to the little girl.
A short time later a colossus clad in shirt and trousers emerged from the water, with a laughing Bettina in his arms. It was the painter who had waved at Enrica from the road.
The little girl leapt down onto the beach, took a few steps, and then, as if she’d forgotten something important, turned around and went back to plant a kiss on her rescuer’s cheek. Then she scurried away, easily dodging the backhanded smacks that both Enrica and Carla sent in her direction.
The man said: “Please, please, don’t scold the child. After all, with this heat, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to stay in the water, is there?”
He spoke a perfect Italian, but the harshness of his consonants betrayed his foreign origins.
Enrica replied brusquely: “I certainly can’t allow them to do what they want, endangering their own personal safety, Signor . . .”
The man smiled as he did his best to dry his hands. His eyes, just barely irritated by the brine, were as blue as the water behind him, and his teeth were even and dazzling white. He was tall and well built, and he was eyeing Enrica with curiosity. He performed a very understated bow which led the two schoolmistresses to assume that they were in the presence of a soldier, an impression confirmed by the man’s next words: “Major Manfred von Brauchitsch, cavalry of the Reichswehr, Signora. Or should I say Signorina?”
Enrica stood openmouthed. An officer in the German army. A cavalry officer, no less.
Carla, who looked as if she’d been struck by an apparition, was the first to recover: “Signorina, signorina, Major, she’s a signorina. And I’m a signorina too: my name is Carla Di Meglio. Grazie, you were a hero!”
Manfred bowed his head slightly in her direction, but he never took his eyes off Enrica; then he cocked an eyebrow inquisitively.
The young woman finally heaved a sigh and said, still harshly: “Maestra Colombo. Thank you for bringing Bettina back to us, but it’s our job to take care of the children so, in future, I must ask you not to involve yourself unless you’re asked.”
Carla shot her the look she usually gave ill-mannered children, but Enrica had no intention of melting into a puddle at the sight of the first pair of blue eyes to come along. Even if she had to admit that there was something exotic and alluring about that fair-haired athletic giant, all wet from the sea.
“I understand, and I beg your pardon,” he said. “It’s just that from a distance I couldn’t tell for sure whether you were waving or asking for help.”
Enrica nodded in some embarrassment. She regretted her words, but didn’t want to let it show. She turned to look at the girls, who were lining up two by two to head back to the colony.
She heard a faint cough behind her; she turned around. The man asked: “Do you have a first name too, Signorina Maestra Colombo? Just to complete our introductions. I never like to leave anything half finished.”
“Enrica, Major. My name is Enrica. And thank you for . . . thank you. Forgive me if I was curt. I was just frightened.”
“I come here every morning to paint, until it’s time for my mud bath at the spa. I generally sit in the shade of the pines, and no doubt that’s why you didn’t notice me until this morning. But I’ve been watching you for days now, you know; you’re part of the landscape that I’ve been capturing on canvas. I beg your pardon for doing so in secret, and I hope that you’ll allow me to continue. You don’t mind, do you?”
Enrica was stunned, speechless; Carla prodded her in the ribs with her elbow, pretending to adjust a cap on one of the children’s heads. The girl recovered: “No, no. I don’t mind. Are you painting the little girls, too?”
The man burst out laughing: “No, not yet. But it will be a great pleasure to make up for that shortcoming.”
Carla allowed herself to join in the infectious laughter, and even Enrica, blushing, ventured a smile. Then, with a courteous nod of the head, she summoned the girls and headed back toward the villa.
It was almost lunchtime.