The Words We Whisper by Mary Ellen Taylor

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ISABELLA

Rome, Italy

Saturday, October 9, 1943, 5:00 p.m.

I left the shop at twilight. The sun had already dipped below the distant hills, and the few working streetlamps flickered on. I assumed Riccardo had found himself a more willing woman. To my surprise, I was disappointed. I had enjoyed his dark, sensual stare. Not since Enzo had a man really looked at me as if I mattered.

On our wedding night Enzo had kissed me with such raw passion my body had radiated with hope and joy. We’d had two blissful days together in a mountain cottage near Assisi, and then the war had taken him, and he was gone. When I’d learned of the baby, my reason to continue had revived. And then God had taken her, and I’d been left with only work and duty.

Holding a bundle filled with sausage and cheese I had taken from the storeroom, I continued along the main street, careful to avoid the soldiers. As I rounded the final corner near the church, Riccardo was there waiting. He leaned against a stone wall, a cigarette in his hand. He took one last drag, dropped it, and ground out the embers with his shoe. “Isabella, you look lovely.”

“I cannot have dinner with you tonight.” Heat warmed my face, and I sounded a little breathless.

“I could not resist seeing you.” He grinned, even white teeth flashing, as he moved toward me. “Working late making dresses for the German ladies?”

“I don’t discuss my clients.” My pace quickened.

“I bet you hear a lot of gossip from the fine ladies of Rome.”

“What are you fishing for?” I asked.

His laugh was deep and throaty. “You’re so serious, Isabella. I’m simply trying to make conversation.”

“I have nothing to say tonight.”

He took my arm in his hand and gently pulled me into the growing shadows of an alley. “I like you, Isabella. You’re kind. And quite lovely in your own way.”

His intensity diluted my annoyance. “I must go. I really do have to get home tonight.”

“I understand. You take responsibility very seriously. I like that about you.” He leaned a little closer, and the smell of his tobacco, clinging to his jacket, mingled with his own scent. “I want to kiss you.”

“I have to go.”

“One kiss, and I’ll release you tonight.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Of course you do.” His face was merely inches from mine, and his warm breath brushed my skin.

God would strike me down as a liar if I said I did not want him to kiss me. I had enjoyed kissing Enzo very much, but there was something dangerous and exciting about Riccardo.

I did not speak or move, and he took that as consent. He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine. The sensations that swirled through me set my body ablaze. My hand came up to his chest as he pressed me closer to the stone wall. He was pure fire, anticipation condensed to its essence, and I feared he was as dangerous as Signora Fontana had warned.

But as his lips pressed harder against mine, I forgot about the world around me, and for a moment, I was a young girl again without a care in the world.

A slight smile curled Riccardo’s lips, and he made no effort to distance himself. “You’d better get going, Isabella. Responsibility awaits.”

Padre Pietro, Signora Bianco’s grandson, and her granddaughter-in-law were waiting for me. “I must go.”

“Hurry on, then.”

He retreated a fraction, allowing me to slide my body along the wall, my breasts brushing his chest as I put distance between us.

“I’ll see you again, Isabella,” he said. “We’ll have that dinner.”

“That’s rather forward.”

“It’s war. Nothing is guaranteed, so we should have fun while we can.”

“Perhaps.”

His grin widened, and when we reached the street, he strode away, arrogant and so self-assured. So like my Enzo it warmed my heart.

I arrived at the church as agreed upon and found Padre Pietro waiting for me in his office. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Isabella, I worried you were not coming.”

“I was forced to work late,” I lied. “The roundups are going to be this weekend, I think.”

“How do you know this?” the priest asked.

“Two women in the shop spoke about it today. And I can assure you it was not idle gossip. Can you speak with someone and send out another notice?”

His frown deepened. “I have already done so. Many heeded my warning but not all. Now we must get your couple into hiding.” He opened a side door that led to a small sitting room.

The moment the door opened, the young man and woman rose. The young man looked very much like his grandmother. He had olive skin, a true Roman nose, and a strong jaw. His dark eyes were leery. The woman was petite, and she had light-brown hair with porcelain skin. She stood close to her husband, her fingers intertwining in his.

“This is Isabella,” Padre Pietro said. “She’ll take you to a safe space. And I will arrange transport out of the city as soon as I can.”

“You’re the woman my grandmother mentioned,” the man said.

“You must be Edoardo, no?” I asked. “And your bride is Eva?”

Hearing their names did not set them at ease. “That is correct.”

“Your grandmother told me much about you,” I said. I knew the young man’s parents had died when he was a child and his grandmother had raised him. “I hope your wedding was all that you dreamed of.”

Eva nodded. “And the signora looked radiant.”

“Where is she?” I asked. “She should be with you.”

“She won’t come,” Edoardo said. “We sent word again today, but no matter how much I’ve begged, she refuses to leave her memories in her apartment.”

“She won’t be allowed to stay there long,” I said. “The climate in the city is changing fast. There’s talk now of roundups soon.”

“We begged her,” Eva said.

“She can be stubborn,” I said.

“Where are we going?” Eva asked.

“To the house of a friend. There’s a room on the third floor. It’s small, but you can hide there until Padre Pietro arranges transport out of the city. Do you know where you’ll be going?”

“We have friends in Switzerland,” Edoardo said. “But there’s a problem with our papers.”

“Your grandmother mentioned there might be.”

He opened his identification card, and stamped across the bottom was the letter J in blue ink. “The authorities will know immediately we’re Jewish.”

I took the papers and traced my finger over the faint letter. It looked as if the administrator stamping it had not been wholly committed. “Leave your papers to me,” I said. “I might be able to alter them.”

“They are both stamped with J,” Edoardo said.

“There’s a little trick I learned about removing ink stains. I think if it works with fabric, it might work with paper.”

“You all must go now,” Padre Pietro said. “The longer you linger, the more likely someone is to notice.”

“Of course.” I guided the couple outside, and we wove through the alleys to Signora Fontana’s house. I knocked on the door, and Signora Fontana opened it immediately, broom in hand and a white apron wrapped around her round body.

“Who are these people, Isabella?” she asked.

“Friends of Padre Pietro,” I said. “They’ll be here only a few weeks.”

She regarded them closely. “Of course.”

“Where are the boys?” I asked.

“Padre Pietro sent a man this morning to take Marco and Gino to the country. It is safer.” Her disappointment was palpable.

“He did tell me,” I said. “I forgot to tell you.”

“He knows best, of course.” She looked at the couple. “Come with me. Once you’re settled, I’ll bring you up soup.”

“Thank you,” Eva said.

Signora Fontana waved away her comment.

We climbed the stairs to the room by the attic, where there were two cots covered in quilts. “Signora uses the room for the occasional visitor coming to Rome for holiday. It’s not fancy but serviceable. There is also a false panel in the wall here.” I pressed, and the wall shifted. “The space is not large but enough for two people, if necessary.”

“Do you think it’ll come to that in Rome?” Edoardo asked.

“I believe it might,” I said.

Edoardo’s frown deepened, but for his wife’s sake he drew back his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Get some sleep, eat, and I’ll work on the rest.”