The Words We Whisper by Mary Ellen Taylor

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ISABELLA

Rome, Italy

Friday, March 17, 1944, 5:00 p.m.

The winter was long and bleak as the Allies pushed closer to Rome. According to the BBC, the Allies had landed on the beaches of Anzio, thirty-three miles to the south; had broken the German lines; and were nearing Rome. Rumors swirled that the Allies would arrive any day, but we had been hearing that for months.

In January, there had been a mass roundup of able-bodied men, who had been trucked off to forced labor camps. Mia was rarely here. I supposed she was with her German lover, but she always refused to say what she was doing when I interrogated her at the shop.

By February, she had quit her job and had vanished into the city. And there was no sign of Riccardo, who had once again disappeared without even a word of the Biancos’ fate.

I continued to meet with Padre Pietro every evening, and though most of what I told him about my clients was women’s gossip, he dutifully listened to it all and said that in the right hands, it could make sense.

The sun hung low on the warm March evening as I walked toward Signora Fontana’s home. As I crossed in front of a narrow alley, I heard my name whispered from the shadows. “Isabella.”

Stopping, I turned and saw a tall lean man standing in the shadows. I hesitated.

“Isabella, it’s me. Riccardo.”

His voice sounded rough, strained. Riccardo stepped out of the shadows, and for a moment I did not recognize him. He had swapped his police uniform for peasant’s clothes, and his beard had grown in full and thick.

“Riccardo?”

“I told you I would return.”

I rushed to him, wrapping my arms around him, grateful to see a friendly face. “What happened? The Biancos?”

“Delivered to a contact in the north. No doubt sipping wine in Zürich now.”

“Where have you been?” I took his hand in mine and felt the rough calluses on his palm.

He pulled me into the shadows. “Doing more favors for the priest. You must know the SS are looking for me.”

“Why?”

“Those favors have created some troubles for the Nazis and the Fascists.” A car drove by, and he tensed and pulled me closer. “It isn’t wise for us to be on the street.”

“Of course.” I took his hand, we hurried the remaining steps to the front door, and I pulled him inside. He watched me wrestle with the iron bolt, and he did not visibly relax until it was firmly in place.

“Let me get you something to eat.”

“Where is Signora Fontana?”

“She isn’t well. She takes to her bed early most winter evenings, but there’s always food in the kitchen.”

“I could eat anything.”

As he sat at the hand-hewn kitchen table, I sliced off a piece of crusty bread and placed it with a precious jar of olive oil in front of him. He took a bite, and his eyes closed with such pleasure it made my heart ache. He quickly ate the slice and the next three along with a bowl of lentil soup I ladled out.

I could eat only half my serving, and when I pushed it aside, he took it and finished it off. “I’ll never leave food on a plate again.”

“When is the last time you ate?” I asked.

“A meal like this? Months.”

I poured him a glass of wine from a bottle Sebastian had given me from his storeroom. “I’ve missed you. I thought perhaps you had left Rome for good.”

He laid his hand over mine. “Never. I’ve stayed away because the SS could cause you trouble. But I needed to see someone with a kind face. Call it a weakness. Loneliness.”

Feeling isolated had become a familiar sensation. Each night I went to bed alone, I craved the touch of my Enzo so much I wept. “I have not seen Mia in months.”

“I spoke to her days ago. She’s fine.”

“Is she still with her German?”

“Yes.”

“There has been a great deal of sabotage in the city. Tires slashed, buildings burned, four-pointed nails tossed in front of German trucks, people killed. Is that what you’ve been doing?”

“Let’s not waste our time talking about the war. I came to see you because I needed to see your face. But I’ll have to leave in the morning. It’s not safe.”

“I’m not worried about me.”

He leaned over and kissed my lips. “I am.”

Tears glistened as I leaned into the kiss and cupped the side of his face with my hand. Neither of us spoke of the future or what was to come as we rose, and I led him upstairs to my bedroom.

When he shrugged off his shirt, I saw that his skin was marred with bruises and deep gashes barely healed. I ran trembling fingers over his skin, trying not to imagine the pain.

I kissed him, and he wrapped one hand around my waist and the other up to the curve of my breast. We moved slow, each savoring the raw power of touch. Though I did not want to believe this was the last time I would see him, I had witnessed too much death to fool myself with stories.

He kissed my neck, the rough hair of his beard sending delicious sensations through my body. My need to touch him built quickly, and I fumbled with the buttons on my blouse until I popped one. After I shrugged off my blouse, he stared at my slip and my breasts rising over the top.

He kissed each gently. “I have wanted to do this since the day I met you.”

Later, when we lay in bed, naked and huddled close, I traced an old scar on his biceps.

“That’s from the war in Greece,” he said lazily.

“What happened?”

Eyes still closed, he said, “I was shot, of course. I was lucky; the bullet went right through my arm.” He sighed. “I was a different man in those days. I believed in the Fascist government and its promises. And then on the battlefield it failed us, and I knew I had to make changes.”

“My husband died on those battlefields. Enzo Mancuso.”

His jaw tightened. “I knew him.”

I rose up on my elbow. “You knew Enzo.”

He nodded slowly. “He spoke of you so often I felt as if I knew you. In some ways I began to think of you as mine.”

“Were you near him when he died?”

He wiped a tear from my face. “I didn’t see him fall. But I was in the same battle, and later I saw him buried.”

My breath caught in my chest, and for a moment I was certain my heart had stopped. “Did he suffer?”

“I don’t believe he did.” He drew in a breath and released it. “I sent Mia to you. I knew from what Enzo said about you she would be in good hands.”

When I looked into his eyes, I saw fear. He was afraid I would turn on him for his confession. “I failed her.”

He threaded his fingers through my hair. “No. She is headstrong, and she might have died if not for you.”

I laid my head against his chest, listening to the beating of his heart. When the sun rose, he would rejoin whatever group he was now a part of, and there was a good chance I would never see him again.

“Isabella, if you ever see a collection of German soldiers, I want you to stay away from them,” he warned.

I traced small circles on his chest. “I always cross the street.”

“In the future, get off the street. Hide. Put distance between you and them.”

Rising and meeting his gaze, I asked, “What are you going to do?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just stay clear.” He rose up on his elbow and looked at me. “Promise me.”

“I will.”

He kissed me on the lips, and soon he again slipped inside of me. This time our lovemaking was slower and more thoughtful, as if we believed our lives were ordinary and we had all the time in the world.

As the sun’s orange light filtered through the shutters on my window, I followed him to the kitchen and made him a strong coffee, which we shared with sliced bread. I walked him to the door, my fingers intertwined with his.

“You’ll return to me,” I said. “You owe me dinner.”

He brushed my cheek with his fingertips. “Yes.”

My statement was as foolish as his answer was false. Neither of us expected he would return, but it was nice to hope.

When he left through the rear entrance, I stood in the doorway, watching his tall frame move with a sensual strut that made me smile. He believed he could conquer the world, and I needed to trust he would.

He vanished around the corner without a glance back, but I still waited, half hoping he would return.

“Close the door, Isabella,” Signora Fontana said. “He won’t return.”

I closed the door on the dark street and what felt like my future. “He’s doing something dangerous. He wouldn’t say, but I know he’s risking it all.”

“He’s a passionate man who loves his country. Men like that cannot watch what is happening to Rome.”

I slid the bolt in place and then wiped the tears from my cheeks. “I must get to work.”

“Yes. It’s best to stay busy.”

After washing my face, I took extra care with my hair and made sure my dark skirt and white blouse were neatly pressed. In the kitchen, I kissed Signora Fontana on the cheek. “There’s some lovely ribbon and fabric at the shop. I’ll bring it to you.”

“What will I do with that?”

“You will sew for the children. So many need clothes.”

Signora nodded slowly. “There were several babies born last week in the district.”

“Then we’ll make clothes for them and visit their mothers.”

“You’re a good girl, Isabella.”

“I’m not sure good is what I should be now,” I said.

“What else would you be?”

“Tougher, like the women in the Resistance.”

“Choosing death is easy. Choosing life is far more dangerous.”