The Words We Whisper by Mary Ellen Taylor
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ZARA
Richmond, Virginia
Tuesday, June 8, 6:00 p.m.
Zara’s great-grandmother’s words came to mind. “Are you sure Richard is your son?”
“Did Papa know about Riccardo?” Zara asked.
“Of course, he and I never kept secrets from each other,” Nonna said.
“Did he ever see this box?” Zara asked.
“Your grandfather knew about it, but I never showed it to your father. There were times when Papa wanted me to, but I could never bring myself.”
Next in the box was an identification card from the Italian police dated 1939. The man pictured had dark eyes and a slight smile that hinted at secrets. The name read Enzo Mancuso. “Who is Enzo?”
“He was a young idealist who honored his duty for Italy above all else.” Nonna’s voice grew tight. “There were so many men like him on all sides. So passionate, so sure.”
“Where is Enzo now?” Gina asked.
“He died in 1940 in a battle on the Albanian and Greek border. Italy had taken Albania and was trying to swallow up Greece.”
“Who was he to you?” Zara asked.
“I hardly know anymore,” she said quietly.
Gina and Zara looked at each other. Gina shrugged.
“You have never once mentioned him,” Zara said.
“Enzo fits in a lifetime that does not belong to me anymore.”
“Papa was your great love, then?” Gina asked.
Nonna shrugged as she set the identification card aside. “Yes.”
“You said the gown was for your firstborn,” Zara said. “Was that Daddy?”
“No. I lost my first child.” She dropped her gaze to bent fingers as she plucked imaginary lint.
“You never said a word,” Gina said.
“I was so young, but in many ways a woman in full. We all grew up faster then. Most of us lost children. Some of us died giving birth. It was the way then.”
“When was the baby born?” Zara asked.
Nonna shook her head slowly as she stared at Riccardo’s face. “It’s been so long.”
Nonna had always been good at avoiding questions she did not want to answer, and this one was no different. For whatever reason, she was not ready to talk about the lost baby. “But you were a seamstress when you lived in Rome?” Zara asked.
“Yes, that is true.”
“You dressed the Italian royalty,” Gina said.
“And movie stars and very rich women. We served the wealthiest in Rome. Even wives of the Nazi officers.”
“Is Sebastian’s still in Rome?” Zara asked.
“No. It went out of business years ago after Sebastian passed.”
“What was it like dressing the wives of Nazi officers?” Zara asked.
“They were no different in some ways.”
“But . . . ,” Gina prompted.
“They didn’t think much of us,” Nonna said. “Which made it easy for them to underestimate us.”
Zara studied Riccardo’s direct gaze, high cheekbones, and full lips. “What happened to Riccardo? What’s his story?”
“Like Enzo he fought on the Albanian front. He was badly injured and sent back to Rome, but he was a changed man. Riccardo became passionate about ridding Italy of the Fascists and then the Nazis. He believed to regain Italy’s honor, he needed to take on the most dangerous work.”
Zara dug below another layer of muslin and found a picture of a young woman. Her eyes were bright and her smile vivid.
“Is that you?” Gina asked.
With pride Nonna said, “It’s me. I had the picture taken shortly after I arrived in Rome.”
“Gina, you and Nonna could have been twins,” Zara said.
“I have always thought so,” Nonna said.
Gina regarded the picture closely. “Wow, it does look like me.”
“You said Riccardo took dangerous jobs,” Zara said. “What did he do?”
“He became a radio operator for the Allies. In essence he was a spy.”
“You said the Nazi wives underestimated you,” Zara said.
“Yes, they did.”