The Words We Whisper by Mary Ellen Taylor

CHAPTER THIRTY

ISABELLA

Rome, Italy

Thursday, April 13, 1944

In the month after Riccardo’s death, I was numb to the world around me. I kept working, sending the crumbs of gossip I heard from the ladies in my shop to Padre Pietro as the Germans tightened their grip on the city with more roundups, looting, and shootings. The Allies continued to drop their bombs, but for the most part the airports were the sole targets. There were fewer casualties in Rome, and for that we were grateful.

Mia spent all her time with her German lover, and I did not see her once. I was glad for the distance, because I could not deal with more sorrow. Signora Fontana’s health was failing, and she spent more of her days in bed. She finally taught me some of her recipes, though with the city all but starving for food, there was little to cook. The minutes, hours, days, and weeks blurred.

As I climbed the steps to the church, fatigue weighed heavily on my limbs, and I took one stair at a time. When I paused midway, I noticed a flicker of movement in the alley and spotted the form of a man walking away, his head turned so that I could not see his face.

Standing still, I watched him hurry away, but I had the overwhelming sense he had been watching me. I was not naive enough to believe that my comings and goings had gone unnoticed.

As I entered the church, my eyes adjusted to the dim light, and the cool stones fostered a sense of calm. I understood this space was not safe from the bombings. No place was these days. But in here I could almost convince myself that God protected me.

I found Padre Pietro in his office, talking to two other priests. As soon as he saw me, he sent the priests away and beckoned me inside. “Isabella, thank you for coming.”

“You said it was urgent.”

He rose and closed the office door. “It’s a matter that must be dealt with quickly.”

“Of course.”

“Are the rooms at Signora Fontana’s house still empty?” he asked.

“They are now. We’ve had several people come and go. Most are homeless now, but all have moved on.”

“Does Mia still live in the house?”

“No, she’s living with Hauptmann Brenner,” I said. “After Riccardo, there was no talking reason into her.”

“Perhaps that is for the best,” he said carefully.

“Why?”

“I have someone who will need those rooms for the foreseeable future.”

“Who?” She knew there were still Jews hiding in the city, moving from hideout to hideout. “Another family?”

“Two men,” he said. Under his glasses, I could see the dark circles rimming his eyes. “American airmen.”

“What?” I asked.

“Their planes were shot down outside of Rome over a month ago. It’s taken them this long to make their way here.”

“The Vatican will take them, won’t they?”

“The pope won’t jeopardize the church’s tenuous relationship with the Germans by helping the airmen. If the Vatican is invaded, many more will suffer as a result. The pope, through his emissaries, has discreetly reached out to the churches to take men like this.”

“Have you hidden other Allies?”

“Other priests have airmen under their care, but I have not had the opportunity.”

“You need me to hide them? Signora Fontana has been very clear that she does not like the bombs. She has seen too many friends killed.”

“This is war, Isabella. It’s not pretty, and it’s fraught with evils. But we must try to find the mercy in the chaos when we can.”

“And you expect me to find mercy for these two men?” The anger, buried so deep since the bombs, roundups, and Riccardo’s death, rose up within me like a great wild beast.

“God does.”

Bitterness soured my mouth. “Where was God when Riccardo’s fingernails were pulled out and his skin burned? Where was he then, Padre?”

“I cannot speak to the higher purpose. I cannot. But you have a chance now to be kind. If you do not, these men will be captured and sent to the camps.”

“They are soldiers. They understood the risks.”

“Isabella,” he said softly. “So was Riccardo.”

Tears welled in my eyes.

“I wish you and I had the time to sit and pray on this. But there’s no time. You’ll have to decide now. Though the Vatican is momentarily safe from raids, this church is not.”

My fingers curled into tight fists as outrage wrapped around my chest and throat. How much more would I be expected to give? And even as I asked the question, I thought about the boys hiding from forced labor, Signora Bianco, her children, and Riccardo. They had given everything. And I was simply being asked to put aside anger.

“Very well, I’ll take them,” I said. “Where are they?”

“In the church basement. They’re going through donated clothing so that I can bury their uniforms.”

“How long will they be with me?”

“The Allies are advancing on Rome. They say it’s a matter of days or weeks before they’re at the gates of the city.”

I had heard as much since the fall. Everyone thought the Americans were days away from saving us, but there was no guarantee the Americans would march through the city gates soon. “Show me these men.”

His expression was a mixture of worry and acceptance as he led me through a side door and down a narrow set of stairs. As we descended, my sight grew accustomed to the dimmer light, and when we reached the small rooms, I could see well enough.

Padre Pietro removed a metal key from his pocket, then unlocked and opened the door. Inside, the two men sitting immediately stood and faced us, fingers clenched and ready to fight.

The man on the right was tall and lean, with short blond hair and sharp blue eyes telegraphing his wariness. He looked young, not more than twenty, but his eyes were war sharpened beyond his years. He guarded his right arm.

The other airman had a thick crop of dark curly hair, olive skin, and a large nose. He looked as Italian as any man born in Rome.

“I do not speak English,” Padre Pietro said. “And their Italian is terrible.”

On cue, the blond man spoke in such broken Italian it was impossible to understand. It had been some time since I had spoken English, but I used it often in my diary and listened to the BBC nightly.

“I am Isabella,” I said carefully. “What are your names?”

The two men looked at each other. “You speak English?” the blond asked.

I shrugged. “Better than your Italian.”

The shorter man glared at the blond. “You said you could speak Italian.”

“I can,” the blond said.

“No, he cannot,” Isabella said. “What are your names?”

The tall man said, “Lieutenant George Harper.”

“Sergeant Ben Martinelli,” the shorter man said.

The threadbare pants Harper wore were too short and skimmed his ankles, and Martinelli’s pants were too tight. They looked like men wearing castoffs. That was often the case in this city now and not a real problem, but they knew so little about Rome it was a matter of time before they gave themselves away.

“There was a man watching the church,” I said to Padre Pietro.

“There is always someone watching.”

“They’ll need hats to hide their hair,” I said to Padre Pietro. “The curfew is minutes away. But there’s enough light remaining to draw attention to them.”

“What are you saying?” Harper asked.

“That you look too American,” I replied in English. “But if we wait for dark, we risk arrest.”

“What’s the plan?” Harper demanded.

“We get you hats, scarves, and we leave now. I know the alleys between the church and my house. And then I’ll hide you until your army collects you.”

“How can we trust you? I don’t know you from Adam, lady,” Harper said.

“If that means I am a stranger to you, then I could say the same. If it were up to me, I would leave you here. But because the priest has asked, I’ll keep you safe, despite my better judgment.”

“What’s that mean?” Harper demanded.

I snatched up two hats from the bin and handed one to each. “It means I have little patience for Allied bombers right now. But I have less patience for the Germans, and I cannot refuse any of the priest’s requests.” Turning to the priest, who had been watching the exchange, I could see he had picked up enough of our tones and expressions to realize the exchange was not cordial.

Switching to Italian, I said, “Is there any way we can get longer pants for that one? His white ankles reflect like a beacon.”

“I can get him socks,” the priest said.

“Better than nothing. I don’t have much food at the house.”

“I’ll send some with you. Are you sure Signora Fontana will be okay?”

“I’ll make it okay,” I said.

“Can you speak in English?” Harper demanded.

“I was speaking of your glowing white ankles that I am sure can be seen from your American planes. The priest is getting socks for you.”

Harper glanced at his ankles. “They’re not that white.”

“They are.” I looked at the other man. “You look Italian.”

“I’m from New York. My family came over from the old country before I was born.”

“Where?”

“Turin.”

“Why didn’t your parents teach you Italian?”

“They wanted me to be an American,” Martinelli said.

“You’ll blend well enough, but you both must be careful. Men are still being rounded up for the labor camps. Do exactly as I say. Keep your gaze averted, and do not speak to anyone.”

The priest returned with socks and handed them to Harper. “It’s quiet outside now,” he said.

“Then as soon as the ankles are covered, we will go.”

Padre Pietro handed me a satchel of food. “Bread, some cheese, but no meat.”

Harper sat and toed off his shoes and pulled on the socks, using only his left arm.

“No one in the city has meat or milk now,” I said. “The cheese is a luxury.”

“Thank you, Isabella,” Padre Pietro said.

“I told you I would honor any request of yours, and I will.” I turned to the men waiting for instructions like little boys from a nanny. “Remember, do exactly as I say. Stay close, and do not speak, especially Italian, Signor Harper.”

Martinelli nudged Harper.

They left by the narrow staircase and exited through the church’s side door. On the darkening streets, the men ducked their heads and stayed close as we hurried down the side alley. Ahead, a German patrol passed the alley’s opening, and we all stopped and pressed against the wall. Above, an old man stepped out onto his balcony as the soldiers passed. As he retreated inside his apartment, he saw me. Our gazes locked for a moment. I was not sure if he saw the men, but he knew I was on the verge of breaking curfew, which was cause enough to contact the police. One shout from him, and the patrolling soldiers would stop. Instead, he nodded and then closed his shutters.

I led the men to the rear entrance of Signora Fontana’s house, and we entered. There was a pot simmering on the stove, and both men paused, as if the scents were too much.

“I’ll bring you up food as soon as you’re settled,” I said. “For now, to your room.”

Without a word, they followed me up the stairs to the third floor and the tiny room the Biancos had inhabited. As I’d told the priest, we’d had several homeless women who’d stayed a night or two and then found transport to the country. Signora Fontana had cleaned the space with soap, water, and scrub brushes, as if she could wash away the city’s suffering.

There were two small beds for two tall men, but we were all making do. “Stay here, and lock the door behind me. Do not let anyone in until I return.”

“We appreciate this,” Harper said in his terrible Italian.

“What is wrong with your arm?” I asked.

“I dislocated it when I hit the ground.”

“Take your shirt off.”

“Are you a doctor?”

Arching a brow, I waited until he unfastened his shirt and slid it off. I could see the joint was swollen and terribly misaligned. “Sit in that chair.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I grew up on a farm. The men who worked there suffered accidents from time to time, and I helped my mother minister to them.”

I ran my hand over the misaligned joint, and he flinched. “Signor Martinelli, can you hand me that metal pitcher?”

“What are you going to do with that?” Harper asked.

“I have a trick.”

As Martinelli approached, Harper eyed him warily. I slid my hand down his arm and pressed my other palm to his shoulder. “On the count of three, Mr. Martinelli, I want you to hit Mr. Harper in the head.”

“What!” Harper shouted.

I pulled up on his arm and pressed my palm. He screamed, and the joint slid into alignment. “There, it’s fixed.”

“Jesus, lady. That hurt like hell,” Harper said.

Martinelli laughed. “Try your shoulder.”

Harper rolled it gingerly. “It’s sore, but it doesn’t hurt like it did. You fixed it.”

“I did.”

“Thanks, ma’am. I mean that sincerely,” Harper said.

I replied with a nod. “Of course.”

Down in the kitchen, I dished polenta out of the signora’s cast-iron pot.

“Isabella,” the signora said from the doorway. “Who have you hidden upstairs this time? I heard a man scream.”

There was no easy way, so I spoke directly. “Two Allied airmen.”

“What?” She hurried toward me, mumbling prayers. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I am certain that I have,” I said. “But the priest asked.”

“And you promised,” she said with a sigh. “Perhaps this is too much. Even if the Germans don’t find them, anyone in this area would gladly take them apart and incinerate this house.”

“I know. And I am sorry for the risk to you. Truly.”

The signora moved toward an earthenware pitcher, filled two cups with water, and set them on the tray. “They’ll be thirsty.”

I kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“We are both mad.”

“Yes, we are.”

I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. Martinelli answered. Harper stood by the shuttered window, cradling his arm and staring out the cracks.

“Where are we?” Harper asked. “I can’t get my bearings.”

I set the tray on a small table. “In the Monti district. Ten blocks west of the train station.”

“The station in the San Lorenzo district?” Harper asked.

“I’m sure you’ve flown over this area many times.” I stepped away from the table. “Eat. There’s a lavatory down the hallway. It should be fine to use, as we three are the only ones on this floor. The owner of this house is a kind lady, and she’s graciously allowing you to stay. Please do not go outside, and if you hear anyone downstairs, remain up here.”

Martinelli sat at the table and tore off a piece of bread with trembling hands. “Thank you.”

Harper looked at the food, but he stayed by the window. “What’s outside?”

“Homes, apartment buildings, and beyond that rubble. Did you know two thousand people died in the July bombing?”

Harper’s gaze shifted to me, but he gave no hint of his emotions. “You sided with Hitler, lady, not me,” he said in English.

“I did not side with that butcher or his man Mussolini,” I said. “My family lost a great deal because my father stood up to the Fascist government. My husband died on a battlefield, and the Germans are bleeding us dry. I’ll be grateful when all you men have forgotten about Rome. Eat your food.” I turned. “For now, we must get along. And hope that your bombers don’t end up killing us all.”

I closed and locked the door behind me.