The Words We Whisper by Mary Ellen Taylor

CHAPTER FOUR

ISABELLA

Rome, Italy

Friday, September 17, 1943, 1:00 p.m.

There is value in illusion.

Used correctly, a designer can brandish silk, as a magician employs a sleight of hand, to make a woman appear to be the woman she dreams of being rather than who she is. Prime Minister Badoglio’s new government had employed this technique to sell the idea that the dangerous deal his predecessor, Mussolini, had struck with Hitler would not cost us so dearly, which of course it would. The truth was the war raging to Rome’s north and south could no longer be veiled by patriotic speeches or empty promises.

In the center of all this was Salon Sebastian, the couture shop in the fashionable Via Veneto district, blocks from the Spanish Steps, the St. Regis Hotel, and the opera house, where the Wehrmacht trucks now routinely parked in the prized piazzas.

The owner of Salon Sebastian, Antonio Sebastian, was a master of artifice. He had become adept at maneuvering the difficult climate and somehow remained in business despite never joining the Fascist party.

Not surprising, in this time of great troubles, the shop was quite busy. Most of our regular clients from Roman royalty still had a taste for fine dresses, though most were not as quick to pay. If they did remit, it was with goods from their country estates, including bottles of olive oil, sacks of flour, fine wines, or cured meats. Sebastian’s office at times resembled a grocer’s storeroom.

The customers with real money were the wives and mistresses of the German officers, who, upon arrival in the Eternal City, readily embraced Italy’s couture fashions, which were less rigid than their German counterparts. Most importantly, these new clients had the gold to pay for the work we did. Instead of decrying the tenuous relationship with Germany, Sebastian embraced it and was keeping all of us employed and fed.

The shop’s basement workroom was long enough to accommodate eight sewing machines and seamstresses, who all wore white smocks. The women ranged in age from fifteen to sixty. At the front end of the room, there was a twenty-foot table, which I used for cutting patterns and laying out fabric.

I stood at the worktable, supervising a young woman, Maria, who was cutting out silk fabric to be used to make an evening dress. Maria had been hired a year ago and had recently married a cook who worked at the St. Regis.

“Go slower,” I said. “Once it’s cut, it’s cut.”

“Yes, Signora.”

“Full, even cuts with the scissors. No small choppy cuts.”

“Yes, Signora.”

“Isabella,” Sebastian said. He was a midsize man who always wore a black suit equipped with a vest that stretched over his rounded belly and displayed a gold pocket watch. He oiled his overly black hair and sported a neatly trimmed mustache.

“Yes, sir.”

“Signora Bianco is here. She has requested you.”

One of my favorite clients, whom I had served for two years, Signora Margherita Bianco was the widow of a World War I hero who had made a fortune in banking. For more than twenty years, they had lived in a comfortable apartment near the Spanish Steps overlooking the Forum and the Piazza del Campidoglio, fashioned in the style of Michelangelo.

“Of course.” I drew my finger across the fabric, showing Maria precisely where she must cut. “If you’re unsure, then stop. I’ll help you later.”

“Yes, Signora.”

I adjusted my white smock, retying my cloth belt tighter around my waist, and followed Sebastian up the rear staircase.

“Isabella, you said Mia is returning soon?” Sebastian asked.

“In a couple of weeks. Her great-aunt is recovering.” The lie had been awkward at first but now slid off my tongue easily.

“Tell the girl to hurry. I can’t hold the job much longer.”

“She knows this and is grateful you have been so generous.”

He huffed. “I give you too much latitude. I should fire you both.”

“I am the best seamstress and designer you have ever had,” I said.

“Maybe, but everything has its limits.”

“Have I fallen behind on any of my orders?”

As he matched my quick pace, his tone became breathless. “No. But if you continue disappearing, it’s inevitable.”

I turned to him and smiled. “I have never let you down, have I?”

He frowned as we reached the top step, which fed into the back room, next to the customer’s salon. “Isabella, Signora Bianco still has a balance due on her account,” he whispered.

“She has always been good about paying, no?”

“True. But given her situation, it might be wise to collect the balance due as quickly as possible. I have heard some talk among the clients.”

“Such as?”

“The Jews are now required to register. And there is talk of a gold ransom the Jewish community must pay.”

Signora Bianco was Jewish, a member of an ancient family that could trace their lineage more than two thousand years. Though her late husband’s reputation and money had shielded her from Mussolini’s disenfranchisement of the Jewish community, most of her brethren lived in the densely populated, flood-prone ghetto along the Tiber River.

Despite Signora Bianco’s wealth, men like Sebastian saw her as different. He never would have pressed a member of the Italian royalty for money. We had served only a few Jewish clients since I had arrived in 1941, and they had dwindled as the war had intensified. Signora Bianco was his last.

“I’ll speak to her,” I said.

“Collect the money today, or select a time when I can send a boy to her apartment.” He dropped his voice a notch. “She, like many of her kind, could vanish without warning.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

He arched a thick brow. “It’ll be less crass if you two speak about it privately in the dressing room.”

“As I handle all the delicate cases.”

“Exactly.”

“Consider it done.”

When I entered the showroom, Signora Bianco was sitting on a Louis XIV sofa positioned in front of eight-foot mirrored cupboards. A soft carpet covered the marble floor, and heavy velvet curtains bracketed a window overlooking the busy street and the manicured park beyond.

Signora Bianco was a tall, elegant woman with thick gray hair swept into a chignon. On her jacket, she always wore a large emerald encased in a gold setting. The broach had been a gift from her husband years before.

“Signora Bianco,” I said. “This is a lovely surprise.”

We kissed each other on either cheek. Her eyes reflected warmth born out of shared respect. Few knew a woman as well as the woman who dressed her.

“Your recent delivery of children’s clothes was much appreciated.”

“It wasn’t much.”

“The kindness was appreciated.”

“I’m glad. My landlady and I will have another delivery soon.”

“Excellent.”

“What brings you here today?”

“I require a very special dress,” she said. “My grandson is getting married, and I want to look my very best.”

“When is the wedding?”

“October tenth.” We had worked together long enough for her to look a bit apologetic over the rushed request, even if she was not. “I understand it’s a lot to ask, but I want this family gathering to be as special as it can be.”

“Of course.” The request would mean many hours of work. “It’ll be my pleasure. I would love to show you some sketches.”

She settled on a velvet couch as a young girl appeared with a silver tray sporting a teapot, china cups, and candied nuts. She accepted a cup of tea.

“Who is your grandson marrying?” I asked. “You have never spoken of him dating any young woman.”

“They’ve known each other for only three months. Normally, I would complain, but in these times, I cannot protest.”

I laid my sketch pad on the small table in front of her and flipped to a suit that nipped at the waist and skimmed above the knees. “Of course, I would drop the hem for you.”

She lifted the pad and regarded it with a critical eye. “If my legs were like yours, I would gladly wear the shorter skirt. But it would be too risqué for me now.” She set down the pad. “What else do you have?”

I turned the page to a dark cocktail dress. It had a high collar and a fitted bodice. It was not the latest of styles, but it would suit the signora’s tastes. “It would highlight your broach.”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “However, I was hoping for something different. The bride’s grandparents are longtime friends of mine, and I don’t want them to see me as an old woman. I want them to see the young girl I was when our husbands served in the Great War.”

I had learned that though all women aged, the young woman still lived inside each, and sometimes she needed to be remembered. “Perhaps I could create a V-neckline. I could add lace so your skin would be covered, but the sheerness would add a bit of daring.”

“I don’t feel as if I care so much about propriety now.” She lifted the sketchbook and studied the image. “I’ll let you do as you wish with the lace, Isabella. I trust you.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “Can you return for a fitting?”

She laid the sketch on the table. “I would rather you use the dressmaker’s form you have for me. I am avoiding the streets these days.”

All our regular clients had forms made to their measurements so a seamstress could fit a garment even if the client was not available. “Certainly.”

“The times are changing, Isabella,” she said, more to herself. “All my friends are either dead, in hiding, or leaving. The Jewish elders and rabbis assure us once the gold ransom is paid to the city, there will be little to fear from the Germans. Like good sheep we’re minding our manners and hoping the wolf does not attack.”

“Perhaps a short trip would be in order for you after the wedding. I hear Switzerland is lovely.”

A smile tipped the edges of her lips as her gaze grew distant. “I have thought of it often, but my absence would be noticed by the police. I think a trip to Switzerland for the young couple would be lovely.”

“Excellent idea.”

“Their travel papers will have to be sorted first. That hideous letter J stamped on their identification card restricts their movements.”

As the old woman rose, I steadied her with a hand under her elbow. “There is a priest in the Monti district. His name is Padre Pietro Franco. He knows many people in the city.”

She tugged on a glove. “Does he?”

“They say he has connections around the world.”

“That is good to know.” She patted my hand. “I knew there was a good reason I came to see you today. When will my dress be ready?”

“If I can get the fabric easily, ten days if I hurry.”

“Perfect. I’ll pay a handsome surcharge.”

“Thank you.”

“Perhaps when you deliver the dress, we can talk more about this priest.”

“Of course.” I took her hands in mine. “I’ll make you the finest dress you have ever worn.”

She smiled. “I know you will.”

Behind the curtain Sebastian coughed.

“About payment,” I said.

“I’ll pay my account in full when you deliver the dress.”

“Thank you.”

I watched Signora Bianco leave the shop, and her driver opened her car door. She settled inside without another glance in my direction, and the car left.

Across the street a column of German soldiers gathered, which they now did with annoying regularity. Boots hammering on cobblestone mingled with a guttural rhythmic chant.

“She will pay?” Sebastian asked.

“When I deliver the dress, I’ll collect the money myself.”

He grinned. “She has gold. Money.”

“Yes.”

“Make this dress a priority. Sooner is better than later.”

“Of course.”

That evening, when the clock chimed six times, I was the last in the salon. I could have stayed a few more hours, but with the evening curfew looming, I needed to leave. I had chosen a midnight-blue silk for Signora Bianco’s dress and had cut the fabric myself. Most of the shop’s projects were well on their way to being finished, and it could all wait until morning.

Out in the warm fresh air, I hurried along the streets, crossed the cobbled piazza in the graying light, and strode past the shops. A man whistled at me. Annoyed, I kept walking south toward the Monti district and a favorite café where friends met for a drink and news of the war.

The rusty clay building had arching windows and doors surrounded by thick potted ferns and vines of ivy that coiled up to the terra-cotta roof. Though the café’s front door was closed, soft jazz music and laughter drifted out to the street. It drew me closer, and for a moment I remembered the young girl I had once been in Umbria and the day I had met my Enzo.

I had been no more than seventeen when I’d traveled with my parents from our farm in Perugia to Gubbio for the Festa dei Ceri. The small medieval village had filled with brightly colored revelers dressed in red, yellow, or black. They had come to celebrate and see the young men race with thirteen-foot wooden candles sporting the likenesses of saints. We drove north to the small village in the north of Umbria to celebrate not only the saint but my father’s new position at the university.

Childish excitement fueled me, and I ran ahead among the tightly packed bodies controlled by horsemen. When my legs and lungs finally forced me to stop, I looked up and saw Enzo standing in the crowd, watching the race. My heart stopped, and I could not take my eyes off him. As if sensing me, he had turned and smiled.

A fresh burst of laughter inside the café pulled me from my memories, and I spotted Mia through the café window. Smooth skinned, Mia wore a red dress that skimmed her already flat belly, and heeled shoes elongated her calves. Silky blonde curls framed her face and emphasized plump, moist, red-tinted lips men adored.

She was standing by a man dressed in a dark suit, smiling and flirting with him. I knocked on the window, and she looked up, grinned broadly, and hurried across the crowded room and opened the door. “Isabella, have you come to scold me? You are always so serious.”

Belladonna drops widened her pupils, creating a stunning effect. “I thought you were home, sleeping.”

“I have slept enough.” Her breath carried the strong scent of wine. “It’s time for me to get back to my life.”

“Are you sure that is wise?” I asked.

Mia curled a blonde strand around her finger. “Have you come to take me home and remind me of what good girls do?”

“What has come over you?” I asked in a low, desperate tone. “It’s been only a month.”

“I can’t stay in that dreary room another minute. All day long I hear the men moving rocks and debris. Thump. Thump. Thump. Too much death. It’s too much.”

“Your body and mind need time.”

“Look around. We have no time.” Mia grinned broadly. “Let me introduce you around. I have some very delicious men for you to meet.”

She hooked her arm in mine and led me to a table sporting several bottles of wine. She poured a glass and handed it to me. “Drink it while it’s here. It won’t last.”

“Leave with me now.”

“Drink the wine first.”

The Castelli wine had a fruity flavor with a significant kick. “It’s good. Now can we go?”

“Not the best wine, but beggars can’t be choosers.” She refilled her glass to the brim. “I need to finish my glass first.”

Mia reminded me of a tightly wound bowstring ready to snap. Instead of insisting she leave, I shifted tactics, hoping she might calm and see reason. “Who bought the wine?”

“A young soldier. Very attractive. I don’t know his name. But you know how I have a weakness for uniforms.”

I scanned the collection of people, who were already pairing off into couples, and they seemed unconcerned by the German manhunts and Allied bombs. The war, now at Rome’s doorstep, had heightened the quiet desperation sweeping the city, and everyone here seemed determined to have fun or at least pretend. They drank, ate, and romanced as if the world would end tomorrow.

“Mia, who are all these people?” I asked. “They can’t be your friends.”

She ran her fingers through her hair. “Some I know. Most I don’t. Does it matter?”

“This is Rome, and this is a dangerous time. You need to be more careful.”

Mia waved her hand to a man, as if I had not spoken. “Aldo! Come here this instant.”

When the man in the dark suit turned and approached us, his expression was ominous. I immediately recognized him. He had been the man in Padre Pietro’s office four weeks ago. As before, he did not strike me as handsome, but his penetrating gaze and strong bearing created a masculine air that was attractive. Perhaps a decade older than me, he was doing a poor job of hiding his annoyance.

“Aldo, I want you to meet Isabella Mancuso. She’s the top seamstress at Sebastian’s. Very in demand by all our clients. She’s booked months in advance.” Mia grinned. “Isabella Mancuso, meet Aldo Rossi. He’s a businessman and most adept at finding wine and port.” She held up her glass. “He brought several bottles with him tonight.”

An imperceptible change in Aldo’s expression told me he recognized me. He nodded. “It’s a pleasure, Signora Mancuso.”

His voice was deep and rich, and it hinted that his nerves were also strung to the breaking point. “Signor Rossi,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Neither of us acknowledged the circumstances of our first meeting, and that seemed mutually suitable. “You’ll call me Aldo, and if you’re not opposed, I’ll call you Isabella. Foolish to waste time on formalities.”

His thick Roman accent sounded slightly different. He had the air of a man who had lived many places and had been exposed to multiple dialects.

“Aldo, you should ask Isabella to dance,” Mia said. “I must find my new friend.”

As she darted into the crowd, Aldo watched her for a beat and then dutifully asked, “Would you like to dance?”

The record player stopped, and another lively song was selected. “Certainly.”

He held out his hand, and I took it. His grip was stronger than I’d anticipated, and when he pulled me close, an undercurrent of energy radiated from him. He smelled of Italian tobacco and a faint cologne that was rather pleasing.

“How long have you known Mia?” he asked.

“Two years. We work at the same shop. She and I are both from Assisi, so it was natural for us to be friends.”

“It was her child you carried that day,” he said.

“Yes.” As we moved around the dance floor, I added, “Do not judge her too harshly. She’s young and grieving.”

“She does not look upset.”

“I assure you grief shows itself in many ways,” I said.

“If you say so.” He maneuvered our bodies around several giddy and laughing couples. “You said you were from Assisi, but your accent is hard to place.”

“My father was a language professor at the University of Perugia until the midthirties. He taught me a great deal.”

“And he teaches at university no more?”

“No.”

He, of course, would know that to hold any university position required a loyalty to the Fascist party. My father’s support had waned by 1935, and when he had refused to endorse the party, he not only had lost his new position but had been fired. Luckily for the family, he had not been arrested but had been allowed to retire to his farm, where I, his only child, had become his sole pupil.

“Do you speak other languages?” he asked.

“A little German, English, and French.”

He stared at me with renewed respect. “Are you fluent in any of the languages?”

“No,” I lied. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“It’s my nature. And you’re the most interesting woman in this room.”

“Tell me about yourself,” I said. “Have you always lived in Rome?”

“All my life.”

This I did not believe, but lies in these times were a matter of survival. “And you’re a businessman. What does that mean?”

He had the look of a man connected to the black market. “As all men in business, I dabble in many things.”

The song ended, and before I could press for details, Mia returned to us with a tall broad-shouldered man with a stout body, blond hair, and warm blue eyes. His stiff bearing reminded me of the Germans I had seen in Munich when my father had taken the family there in the summer of 1930 to study.

“Now, Isabella must dance with Hauptmann Karl Brenner,” Mia said. “He’s from Germany, newly transferred here, and we must make him feel welcome.”

I turned to thank Signor Rossi for the dance, but he had already shifted his attention to the bottles of wine. Seemed I had not made as big an impression on him as I’d thought.

Hauptmann Brenner was an attractive man in his early forties, and he fit the mold of the ideal German. His bearing suggested he was accustomed to wielding authority, but when he pulled me into his arms, his hold was tentative and respectful. “You’re very beautiful, Isabella.” His Italian was flawless, but I heard hints of his native Munich.

“Thank you.”

The phonograph played a song too slow for my tastes, but I allowed Hauptmann Brenner to draw me deeper into his embrace.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Munich,” he said easily. “But I suspect you know that.”

“How would I know?” I asked.

“You’ve a keen eye. You sip your wine carefully, and you have been studying the room since you arrived.”

“I don’t go to many parties. It’s a curiosity to me.”

He did not pull me closer, but his grip remained firm, like Germany’s was on Italy. Drawing away from him would have been difficult and awkward. As if sensing my thoughts, he released his hold a fraction.

“Mia must have many friends?” he asked.

“Yes, she has always been popular.”

“I shall be seeing Mia again,” he said. “I find her entertaining and a joy to be with. She says I must get your approval.”

“I am not her mother.”

“But she values your opinion.”

“She’s young. And fragile. I would rather she focus on work.”

Even white teeth bared into a smile. “Spoken like a practical woman. I admire that about you, Isabella. Do not worry. I’ll treat Mia with utmost delicacy.”

Mia’s laughter rang out above the crowd, and when we turned, she was holding up a glass of wine.

“But I would also add, she’s not as fragile as you might think,” Hauptmann Brenner said. “I’d wager she’s tougher than us both put together.”

The wildness in Mia was far from tamed, and nothing I could say to her would keep her away from him. “Be careful with her.”

His smile broadened as he moved me around the dance floor. “Of course.”

When the dance ended, I withdrew a step. Mia approached us and slid her hand into the crook of Hauptmann Brenner’s arm. “What did you think of this nice man, Isabella?”

“Very charming.” But charming hid many sins. “The curfew approaches. Mia, will you walk home with me?”

“Hauptmann Brenner has offered to escort me,” she said.

“The curfew does not apply to the Germans,” he said.

Swallowing bitterness, I smiled. “May I have a word with my friend?”

“Of course,” he said.

I pulled Mia to the side of the room, searching for a spot we could speak privately. “You need to come home with me.”

“I have done all that you’ve said these last four weeks, and now I am healed. I won’t wait in that room for a bomb to land on my head.”

“Grief does not go away so quickly.”

She drew in a breath. “It has for me. Besides, the way this war is going, we might all be dead by spring, and I refuse to face death sober and bored.”

I glanced around and then whispered, “Who is this Karl Brenner?”

“He’s in the police,” she said.

“The German police. Is he with the SS? The Nazis?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you know how dangerous he is?” I asked.

“That’s what makes him interesting, no? When he asks for anything, he gets it. And I like being around that kind of power.”

“Mia, please. Come home with me.”

“Enough,” Mia said. “I must go. Hauptmann Brenner will not wait forever.” She kissed me on the cheek. “You’re sweet, and I love you for it. But I am not you, and I don’t follow the rules as well as you.”

She brushed past me and went straight to Hauptmann Brenner, slipping her arm in his. He tugged her closer and kissed her lightly on the lips.

A new song began, but I had no more interest in the music and moved toward the door. Out on the street, the night cooled my hot, flushed skin. The sky was clear and the stars bright.

As I started to walk, I heard, “I’ll walk with you.”

I turned to see Aldo Rossi leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He dropped the butt and crushed it with a Capri shoe, which struck me as slightly out of sync with his suit.

“I am not that far from home,” I said.

Aldo pushed away from the wall and moved toward me. “Still, a few blocks can be dangerous. You did not convince Mia to leave?”

“No, she’s an independent spirit.”

“And she thinks you are far too serious?” he said lightly.

“I am afraid so.” I wished at that moment I was not responsible or worried about the unfinished dresses that needed to be completed tomorrow. For once, it would have been nice to be the foolish one. But we were who we were.

We walked under the moonlight, along the stone streets. “You live near Padre Pietro’s church,” he said.

“Yes, in the Monti district,” I said.

“How did your house fare in the bombings?”

“It was not damaged, but many were in San Lorenzo. The war has reached Rome.”

“It’s been here for some time.”

He was right, but in the dress shop, surrounded by the fashionable ladies, it was easy to pretend. Now there would be no ignoring it.

The hard thud of soldiers’ steps startled me, and as they approached us, Aldo pulled me into an alley. I followed without resistance because any confrontation with so many soldiers could end badly. He pressed my body against the wall and used his own to block me from any bystander. We stood close, listening as the marching grew louder until the battalion passed by.

“There are more and more patrols in the neighborhood,” I whispered to him. “They say they are keeping the peace.”

Aldo’s jaw tightened a fraction, but he said nothing. “Time to get you home.”

As we moved quickly along the sidewalk, the rubble from the bombing grew more pronounced. Buildings as ancient as the Roman Empire had been crushed, and my resentment for all our troubles grew.

We arrived at the indigo-blue porta of Signora Fontana’s house. “It was a pleasure, Isabella. You’re a very interesting woman.”

Aldo took my hand and kissed it, sending an unexpected rush of heat into my face. It had been three years since Enzo, and I’d missed the feel of a man’s body against mine. “Interesting?”

That prompted a slight smile. “It’s not bad.”

“If you say so.”

“We’ll see each other again, Isabella. This I know.”