The Words We Whisper by Mary Ellen Taylor
John Mitchell: Last Report, June 2, 1945
We’re closing up shop in Rome. The brass has asked me to stay behind and help with the transition, but I have had my fill of this war. I’ll stick around a couple more months, because there is a matter I need to fix.
A buddy lent me a jeep from the army pool, and with a basket of canned foods from the commissary, I drove east toward the town of Assisi. I had heard Isabella and Mia had moved there midsummer of last year, and I had stayed in touch with local contacts. When I’d learned of Isabella’s death, it had taken me aback. And when my commander would not release me to see Mia, I’d spent the rest of that afternoon drinking rotgut bourbon.
The drive east was filled with rolling hillsides, olive trees, and dusty roads that cut through small villages. When I arrived in Assisi, I already had the address for Mia, who I had been told was raising Isabella and Riccardo’s baby.
I parked in front of the ancient stone building on the edge of town, and after several inquiries I found Mia’s room. The basket of canned goods tucked under my arm, I approached her door, wondering if she would be glad to see me, or if she would hurl the cans at my head. If she did, I cannot say I would have blamed her.
From inside, I heard a baby cooing and a young woman singing to the child.
I knocked. Seconds later, determined footsteps crossed the floor, and the door opened. Mia stood before me with the baby tucked comfortably in her arms. At first, I did not recognize her. Gone were traces of the carefree girl I had fallen in love with and then lost to the German officer.
Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, but it had a healthy warm glow from living in the country. Soft blonde curls framed her face, and she wore a simple blue cotton dress and an apron.
“Aldo?” She stood still, staring at me, as if she did not believe her eyes.
“Mia,” I said softly.
“You have heard about Isabella?”
“I have.” I cleared my throat. “I came to see the baby.”
Mia tightened her hand on the child, as any protective mother might. “Of course. This is Riccardo. He’s four months old.”
The baby had red rosy cheeks and the chubby legs of a healthy child. “He’s a fine-looking boy.”
“Would you like to come in? I have just fed him, and he’s in a particularly good mood today.”
I held up my basket. “I brought you a few things.”
She glanced at the canned corn, beef, beans, coffee, cheese, and crackers. “That’s very kind, Aldo. Thank you.”
I set the basket on a small wooden table. Beside it was a cigar box filled with needles and thread. “You’re sewing?”
“Of course,” she said easily. “I am very good at it. And we must eat.” She sat by the table, balancing the baby on her knee, and I took the chair beside her.
“Are you getting by okay?”
“Yes, better than most. A far cry from Sebastian’s, but it suits. We are happy.”
“I should tell you my name is not Aldo Rossi.”
She raised a brow. “Who are you, then?”
“John Mitchell,” I said. It felt good to say my real name to her out loud.
“You are an American?”
“Yes.”
She sat silent for a moment, smoothed her hand over the thick curls on the baby’s head. “He ran his radio for you.”
“Yes. He was very brave. And I’m sorry for how he died.”
I braced for tears or the scene the Mia I had known would have made. Instead she nodded slowly. “Riccardo wanted to save Italy. And if he had not found you to help him, he would have found someone else.” The baby cooed. “Would you like to hold the baby?”
“I’ve never held a baby.”
“Neither had I until four months ago.” She drew in a steady breath. “To my shame, I never held our child. Only Isabella looked into her pretty face.”
“I’m sorry as hell I wasn’t there for you.”
“We both made difficult choices.”
I accepted the baby and balanced the boy on my knee. “He’s strong.”
“Yes. He eats enough for two.” The baby’s head flopped, and she raised my hand to steady it.
“Sorry.”
“I was terrified for the first month. Always worried that I would feed him milk that would make him sick or swaddle his blanket too tight.”
“You look like a natural to me.”
“We all must grow up and learn.” She sat and crossed her legs.
Christ, I had forgotten how beautiful she was. “You look good, Mia.”
“So do you, John.”
The baby looked up at me and grinned. “He looks like Riccardo.”
“Yes, he does. But I also see Isabella in him as well. He will be a handsome man.” Mia watched me settle the kid in the crook of my arm.
“He’s heavy.”
“Yes. I suspect as he grows, he’ll eat everything in sight, as my brother did when we were children. Can I get you coffee, Mr. John Mitchell, the American?”
“Yeah, sure, if it’s no trouble.”
“It’s nice to have someone to talk to. Most days it’s me and the baby and my needle and thread.” She set the coffeepot on the small burner and lit the gas. “It’s coffee from this morning, so it’ll be strong now.”
“That’s fine.”
She rummaged through the basket of food and found a sleeve of cookies. Carefully she opened them and set them on a plate by the cups before she filled each with coffee.
“You should save all that for yourself,” I said.
“Ah, what fun is it if I do not share?” Mia said. “Tell me, where are Mr. Harper and Mr. Martinelli?”
“They’re stateside now,” he said. “Back home.”
“That’s good.” Her brow knotted. “My foolishness nearly got them both killed.”
“Harper said you stuck up for him when it counted.”
She stared into her cup. “Better late than never, no?”
“I heard about what you did when you were with Brenner. You saved many families.”
“The least I could do.”
The baby settled in my arms, and soon he drifted to sleep. It took balancing to hang on to the kid and reach for the cup, and Mia seemed amused as she watched me.
“That is also an acquired talent. Most days he sleeps in a sling across my chest as I sew.”
“You’re doing a good job with him, Mia,” I said.
“Who would have thought that Mia Ferraro would be such a devoted mother.” She tucked a blonde curl behind her ear and smiled. “I pray Isabella doesn’t mind that I think of her son as mine now.”
“She took care of our child, Gina, so I know she would be glad to know you care so much for her boy.”
“Gina? I don’t understand.”
“Isabella named the baby Gina.”
“I didn’t know that,” she said softly. “She never told me. I should have named her, but I was too upset to think of such things.”
My throat tightened, and it took a moment before I could speak. “I didn’t mean to be gone so long. Maybe if I stayed, the baby would have lived.”
“I’ve played that game for two years. If I only . . . I have discovered there is no answer that changes the past. I am grateful for what I have now.”
I smoothed my hand over the baby’s thick hair.
“He seems to like you,” she said.
Sitting there, a sense of calm I had not felt since I’d left Rome for Naples two years ago settled over me. It was a feeling that life would go on, and that it would be good again. “I’ve got to return to the base. But I’d like to come back.”
Mia regarded me. “Of course, John Mitchell. I would like that very much.”