The Words We Whisper by Mary Ellen Taylor

CHAPTER EIGHT

ISABELLA

Rome, Italy

Thursday, October 7, 1943, 7:00 a.m.

As the sun rose, Romans gathered as they now did each day, with shovels and pickaxes to clear rubble. The Germans were taking up what remained of the rail yards and, I was told, were shipping the iron to Germany. We all had taken to hiding our valuables, carrying little cash, and wearing gloves to hide rings.

I ate a quick meal of polenta while Signora Fontana stood by the stove, cutting an onion and carrot that would be combined with overripe tomatoes for tonight’s sauce. There was no meat to be had, and these vegetables were a luxury.

I tied a scarf around my neck and made sure my chignon was smooth. Sebastian’s clients were not interested in seeing me disheveled or sad. Appearances mattered.

Mia entered the kitchen. Though she had washed her face and combed her hair, her eyes were red and puffy. She had not been sleeping well for months, and last night was no exception. She crossed to the stove and poured herself a cup of coffee before she kissed the signora on the cheek.

“You came home,” I said.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked.

“You’ve not been here much the last few weeks.”

“I’ve been with Karl.”

My disapproval must have been etched in my features, because the signora moved between Mia and me. “You look tired.”

Mia smiled as she always did. “I’m fine.”

“You’re getting too thin,” the older woman said.

“And here I was thinking how Paris chic I looked,” Mia said.

“We must be leaving soon,” I said. “Sebastian will be worried about the day’s work.”

“He’s always worried,” Mia said as she raised her cup to her mouth.

“Without him we would not eat,” I said.

“We would be fine,” Mia said.

“Don’t be so sure,” I warned as I gathered my purse. “Let us go.”

“If we must.” She gulped the last of the weak coffee and, after grabbing her gloves and purse, followed.

On the street, the scent of smoke dangled heavily in the air, and all around us we heard the clink of shovels against stone. As we passed the church, the young altar boy who had assisted Padre Pietro with the funeral was waiting for me.

When he saw me, he hurried down the stairs. “Signora Mancuso, the father would like to see you.”

I considered the time but also remembered my promise. “Mia, you go on into work, and I’ll be right behind you.”

“What could he want?” she asked.

“Likely he needs vestments repaired.”

Mia regarded me and then shrugged. “Very well. Sebastian will be shocked I beat you to work.”

“Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

When she rounded the corner, I followed the boy through the church’s side door and to the priest’s office. This time, I knocked and waited for him to say, “Enter.”

There were two young men, perhaps no more than fifteen, standing across the room, each holding their hats in their hands. Their clothes were threadbare, and both looked too thin.

“Padre, you wanted to see me?” I asked.

“Isabella, I knew you would be passing by about now. You are very reliable.”

The predictability of my daily pattern worried me, and I vowed to change it tomorrow. “What can I do for you?”

“These two young men, Marco and Gino, need a place to hide for several days. I’m trying to arrange transport out of the city, but it’ll take longer than expected. They’re hiding from the forced labor camp roundups.”

The priest’s tone was firm and held no hints of a question. He was not concerned that the house where I lived was not mine or that it would be dangerous to be caught hiding these boys.

“Of course.” I did not have to ask if his request was illegal. It was. And we all could go to prison for it. “Marco and Gino and I must go now. I need to get to work, or questions will be raised.”

The priest’s eyes brightened with satisfaction. “Excellent.”

“There is a rear exit to the church, if I’m not mistaken,” I said.

“I’ll show you the way,” the priest said.

Nodding, I motioned to the boys. “Follow me.”

I trailed the priest along the long corridor toward the cemetery. Searching for the tiny grave, I said a prayer for the child. At the back gate, the priest removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. “Thank you, Isabella.”

“Of course.”

As soon as we were on the street, the three of us moved quickly along a side alley. A window opened above us, and I saw an old woman reaching for her laundry line. She saw us and simply nodded as we hurried along until we reached the back entrance to Signora Fontana’s house.

“Let me do the talking,” I said.

Both boys nodded.

Inside the house, I told them to wait and hurried into the kitchen. “Signora, the priest has asked a favor of me which I cannot refuse. There are two young men we must hide from the labor camps.”

She had poured her vegetables into a large cast-iron pot and was stirring them. “Where are they?”

“Waiting by the door.”

She carefully lifted the spoon to her mouth and tasted the broth. “You know better than to leave a guest standing. Bring them in here. I know they must be hungry.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“There is nothing to thank me for. I’ll feed them and then put them in the small room at the end of your hallway.”

The third-floor room came equipped with a closet that had a false wall. The signora had once explained it was there to hide her valuables, but I suspected the room had been for her husband. Like me, she was a Catholic who had married a Jew, and as I well knew, it was a decision that often invited trouble.

I kissed her on the cheek. “You’re a blessing.”

“Go on with you,” she said gruffly.

I found Marco and Gino and brought them into the kitchen. They stared at the old woman, who pointed toward the table. “Sit. I have polenta. No bread yet, but later today perhaps.” When they hesitated, she said in a sterner voice, “Sit. You both look like skin and bones.”

The boys sat like all good obedient Italian boys, who always minded their mothers.

“Sebastian has a storeroom where he keeps meats and cheeses clients give him,” I said. “I shall see what I can find for supper.”

“Bring whatever you can. Now that we have boys to feed, the soup will need thickening,” Signora Fontana said.

“Again, thank you,” I said.

She waved me away. “Nonsense. Go.”

I dashed out and circled around the block before heading toward the shop. When I arrived, Sebastian was there, waiting.

“When you’re late, it means the world has truly gone mad,” he said.

“You have only just noticed?” I asked.

That prompted a small smile. “Go on. Signora Bianco’s dress must be finished. Can you get by to see her today?”

“It’ll have to be today. Yom Kippur approaches. She will be with her family.”

“Celebrating quietly, I hope,” he said. “Not wise to flaunt their religion now.”

“Knowing the signora, she’ll have a lavish dinner for her family tonight.”

I quickly hung up my jacket and changed into my work smock before tackling the finishing touches on the dress. At nine o’clock, I hung the silk gown up and gently skimmed the soft fabric. It was indeed some of my best work, and I was honored Signora Bianco would be wearing it.

“Isabella,” Sebastian said. “We have a new customer, and I need you to attend to her. She’ll be here at nine thirty.”

“So early? Is she Italian?”

“Her name is Frau Greta Brenner,” he said. “She’s new to the city.”

More and more German soldiers had moved to Rome, and the arrival of wives suggested they intended to stay for some time.

Frau Brenner entered the shop at precisely nine thirty. She searched the salon, curiosity sharpening her hazel eyes as she carefully removed her white gloves. Blonde hair, milky-white skin, and a sturdy figure were classically German, but there was something tentative about her as she approached one of the full-length mirrors and regarded her reflection.

Each time a new client arrived at the shop, Sebastian turned it into a sort of small production. He entered the stage first and fawned over the client for a set amount of time while I waited behind the curtains.

As he did so, I stepped back from the curtains, turned to a small oval mirror, straightened my collar, and smoothed down a few flyaway strands of hair. My expression reflected a sourness that would not do, so I forcefully softened it.

“Let me introduce Isabella Mancuso, the most talented seamstress in Rome.”

I pushed through the curtains and found Frau Brenner standing by a satin chaise, her back now to the mirrored cabinets. “Welcome,” I said in German.

The sound of Frau Brenner’s native tongue seemed to relax her rigid stance a fraction. “You speak German?”

“Very little,” I said. What I never shared was that I was fluent, but I had never spoken more than basic sentences in Rome, sensing it was best everyone assumed I understood less.

Sebastian continued in German, explaining that we were the finest couture shop in Rome, and he was pleased to help her. Her expression remained cool, but under the stony reserve brewed some anxiety and self-consciousness. She might have the means to shop here, but I sensed she had not grown up with money.

I took her jacket and hung it on a hanger and then placed her hat on a small table. “Lovely,” I said as I ran my hand along the fine stitching.

“Thank you,” Frau Brenner said. “I had a young Jewess in Munich who sewed for me, and unfortunately she’s no longer available. A pity.”

My expression remained blank as Sebastian translated all but the part about the missing Jew. “What is it you need?”

“I need a dress. I have a very important function to attend that will reflect on my husband, Hauptmann Karl Brenner.”

Karl Brenner’s name caught my ear. He had been the man at the party who had danced with me but had been enthralled with Mia. He was not the first man in Rome to keep a wife and mistress.

“If you’ll allow us, Isabella will take your measurements, and then she and I will show you sketches,” Sebastian said.

“Very well.”

I opened the door leading to the large mirrored changing room that was furnished with several chairs and a wooden box for the client to stand on while I took measurements.

Frau Brenner stepped into the room, again studying her reflection with a critical eye before she looked away. She set her purse on a small table, sat, and then unlaced her shoes. I accepted her silk blouse and carefully draped it over a chair as she shimmied out of her skirt.

I studied her figure with a critical eye. Like all women, it had its flaws and advantages. “Signora,” I said, indicating she stand on the box. “Please.”

She stepped up and tugged at the slip that gathered at her slightly rounded belly as I removed the measuring tape from around my neck.

“I’ve had no one sew for me since Miriam,” Frau Brenner said in Italian. “I’m a bit nervous.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll take good care of you.”

I spent the next several minutes measuring, knowing she was watching my expression closely in the mirror, as if searching for hints of disapproval. But I had learned long ago to hide all but the happiest emotions from my clients.

“Very good,” I said as I scribbled the last measurement on the scratch pad. “Dress, please.”

We rejoined Sebastian, who had laid out a series of sketches for Frau Brenner to review. He had also set out a silver tray with tea and cookies. He was an expert at wooing women into buying clothes.

We sat, and I listened as he showed her the sketches of our most conservative designs. But as I watched her expression, I could see she was not pleased. She, like many women new to Rome, wanted a different life.

“One moment,” I said. I rose, walked to the back room, and selected several designs that were more adventurous. I set them on the table over the others. “These.”

Frau Brenner’s eyes widened with shock and then curiosity. “That seems rather wanton.”

Her tone had softened, and I realized I had captured her interest. “Sebastian,” I said in Italian. “Tell her I would like to make this dress for her. She has lovely shoulders, and the plunging back will be quite attractive.”

“Isabella, are you sure?” he asked.

“I know women,” I said. “I understand.”

He translated, watching Frau Brenner closely as she studied the off-the-shoulder dress cinched at the waist. The garment would create a stunning silhouette that would highlight her shoulders and lovely skin.

“It’s too daring,” she said.

“Perhaps a bit,” he said. Even he realized we had captured her interest. “If you wish to be noticed, then you must be a bit bold.”

I rose again and hurried downstairs and selected the dress I had made for Signora Bianco and carried it upstairs. “I think this type of fabric.”

She gently fingered the midnight-blue silk, and I motioned for her to stand and face the mirror. I held the dress up in front of her. “Of course, yours would be different. Our dresses are one of a kind. But it’ll give you an idea.”

She fingered the fabric. “It’s lovely.”

“Yes,” I said. “Perfect for you.”

Frau Brenner stared at her reflection. I collected the soft folds, which allowed the fabric to shimmer in the chandelier light. “Look,” I said, nodding.

“I would buy this dress,” Frau Brenner said.

“That is not possible,” Sebastian said. “It’s for another client.”

“I’ll gladly pay more,” she said.

“That is not possible,” Sebastian said. “And the V-neck would not be to your advantage. As Isabella said, an open back.”

Isabella had dressed enough women to know when they liked what they saw. “It’s Rome, no?”

“Yes, it is.” Slowly a smile curled the edges of her lips, and the light of the girl that was inside all women glistened. “But perhaps raise the back up.”

“You wished to be noticed, correct?” Sebastian said.

“I want my husband to be proud. It’s important that he make an impression with Hauptmann Dannecker.”

I had not heard of Dannecker. “An important man, no?”

“He’s SS and the Jewish expert,” she said proudly in German. “He only arrived in Rome. I trust you have no Jewish clients.” She looked at me, and for a brief moment her gaze lingered, as if she realized I had understood. Quickly, I recovered a pleasant but blank expression.

Sebastian smiled, as if she had not spoken. “If your husband has red blood in his veins, he’ll be proud of you,” Sebastian said.

The comment drew Frau Brenner’s attention to the dress. “Does it make me look younger?”

“It does,” he said. “Even with the higher back.”

Sebastian could easily push aside politics as he calculated the cost of the rich fabric and my time sewing the dress.

“My husband has a weakness for beauty,” Frau Brenner said more to herself.

“You’re beautiful, Signora,” Sebastian said.

A glimmer glistened in her eyes, and I sensed she was comparing herself to the young woman she had once been. “What jewelry should I wear?”

“Diamonds,” he said. “Perhaps pear-shaped earrings.”

“I have a striking pair.”

“Then you are ready.”

Frau Brenner lifted her gaze to mine and then to Sebastian’s. “If all goes well, I’ll return for more dresses. My husband tells me we will be doing much entertaining in the coming year.”

“So your stay will be extended?” he asked.

“We could be living here forever.”

I carefully removed the fabric and refolded it as Sebastian calculated the cost of the dress. If the Germans stayed and continued as they had in Europe, this city would indeed change more.

After I was dismissed, I returned to Signora Bianco’s dress and spent the next several hours finishing the detail work on the gown. When it was completed, I wrapped it in a linen cloth bag. Next, I dashed into the storeroom, where there were stacks of onions, sausages, cured hams, bags of pasta, rice, and good wines. I took a ring of sausages and a wedge of cheese and shoved both in my bag. Barely able to close the purse, I realized I needed a larger handbag.

With the dress draped over my bulging purse, I hurried along the cobbled street past a procession of Wehrmacht trucks and armored cars. I hurried south toward the Biancos’ beautiful apartment near Trajan’s Forum. Their building, which dated to the time of the Renaissance, maintained its crumbling elegant beauty in a section of Rome where one could believe that there was no war.

At the front entrance, I presented myself to the porter, who opened the door. After exchanging greetings, I climbed the one hundred marble steps to the signora’s floor and knocked on her apartment door.

Her manservant, a tall elegant man with black eyes and graying hair, greeted me with a somber smile. “She’s in the sitting room and would like to see you.”

“Of course.” I followed him past Renaissance paintings that included a Leonardo da Vinci, a Raphael, and a Botticelli. There were also statues, gilded furniture, and rich tapestries. Signor Bianco had a reputation as an art collector, but I had not realized how truly extensive his collection was.

I found Signora Bianco sitting by an arched set of glass doors that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the Roman ruins of Trajan’s Forum. The stunning view was marred by the not-too-distant destruction of the San Lorenzo district, and I wondered what Signora Bianco had thought when the horizon had exploded with bombs in July and August.

“Signora Bianco,” I said. “Would you like to try on your dress?”

She smiled and bade me to sit. “No, I am sure it’s perfect. You have never made me a dress that was not. Have a seat, Isabella.”

I carefully draped the dress over a chaise and perched on the edge of the seat at the small table. She filled a china cup with tea for me. I accepted it, feeling a little guilty that my client was serving me.

“How do the girls in the shop fare?” she asked.

“Most lost someone they knew in the bombings. But they are back to work.”

“Work is the best remedy in times like this,” she said. “It diverts the mind from sadness.”

“Yes.”

“I watched the bombs drop in July and August. My heart went out to the people’s suffering, but I was also glad.”

“Glad?”

“The Germans will never leave on their own. They’ll have to be brutally forced out.”

“We see more and more German clients,” I said carefully. “They have plans to stay for some time.”

“Is that so?”

“Is the wedding still in three days?”

She smiled. “We held it last night.”

“What? Why didn’t you send word? I would have brought your dress.”

“It’s a small detail now. The young couple is safely wed, and that is what matters.”

The dress had cost a small fortune. For her to consider it unimportant said much to me. She was very aware of the dangers facing her family. “May I again suggest that you take a trip after the wedding? Perhaps Switzerland.”

“Because of the Germans.”

“Yes.”

“The Jewish community paid its ransom to SS Obersturmführer Kappler. There is an understanding between the Jews of Rome and the Germans.”

“And you believe this? I hear a Hauptmann Dannecker has arrived in the city. He’s the Jewish expert.”

“Other warnings of trouble have reached me, and though the rabbis said there was nothing to worry about, I do.”

“It would not hurt to hide what you can and take that holiday along with your grandson and granddaughter-in-law.”

The old woman smiled at me. “You have taken a risk telling me this.”

“Yes.”

She was silent a moment. “I fear these bones are too old now to travel far. And this apartment is filled with too many memories to abandon. But I understand your meaning. I have already spoken to my banker, and he’s made arrangements to transfer monies to Switzerland.”

“I’ll help you in any way I can.”

Signora Bianco regarded me closely. “Perhaps, if the need should arrive, my grandson and his new wife can visit your Padre Pietro. Perhaps you and he will be able to give them shelter if the time should come.”

“I will do the same for you.”

“No. As I’ve said, I don’t need help. What I need is to enjoy this marriage, which I’ll do if I know my children can turn to you.”

“If that is what you wish.”

“It is. Thank you, Isabella.” She reached in a side drawer and removed a bag of coins. “For Sebastian.”

“Thank you.”

She handed me a second bag. “And for you.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Money can buy a lot of food, and you never know who you will have to feed.”

She was right. If circumstances continued, there would be more people to hide. “Thank you.”

When I left her apartment, I made my way to the church and found Padre Pietro standing in the center of the church, talking to one of the nuns. When he saw me and met my gaze, he seemed to sense my worry and moved away from the nuns. “Are you here for confession, Isabella?”

“Yes, Padre.”

I ducked into the confessional and waited until I heard him sit on the other side and open the small window between us. “What can I do for you, my child?” he asked.

Leaning toward the grate between us, I whispered, “I have a new client. She’s German.”

“Is that so?”

Until today, I had never once whispered a word of gossip about a client. It was one of the reasons I was so highly regarded.

Padre Pietro did not respond, as if he understood his silence would coax out the words.

“My German client has ordered a dress. She wants to impress Hauptmann Dannecker.”

“I have heard of him,” he said gravely.

“My client believes she’ll be here for a long time to come.”

“This client speaks Italian?”

“It’s not as good as my German.”

“How good is your German?”

“Very.”

The seat creaked as he leaned forward. “This client will be returning?”

“Yes.” I drew in a breath, absorbing the deeper meaning of what I was about to say. “Would you like to be kept informed of our conversations?”

“I would,” he said. “I would very much.”

“Then I’ll return in a couple of days after her fitting. Now I must get home.”

“Of course.”

My heart beat quickly as I stepped into the sanctuary and studied the faces of those kneeling in prayer, searching for any sign I had been overheard. An old woman, sensing my gaze, looked up at me before returning to her prayers.

My heart racing, I hurried out of the church into the fading light. When I arrived at Signora Fontana’s residence, there was a man standing in the alley beside the house. I paused, very aware of the young men hiding in the upstairs apartment. There were many willing to spy for the Fascist police as well as the SS.

As I moved to open the door, he approached me, causing me to grip my purse filled with stolen food and the pouch of coins. “Can I help you?”

He removed his hat. “Signora, I am looking for someone.”

Again, I thought about the boys. “Who?”

“A young woman. Her name is Mia Ferraro. She’s my sister.”

I studied his sharp features closely and saw faint traces of Mia in his face. Whereas she was slight, he was tall, perhaps naturally broad with a thick bone structure and large hands. His suit was well worn, but his tie was straight and his coat buttoned. “You’re Riccardo Ferraro.”

He bowed slightly, relieved to be recognized. “Yes, yes, I am. And you?”

“Isabella Mancuso. Mia lives here, but I’m not sure if she’s home.”

He held his hat close to his heart as he stared at my face a beat too long. “Can you check? I will wait outside.”

I hurried inside and found Signora Fontana at her stove. “Is Mia home?”

The old woman did not raise her gaze from her pot. “No. I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

“Riccardo, her brother, is outside.”

Signora Fontana muttered a curse under her breath. “So he’s not dead.”

“It seems so.”

“And now he’s here for what? He’s not contacted Mia in nearly a year.” She shook her head. “He should never have left her alone.”

“Why haven’t I met him?”

“I only met him once shortly after Mia moved into my house. He’s charming but a little too arrogant and so certain of himself. Mia clearly looks up to him. Like my husband, God rest his soul, he’ll come to a bad end because he believes he’s the David to slay all the Goliaths preying on Italy.”

“He’s with the Resistance?”

“It’s not a question to ask a man these days.”

Dropping my voice, I asked, “Where are the boys?”

“Sleeping,” she said. “They were exhausted.”

I opened my purse and gave her the cheese, sausage, and bag of coins. “That should hold them. And the money will buy more food.”

She hefted the bag of coins, judging its value by its weight. “Where is this money from?”

“A grateful client. How are the boys?”

She stirred her pot, smiling. “They eat as if there is no tomorrow.”

Looking toward the front door, I said quietly, “Make sure they stay upstairs and do not make a sound. I don’t know this man beyond what he has said about Mia.”

“Mia said he’s good and honest, but now I am not so sure I believe her.”

I tore off a sausage link.

“What are you doing?”

“If he’s with the Resistance, then he’ll need more than our prayers.”

Signora Fontana shook her head. “You’re too generous, Isabella.”

I opened the front door, where Riccardo patiently waited. “She’s not here.”

The expectant glimmer in his gaze faded. “Do you know where I can find her?”

“No.”

His fingers tightened around the brim of the hat dangling at his side. “Would you tell Mia that her brother stopped by?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Signora.”

I should have let him go on his way, but there was something about him that I could not leave alone. I handed him the sausage. “You need to eat.”

“That is very kind, but no. I’ll not take your food.”

“You’re clearly underfed.”

Pride had him lifting his chin. “I’ll be fine.”

“Ah, there is that word again. Fine. It does not mean much to me anymore.”

He tossed me a curious sideways glance. “Why is that?”

“It’s the word we use when we’re not fine but are embarrassed to admit it.”

He grunted, and a faint hint of a smile tipped the edges of his lips. “How is it that you know Mia? You’re not like my sister.”

“We work together.” There were plenty of times I had wished I were more like her. I would worry less and have more fun.

A German truck filled with soldiers passed, and both of us immediately stepped into the shadows and waited for them to move along.

“Go home, Isabella.”

“Take the sausage, or I’ll be greatly offended.”

“You don’t take no for an answer.” Amusement mingled with annoyance.

“That is correct.”

“Very well. But just this once,” he said. “And one day I will return the favor.”

“I’ll tell Mia you were here.”

“Grazie.”And with his word of thanks, he darted into the shadows and was gone.

Catherine Bernard’s Bucket List for Nick

Hang glide off a Hawaiian volcano

Climb Mount Kilimanjaro

Swim in the Aegean Sea

Visit the northern tip of Scotland and then ferry to Norway

Toast the sun as it sets on Key West

Race a car on a NASCAR track

Eat cake every night

Take Zara out to dinner