The Man from Tuscany. Catherine Spencer
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own destiny was honor, integrity and the courage to stand by his ideals. I no longer believe these are enough. We are learning to keep our heads down and confide only in trusted friends—although, sadly, they, too, sometimes betray us for sins either real or imagined. Even to you, my dearest love, I dare not speak too freely of my activities, for fear that my letter might fall into the wrong hands. All I can say without reservation is that I love you with my whole heart and that will never change, no matter what comes next.
…no matter what comes next… These words filled me with a festering dread made worse by the fact that, as October dragged by with its blasts of cold rain, his letters grew less frequent and ever more somber. They almost prepared me for the shocking news that his father, an influential Florentine businessman and outspoken critic of Mussolini’s repressive Fascist regime, had been executed on September 30.
Knowing how close he and his father had been, I ached for Marco and longed to hold him in my arms and comfort him with my love. Instead I had to be content with written words which, however much I tried, never adequately conveyed all that lay in my heart. I tried to hide how afraid I was for him, but the possibility that he might follow his father’s fate was never far from my mind.
“What happened to Signor Paretti is horrible, but Marco will see it for the warning it is, and not take any chances with his own safety,” Genevieve said, when I confided my fears to her. “He’s got too much to live for. After all, he’s got you.”
Brian, the one other person who knew of my love affair, also did his best to comfort me. Although he was attending Rhode Island College in Kingston during the week, working on his graduate degree in mathematics, he came home most weekends and always made a point of calling on me and inviting me to take long walks with him.
Loyal friend that he was, he let me unburden myself without fear of being overheard. Our parents, though, misinterpreting his motives, exchanged pleased glances and smiled in tacit approval of what they perceived to be his courtship.
“This war won’t last forever, Anna. Everything’ll return to normal once it’s over, you’ll see,” he consoled me one brisk, windy day toward the end of the month.
I wished I could believe him, but my life was spinning out of control, and for me “normal” was as much a part of my past as my innocence. Marco’s infrequent letters were my anchor during those dark days, the one tenuous link that saved me from absolute despair.
When they suddenly ceased and my last letter to him was returned, with No longer at this address scrawled in Italian across the envelope, I was in despair. Despite the risk of arousing my parents’ curiosity, if not their outright suspicion, I sent a telegram to Rudolfo Nesta, Marco’s good friend and colleague whom I’d met once or twice in Florence, begging him for news.
His reply came two days later, in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.
When the telegram boy arrived on his bike, Brian and I were at the foot of the long driveway leading from my home to the road, so we were able to intercept him before he reached the front door. Hands shaking, I tore at the yellow envelope, desperate to get at what lay inside. Praying it was good news, perhaps even a message from Marco himself telling me not to worry and that all was well. And if neither of those things, then at least a sliver of hope—anything except what it took me seconds to read. To this day, I remember every word.
Two weeks ago Blackshirts invaded house where Marco spent evening with companions STOP None seen or heard from since STOP Fear the worst STOP Regret being bearer of bad news STOP Rudolfo STOP
I remember crying out and my legs giving way, then knew nothing until I found myself sitting on a fallen log, several yards along a tree-shaded path that led to the greenhouses at the rear of our property. A seagull’s forlorn cry broke the silence. The air smelled of damp and dying things. Overhead, the leaves on the maples gleamed red as blood.
“Your grandfather crouched beside me, Carly, one arm around my shoulders, the telegram in his other hand. I looked at him, wanting reassurance, wanting him to tell me, in that calm, rational manner of his, that I shouldn’t assume the worst. I wanted him to give me the hope I couldn’t find for myself.”
He had none to offer. His blue eyes bruised with pain, he said quietly, “I’m so sorry, Anna.”
“Oh, Gran!” Carly’s voice quavers with genuine sympathy. “You must’ve been heartbroken.”
“Yes. But some grief, I learned that day, defies outward expression,” I tell her. It simply consumes, orchestrating a person to its own merciless rhythm of silent, roaring blackness. Tears might have offered a blessed, albeit temporary, relief but my eyes remained dry. My mind flash-froze, emblazoned with Rudolfo’s message. For a while, I felt neither the chill fall air on my face, nor the warm clasp of Brian’s hand. The only part of me unaffected was my damnable heart which continued to function, denying the release I craved from this living hell.
I have no idea how long we sat there. An hour or more, I suspect, because the light had started to dim under the trees when Brian stirred and, chafing my hands between his palms, murmured, “Tell me what can I do, Anna.”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Go home. Let me be.”
I didn’t add, I want to die, but he read my mind all too accurately.
“Anything but that,” he said, and drew me to my feet. “Let’s walk for a while. You can’t face your parents in your present state.”
Back then, we lived close by Easton’s Pond where swans and mallards drifted serenely, untouched by human tragedy. A ten-minute stroll along its banks led to The Cliff Walk, with its magnificent views of the Atlantic. Dangerous in places, with sheer drops to the rocks below, it was not a place for the unwary—or the hopelessly bereft. Mindful of that, Brian stationed himself between me and the edge and kept my arm firmly tucked beneath his.
Clouds had rolled in, leaving the sky a sullen gunmetal-gray except for a streak of gold where the sun had set. The wind was strong, whipping the waves to an angry froth as they hurtled toward shore. It made the breath snag in my throat and stung the tears suddenly dripping down my face.
Noticing, Brian stopped and, without a word, turned me toward him and buried my face in his shoulder. The rough tweed of his jacket muffled my sobs and soaked up my tears. I didn’t care if other people passed by and recognized us in the fading light. The world Marco and I had created was no more, and nothing else mattered.
Brian stood there patiently until the worst had passed, then took a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped my face. “Do you want me to take you home, honey?”
“No,” I said, on an exhausted hiccup. “I can’t, not yet. I have to think about…”
About what to do next.
“To Genevieve’s, then?”
I clutched at the idea as if it were a life preserver. Genevieve was my soul sister, and I’d never needed her more than I did at that moment. She’d met Marco, had seen how he cherished me. He was more than just a name to her. He had a face, a smile, a voice, a laugh. She’d understand. But…“What if she’s not home and Aunt Patricia sees us? She’ll guess I’ve been crying. What do I tell her?”
“Good point. We’ll go to that small hotel on Bridge Street. I’ll phone her, and if she’s home, get her to meet us there.”
We left Cliff Walk at Narragansett Avenue and went into the town proper, entering the hotel lobby to call Genevieve. She arrived a short while later in the family’s chauffeur-driven Packard. Flinging her arms around me in a tight hug, she said, “I stopped by to tell your parents we decided to meet for dinner and not to expect you home until later.”
We were shown to a quiet table in the corner of the dimly lit dining room. A blessing, because seeing each other had us both in tears, and Brian’s hands were full coping with us. He ordered a meal only he tackled with any appetite. Genevieve picked at her chicken breast, and I barely touched my poached fish.
“You have to eat, Anna,”