Authors: Belinda Alexandra
Antonio didn’t reply. Rosa saw the message in his eyes. These days it wasn’t prudent to wait—for anything.
Although things had slowed down at the shop, Rosa and Antonio decided to keep Orietta employed for as long as she wished to stay. Rosa was left with little to do. She hated being in the apartment without the children and the animals there. She had once adored her lovely home but now she found it oppressive.
She gave blood, and she donated books to be sent to the military hospitals where wounded soldiers were being repatriated.
Rosa didn’t see what she was doing as assisting the war effort. If she couldn’t help the anti-fascists, then at least she could help
people. She felt compassion for the soldiers’ mothers. It had been hard enough for her to send Lorenzo and Giorgio to Switzerland to keep them safe. She could not imagine what it was like for a mother to see her sons sent off to war.
She had heard that the hospital was calling for volunteers to roll bandages and pack medical supplies for the battlefields, and decided to do that as well.
The Red Cross nurse at the hospital reception desk showed her to a room where a group of women were rolling bandages. At first Rosa thought she had walked into her own worst nightmare. Six of the women were wearing the black uniforms of the Fasci Femminili, the fascist women’s group. The rest seemed to be wearing every fur they owned. Rosa closed her eyes to the rabbits, foxes and chinchillas running around the room until they disappeared. The sense of purpose she had been feeling drained away. An elderly woman stood up and for a moment Rosa saw a bear lumbering towards her, until she realised the woman’s fur coat had been taken from the animal.
‘Buon giorno,’
said the woman in a falsetto voice. She reached out her wrinkled hand. ‘I am Grazia Ferrara. It’s icy in here and that’s why we are wearing our coats. But we don’t mind. The hospital has to ration its oil and the theatres and wards must be kept warm. We manage as best we can.’
Signora Ferrara dismissed the nurse with a nod of her head and urged Rosa towards a chair next to her own. She offered Rosa a sugared almond, which Rosa felt obliged to take although she didn’t like them.
‘We were discussing what’s happened in Turin,’ Signora Ferrara told Rosa. It was clear from the way the other women deferred to Signora Ferrara to set the topic of conversation that she was the leader.
‘Not just Turin, Grazia,’ said one slim woman who wore fingerless gloves. ‘Also Genoa, Milan and Naples.’
One of the women in fascist uniform blew her nose loudly before turning to Signora Ferrara. ‘We must insist that these
bandages are used for Italian soldiers and are not going to be sent to the prisoner-of-war camps for Allied soldiers.’
The other women agreed except for a young woman by the unlit fireplace. She was studying Rosa carefully.
‘Those murderers have been killing civilians,’ said another woman, stroking her fox stole. ‘They are nothing more than brutal terrorists; assassins of the innocent.’
Rosa was aware that the woman by the fireplace was still watching her but was careful not to give too much away by her expression. She didn’t think the women were wrong for their sentiments. The Allies
were
killing women, children and old people because the men of military age in the bombed cities had already been mobilised. But hadn’t Italy done exactly that to the Abyssinians? And what would these women say if British and French volunteers refused to roll bandages for wounded Italian soldiers in their prisoner-of-war camps?
‘Those monsters are aiming deliberately for civilian targets,’ said Signora Ferrara. ‘They think they can demoralise us and turn us against Il Duce.’
The women murmured their agreement.
‘They think we Italians are all romantics,’ continued Signora Ferrara. ‘I’ve heard that they say we have a temperament unsuited to war. We’ll show them!’
Rosa glanced at the woman by the fireplace from the corner of her eye. Was she a spy or a kindred spirit? She wasn’t wearing a uniform or a fur.
Later, Signora Ferrara sent Rosa and the woman to the supply room to collect the medical boxes to be packed for the front. ‘You two are the youngest,’ she said. ‘It’s better that you do the lifting.’
‘That stupid Signora Ferrara,’ the woman said while she and Rosa loaded boxes onto a trolley. ‘The reason the Allies can bomb our cities is because Italy doesn’t have an air defence plan. You don’t hear her blame Il Duce for that!’
Rosa was careful to neither agree nor disagree. The woman had made an intelligent observation but, as convincing as she sounded,
Rosa wasn’t going to trust her and share her own opinion of Mussolini. The woman might well be a spy who would denounce her the moment she said anything subversive.
When they were back in the volunteer room and packing the boxes, it soon became apparent that there wasn’t enough of anything to make a complete box each. They were in short supply of morphine, scissors and even soap. Rosa shuddered when she thought what the consequences would be when the field hospitals didn’t receive those basic items. Signora Ferrara muttered that it was the League of Nations’ embargo on Italy in 1935 that had caused the shortage, but Rosa suspected it was due to Il Duce’s lack of preparation.
On her way home that afternoon, Rosa looked up at the sky. It was blue and cloudless. She had always gazed at the sky with wonder. No matter what country one lived in, everyone in the world shared the same sky. Now Rosa was fearful that when she looked at it she would see the shapes of planes approaching—and death and destruction would fall.
She returned to the hospital each morning to help with the bandages but the chatter of the women grated on her nerves. They did not see Italy’s role in its own misfortune. The Red Cross also needed volunteers who could write and read letters on behalf of illiterate parents. Rosa went to the Red Cross office to enquire. On her way to the volunteers’ desk, she passed a waiting room full of women. Some were staring at the ceiling while others were weeping. All had a look of devastation about them. At the volunteers’ desk, she asked the receptionist who the women were.
‘Those poor souls,’ said the receptionist, lowering her voice and leaning towards Rosa. ‘They are the wives and mothers of soldiers missing in action. They don’t know if their men have been killed or are in prisoner-of-war camps.’
Rosa understood their pain. She and Orietta had heard nothing further about Luciano’s fate. Not knowing was the worst thing of all.
‘What do the volunteers do for them?’ she asked.
The receptionist shook her head. ‘Apart from being a nurse, I think that is the most unpleasant volunteer job you could apply for,’ she said. ‘That department has to decipher the lists that are sent and check them against birthdates and places of birth. The Allied officials misspell the names and you can imagine how many Luigi Rossis and De Lucas there are. You can’t tell a woman her son is alive if he is dead and vice versa. That would be unforgivable.’
‘Do they do anything else?’
‘Yes, they are the ones who forward the deceased soldiers’ belongings to the families. Honestly, you couldn’t be doing anything more depressing. It would be much better to knit socks.’
‘Who heads that section?’ Rosa asked.
The receptionist’s eyes flashed. She leaned forward again, keen to tell. ‘It’s run by a glamorous and rich widow. She puts on airs of respectability but apparently she’s led quite a racy life. Perhaps it’s her penance.’
‘Can I see her?’
The receptionist looked miffed that Rosa had ignored her advice and hadn’t taken the bite at the juicy bit of gossip she had offered. ‘Go to the waiting room and take a number,’ she said, turning away from Rosa. ‘She’s there this morning. But it might take a while.’
Rosa felt the agony of the women who sat in the Dead, Wounded and Missing waiting room as if it were her own. There had been an Allied bombing of naval ships in the Mediterranean and that’s why there were so many women there that day. Some of them sat stoically, the only sign of their inner turmoil the way their legs trembled when their name was called. Other women had collapsed and had been brought in by neighbours to receive—or await—further news.
‘Mio caro Orlando! Mio caro Orlando!’
one woman wailed, wiping at the tears pouring down her cheeks. She had saturated several handkerchiefs and was now using her sleeve. She was beyond the comfort of the two women who sat on either side of her holding her hands.
The section’s secretary was a petite, grey-haired woman. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long,’ she whispered to Rosa. ‘The head of our department will not read out lists as they do in the other offices. She insists on meeting each woman individually to inform her about her menfolk.’
‘Please, I will wait until last,’ said Rosa. ‘Make sure the others see her first.’
She could not imagine hearing about the fate of a loved one from a list read out by some official or posted on a noticeboard. It wasn’t like a university examination where you could get another chance. Whoever this widow with the ‘racy’ past was, Rosa admired her sense of decency.
It was late in the afternoon by the time all the women waiting had seen the head of the section. Despite the fact that some of them had received the news they feared the most, while others had to continue their torturous wait, all of them seemed calmer for having spoken to the head of the section herself.
‘The head is finishing writing a report,’ the secretary told Rosa. ‘She’s had to tell a woman that she’s lost her husband and two sons. It’s been a difficult day.’
The secretary directed Rosa into a cramped office with overflowing filing cabinets and a scuffed pine desk covered with files and documents. The immobile ceiling fan was black with oily dust. After years of working with antiques, the first thing Rosa noticed about any room was the furniture. She then turned her attention to the woman, dressed in black silk, who was sitting at the desk and writing in one of the files. The secretary placed Rosa’s file on the desk and left. The woman looked up. Rosa gave a start when she found herself standing in front of Signora Corvetto.
‘So we meet again,’ said Signora Corvetto with a smile. She indicated the chair opposite her desk for Rosa to take and glanced at her file. ‘I see you are Signora Parigi now.’
Rosa blushed. She remembered the last time they had met, she had told Signora Corvetto that she was Signora Montagnani.
‘Well, I am thankful that you have applied here,’ said Signora Corvetto. ‘We desperately need help and I have always had a good impression of you.’
Meeting Signora Corvetto again was awkward, but Rosa willed herself to speak. ‘You must be very busy, Signora Corvetto. Your secretary says that you see each woman in person.’
Signora Corvetto sat back and folded her hands under her chin. ‘I know some say it’s not the most efficient way, but these are the wives, mothers and sisters of men who have given up their lives for Italy. There is no “efficient” way to deliver heart-wrenching news. I follow my conscience. Some of these women have to support young families or take care of elderly parents on their own. I have to make sure that somehow they leave here with the strength to carry on.’
Signora Corvetto seemed different from Rosa’s first impression of her in the Marchese’s car all those years ago. She was less frivolous than her elegant clothes suggested, and appeared resilient and compassionate. It made perfect sense that such a woman was Clementina’s natural mother, not the Marchesa Scarfiotti.
‘Just knowing that we care often helps them,’ continued Signora Corvetto. ‘Remembering their names and the names of their loved ones without them having to repeat them each time they come can make all the difference.’
The two women fell into an uncomfortable silence. Rosa knew that Signora Corvetto must be as surprised as she was to meet again. She wanted to help the women who were suffering, but how could she look at Signora Corvetto every day without being reminded of the Villa Scarfiotti? She wondered if it was better to be honest about that with Signora Corvetto or simply to apply for another volunteer position.
Signora Corvetto studied Rosa. ‘When I came to your shop to buy that present for Clementina, I didn’t know what you had been accused of…
wrongly
accused of. It wasn’t until Clementina was sixteen that she confided in me what had happened.’
There, thought Rosa, the small talk has ended. Now we get to the heart of what each of us is thinking. Signora Corvetto has
not pushed these things to the back of her mind any more than I have.
‘You can’t imagine how it has tortured Clementina all these years,’ Signora Corvetto continued. ‘She wanted to find you but I told her it would not serve you. I already knew that you had a job and a baby. I told her that we should leave you alone to get on with your life.’
Rosa had no doubt that Signora Corvetto was being sincere but she had to tread carefully. She could never accuse the Scarfiotti family of anything without breaching the terms of her release. ‘I was sent to prison,’ was all she offered. She did not say whether her imprisonment was rightly or wrongly given. Signora Corvetto could work that out for herself.
Signora Corvetto’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t think…I don’t think Emilio…the Marchese Scarfiotti knew that. He thought you had been warned away. You see, if the Marchesa Scarfiotti had something against you, you would not want to return for your own good.’
Rosa stared at the floor. Was it really possible that the Marchese hadn’t known her fate? It occurred to her that besides the Marchesa Scarfiotti, maybe no-one else at the villa did. Ada had returned the flute to the convent before Don Marzoli had found Rosa. Feelings she had not experienced for years came flooding back to her.
Signora Corvetto took out a cigarette and offered one to Rosa, who shook her head. Signora Corvetto lit the cigarette and looked at the ceiling. ‘You poor woman. I had no idea. If it’s any vindication, that awful Vittorio was sent to an insane asylum. He went raving mad about a year ago, telling everyone that the Marchesa Scarfiotti was not his sister. She was devastated by it. They’d always been close.’