‘Oh, yes, that was me. I was a good little fascist.’
Amy gawped.
‘I’ve shocked you,’ Fernanda said.
Amy shifted awkwardly, not sure where to look. ‘No… well, yes, actually, a little bit.’ Shewasshocked but now her conversation with Leo was beginning to make more sense. His grandma was a fascist. No wonder he’d been wary of talking about the war.
‘That is the uniform of thefiglie della lupa, the fascist organisation for the youngest children. Children of decent folk, friends and neighbours. But the way people talk nowadays, you would think all Mussolini’s followers had a forked tongue and a tail like the devil himself.’
Amy peered more closely. ‘How old were you when this was taken?’
‘Just turned six, proud as punch. “Believe! Obey! Fight!” – that is what we used to chant. I am not proud of it now, of course… such terrible things… but I was so young, how could I have known?’
‘You kept the picture.’ And put it in a frame, Amy could have added.
‘It is important not to forget what happened back then. To admit my small part in it all.’ Fernanda took the photograph from her and stashed it back in the cupboard.
‘You were just a little girl.’
‘I was seven years old when the German soldiers came to this village. I had no more understanding of politics than a goat in the field. But my sister, Violetta, was thirteen years older than me and she supported Mussolini until the very end.’
‘Is this her?’ Amy pointed to the beautiful young woman in the framed painting on the wall.
Fernanda nodded.
Amy gazed at the painting, drinking in all the details. Violetta wore a fitted dress with a pointed collar and a row of covered buttons. Big eyes looked up from beneath a cute felt hat, decorated with feathers and flowers, artfully tilted to one side.
‘She was very pretty,’ Amy said.
‘Yes, a real beauty. Violetta was so much older than me, she was almost like the mother she had to be. I was a late baby, a surprise, I expect. Papà was killed at the beginning of the war and our beautiful mamma died of cancer not long after that. Violetta worked so hard as a milliner to provide for both of us.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Amy murmured.
‘Violetta taught me so much. How to cook simple things. Yes, even at five years old I was shaping my own pasta. She gave me a love of languages, music and even mathematics too. But most of all she loved me. She never let me know how hard it was for her. You might not believe me but I never heard her speak ill of anyone. She supported Mussolini as a patriot, from a place of love, not hatred. She was beautiful inside and out. Oh, yes, I can see by the look on your face that you do not think this is possible.’
Amy felt herself flush. ‘People are complicated.’
‘You, my dear, are very diplomatic. I hope what you have discovered has not made you think ill of me. I hope that you will not want to leave.’
Amy paused. Fernanda’s revelations had made her feel rather uncomfortable but she couldn’t dismiss the image of Leo’s face that flitted unbidden into her head.
‘Of course I don’t want to leave. But now I need to freshen up. I thought I’d go out to the pizzeria.’
‘I made some fresh pasta earlier. I had thought to suggest we might eat together. But now…’ The old lady looked away.
‘Do you have a bottle of wine?’ Amy said.
‘Of course. Just local wine from a vineyard nearby.’
‘That sounds perfect. Shall we have a glass? I’d love you to cook for me.’
She followed Fernanda into the kitchen. The old lady opened a low cupboard, pulled out a bottle of red with a brown paper label. ‘Thank you for staying, Amy, for not judging me too harshly.’
‘Why would I judge you for what your sister did? That wouldn’t make any sense to me.’
‘Others do. Would you mind opening the wine, I haven’t much strength in my wrist.’ Fernanda handed her a wooden-handled corkscrew.
Amy ripped off the metal foil and eased out the cork. She poured them both a glass, glad of the feeling of warmth and wellbeing that followed the first few sips. She wouldn’t bother Fernanda with more questions this evening, but Amy had a strong suspicion there was a lot more to Violetta’s story that had been left unsaid.
