‘I see,’ Fernanda replied. Right now, those were all the words she could manage. Last night’s revelations about Violetta had put her on such a high she hadn’t given a moment’s thought to the obvious question: if Violetta hadn’t passed information to the Germans, who had?
‘I can’t apologise enough for how I’ve treated you all these years and if Arturo were alive, I know he would say the same. And now I suppose you will have to tell everyone about this list.’ Domenico’s fingers drummed on the table centimetres from where the piece of paper lay.
‘People would say it was the right thing to do.’
He cleared his throat. ‘It takes courage to see someone you love for what they really are and I have been a coward. But now I am ready to face the consequences. It is Stella and my daughter I feel sorry for, yet that cannot be helped. They will be innocent victims of people’s gossip the way your son Gino was.’
‘You are right, it is not their fault.’ Fernanda lifted her coffee cup and inspected the contents. ‘This has gone cold. I don’t suppose you’ve touched yours either. I will make some more.’
‘There’s no need. You don’t have to spend another second of your time with me.’ He scraped back his chair.
Fernanda stood up. She pressed her hands on his shoulders, gently pushing him back down. How strange it felt to touch him after eighty years when once it had been so natural, linking arms as they raced around Sant’ Agata’s, huddling close together in some nook or cranny exchanging secrets.
‘You will stay for some hot coffee,’ she said firmly.
‘If you insist.’ His voice was bleak.
She filled the Bialetti, her eyes on him. He was an old man now, that carefree child long gone. They had all lost their innocence the day the soldiers came.
‘Let me see that list again.’ She made a show of studying it as she walked towards the stove. She lit the gas and dropped it in the ring of flame. The paper caught immediately, its edges blackening.
Domenico gasped.
‘It’s over,’ Fernanda said. Calmly she placed the coffee pot onto a different ring.
‘But why destroy the evidence? After the way we’ve treated you…’ Domenico dropped his eyes.
Fernanda made him wait until the coffee was poured before she spoke, groping for the words that would explain her gut feeling in a way that made sense.
‘Amy has Lance’s necklace and Violetta’s postcard. With those, my sister’s reputation will be restored. That is all that matters to me. I am eighty-seven years old. Whether I live another five or ten years or won’t make it past Christmas, only the good Lord knows. But I will not let bitterness or division be my legacy.
‘You and I lived through a time when this country was tearing itself in two. So much bloodshed, tears, hatred and suffering. But there was also so much good, like the selfless neighbour who took me in after Violetta died. As little children we were such good friends, you, Arturo and me. Your brother is no longer here, God rest his soul. But you and I have the gift of life. Let us use that gift for good.
‘Tomorrow Pietro will be laid to rest. Father Filippo will draw the curtain back on the memorial plaque commemorating the victims of the massacre, a plaque my grandson has carved. We will never forget and nor should we, but it is time for the village to come together. People may speculate about what happened all they like but they will not have any family on which to pin the blame. Perhaps they will conclude that it was pure bad luck the Germans came this way.’
Tears swam in Domenico’s rheumy old eyes. ‘Oh, Fernanda, why did we let our feud drag on?’
‘There’s no good in looking back. Soon our families’ rift will be well and truly healed, if the younger generation have their way.’
‘Stella and Gino? Will you give them your blessing?’ Domenico said.
‘Of course. And I have a good feeling about my Leo and Amy. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Violetta and Lance brought them together?’
‘That would be some legacy and well deserved. You’ve been so generous and kind. You’re a wonderful woman, Fernanda.’ Finally, he took a sip of his neglected coffee, lifting the cup with a trembling hand.
‘Hush, you will make me vain! But if you feel that way, would you do me one favour? If I hold a dining chair steady, would you be able to stand on it and rehang Violetta’s picture?’
‘Risking life and limb? Only for you, my dear old friend.’
48
Mario from the pizzeria and his father, officious in their hi-visibility vests, stood ready to halt the traffic.
‘I don’t fancy that job much,’ Amy said.
Stella laughed. ‘There’s going to be angry drivers backed up halfway to Sanremo by the time this procession has got up the road.’
It seemed that most of the village had assembled in the car park ready to accompany Pietro Parodi’s smooth wooden casket to the church. Father Filippo, all robed in white, stood chatting with the mayor and other local dignitaries. The shining instruments of the village brass band, the costumes of the choir and the banners of the local fraternities all added to the colourful spectacle. The return of Pietro’s bones was a matter for celebration as well as sombre reflection. All eyes were on Father Filippo, counting the minutes until he gave the signal for the procession to begin.
