‘Now we have come to the second part of our service,’ Father Filippo said. He nodded towards the mayor, who got up from his seat in the second row and walked to the front. He adjusted his tricolour sash and began to speak.
‘In a few weeks’ time we will be commemorating the eightieth anniversary of a calamity that struck this village, seventeen of our citizens struck down in a cruel and brutal massacre. For years we counted only sixteen victims. It was hoped that Pietro Parodi, who disappeared that day, had somehow managed to escape. But now we know that another family lost a son, grandson, nephew and brother, that Pietro was the seventeenth victim, shot by a coward as he made his way up through the hills.
‘With the return of the earthly bones of our beloved Pietro, all of the victims are back where they belong, sleeping their eternal sleep amongst us, their family and friends. Many of you remember the previous monument to those poor, innocent souls. Alas, a road accident led to its destruction when a lorry had to swerve. After too many years we can now unveil a new tribute to those men and women and one thirteen-year-old boy, victims of the senseless violence of war. I am honoured that I was invited to draw back the curtain to reveal our new plaque in this safe and holy space, carved by Leo Perillo, one of our own.’
He paused. It seemed as though the congregation held their breath.
‘But I am afraid I must decline our priest’s kind invitation.’
Heads turned; mutterings rose from the rows of seats.
‘What is he saying?’ Marta hissed.
The mayor rose a hand for silence, a smile upon his lips. ‘Instead, I would like to bestow the honour of the unveiling on someone who lived through the events this plaque commemorates… a devout lady, a pillar of this church, our very own Fernanda Oliveri-Perillo.’
Fernanda gripped the back of the pew in front. Slowly, she rose from her seat. Gino stood up to help his mother down the aisle.
‘No,’ Fernanda said. She indicated that he should sit back down.
Shaking his head, he did just that. He looked at Stella. ‘So stubborn,’ he muttered.
Fernanda advanced slowly across the stone flags, her stick tapping out her progress. Her posture was a little bent, but her white quiff jutted out proudly above her forehead like a figurehead on a stately galleon. She stopped at the end of the row where Uncle Domenico sat with his card-playing chums. She leant down, saying something Stella couldn’t catch.
Domenico stood up. He took Fernanda’s free arm. Together they walked towards the mayor and Father Filippo.
The mayor indicated the cord that Fernanda should use to draw the velvet curtain back. She handed her stick to Domenico, batting away the mayor’s helping hand. Fernanda pulled the cord. Necks craned towards the wall.
‘Brava!’ someone called, prompting a chorus of tut-tutting; they were in church, after all.
‘Grazie, Fernanda,’ Father Filippo said. ‘I understand our sculptor, Leo, made a final adjustment to the plaque, one which was not in the sketch submitted for approval but one I feel you will all applaud. Look carefully, Fernanda. Touch it, if you like, I know your hands are clean.’
‘What is it? What’s changed?’ someone in the row in front whispered.
Stella watched the old lady reach out, her shaking fingers tracing the stone. Fernanda turned to face the congregation, her face lit up as though she’d been painted by the same hand as the portrait of Sant’ Agata in the side chapel.
‘Violets,’ Fernanda said, her voice clear and strong. ‘Violets to remember my sister, Violetta, and all those others whose quiet acts of bravery and self-sacrifice we will never know.’
Domenico took her arm once more. Slowly, they made their way back down the aisle, each leaning on the other. It was hard to tell who was holding up who.
* * *
The piazza was buzzing. The few who hadn’t yet heard about Violetta’s bravery were clustered around Fernanda. Father Filippo’s face shone with pride and relief. Leo was equally in demand, accepting congratulations from every quarter. Domenico was chatting to Signora Togliatti and the grandson who would become his new assistant in a few days’ time.
‘It’s so good to see Papà up and about. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done, Stella,’ Luisa said.
‘It’s nothing. I’m just glad he’ll be back behind his beloved shop counter on Tuesday.’
‘Thanks to you being willing to carry on part time. He’s not strong enough to open five days a week with just that young lad who’s still got everything to learn.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Stella said. She was glad to be able to continue in the shop for a few hours a week but it wasn’t enough to ease the worry of what came next. Gino would have to invest all his savings into revitalising his grandparents’ old olive grove, she couldn’t – wouldn’t – be the weak link that scuppered his plans. But this evening she wasn’t going to waste a precious moment worrying. Pietro’s return, the unveiling of the plaque and the rehabilitation of Violetta’s reputation were all deserving of a joyous celebration. And as if that wasn’t enough reason to drink and eat and dance and sing, she had her brother and sister back. Tomorrow she was turning sixty; she couldn’t have wished for a better gift.
Stella scanned the crowd; Marta and Giovanni were standing with Gino. She excused herself and weaved her way towards them. The band was striking up.
‘Oh, good, you got away. I trust you wanted wine,’ Gino said, handing her a glass.
‘And I managed to fight my way to the focaccia.’ Her brother laughed. He offered round a paper plate piled with the salty tomato-topped bread.
Stella devoured a piece in just a few bites. She took a sip of her wine and slipped her arm through her sister’s.
