Page 29 of Villa of Secrets

The kettle switched itself off. Rebecca hadn’t moved from the window where raindrops trickled down the other side of the glass. She stared out at the long lawn surrounded by a thick, high hedge. The perfect playground for her children.

There would be swings, a pool in the summer, a trampoline. Perhaps a set of small goalposts where their little boy would learn to kick a football with Fritz’s guidance. Rebecca pictured a quaint Wendy house with a picket fence, where she’d sit with her young daughter and sip tea from tiny china cups. ‘Pass the Iced Gems, please.’

If she listened hard, she could hear the laughter of her unborn children.

The apple tree sapling she and Fritz had planted in anticipation of their family, was now heavy with fruit. She placed her hand on her belly and wished.

After three years of marriage with no pregnancy, her narrow fallopian tubes and Fritz’s low sperm count were diagnosed as responsible. For the following seven years, they’d sought clinical help to produce a family, but each effort ended in heart-breaking failure. After all the pain and expense, they were right to agree that this would be their final try at IVF.

Poor Fritz. He hated the clinic. He hated having to masturbate on demand. He hated ejaculating into a beaker. And he hated handing it over to a nurse.

Harvested, such a pleasant word. Harvest time brought images of impressionist paintings, plough horses, haystacks, autumn sunshine; skeins of migrating geese, shifting their V formations as they honked and flapped overhead; baskets of sweet grapes, pumpkins, chestnuts and apple picking. The bounty of life.

Nothing like the degradation Fritz felt having his semen ‘harvested’, frozen, and stored. Rebecca thanked God her husband had agreed and obliged, because that stored semen meant the possibility of getting pregnant without him.

The staff were very sympathetic and supportive, but so they should be for the money it cost. Rebecca had her own demons to conquer: her fear of needles. She hated injecting herself, but if supressing hormones and then stimulating ovulation paved the road to a family, she would do it.

Surely the inconvenience and embarrassment, and the pain they both endured was worth it? Everyone seemed determined they would have their children to love and cherish in the end.

This time, she made up her mind not to visit baby shops, or buy mother-and-baby magazines, or redecorate the nursery. This time she would accept the result. This time she would not go to pieces at the first spot of blood in her underwear.

So far so good. The pregnancy confirmed. She decided to wait until she was twelve weeks before she told Fritz. Mainly because they had agreed on one more try at IVF together. She reckoned that as he was hardly involved in this attempt, it didn’t count, and if it should fail, at least she had another chance.

Rebecca peered at the sky and blew her cheeks out. The rain stopped and the sun broke through, the garden sparkling fresh. Perfect weather and nobody to enjoy it with. She made herself a camomile tea, returned to the lounge, and stared at the gun.

Chapter 14

Sunday, 23 July 1944

I am afraid, really afraid! Those who slept were woken by shouting Germans. Before sunrise, they started herding us out of L’Aeronautica in rows of five. I don’t know where we’re going. I’m scribbling this down, quickly as I can, as we shuffle forward, because I have no idea when I’ll get another chance to update my journal. Babies are crying with hunger. I can see through the doorway as they march the first captives out. Police and soldiers line the street pointing their guns at our friends and neighbours. Three wagons carried the aged and infirm away. Black exhaust smoke drifted in as they passed by the entrance. Our group is close to the doors now.

Papa has just tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Be a good girl and put the diary away, Dora.’ His voice is odd, sort of scratched, like I remember the wireless when someone had knocked the aerial. I want to hug him, and I want him to tell me everything will be all right. I just stash the diary in my duffel instead.

*

It is night now, and this has been the worst day of my life! Why didn’t I hug Papa when I had a chance?! Now it’s too late, too late! So much has happened since we left L’Aeronautica this morning, I’m in a rush to write it all down, right now, while it’s still fresh in my head.

Before daylight, we were forced to walk towards the harbour.

Air-raid sirens wailed, making communication impossible. Dawn pushed back the night as we approached the quayside. Three rusting ships tied up to port. Some of the adults muttered prayers. Others put on a brave face for the sake of their children, saying everything would be fine once we had left the island.

I became separated from my family and tried to spot them amongst the hundreds of sorry captives, but the man at my side threw an urgent punch at my arm. ‘Keep your head down, child. Don’t look around.’ His tone, flat and lifeless, frightened me. Anguish filled my chest and made my throat ache.

I stared at the ground as we walked, noting small obscure details and filing them away. Suddenly, everything seemed important. Two flattened cigarette ends in the gutter, one with dark pink lipstick. A burst balloon. A short length of yellow party streamer, coiled and trodden on. The remains of someone’s celebration, a party. I imagined the day we would all return to our island and celebrate – me and every member of my family.

A hand touched mine, fingers tangling. I glanced sideways. Carlo. I squeezed his hand but didn’t speak in case the Nazis pointed their guns at us. The walk to the harbour didn’t seem as bad with my hand in his. I imagined telling Irini when I got back . . . because I would return to my friend, somehow. Also, Evangelisa needed me. I worried about her. Mama and Papa had depended on me to take care of her.

In that moment these thoughts were an escape from the trudge. I fantasised about the Curly Haired Boy, getting married, building a house in Paradissi and having lots of beautiful children. Mama and Papa would come for coffee and cake. Him not being Jewish might be a problem, but I wasn’t sure because nobody ever talked about such things.

German guns pointed at us from all directions. We turned into the port. The air raid siren deafened us. The three cargo vessels were moored to my right. To my left, the lorry transport for the old and sick pulled to a halt. As the sun rose, that sorry human freight disembarked. Just before we reached the huge wheels and dull grey-green paintwork, I glanced over my shoulder, searching for my family. I caught sight of Papa and, as our eyes met, he flicked a rapid glance to the vehicles. I understood and made a quick nod.

‘Oy! No turning around!’ a soldier yelled, jerking his gun at me.

I cowered, afraid of being shot right there and then, and of disappointing Papa. I tugged at Carlo’s hand. Irini would love me forever if I managed to save Carlo from the Nazis and bring him up to Filerimos.

A hullabaloo kicked off behind me and I heard Papa’s voice. ‘Walk tall, children! Be proud of who you are. They can’t take that away from us!’ He started singing and despite the bravery of his words, the distress in his voice broke my heart.

Carlo let go of my hand and a sense of hopelessness overcame me. Perhaps nine metres separated me from my father, yet it seemed like an abyss. I longed for his arms around me. The safest place in the world was inside one of Papa’s hugs.