One Italian Summer - Lori Nelson Spielman Page 0,92

way. Grazie, Rosa.” I reached for the letter, but she held it from my grasp.

“Lie still. I will read it.”

My dearest Poppy,

I pray that you are reading this letter, and that you are well and safe in your parents’ home. Perhaps you’ve read other letters I’ve sent. Perhaps not. As I warned, mail from East Germany is likely to be intercepted or even confiscated altogether.

I am home now, though it feels nothing like it should, or once did. My heart is in Ravello, in our tiny flat above the bakery. My home is wherever you are.

I had hoped that upon my return, I would find my father much improved. I hoped I could say good-bye, once again, and make my way back to you, my love.

Sadly, this is not the case. My mother, who was always fragile, has aged two decades. She cannot finish a sentence without breaking into tears. She is so thin I fear her bones will snap. She refuses to venture beyond the house. She will not leave my father’s side.

Johanna is the only strength in our family, but she alone cannot keep our family business intact. Her husband is useless. Johanna must go to town each day, where food is scarce and lines are so long it can take hours to receive a loaf of bread. Yesterday, she was able to get a tiny can of mango juice. It came all the way from Cuba, one of our Communist trading partners. A sip of that sweet nectar was a bit of heaven in this place I call hell.

I have rolled up my sleeves, and already a dozen cars are waiting to be repaired. I lie beneath them, changing oil, exchanging fan belts. With my head inside the hood, I daydream of you, my beautiful wife. The image of your face is what gets me through these endless days of darkness.

I have thought of nothing else since I left, and I have come to the conclusion, you must go to America.

I gasped, and Rosa stroked my cheek. “Listen to him,” she said. “Rico is right. He wants what is best for you. We all do.”

“No,” I said. “I will never leave Italy. Not until mein Ehemann returns.”

A flicker of alarm lit Rosa’s face. “Please, Paolina, do not be foolish. I know it hurts, but he is not coming back, la mia sorella testarda.”

I looked away. Finally, she returned to the letter.

The place where I grew up, the beautiful town of Radebeul, has grown dark and cold. Armed guards keep watch at the borders between East and West twenty-four hours a day, making it increasingly dangerous to escape. But the truth is, amore mio, I cannot leave. Each day, it feels as if the door to freedom is closing for me. I am my family’s only hope for maintaining ownership of our father’s business, of eking out a meager existence that is just a notch above starvation. And worse, I believe it would kill my mother now if I were to disappear again.

Once, you spoke of coming here, so we would be together. I forbade it then, and I forbid it even more today. I live in a prison. I would never allow you to enter such madness.

So go, please, mio unico amore. Go to America, land of the free, and blossom. I want you to marry again. Yes, take the man’s hand—your brother-in-law’s uncle—if he pleases you. It will bring me peace, knowing that you are safe and happy and cared for, that I have not ruined your life with my silly dream. But know, please, always, that I love you, and I will continue to love you until my last breath.

One day, we will meet again. I get through each day, dreaming of your eightieth birthday, our fifty-ninth anniversary, and the joy of holding you again at the Ravello Cathedral. Until then, I will guard you—your memory, our love.

Eternally yours,

Rico

I took the letter from Rosa and reread every word three times. “He is gone,” I murmured. Panic rose, stealing my breath. I tried to sit up. “My husband is not coming for me.”

Rosa held my hand. “Husband? Wife? Why are you using these words?”

I explained the private ceremony at the Ravello Cathedral, the mysterious young priest who blessed our marriage. “We are married,” I said. “And I miss him so much.”

Rosa’s face clouded with tears. “I had to bid good-bye to my Alberto four weeks ago. On the twelfth of January, he and Bruno finally left