Concetta’s dewy pink lips as they pronounced the rote Latin. Who invented women? Ciro wondered as he observed her. Ciro may not have believed in the promises of the Holy Roman Church, but he had to admit that God was on to something if He invented beauty.
God made girls, and that made Him a genius, Ciro thought as the girls rose from the kneeler and filed into the main aisle.
Ciro peered around the column to watch Concetta kneel at the communion rail. Don Gregorio slipped the small communion wafer onto Concetta’s tongue, and she bowed her head and made the sign of the cross before rising. Her smallest movements had an anticipatory quality. Ciro didn’t take his eyes off her as she followed the other girls back to the pew.
Sensing his stare, Concetta looked up into the gallery. Ciro caught her eye and smiled at her. Concetta pursed her lips, then bowed her head in prayer.
Don Gregorio intoned, “Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”
The students responded, “Amen.” They rose from the kneelers and sat back in the pews.
Liliana leaned over and whispered something to Concetta, who smiled. Ciro took in the smile, a bonus on this spring morning—usually there were no smiles during mass. One brief glimpse of her white teeth and perfect dimple made getting up at dawn to open the church worth the effort.
Ciro planned his day around the hope of running into Concetta. He might change course on a morning errand for a glimpse of her walking from the school to the church. He’d go hungry and miss supper for a quick “Ciao, Concetta” as she strolled by with her family during la passeggiata. One smile from her was enough to keep him going; she inspired him to do better, to be better. He hoped to impress Concetta with aspects of his character she might not have seen, like the fine manners drilled into him by the nuns. Good manners in young men seemed to matter to young ladies. If Ciro got the chance, he knew he could make Concetta happy. He remembered, in the deepest shadows of his memory, his father doing the same for his mother.
The students knelt for the final blessing.
“Dominus vobiscum.” Don Gregorio extended his arms heavenward.
The students responded, “Et cum spiritu tuo.”
“Vade in pace.” Don Gregorio made the sign of the cross in the air.
Ciro watched as Concetta slipped the missal into the holder in the back of the pew. Mass had ended. Ciro was to go in peace. But he wouldn’t, not anytime soon, not as long as Concetta Martocci was in the world.
There was a field of orange lilies near the waterfall above Schilpario where the Ravanelli children played. When the spring came, the sun burned hot, but the mountain breezes were cool and invigorating. Those days di caldo e freddo only lasted until Easter, and Enza took full advantage of them. She gathered up her brothers and sisters every afternoon and took them up the mountain.
The aftereffects of the harsh winter were apparent in the landscape, mottled from the assault of heavy rain, snow, and ice. Pale green shoots pushed through the brown branches as tangled mounds of low brush in the ravines thawed out in the sun. The depressions in the earth along the trail where water had pooled and frozen were now pits of black mud. The rushing waters had left thick striae of silt as the snow melted too fast and overflowed down the cliffs. But it didn’t matter; after months of gray, everywhere she looked, Enza saw green.
Enza was relieved every year when spring arrived at last. These majestic mountains were terrifying in the winter; the glittering snow could turn dangerous as wily avalanches buried houses and rendered roads impassable. There was the constant fear of sudden and prolonged isolation, food shortages, and sickness gripping families who might need medicine and had no access to a doctor.
It was as if the sun set the village free.
In spring, the children scattered through the Alps like dandelion puffs. The mornings were filled with chores—fetching water, gathering sticks, scrubbing clothes, hanging the wash, and prepping the garden. The afternoons were spent at play, as the children flew kites made of strips of old muslin, floated in the shallow pool under the waterfall, or read in the shade of the pine trees.
Primavera in the Italian Alps was like a jewelry box opened in sunlight. Clusters of red peonies like ruffles of taffeta framed pale green fields, while wild white orchids climbed