eaten dirt just like so many others in the village, who might have died on the streets likethem, if not for the kindness of
l’inglese,
Signor Westerman. Madonna be praised.’ Flavia had heard her father’s words so often. ‘He has saved us. He would not let us starve.’
Indeed, Signor Westerman had always been kind to her, and sometimes, when she was supposed to be helping Mama, he had called her to him, told her stories about England and read her poetry. He read it out loud in a language unfamiliar to her, but she could hear the way the words danced and she could close her eyes and let herself dream.
He spoke about England in a mixture of English and Italian which was also hard to understand. But she could understand enough to see that life was different there, so different that it was impossible to imagine. But Flavia did imagine. Where girls went to dances – such dances – and talked freely and walked out alone, or with men even. And lived
. Sweet Madonna,
how they lived
.
Maria, she noted, was almost at the end of her row. ‘Come on, Flavia. You are so slow,’ she shouted.
Flavia’s mind wouldn’t rest. What had happened last night? What was going on? Why the lights? The noises? Something was afoot. She’d seen Papa meeting with the other men from the village early this morning at Bar Piccolo in the piazza and had noted the earnest faces, shaking heads, serious whispers and large quantities of espresso being consumed. Despite loitering outside, Flavia had found out nothing – although she suspected it was to do with this war; everything was to do with this war. It did nothing for them, mind (so Papa said). Just took away and killed their young men. Flavia sighed. So there would be even fewer to choose from.
She let her fingertips trail across the tight, swollen skins of the tomatoes. The fruit had absorbed so much sun, it seemed pregnantwith it. Now the war had taken away Signor Westerman too. It was, everyone said, too dangerous to stay in Sicily; these were turbulent times. Who could predict the actions of Hitler and of Mussolini? And who even knew which were worst – the fascists or the Nazis? Swiftly, Flavia crossed herself.
The Signor had returned to England – until the war was over. Who knew when he would be able to return to claim his beautiful villa, his land, his olive groves?
And in the meantime … Flavia watched Maria: bending, picking, bending, picking … there was a smooth rhythm to her sister’s movements. Maria was content, she realised, with a jolt of surprise and frustration. How could she be, when so much was uncertain, when Leonardo was God knows where and their family had no livelihood – and perhaps no future – with Signor Westerman away? When they could be killed, victims of a senseless war, at any moment? Was her sister mad?
Maria didn’t look mad; rather as if she knew something Flavia did not. Flavia sighed. Perhaps it was the centuries of destruction by earthquake or volcano, or of being conquered by some other marauding tribe, that made Sicilians so sanguine, so content with their lot. Was it a coincidence that in Sicilian, there was no future tense? They were a people who could only look back – never forward, with hope.
Flavia turned her face up to the hot sun. No future? It was said that in Palermo there were fascist slogans in windows
– Better a day like a lion than a hundred years like a sheep.
But Papa said such words were wasted on Sicilians. They knew about honour – none better. But what did they care about the war? It was not their war. They cared more about survival. Besides, her family liked the Englishand were loyal to Signor Westerman, who had given them so much. They had hidden all Signor Westerman’s things from the house – at least everything of value. Including
il tesoro
which was – she had heard Papa telling Santina’s father, when he didn’t know she was behind the curtain listening – in a place where no one would ever find it, no
l’inglese,
Signor Westerman. Madonna be praised.’ Flavia had heard her father’s words so often. ‘He has saved us. He would not let us starve.’
Indeed, Signor Westerman had always been kind to her, and sometimes, when she was supposed to be helping Mama, he had called her to him, told her stories about England and read her poetry. He read it out loud in a language unfamiliar to her, but she could hear the way the words danced and she could close her eyes and let herself dream.
He spoke about England in a mixture of English and Italian which was also hard to understand. But she could understand enough to see that life was different there, so different that it was impossible to imagine. But Flavia did imagine. Where girls went to dances – such dances – and talked freely and walked out alone, or with men even. And lived
. Sweet Madonna,
how they lived
.
Maria, she noted, was almost at the end of her row. ‘Come on, Flavia. You are so slow,’ she shouted.
Flavia’s mind wouldn’t rest. What had happened last night? What was going on? Why the lights? The noises? Something was afoot. She’d seen Papa meeting with the other men from the village early this morning at Bar Piccolo in the piazza and had noted the earnest faces, shaking heads, serious whispers and large quantities of espresso being consumed. Despite loitering outside, Flavia had found out nothing – although she suspected it was to do with this war; everything was to do with this war. It did nothing for them, mind (so Papa said). Just took away and killed their young men. Flavia sighed. So there would be even fewer to choose from.
She let her fingertips trail across the tight, swollen skins of the tomatoes. The fruit had absorbed so much sun, it seemed pregnantwith it. Now the war had taken away Signor Westerman too. It was, everyone said, too dangerous to stay in Sicily; these were turbulent times. Who could predict the actions of Hitler and of Mussolini? And who even knew which were worst – the fascists or the Nazis? Swiftly, Flavia crossed herself.
The Signor had returned to England – until the war was over. Who knew when he would be able to return to claim his beautiful villa, his land, his olive groves?
And in the meantime … Flavia watched Maria: bending, picking, bending, picking … there was a smooth rhythm to her sister’s movements. Maria was content, she realised, with a jolt of surprise and frustration. How could she be, when so much was uncertain, when Leonardo was God knows where and their family had no livelihood – and perhaps no future – with Signor Westerman away? When they could be killed, victims of a senseless war, at any moment? Was her sister mad?
Maria didn’t look mad; rather as if she knew something Flavia did not. Flavia sighed. Perhaps it was the centuries of destruction by earthquake or volcano, or of being conquered by some other marauding tribe, that made Sicilians so sanguine, so content with their lot. Was it a coincidence that in Sicilian, there was no future tense? They were a people who could only look back – never forward, with hope.
Flavia turned her face up to the hot sun. No future? It was said that in Palermo there were fascist slogans in windows
– Better a day like a lion than a hundred years like a sheep.
But Papa said such words were wasted on Sicilians. They knew about honour – none better. But what did they care about the war? It was not their war. They cared more about survival. Besides, her family liked the Englishand were loyal to Signor Westerman, who had given them so much. They had hidden all Signor Westerman’s things from the house – at least everything of value. Including
il tesoro
which was – she had heard Papa telling Santina’s father, when he didn’t know she was behind the curtain listening – in a place where no one would ever find it, no
Similar Books
