The Crooked Path Page 4

  “Yes,” said Marco. How could he tell her he liked her? Would it be easier to write the words on paper?

  “And old Luigi is strange,” Rachel chattered on. “Do you know what he did the other day?”

  It wasn’t something he could write on paper. He would have to tell her himself. He would have to be careful, assess her reactions, adapt to the situation. But he had no experience in that kind of thing. Except for his mother, he didn’t really know any other women. He didn’t know how women thought.

  “Marco?”

  “Yes, no, I don’t know,” he said, bewildered.

  Rachel stopped and turned to him. “Are you listening to me?” she asked, smiling. Her lips were slightly apart, full and shiny.

  He stopped too and looked down at her. She was gorgeous. “You’re beautiful, Rachel Rozenfeld,” he said.

  Her smile froze. She seemed startled.

  He ran his hand over his hair. What was he doing?

  Her dark eyes came alive. “Marco?” she whispered uncertainly.

  A warm affection welled up inside him, almost overwhelming him. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and gently touched her cheek. “I . . . You’re lovely, Rachel.”

  She shook her head, bemused. “Marco,” she said again, her voice stronger now.

  “I like you, Rachel,” he said simply, shaking his head slightly. “I like you the way . . . a man likes a woman. I think you’re”—he shrugged—“beautiful.”

  She frowned, her expression earnest, her eyes cautious. “I’m Jewish, Marco.”

  For a moment he didn’t know what to say. He had not been expecting that reaction. But he looked at her velvety skin as the last rays of the sun bathed her face in gold. “I know,” he said.

  Her shiny teeth gently gnawed at her lower lip. “And you’re Catholic.”

  He nodded and looked away, over the blue-tinted valley unfolding beneath them between the toes of the mountain. Where was she going with this?

  “Marco, look at me.”

  When he looked at her, her eyes revealed an ancient sorrow. “I know we are from different religions, Rachel, but it’s too late to think about it now. I’ve found you, and I want to get to know you better,” he said.

  She shook her head. “My parents . . . your parents? Marco, it’s . . . A friendship can’t work at . . . that level.”

  He nodded. She was so much older than her fifteen years, he thought, so much more mature than the giggling young girls at university. “You may be right, Rachel,” he agreed quietly. “But no matter how much I would like to respect our parents’ wishes, in the end we have to lead our own lives. Over the past months I . . . well, I’ve learned to love you. It’s not something I can stop doing. Or want to stop doing. I want us to try, just try.”

  Her hands flew to her face. She pressed them to her rosy cheeks. Her eyes were wide and dark, fixed on him.

  “You don’t have to say anything right now,” he said softly. “I just want you to know how I feel. Come, we must head back. It’ll be dark soon.”

  They walked back in silence, new knowledge hovering between them.

  The vacation was almost over. Twice more they crossed the bridge and walked up to the old castle. Now Rachel was the quiet one, with Marco trying to bridge the awkwardness between them. He had spoken too soon and frightened her, he feared.

  But at dusk on the last day before he would be returning to university, Rachel appeared in the small back garden of the Romanellis’ home. “Can we take one last walk?” she asked shyly.

  Marco’s heart pounded. Joy threatened to engulf him, but uncertainty about what she might have come to say quelled every trace of excitement.

  They walked to the ancient bridge across the Bartolini River. She stopped to gaze down the narrow gorge carved into the cliffs by melting snow and rainwater over many centuries.

  “Rachel?” Marco asked softly.

  She kept gazing down the gorge. The road to the village was visible only in parts. “See how crooked the road is that leads to our village,” she said, almost matter-of-factly.

  “Even a crooked path has to lead somewhere, Rachel,” he said earnestly.

  She turned to him, her eyes wide and dark. “I wish it could work, Marco,” she said despondently, “but . . .”

  She gave a deep sigh.

  He clutched at the straw. “Because . . . you feel the same about me?” he asked.

  She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Marco, I feel the same.”

  Joy flooded him, made his head featherlight, lifted his feet up to the crumbling walls of the castle, to the peaks of the Alpine cliffs that towered majestically over them. “That’s enough for me, Rachel,” he said. “For now, it’s enough.”

  In 1938, Marco began to teach at Father Enrico’s little school in the village. He took the senior classes for Latin, math, English literature, and music so that students no longer had to leave the village to attend senior school. The villagers were pleased that more children were being given the opportunity to be educated.

  Marco and Rachel walked nearly every day at dusk.

  The people saw them and whispered. Then they shrugged.

  The year also brought the Anschluss, with Hitler unceremoniously annexing Austria into Germany.

  “It’s just the beginning,” exulted Lorenzo, Marco’s youngest brother. “Germany and Italy will show the rest of the world, wait and see.”

  Marco frowned. “You’re talking as if you support Hitler’s actions,” he said.

  “Of course I do. The Germans are systematically taking back what was stolen from them after the Great War. Hitler is Europe’s strong man and Mussolini is the smart one. Together they are invincible,” Lorenzo gushed.

  That night sleep eluded Marco.

  Lorenzo’s words hung like a sword over his head. Mussolini was dogging Hitler’s footsteps. Hitler was half a step ahead, with Mussolini following like a goat being led to slaughter.

  And there was no greater anti-Semite on earth than Hitler.

  In the last days of 1938, Marco adopted a serious expression. And Rachel Rozenfeld’s laughter was silenced.

  Mussolini’s racial laws became more and more radical. The most recent one forbade any Jew from marrying an Italian.

  “Marco?” Her voice was pleading.

  “We’ll make a plan, I promise,” he said, gently pushing the dark hair back from her face.

  When Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, the homes in the Romanellis’ village grew quiet. Because the people knew. They had lived through the Great War and survived it. Many of their loved ones had not.

  The Rozenfeld home grew even quieter. They had experienced anti-Semitism before—first in Russia and later in Lithuania. Mr. Rozenfeld’s shoulders grew bony.

  Rachel still unlocked the shop door each morning. But she jumped whenever she heard a strange noise.

  It was quiet, like before a storm. The people were waiting.

  Six months later the thunderstorm broke over Europe. Germany launched its blitzkrieg, and the Deutsche Wehrmacht stormed in. On April 9, Denmark and Norway were issued an ultimatum to accept the protection of the Deutsches Reich immediately. Denmark surrendered. Norway was overrun and flattened by Nazi tanks.

  The war seeped into the homes. The lowing winds blew it in through the front door when someone came in from outside. It oozed through the floorboards and the closed shutters. At night at the scrubbed tables around the pots of steaming polenta and spezzatino and the bottles of home-brewed wine, the war washed over the words of every family’s late-night conversations, pouring into the hearts of the homes.

  Early in May, Hitler’s armored divisions began to crawl westward over the plains of northern Germany. A sea of German tanks rolled in. Wave after tidal wave hit the Dutch towns, breaching their military dykes. Holland fell apart before the onslaught. The blitzkrieg rolled through Gelderland, over Utrecht, until it reached Amsterdam and then continued toward Belgium.

  On May 15, the Netherlan
ds surrendered. On May 28, Belgium caved in.

  British, French, and Belgian troops were trapped on the coast at Dunkirk and were saved by a sea full of fishing boats.

  The rumors about the persecution of Jews in Germany and Austria intensified every day. And though the villagers were fond of Mr. and Mrs. Rozenfeld and their two daughters, the village was no longer a safe place for them.

  On a Saturday afternoon that summer, Giuseppe Romanelli and Baron Veneto and Father Enrico and the doctor were at their chessboards, the younger men were playing boccie on the square, and the boys were kicking footballs on the level field on the sunset side of the village.

  Maria shook out the carpets and spread them in the sun. Tia Sofia was arranging thin tomato slices on a wire rack, and the women of the village were stewing fruit and vegetables, carefully sealing them in hot jars. You never knew what was coming.

  Two figures walked up the mountain. They were walking hand in hand, because it was common knowledge: Marco Romanelli and Rachel Rozenfeld were in love—may the Holy Mother of God protect them.

  Near the castle Marco spread the patchwork quilt on the grass and Rachel unpacked the basket: bread, goat’s milk cheese, and jam. Biscotti and apples, a jug of wine. She sank down on the blanket beside him. “The sun is lovely, Marco,” she said, leaning back, closing her eyes, and turning her face to the light.

  “The days are lovely,” he said. “We must enjoy every moment.”

  “Because winter is on its way,” she said, her eyes still shut.

  “Yes,” he mused.

  She rolled onto her side, resting her head on her arm. “Tell me something interesting—a story, perhaps? Please?”

  Marco looked down into her dark eyes. Today he had to speak, he knew he had to. Stories of castles and princesses were nothing but fairy tales. Today they had to speak about a plan of action.

  He just didn’t know how to do it.

  He drew her closer. A breeze came up. “The most interesting stories are true stories, things that really happened,” he said absently.

  “Oh yes, tell me,” she insisted, moving into the crook of his arm.

  “Did you know the unification of Italy started right here in our province, in Piedmont? Italy consisted of nine separate states, but then Cavour came. He was born here in Piedmont, and . . .”

  She began to laugh. “Marco! We’re having a picnic! Don’t be a teacher and drag up history. Tell me a real story.” She nestled closer to him.

  “Rachel, it’s not easy to tell you a story if you’re so close to me!”

  She laughed softly. “Your problem,” she teased.

  He sighed. He had to get past the storytelling. He had to talk to her. But he knew her by now, and a story would have to be told. “Fine,” he began. “A count and a countess had two sons. And then . . .”

  “Tell me where they lived.”

  “In a castle, a very big, beautiful castle high on a mountainside. The castle was in Spain, but I think it looked a lot like our castle here.”

  “A castle built of stone, fine.” She nodded, content. “It must have been long, long ago.”

  “Oh yes, our castle is from the Middle Ages as well. Anyway, the eldest son, who would later become the Count di Luna, was strong and healthy. But when the youngest son was just a baby, a gypsy cast a spell on him, and he was weak and sickly.”

  “Why did she do such a terrible thing?”

  “I don’t know. She must have had a grievance against the king,” he said. With his index finger he traced the contours of her face. “You’re lovely, you know?”

  “Marco! The story!”

  “Very well. The old count had the gypsy captured and burned at the stake.”

  “Like a witch?” Rachel frowned.

  “They must have believed she was a witch. But just before she died, she made her daughter, Azucena, promise to avenge her death. That night Azucena stole the little brother. In the woods outside the castle Azucena made a big fire. When the guards went to investigate, they found a child’s bones in the ashes. The old count refused to believe that they belonged to his little boy. On his deathbed, many years later, he ordered his eldest son, the Count Di Luna, to find Azucena.

  “Now, Count Di Luna was in love with Leonora, a friend of the Spanish princess. But she, in turn, was in love with—”

  “No, no! First you must describe what she looked like.”

  He looked down at Rachel and brushed the dark curls out of her face. “I think she must have had rosy cheeks, and black curls that framed her face, and the loveliest dark eyes in the whole world. She was really, really beautiful.”

  Rachel laughed happily. “Fine, now the story. She was in love with . . . ?”

  “Leonora wasn’t in love with the count; she was in love with the troubadour Manrico. One day the count saw her running into Manrico’s arms and he challenged the troubadour to a duel. Leonora tried to stop them, but in vain. The fire of jealous love is a deadly fire.”

  She frowned, puzzled, then sat up. “Oh no, Marco, now the count is probably going to kill the troubadour. I said I don’t want to hear another sad story, like the one about the princess locked up in the castle . . . What was her name again?”

  “Clothilde. She was the daughter of King Victor Emmanuel, the king of Piedmont.”

  “I don’t want to hear another sad story like the one about Clothilde.”

  “No, this one is . . . different. Listen. Besides, it’s also the story of a well-known opera. I would like you to know it.”

  She lay back in his arms. “Okay, but I don’t know what a troubadour is.”

  “Rachel, I can’t tell the story if you keep interrupting with questions!”

  “A troubadour?” she insisted.

  “A troubadour was a writer and performer of songs and poems. Remember, the story takes place in the Middle Ages, when troubadours moved from one castle to the next.”

  “Manrico the troubadour?” she reflected. “Sounds good. Carry on with the story now. Did the troubadour win?”

  “Well, they were both wounded in the duel, but Manrico felt as if he had won. Something we didn’t know, though, was that Manrico was Azucena’s son.”

  “The daughter of the gypsy who was burned at the stake, who swore she would avenge her mother’s death?” Rachel made certain.

  “That’s right. And though Azucena was old by now, she still hated the count whose father had caused her mother’s death. She had told her son, Manrico, the story. She had also told him how she had kidnapped the count’s little boy, planning to burn him, but had thrown her own child into the fire instead—”

  “Oh no, what a wicked old woman! Marco, is this a nice story?”

  “Rachel!” he said in exasperation.

  “Fine, I’ll listen. Carry on.”

  “She told him she had raised the old count’s son as her own.”

  “So Manrico was in fact the old count’s sickly little boy? Which would make him Count Di Luna’s brother?” asked Rachel. “It’s a very complicated story.”

  “Yes, it is. At that moment a messenger arrived with the news that Leonora, who believed that Manrico had died in the duel, had decided to become a nun and spend the rest of her life in a convent. She was taking the oath that very night. Manrico hurried off to try and stop Leonora.

  “In the meantime, Count Di Luna and his helpers were planning to abduct Leonora from the convent. However, when Leonora and the other nuns walked by, Manrico grabbed her and took her away with him.”

  “And they lived happily ever after?” asked Rachel.

  “Not really,” answered Marco.

  “Then I don’t want to hear the end of the story,” she said firmly. “It’s like that story of Romeo and Juliet you told me the other day. It upsets me, Marco. Why are the lovers in the stories always so dumb? It’s not logical.”

  Marco sighed. “Stories aren’t always logical. That’s why true stories are better, like the story of Princess Clothilde.”

 
; “No, the truth is too sad.”

  “Sometimes we have to face the truth,” he said earnestly.

  “Like . . . now?” she asked softly.

  “Yes, Rachel, like now. We have to talk,” he said urgently, almost pleading.

  “I know.” Her voice sounded distant, thin. Resigned. “We have to go away, don’t we? We have to go now.”

  Marco nodded slowly. “It would be better. Just for a while. Maybe to Switzerland, it’s not far. I’ll help you, I’ll—”

  “We’ll be okay on our own.”

  “No, we’ve spoken about this. I’m going with you, to see that you find a safe place where you can stay for the duration of the war.”

  “Couldn’t we just hide in our house? Not open the door, keep the windows shut? You could bring us food at night.”

  “No, it wouldn’t work, and you know it.”

  She gave a deep sigh. “I know. I’m just so tired of . . . leaving.” She shook her dark curls back and smiled bravely. “You’ll have to tell me the end of Leonora and Manrico’s story another day. It’s not . . . story time anymore.”

  He wrapped his arms more tightly around her.

  “This war won’t last forever, Rachel. Hitler will be defeated, I know it. And then you’ll come back here and we’ll find someone to marry us, both the priest and the rabbi. What do you say?”

  “Do you really think it’s going to happen one day?”

  “Yes, Rachel, I know it’s going to happen,” he said firmly.

  But a cold fist was clenched around his heart.

  The rumors increased. Ugly rumors about the persecution of Jews in Germany and Austria, and in Poland and Czechoslovakia and Hungary.

  “I’m going with you,” Marco told Mr. Rozenfeld one evening. “We’ll try to find you somewhere to stay in Switzerland or France.”

  “Your place is here, Marco,” Mr. Rozenfeld said wearily. “We’ll manage.”

  “I’m coming along,” Marco said firmly. “When I’m satisfied you’re safe, I’ll come back to the village and my pupils. When the war is over—and I’m sure it won’t take long—I’ll fetch you.”