Eleven
Vittoria knew that her father considered himself the epitome of an organized man. He often boasted about it, claiming it was the trait that had made him so successful in business （when, in fact, he’d inherited the vineyard three generations after it had already made its name）。 Part of his obsession with a neat and orderly operation manifested itself in his labeling of things other people would have left unlabeled. Though they surely could have functioned without doing so, and though most of them couldn’t read, he insisted that the workers hang their tools on hooks beneath labels—HOE, RAKE, SCYTHE, and so on—and that the shelves in the kitchen had small labels saying GLASSES, KNIVES, BOWLS. Disorder and spontaneity were intolerable to him, and Vittoria knew—from comments, facial expressions, and the sound of frequent spats—that the fierce regularity of his daily schedule had been next to unbearable for her mother.
On one wall of his upstairs study, her father kept keys, two dozen of them, to the doors of various closets and rooms in the manor house and elsewhere on the property. As a child, she’d thought the rusted pieces of metal belonged to just another display of things that had been handed down from earlier generations, like the framed sepia photos on the living room sideboards, or the elegant quilts that were brought to the beds in wintertime. But these, too, were labeled. After her conversation with Paolo, she went immediately, in a kind of waking dream, to her father’s study, took a particular key from its nail, and handed it to Eleonora. Fifteen minutes later, Eleonora brought it back—both exchanges wordless—and soon it was hanging in its usual place.
The next morning, from the minute Vittoria opened her eyes, all she could think about was what Old Paolo had told her. German deserters hiding in the barn! Partigiani fighting the Nazis in the hills! Their sweet Eleonora involved in the secret battle! She’d never heard anything about partisans, but the truth was, since the Germans had started pouring more men and matériel into the country, with the exception of weekly visits to the cathedral in Montepulciano for Mass, she’d had almost no contact with anyone outside the house, and the word had never been mentioned in the conversations her father had with Massimo, the village priest, and the estate’s few other visitors. Partigiani! Old Paolo, Eleonora, and that same priest among them! Those thoughts crossed her mind again and again like a troupe of dancers crossing back and forth on a stage. Twirling, somersaulting, disappearing behind the curtain, reappearing. Partigiani!
What, she wondered, would Carlo think of them? They were, in fact, fighting on the opposite side. But Carlo had been the most reluctant of soldiers, completely open to her educated criticisms of Mussolini and Italian fascism, perfectly willing to agree with what Vittoria told him of her mother’s radical opinions. He’d be a partisan himself, if he could manage it. She was sure of that.
She sat with her father at the breakfast table, caught in a swirl of emotions. Worry, guilt, confusion. Germans in the barn. War on Italian soil. Partisans in the hills—men and women both, Old Paolo had said—fighting the Nazi war machine. Her small act—the passing of one key—made her feel as though she were taking off the clothes and jewelry she’d lived in all her life, the silks and satins, the sapphire earrings and diamond bracelets, and walking out into the world unprotected by the SanAntonio wealth and privilege. The world was wrapping its cold arms around her. The real world. A place of risk and death. A place where honor and courage mattered more than money.
But, if the deserters were captured, wouldn’t they turn in Paolo and the others to save their own lives? Change their minds, fight with their countrymen again, murder Italians in the streets? For a moment, her doubts extended even to Paolo and Eleonora. Were they people she could trust, or ones who’d betray her and her father to save themselves if the Germans discovered what they’d been doing?
To complicate matters, there was a piece of news—a confirmation of weeks of rumors—that seemed strong enough to shake the grapes from the vines, to shatter the red-tile roof and send cracks running through the stone manor house walls: Benito Mussolini had disappeared! Now even his own radio was saying so—his Fascist Council had surprised him with a vote of no confidence, and he’d been deposed for bringing the war to Italian soil. Reports claimed that the king and General Badoglio had taken Mussolini prisoner, left Rome, and were ruling the country from a secret location.
That news fed the strange new excitement in her, made her wonder if Italy might surrender now that its murderous leader had disappeared, if Carlo might soon come home.