She kept kneading, almost finished. She didn’t want to overwork the dough or let her thoughts run away with her. Since Sandro’s death, the Nazis had grown more oppressive and violent, and every day they issued new orders. Arrests and beatings in the street became commonplace. Everyone prayed for salvation, believing the Allies would be here by winter, but it was almost Christmas. More refugees arrived every day, displaced and starving.
She dusted flour from her hands, and her thoughts turned to Marco. He was the only person who understood how awful she felt, and he felt the same way. He worked at Bar GiroSport with the same numb sense of duty that she had. He would come by the restaurant once or twice a week, and she had begun to teach him to read. She had started with his name, and they had drilled and drilled. She didn’t know why he couldn’t read better, but she knew he was trying.
Elisabetta wiped her hands on a dishcloth. She headed for the tiny bathroom off the kitchen, shut the door, and used the toilet. When she pulled up her underpants, she noticed that they were still white, and unstained.
Her menstrual period was overdue.
She had never been late.
Until now.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY
Elisabetta
December 1943
A month later, Elisabetta was leaving the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. She entered the dining room, which was empty except for Marco, who sat alone at a table, ready for his lesson. The restaurant had closed for the night, and she and Marco had fallen into a comfortable routine. He would come at the end of his workday, and she would give him a practice sheet of reading and writing exercises, then clean up the kitchen while he finished. He would wolf down a plate of the day’s pasta while he wrote, and tonight, nothing was left of his favorite dish, spaghetti a cacio e pepe, spaghetti with pecorino Romano cheese and pepper.
Elisabetta approached the table, and Marco’s head was bent over his practice sheet. He had on a wool sweater with his slacks, and his dark, thick hair caught the light from the fixture above the table. He concentrated mightily, squeezing the pencil and holding his tongue to the side, like he used to when he was in school.
“How’s it going?” Elisabetta asked, sitting opposite him.
“I just finished.”
“Show me.”
Marco turned his practice sheet around, so she could read it. The letters were oversized but legible:
MARCO TERRIZZI
“Bravo!” Elisabetta said, delighted. “You did it!”
Marco smiled, with obvious pride. “I took too long, didn’t I?”
“No, that doesn’t matter. It’s not a race.”
Marco snorted. “No, a race is easy. Writing is torture. I did my other practice sheet, too.”
“Already? Let me see.”
“Hold on.” Marco slid a piece of paper from his backpack, then set it down in front of her. In his oversized and imperfectly formed letters, he had written:
MARRY ME, ELISABETTA
She gasped. “Marco, what’s this?”
“Should I read it to you? I can. My mother helped me.” Marco’s expression grew serious, his dark eyes earnest. “Elisabetta, I love you and I always have. I know that Sandro was your first choice, and I loved him, too.”
Elisabetta felt a wave of grief and guilt, as if she were betraying Sandro even to listen to Marco’s proposal, but she didn’t interrupt him.
“I admit, in the old days, I used to hate being second best to anyone, even him. But that’s not true anymore. That was ego and pride, not love. None of that matters now. I don’t mind being your second choice, if in the end, I get to be your husband.”
Elisabetta felt so many emotions she couldn’t sort them. Her heart responded to his words. So much had happened since the first time he had asked her to marry him, at the orange garden. She had chosen Sandro over him, and she was carrying Sandro’s child, though she wasn’t showing yet. She felt embarrassed, having no idea how to tell him about the baby.
Elisabetta braced herself. “Listen, there’s something you don’t know—”
“I know that you’re pregnant.”
“What, how?”
“I’ve been looking at you since you were little. I see the changes. Your dress is tight around the waist, and your face looks fuller, in the cheeks and chin.” Marco reached for her hand, caressing her fingers. “You think I couldn’t tell? I can tell. I’ve been looking at you your whole life.”
Elisabetta didn’t know what to say. She felt ashamed, but also seen, and understood. “It’s Sandro’s.”