Anina placed the sleek strands of fresh linguini on the drying rack in Matelda’s kitchen. “How did I do?” She stood back and wiped her hands, dusted in flour, on the apron.
“More flour will prevent them from clumping.” Matelda pointed at the intersecting strands of linguini on the board. “Try it. Dust the board and pull them out, one strand at a time.”
Anina separated the strands and hung them one by one on the wooden dowel. “The extra egg made the difference. The consistency is just right.”
“Good.” Matelda’s arms felt heavy that morning. She rested them on the handles of her wheelchair. She couldn’t help Anina cut the pasta dough, but she was still strong enough to bark a few orders.
Anina handed her grandmother a glass of fresh juice.
“I really don’t want it,” Matelda said.
“You need the vitamins. Drink it.”
“You people and your healthy drinks.” Matelda took a sip. “They are a medical miracle for no one.”
“Just trying to help you get better, Nonna.” Anina sat down on the stool. “Mama gave me some good advice.”
“To put Campari in the juice?” Matelda winked.
“No. She said I should make a list of all the questions that I never asked you but meant to.”
“I must be on my way out.” Matelda took another sip. “If that’s true, do you really think disgusting green juice can save me?”
“It might, if you ever finished a glass. Nonna, I just want to clarify a few things. Where were you born?”
“At the convent in Dumbarton, Scotland.”
“And your mother named you for a nun there, right?”
Matelda nodded. “I lived there with my mother for almost five years of my life. My mother spent every day of those five years trying to get home to Viareggio. But as long as the war was on, it was impossible. But in spite of all the obstacles, Mama continued to try. There was always some scheme brewing. Maybe Mama and I could go to Sicily and wait, or some priest promised to write a letter on our behalf to get us extradited through Switzerland. But nothing ever came through. The truth was, we were safer in Scotland with the nuns than we would have been in Viareggio, so we stayed.” Matelda brushed away a tear. “Here’s the sad part. When the time came to return to Italy, I wanted to stay in Scotland. It was the only home I had ever known. The stories my mother told me about my Italian grandparents and all my cousins seemed like fairy tales to me. They weren’t people in my life; they were characters in a story for which no book had been written. So, the night before we left, I got out of bed and went to the convent and told the Sisters that I was running away. I didn’t want to go to Italy. I wanted to stay with them.”
“What did your mother do?”
“It was the only time in my life she spanked me. She said, ‘I am your mother. You belong with me.’ I never ran away again, I assure you.”
“You were all she had, Nonna.”
“When my mother died many years later, I called Sister Matelda. She had to be ninety when we spoke, but her mind was sharp. She remembered my father. She said a more gallant man never lived. He was tall and blue-eyed and had thick, shiny brown hair. He was funny. When he wasn’t smiling, he was whistling. Do you know that’s the only image I have of my father, an old nun’s memory? That’s it.”
“Why didn’t you ask your mother what your father looked like?”
“I did ask for a picture once, but she got so upset, I never asked her again. Later on, my mother felt bad about the way she reacted and she told me about my grandmother Grizelle McVicars. Mama said to me, ‘Matelda, don’t ever turn bitter like your Scottish grandmother.’ But I have a little of her mean streak in me, don’t I?”
“You have your reasons.”
“And I suppose my grandmother did too. There were many people that had it worse than I had it, but somehow I managed to be bitter for all of them.”
Anina laughed.
“I’m still angry about the Speranzas. No person should ever go through what they endured. That’s when the Italians turned on the Italians.”
VENEZIA
October 1943
“La bella famiglia,” Speranza said as he examined the photograph from America. “Aggie, how did you get this letter delivered?”
“I paid Goffredo.”
“He didn’t offer to give you the mail you have a right to receive?”
She waved her hand. “We are long past civility. Doesn’t my brother look happy?”