* * *
Domenica lit the stove with a match. She placed the moka pot on the blue flames. The small lamp on the table flickered in the dark. She sat down and waited for the espresso to percolate.
The leather suitcase she had packed the night before belonged to her father. When Pietro Cabrelli was young, he had apprenticed with a goldsmith in Barcelona to learn soldering and filigree. His father, Michele, had given Pietro a suitcase for his first trip abroad. Eventually Pietro took the bag to India and Africa. Now it was filled with Domenica’s clothes, though she wouldn’t need them. She would wear the white uniform provided by the nuns of the Sisters of Saint Joseph of the Apparition.
“Did you sleep?” her mother asked from the doorway.
“Not at all.”
“Maybe you will sleep on the train?” Signora Cabrelli wrapped her arms around her daughter. “You must.”
“Have you ever been to France, Mama?”
“Once. In the south. I was young. I went with my cousins. We learned how to make soap.”
“I never wanted to leave you,” Domenica said softly.
“It won’t be for long.”
“That’s the only way I will survive. If I know it’s short in duration, I can get through it.”
“I want you to go to Mass. And say your rosary. Even if you have doubts, pray for me.”
“I will.”
“And I will pray for you. Your papa will be fine. He has the shop and his problems, which will never be solved, but it doesn’t matter. They keep his mind occupied.”
“I know you wanted to help, Mama, but why did you go to the priest?”
“You are my child and I am your advocate. I will fight anyone, any army, any cleric, even the pope himself, on your behalf. I was so angry when the priest punished you I wanted to take the cathedral down to its studs with an ax. That is my church. My faith. I have never missed a Sunday Mass or a holy day of obligation. Your father and I tithe. The Church has not survived for centuries because of the priests. The gold robes don’t scare me. The cardinals and bishops and the monsignors can talk to me and I will set their heads straight. I went to the priest because I believed I could change his mind. But he was impossible. He said if he allowed you to stay, every woman in the village would hear of your medical knowledge and come to you for a pamphlet, and soon there would be no babies in Viareggio! Imagine the stupidity of such a statement. I almost told him what he could do with his immortal soul, but your papa makes the chalices for Roma, and we can’t afford to lose the business.”
“Mama, it would be the first time in your life you held your tongue.”
“Well, there’s the greater good, isn’t there? I know how it works. And it’s not worth it. Do your penance and come home, and we’ll never speak of it again.”
Domenica swallowed hard. She thought her mother was na?ve, and for that matter, she thought Pretucci was too. She knew what it meant to be marked in a small village. Silvio Birtolini was almost stoned to death for being born in illegitimacy. She remembered how they treated Vera Vietro. Locals treated Domenica like Vera. They looked past her in public, as though Domenica did not exist. Any good Domenica had done was forgotten. Even if you were well liked, even if you served them, there was no defense against the powerful. They could discard you on a whim.
Mama made the coffee just as her daughter liked it. Netta set the espresso pot off to the side, flipped the hatch on the icebox in the floor, removing a tin canister of fresh cream. She heated the cream in a small pot on the blue flames until it foamed, pouring the espresso and cream into a small bowl. Netta measured a teaspoon of sugar on a spoon and placed it in the bowl before handing it to her daughter.
Domenica drank the sweet coffee and cream slowly, savoring it. She didn’t know if they made caffè in Marseille the way her mother made it in Viareggio. For most of her life, this had been her breakfast. She couldn’t imagine the morning without it. She placed the bowl on the table. “I don’t want to go, Mama.”
“Domenica, don’t say it. You have to be strong. You must not cry. You must not let them break you.”
“I’m being punished for doing my job.”
“You’re the only educated woman in this town. The village is not big enough for your mind.”
Domenica worried about her mother’s blunt tongue. “Mama, you have to be careful of what you say to powerful people. I counted more periscopes. They’re here.”
“The Germans?”