“Not yet. The Italians. Regia Marina. Il Duce’s Royal Navy.”
“Your father and I will work hard whatever comes.”
“Trust no one, Mama. I mean that.”
Netta sat down at the table with her daughter. “If they come for us, I won’t fight it.”
“You should go now. Don’t wait.” Domenica fretted. “We have our cousins on the mountain. They will take you in.”
“I’ll talk to your father.”
“And don’t worry about me. I’ll do my work and come home as soon as I can.”
“Stay close to the nuns.” Netta embraced Domenica.
“Stay away from them. No daughter of mine is going to be a nun,” Cabrelli said as he joined them in the kitchen.
“They don’t want me, Papa.”
“I don’t care if they do. They can’t have you. You would rely on charity for your clothes and food and a pair of new shoes. You would be nothing more than a chaste beggar. No daughter of mine will ever accept charity. Besides, the shoes are ugly.”
“Don’t worry, Papa. I can provide my own shoes. And they’ll be pretty. See?” Domenica showed her father the black leather dress shoes the local cobbler had made for her.
“Remember, the nuns are crafty. Don’t let them talk you into their way of life. They make a lot of noise about how wonderful the cloistered life can be when they come through with their missions. When they traveled through, I hid you. They let the families believe that in offering their daughters for service, they would be taken care of too.” Her father placed his gold pocket watch in her hand. “You take this.”
“Papa. You need your watch.”
“I want you to have it.”
“It should go to Aldo.”
“I decide who gets my watch.”
“Thank you, Papa.” Domenica placed the watch in her pocket.
“When you own something of value, people assume you are worth something too. Wear the watch so they know your worth.” Papa kissed her on the cheek and went to the front door. He picked up her suitcase.
“It’s time.” Mama stood. She put her arm around her daughter. They walked together in silence to the front door.
Papa opened the front door. It was dark, but the first glow of sunrise peeked over the village with its waxy fingers on the horizon. A crowd had gathered on the street in front of their home. Domenica could make out the faces of her cousins from Via Firenze and some of her old friends from school. Even her boss, Pretucci, on his way to work, stood with them and held his medical bag as if he, too, were going on a trip.
A cheer went up in the crowd as Domenica greeted them. Signora Griffo presented Domenica with a bouquet of flowers. “What has been done to you is wrong,” she said as her warm breath made a small cloud in the cold air, “and we know it.”
Pretucci and Griffo led the group to the train station on foot. Soon the street was bathed in morning light; each door, window, stucco wall, and rooftop appeared gilded as they passed. Perhaps Domenica was being punished for taking her village for granted. She had not been grateful enough. The group walked in silence. The only sounds were their soft footfalls on the cobblestones punctuated by the occasional squeak Domenica’s new shoes made as she walked. Why had her mother insisted on new shoes? The same reason her father made her take his gold watch. If Domenica Cabrelli looked like she was a young woman of means, she would be treated as one.
Domenica had only traveled as far north as Sestri Levante on the Gulf of Genoa and as far south as the outskirts of Roma. She had never left her country, or navigated a strange new place alone. “I’ve never changed trains, Papa. What if something goes wrong?”
“You will be fine,” her father reassured her, as if he read her mind. “Look up, read the schedule, find the platform number, and go to the platform.” She nodded. She would take the seven a.m. train to Genoa, where she would board a French train that would take her to Nice and on to her final destination to Marseille by the sea. Maybe it would be warm there too; maybe it would feel familiar. Maybe she would be all right.
As Domenica stepped onto the platform, the crowd murmured their goodbyes. She turned and waved to them, thinking it would not be long until she saw them again. That thought would keep her from crying. She climbed the steps to enter the train car. Through the window, Domenica saw her mother wave a handkerchief and smile, but Domenica could see the tears streaking her face. Her father removed his hat and held it over his chest so his daughter would not see his heart break.