Domenica clutched the sleeve of train tickets in one hand and the bouquet of flowers in the other. The porter took her suitcase and guided her to her seat. There was a straight pin that fastened the velvet ribbon that held the bouquet together. The sharp end of the pin pierced her hand, but she did not feel it. Domenica Cabrelli felt nothing as she lost everything.
The train crisscrossed over the rhubarb fields, taking her farther from home with each turn of the wheels. If she hoped to return to Viareggio someday, she must stay alert. She would pay attention to the route. She would study the geography and count the local stops. As the train rolled north, Domenica would mark the tracks in her memory with points of interest as she looked out the window. A gray barn. A cement factory. A zoo. She would observe the trains running in the opposite direction, just to reassure herself that the Italian line ran both ways.
PART TWO
LET WHOEVER LONGS TO ATTAIN ETERNAL LIFE IN HEAVEN HEED THESE WARNINGS:
When considering the present, contemplate these things:
The shortness of life
The difficulty of saving your soul
The few who will be saved
CHAPTER 16
Marseille, Fcance
MARCH 1939
The South of France did not remind Domenica Cabrelli of the pearl beaches and quiet bliss of the Ligurian coast, yet at first sight, it had its charms. The squat, white stucco homes built by the Greeks centuries earlier were tucked between new Art Deco buildings shaped like cigarettes, with spirals that punctured the low clouds. Beyond the city, the cliffs of the Calanques massif formed a jagged green hem on the skyline.
The evening Domenica arrived in Marseille, Sister Marie Bernard of the order of Saint Joseph of the Apparition met her at the train station. The nun had been easy to spot in the crowd in her black habit and white bonnet. Her bright red cheeks, cheerful smile, and clear blue eyes indicated a happy disposition. Domenica would soon learn that they also were a sign of the nun’s constitution.
“Signorina Cabrelli,” Sister Marie Bernard greeted Domenica in Italian. “Ciao.”
The nun took Domenica’s suitcase before leading her new charge through the streets of Marseille. The nun was built like a panettone and rolled like a wheel in perpetual motion. Domenica skipped to keep up with her, all the while trying to take in her new home. Domenica wanted to ask Sister Marie Bernard some questions about her job. Domenica was anxious about the language and her skill set, but the nun was in a hurry. Sister cut through alleys and strode across a plaza staggered with gurgling fountains and young couples. The nun and Domenica ducked under wet laundry hanging on clotheslines that crisscrossed overhead in an alley. The scent of pine tar soap would be Domenica’s first memory of France. They passed the waterfront, whose docks were cluttered with jittery boats that bobbed up and down at the whims of the waves.
Marseille was nestled on the rocky shore of the Mediterranean Sea. There were narrow channels and wide waterways carved into the coastline, with enough slips to dock ships of all sizes. An industrial pier reached out into the sea, accommodating the ocean liners. Cruisers from Monte Carlo carried gamblers, yachts brought the wealthy, while the local skiffs brought nets overflowing with fresh fish. This was not a city of trains and automobiles; it was a city of boats.
Fatima House, the official dormitory of the nurses of Saint Joseph, was on the end of rue de Calais with a view of the harbor and the sea beyond it. H?pital Saint Joseph was next door to the dormitory. The nuns lived on the upper floor of the hospital, close to the action. The complex, which included a large outdoor garden, fenced in by a nine-foot stone wall, gave the nuns a private sanctuary.
“Benvenuta alla tua nuova casa,” Sister Marie Bernard said cheerfully. “Breakfast at five a.m. Sister Juliette makes fresh croissants on Wednesdays and eclairs on Saturdays. During Lent, no eclairs.” Sister frowned.
Domenica followed the nun up the stairs. “Three to four nurses to a room,” Sister Marie Bernard huffed as she climbed. “You’ll find the living spaces nice enough. I don’t know what you’re used to. We provide your soap and shampoo. I make it myself. I grow the lavender and keep the bees, so I know it’s the best. Some of the girls don’t want to leave Saint Joseph’s because of the soap.”
Domenica laughed. “I’ll let you know if it’s reason enough to stay, Sister.”
“The secret is the frankincense. Flowers and honey together can be awfully sweet, so I cut the crème with a smidge of frankincense.” Sister Marie Bernard rapped on the door of 307. “Girls must be out. Sorry. No roommates to welcome you.” Sister Marie Bernard reached under her cassock and found the door key on a ring loaded with them. She unlocked the door and flipped on the light. The room had three beds. The nightstands of two were cluttered with hairbrushes, books, and ashtrays. A single bed was made in the alcove with a white coverlet and pillow. The nightstand was clear. The breeze from the open window fluttered the sheers. “You’re over here, Cabrelli.” Sister placed the suitcase on the bench at the end of the bed. “Lucky you. You’re in a triple.”