The Shoemaker's Wife

Chapter 3

A SILVER MIRROR

Uno Specchio d’Argento

Six winters had passed since Caterina Lazzari left her sons at the convent.

The terrible winter of 1909–10 finally came to an end, like a penance fulfilled. Spring arrived, bringing a daisy sun and warm breezes, thawing every cliff, trail, and ridge, releasing rushing streams of clear, cold water down the mountainside like flowing blue hair ribbons on a girl.

It seemed that all the residents of Vilminore had come outside and taken a moment to lift their faces to the apricot sky, absorb the warmth of it. There was much to do, now that spring had arrived. It was time to open the windows, roll up the rugs, wash the linens, and prepare the gardens.

The nuns of San Nicola never rested.

When Caterina did not return for them the summer after she left them at San Nicola, her sons had learned not to count on her promises. They let the disappointment wash over them like the waterfall showers they took in the lake above Vilminore. When they finally received a letter from their mother, cloistered in a convent without a return address, they stopped begging Sister Ercolina to let them go to her, since that was clearly impossible. Instead, they vowed to find her as soon as their time at San Nicola was done. No matter how long it might take, Eduardo was determined to bring his mother back to Vilminore. When the sisters told them Caterina was “getting better,” they believed she would. They imagined their mother in the care of the nuns in some faraway place, because Sister Ercolina assured them this was true.

Besides the upkeep and care of the convent and church of San Nicola, the sisters ran the local school, Parrocchia di Santa Maria Assunta e di San Pietro Apostolo. They were responsible for the housekeeping of the rectory and providing meals for the new village priest, Don Raphael Gregorio. They also did his laundry, maintained his vestments, and took care of the altar linens. The nuns were no different from any of the working people on the mountain, except that their padrone wore a Roman collar.

The Lazzari brothers, now teenagers, were as much a part of convent life as the nuns themselves. They were aware of all they missed, but instead of grieving for their father and pining for their mother, they learned to use their emotions to fuel their ambition. They learned how to fend off sadness and quell despair by staying busy like the sisters of San Nicola. This life lesson, learned by the sisters’ example, would carry them through.

The Lazzari brothers made themselves indispensable to the nuns, just as Caterina had hoped. Ciro had taken over most of the chores assigned to Ignazio Farino, the old convent handyman, who, at nearly sixty, was looking for a pipe, a shade tree, and an endless summer. Ciro rose early and worked until night, tending the fireplaces, milking the cow, churning the butter, twisting fresh braids of scamorza cheese, chopping wood, shoveling coal, washing windows, scrubbing floors, while Eduardo, the scholar with a gentle nature, was chosen to work as a secretary in the convent office. His artful penmanship was put to use answering correspondence and placing marks on report cards. Eduardo also hand-printed the programs for holiday masses and high holy days in elegant calligraphy. Eduardo, certainly the more devout of the two brothers, also rose at dawn to serve the daily mass in the chapel and ring the chimes in early evening to summon the sisters to vespers.

Ciro was a strapping fifteen-year-old, having grown to nearly six feet tall. The convent diet of eggs, pasta, and wild game had made him robust and healthy. With his sandy brown hair and blue-green eyes, he made a vivid contrast to the dark, regal Italian natives of these mountains. His thick eyebrows, straight nose, and full lips were characteristic of the Swiss, who resided just over the border to the north. Ciro’s temperament, however, remained pure Latin. The sisters had tamed his quick temper by forcing him to sit quietly and say the rosary. He learned persistence and discipline by their example, and humility from his desire to please the women that took him in. There wasn’t anything Ciro wouldn’t do for the sisters of San Nicola.

Without social connections, opportunities, or a family business to inherit, Ciro and Eduardo had to create their own luck. Eduardo studied Latin, Greek, and the classics with Sister Ercolina as Ciro maintained the buildings and gardens. The Lazzari boys were convent-trained in every respect, their excellent manners learned at the table with the nuns. They had grown up without the benefit of close family, which had robbed them of much but also bestowed a certain self-sufficiency and maturity.

Ciro balanced a long wooden dowel draped with freshly pressed altar linens on his shoulder as he crossed the busy piazza. Children played close by as their mothers swept the stoops, hung out the wash, beat the rugs, and prepared the urns and flower boxes for spring plantings. The scent of fresh earth troweled into window boxes filled the air. The release after months of isolation was palpable; it was as if the mountain villages exhaled an enormous breath, finally free of the bitter cold and the layers of wool clothing that came with it.

A group of boys whistled as Ciro passed.

“Careful with Sister Domenica’s pantaloons,” a boy teased.

Ciro turned to them and made as if to butt them with the linens. “Nuns don’t wear pantaloons, but your sister does.”

The boys laughed. Ciro kept moving, and hollered back, “Say hello to Magdalena for me.”

Ciro carried himself like a general in full regalia, when in fact he wore secondhand clothes from the donation bin. He found a pair of melton pants and a chambray work shirt that fit, but shoes were always a problem. Ciro Lazzari had huge feet, so he was always searching the donation bin for bigger sizes. A brass ring on his belt loop was festooned with keys to every door in the convent and church, which jingled as he walked.

Don Gregorio insisted that altar linens be delivered through the side entrance so as not to interfere with worshippers who came in and out of the church during the day and might be compelled to put an extra coin into the poor box.

Ciro entered the sacristy, a small room off the altar. The scent of incense and beeswax filled the space like sachet in a drawer. A beam of pink light from a small rose window cut across a plain oak table in the center of the room. Along the wall, there was a standing closet for vestments.

A full-length mirror in a silver frame was hung behind the door. Ciro remembered the day the mirror showed up. He thought it odd that the priest needed a mirror; after all, there had been none in this sacristy since the fourteenth century. Don Gregorio had installed the mirror himself, Ciro found out; his vanity did not extend to asking Ciro to hang it.

A man who needs a mirror is looking for something.

Ciro placed the linens on the table, then went to the door and looked out into the church. The pews were empty except for Signora Patricia D’Andrea, the oldest and most devout parishioner in Vilminore. Her white lace mantilla was draped over her head, bowed in prayer, which gave her the look of a sad lily.

Ciro walked out into the church to replace the used altar linens. Signora D’Andrea caught his eye and glared at him. He sighed and went to the front of the altar, bowed his head, paused, genuflected, and made an obligatory sign of the cross. He looked out at Signora, who nodded her approval, and bowed his head reverently to her.

A smile curved across her lips.

Ciro carefully folded the used linens into a tight bundle and took them into the sacristy. He untied the satin ribbons, lifted the fresh linens off the dowel, and went back into the church, carrying the embroidered white altar cloth like a bridesmaid in charge of lifting the bride’s train on her wedding day.

Ciro centered the freshly starched linens on the altar. He placed the gold candlesticks on opposite corners of the altar, anchoring the linens. He reached into his pocket for a small knife, with which he trimmed the wax drippings from the candle until the taper was smooth. This gesture was in honor of his mother, who reminded him to do whatever needed to be done without anyone having to ask.

Before he went, he looked out at Signora and winked at her. She blushed. Ciro, the convent orphan, had grown up to be an effective flirt. For his part, it was simply instinct. Ciro greeted every woman he passed, tipped his secondhand hat, eagerly assisted them with their parcels, and inquired about their families. He talked to girls his own age with a natural ease that other boys admired.

Ciro charmed the women of the village, from the schoolgirls with their waxy curls to the widowed grandmothers clutching their prayer missals. He was comfortable in the company of women. Sometimes he thought he understood women better than he did his own sex. Surely he knew more about girls than Eduardo, who was so innocent. Ciro wondered what would become of his brother if he ever had to leave his convent home. Ciro imagined that he was strong enough to face the worst, but Eduardo was not. An intellectual like Eduardo needed the convent library, desk, and lamp and the connections that came through church correspondence. Ciro, on the other hand, would be able to survive in the outside world; Iggy and the sisters had taught him a trade. He could farm, make repairs, and build anything from wood with his hands. Life beyond the convent would be difficult, but Ciro had the skills to build a life.

Don Raphael Gregorio pushed the sacristy door open. He placed the tins from the poor box on the table. Don Gregorio was thirty years old, a newly minted priest. He wore a long black cassock, affixed with a hundred small ebony buttons from collar to hem. Ciro wondered if the priest appreciated how many times Sister Ercolina went over the button loops with the pressing iron to have them lie flat.

“Do you have the plantings ready for the garden?” Don Gregorio wanted to know. The priest’s bright white Roman collar offset his thick black hair. His aristocratic face, strong chin, small, straight nose, and heavy-lidded brown eyes gave him the sleepy look of a Romeo instead of the earnest gaze of a wise man of God.

“Yes, Father.” Ciro bowed his head in deference to the priest, as the nuns had taught him.

“I want the walkway planted with daffodils.”

“I got your note, Padre.” Ciro smiled. “I will take care of everything.” Ciro lifted the dowel off the table. “May I go, Don Gregorio?”

“You may,” the priest answered.

Ciro pushed the door open.

“I’d like to see you at mass sometime,” Don Gregorio said.

“Padre, you know how it is. If I don’t milk the cow, there’s no cream. And if I don’t gather the eggs, the sisters can’t make the bread. And if they can’t make the bread, we don’t eat.”

Don Gregorio smiled. “You could do your chores and still find time to attend mass.”

“I guess that’s true, Father.”

“So I’ll see you at mass?”

“I spend a lot of time in church sweeping up, washing windows. I figure if God is looking for me, He knows where to find me.”

“My job is to teach you to seek Him, not the other way around.”

“I understand. You have your job, and I have mine.”

Ciro bowed his head respectfully. He hoisted the empty wooden dowel to his shoulder like a rifle, took the bundle of linens to be washed and pressed, and went. Don Gregorio heard Ciro whistle as he went down the path that would soon be planted with yellow flowers, just as he had ordered.

Ciro pushed open the door to the room he and Eduardo shared in the garden workhouse. At first the boys had lived in the main convent, in a cell on the main floor. The room was small and noisy; the constant shuffle of the nuns in transit from the convent to the chapel kept the boys awake, while the gusts of winter from the entrance door opening and closing made the room drafty. They were happy when the nuns decided to give them a permanent space away from the main convent.

The sisters had moved the boys out to the garden workhouse in a large room with good light, knowing that growing boys needed privacy and a quiet place to study. Sister Teresa and Sister Anna Isabelle had done their best to make the room cozy. They cleared the cluttered storage room of flowerpots, cutting bins, and old-fashioned garden tools that hung on the walls like sculptures. The nuns installed two neat cots with a wool blanket for each boy and pillows as flat as the communion wafers. There was a desk and an oil lamp, a ceramic pitcher and bowl on a stand near the desk. As it goes with the ranks of the working religious, their basic needs were met, and nothing more.

Eduardo was studying when Ciro came in and fell onto his cot.

“I prepped every fireplace.”

“Thanks.” Eduardo didn’t look up from his book.

“I caught a glimpse of Sister Anna Isabelle in her robe.” Ciro rolled over on his back and unsnapped the key ring from his belt loop.

“I hope you looked away.”

“Had to. I can’t be unfaithful.”

“To God?”

“Hell, no. I’m in love with Sister Teresa,” Ciro teased.

“You’re in love with her chestnut ravioli.”

“That too. Any woman who can make eating chestnuts bearable through a long winter is the woman for me.”

“It’s the herbs. A lot of sage and cinnamon.”

“How do you know?”

“I watch when she cooks.”

“If you’d ever get your head out a book, you might be able to get a girl.”

“Only two things interest you. Girls and your next meal.” Eduardo smiled.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You have a good mind, Ciro.”

“I use it!”

“You could use it more.”

“I’d rather get by on my looks, like Don Gregorio.”

“He’s more than his appearance. He’s an educated man. A consecrated man. You need to respect him.”

“And you shouldn’t be afraid of him.”

“I’m not afraid of him. I honor him.”

“Ugh. The Holy Roman Church is of no interest to me.” Ciro kicked off his shoes. “Bells, candles, men in dresses. Did you see Concetta Martocci on the colonnade?”

“Yes.”

“What a beauty. That blond hair. That face.” Ciro looked off, remembering her. “And that figure.” Ciro whistled.

“She’s been in the same class at Santa Maria Assunta for three years. She’s not very bright.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to sit around and read all the time. Maybe she wants to see the world. Maybe she wants me to take her for a ride.”

“Take her on your bicycle.”

“You really don’t know anything about girls. You have to offer them the best and nothing less.”

“Who’s teaching you the ways of women? Iggy?”

“Sister Teresa. She told me that women deserve respect.”

“She’s correct.”

“I don’t know about all of that.” It seemed to Ciro that respect wasn’t something to spread around like hay on the icy walkways in winter. Maybe it should be earned.

“If you showed a little spiritual initiative, if you bothered to go to mass once in a while, maybe Don Gregorio would loan you the cart,” Eduardo said.

“You’re on good terms with him. Ask him if I can borrow it.”

“You’ll have to walk, then. I’m not asking him.”

“Saving your favors for something more important?”

“What could be more important than Concetta Martocci?” Eduardo said drily. “Let’s think. The priest’s cart delivers medicine to the sick. Takes old people to see the doctor. Takes food to the poor—”

“All right, all right. I understand. My heart’s desire is not an act of mercy.”

“Not even close.”

“I’ll just have to think of other ways to impress her.”

“You work on that, and I’ll study Pliny,” Eduardo said, pulling the lamp close to his book.

Every Friday morning, Don Gregorio said mass for the children of the school. They walked into church silently and reverently, in two lines, the youngest students first, led by Sister Domenica and Sister Ercolina.

The girls wore gray wool jumpers, white blouses, and blue muslin aprons, while the boys wore dark blue slacks and white shirts. On weekends their mothers washed the navy-and-white uniforms and hung them on clotheslines throughout the village. From a distance, drying in the sun, they resembled maritime flags.

Ciro stood behind a pillar in the overhead gallery of San Nicola, above the pews and out of the sight line of Don Gregorio. Only two boys Ciro’s age remained in school; most had quit by the age of eleven to work in the mines. Roberto LaPenna and Antonio Baratta were the exception, and at fifteen, they planned to become doctors. Roberto and Antonio processed to the front of the church, genuflected, and went into the sacristy to put on their red robes to serve the mass for Don Gregorio.

Ciro watched the teenage girls file into a pew. Anna Calabrese, studious and plain, had lovely legs, slender ankles, and small feet; Maria DeCaro, lanky and nervous, had a long waist and slim hips; chubby Liliana Gandolfo had full breasts, nice hands, and a perpetual look of indifference in her brown eyes.

Finally, Concetta Martocci, the most beautiful girl in Vilminore, slipped into the pew on the end. The sight of her filled Ciro with longing. Concetta was usually late to mass, so Ciro figured she was about as devout as he was. Her nonchalance extended to every aspect of her unstudied beauty.

Concetta’s blond hair, the exact color of the gold embroidery on Don Gregorio’s vestments, hung loosely over her shoulders, pulled off her face with two slim braids wrapped around her head like a laurel wreath. She was delicate and pale, her coloring like vanilla cake with a dusting of powdered sugar. Her deep blue eyes were the shade of the ripples on Lake Endine, her inky eyelashes like the black sand that colored the shoreline. She was curvy but small-boned. Ciro imagined he could carry her easily.

Ciro slid down the pillar to the floor, leaned back against the column, and peered through the railing as he reveled in the unobstructed view of his object of desire for a full, uninterrupted hour.

As Concetta followed the mass, she would glance up and look at the rose window over the altar, then down to the words in the open missal in her hands.

O salutaris Hostia,

Quae caeli pandas ostium,

Bella premut hostilia,

Da robur, fer auxilium.

Ciro imagined kissing Concetta’s dewy pink lips as they pronounced the rote Latin. Who invented women? Ciro wondered as he observed her. Ciro may not have believed in the promises of the Holy Roman Church, but he had to admit that God was on to something if He invented beauty.

God made girls, and that made Him a genius, Ciro thought as the girls rose from the kneeler and filed into the main aisle.

Ciro peered around the column to watch Concetta kneel at the communion rail. Don Gregorio slipped the small communion wafer onto Concetta’s tongue, and she bowed her head and made the sign of the cross before rising. Her smallest movements had an anticipatory quality. Ciro didn’t take his eyes off her as she followed the other girls back to the pew.

Sensing his stare, Concetta looked up into the gallery. Ciro caught her eye and smiled at her. Concetta pursed her lips, then bowed her head in prayer.

Don Gregorio intoned, “Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”

The students responded, “Amen.” They rose from the kneelers and sat back in the pews.

Liliana leaned over and whispered something to Concetta, who smiled. Ciro took in the smile, a bonus on this spring morning—usually there were no smiles during mass. One brief glimpse of her white teeth and perfect dimple made getting up at dawn to open the church worth the effort.

Ciro planned his day around the hope of running into Concetta. He might change course on a morning errand for a glimpse of her walking from the school to the church. He’d go hungry and miss supper for a quick “Ciao, Concetta” as she strolled by with her family during la passeggiata. One smile from her was enough to keep him going; she inspired him to do better, to be better. He hoped to impress Concetta with aspects of his character she might not have seen, like the fine manners drilled into him by the nuns. Good manners in young men seemed to matter to young ladies. If Ciro got the chance, he knew he could make Concetta happy. He remembered, in the deepest shadows of his memory, his father doing the same for his mother.

The students knelt for the final blessing.

“Dominus vobiscum.” Don Gregorio extended his arms heavenward.

The students responded, “Et cum spiritu tuo.”

“Vade in pace.” Don Gregorio made the sign of the cross in the air.

Ciro watched as Concetta slipped the missal into the holder in the back of the pew. Mass had ended. Ciro was to go in peace. But he wouldn’t, not anytime soon, not as long as Concetta Martocci was in the world.

There was a field of orange lilies near the waterfall above Schilpario where the Ravanelli children played. When the spring came, the sun burned hot, but the mountain breezes were cool and invigorating. Those days di caldo e freddo only lasted until Easter, and Enza took full advantage of them. She gathered up her brothers and sisters every afternoon and took them up the mountain.

The aftereffects of the harsh winter were apparent in the landscape, mottled from the assault of heavy rain, snow, and ice. Pale green shoots pushed through the brown branches as tangled mounds of low brush in the ravines thawed out in the sun. The depressions in the earth along the trail where water had pooled and frozen were now pits of black mud. The rushing waters had left thick striae of silt as the snow melted too fast and overflowed down the cliffs. But it didn’t matter; after months of gray, everywhere she looked, Enza saw green.

Enza was relieved every year when spring arrived at last. These majestic mountains were terrifying in the winter; the glittering snow could turn dangerous as wily avalanches buried houses and rendered roads impassable. There was the constant fear of sudden and prolonged isolation, food shortages, and sickness gripping families who might need medicine and had no access to a doctor.

It was as if the sun set the village free.

In spring, the children scattered through the Alps like dandelion puffs. The mornings were filled with chores—fetching water, gathering sticks, scrubbing clothes, hanging the wash, and prepping the garden. The afternoons were spent at play, as the children flew kites made of strips of old muslin, floated in the shallow pool under the waterfall, or read in the shade of the pine trees.

Primavera in the Italian Alps was like a jewelry box opened in sunlight. Clusters of red peonies like ruffles of taffeta framed pale green fields, while wild white orchids climbed up the glittering graphite mountain walls. The first buds of white allium lined the trail as clusters of pink rhododendron blossoms burst through the dark green foliage.

There was no hunger in the spring and summer; the mountain provided food and drink, as the children plucked sweet blackberries from the thickets and cupped their hands and drank the clean, cold water of the streams.

The girls collected baskets of wild pink asters to place in the outdoor shrine at the feet of the statue of Mary while the boys found smooth lavender fieldstones to haul down the mountain to enclose their families’ garden. The children took all their meals alfresco, and their naps in the mountain grass.

Spring was the gift after the deprivation of the long winter, and summer was the highest dream of all, with its hot sun, sapphire sky and blue lakes, and tourists with their pockets full of silver to spend on holiday. The children welcomed the visitors, who generously tipped them for carrying their bags or running errands. In return, the children offered them small baskets of raspberries and fresh lemonade.

Enza hauled the food hamper up the mountain, following the path to the lake. She inhaled the crisp mountain air tinged with sweet pine and felt the hot sun on her neck. She smiled because the chores of the morning were behind her, and she had a new book to read. The Scarlet Pimpernel was nestled in the basket next to the fresh cakes her mother baked. Her teacher, Professore Mauricio Trabuco, had given it to her as a prize for having the best marks in her class.

“Come on, Stella.” Enza turned to look for her baby sister, who lagged behind. Stella was five years old, with long, wavy hair that Enza braided every morning. She had stopped on the path and picked a yellow buttercup. “There are lots of flowers in the field.”

“But I like this one,” Stella said.

“So pick it,” Enza said impatiently. “Andiamo.”

Stella yanked the yellow buttercup, held it tightly, and ran ahead of her sister on the path, scrambling up a steep knob on all fours and disappearing through the brush to follow her brothers and sisters.

“Be careful!” Enza called to her as she took the hike up the path herself. When Enza reached the top, she saw her brothers and sisters running across the green field to the waterfall. Battista rolled the cuffs of his pants. Vittorio did the same, then followed Battista into the shallow wading pool, which came up past his ankles. They began to splash, then wrestle in the water, laughing as they went.

Eliana climbed a tree in the distance, looping her long arms around the branches and hoisting herself higher and higher. Alma and Stella, on the ground, clapped for their sister to reach the top.

Enza put the basket down beside a wild thatch of orange blossoms. She flipped the lid, pulled out a muslin tablecloth, unfolded it, and laid it out on the ground, smoothing the edges. She dug in the basket for her book while keeping her eyes on her brothers and sisters, and pulled it out to read. When she saw that the children were safe at play, she lay down on her back on the edge of the cloth.

Enza held the book over her face as she read, blocking the bright sun. Soon she was in France, in the times of guillotines, palace intrigue, and a mysterious man who signs his name with a quick sketch of a red flower.

Enza read the first chapter, and then the second. She rested the book on her chest, closed her eyes. She saw herself in the book wearing a red silk shantung gown, with hair that twirled up like smooth meringue, her cheeks powdered with hot pink rouge. Enza wondered what it would be like if she lived in another place at another time, with another family, fulfilling a destiny different from her own. Who would she be? What might she become?

“We’re hungry,” Alma said.

“Is it time to eat?” Enza asked.

Alma looked up at the sun. “It’s one o’clock.”

“That looks like a pretty good guess. You’re right. It’s lunchtime. Go and get your brothers and sisters.”

Alma ran off to do as she was told while Enza unloaded the hamper. Mama had made sandwiches of mozzarella, tomato, and fresh dandelion drizzled in honey and wrapped them in fresh linen napkins. There were two sandwiches for each child, and an extra for each of the boys. There was a jug with fresh lemonade, and slices of golden pound cake.

Enza set out the feast as her brothers and sisters gathered around. The boys, wet from wading in the pool, were careful to kneel on the outer edge of the cloth. Enza pulled Stella onto her lap.

“She’s not a baby anymore,” Alma said to Enza.

“I’m going to keep her a baby forever,” Enza said. “Every family needs a baby.”

“I’m five.” Stella held up five fingers.

“This is going to be a bad year for porcini,” Battista said as he ate his sandwich. “This ground is too wet.”

“It’s too soon,” Enza told him. “Don’t worry about the porcini. You have to help Papa this summer.”

“I’d rather hunt truffles.”

“You can do both.”

“I want to make lots and lots of money. I’m gonna sell truffles to the Frenchmen. They’re suckers,” Battista said.

“You have such big plans. I’m impressed,” Eliana said, though clearly she was not.

“I’ll help Papa,” Vittorio said.

“We’ll all help Papa. He’s going to get a lot of fares this summer,” Enza said.

“Good luck. Cipi won’t last the summer,” Battista said.

“Don’t say that.” Alma’s eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t upset your sister,” Enza said. “Nobody knows how long Cipi will be around. You have to leave that up to God and Saint Francis.”

“Will Cipi go to heaven?” Stella asked.

“Someday he will,” Enza answered quietly.

“I want to go wading.” Alma stood.

The sun, high on the ridge, burned hot on the children. Even Enza felt the heat as she followed the children to the wading pool, where she took off her shoes and long woolen knee socks. She hiked up her skirt, tied it under her shirtwaist, and waded into the pool. The cold water grazed her ankles. Enza jumped as the frigid water tickled her feet.

“Let’s dance!” Stella said. Soon all the children were splashing in the cold, shallow water. Stella fell into the pool and laughed. Enza scooped her up, holding her close as Alma, Eliana, Battista, and Vittorio waded over to the waterfall to let the cold water rush over them.

Through the clear water of the pool, Enza saw something odd. As Enza leaned over to set Stella down, the child’s thin legs were magnified in the sunlight. Enza saw blue veins and splotchy maroon pools underneath Stella’s skin, darker in places, a network of them from ankle to thigh.

“Stand up, Stella.”

Stella stood in the water, the ends of her pigtails dripping like wet paintbrushes. Enza checked the back of her legs in the unforgiving light, where she saw more bruises that extended up to the top of Stella’s thighs. In a panic, Enza checked her sister’s back, and upper arms. There, too, were the bruises, like blue stones visible on the lake bottom in shallow waters.

“Eli, come here!” Enza shouted to her sister. Eliana, reedy, tall, and athletic at thirteen, trudged over in the shallow water.

“What?” She looked at Enza, pushing her hair off her face.

“Do you see these bruises?”

Eliana looked at them.

“Who hit her?” Enza insisted.

“Nobody hits Stella.”

“Did she fall?”

“I don’t know.”

“Battista!” Enza shouted. Battista and Vittorio were at the far end of the falls, peeling lichen off the stones. Enza waved them over. She gathered up Stella, took her to the cloth spread on the ground, and dried her off with her apron. Stella’s teeth chattered, and, frightened by Enza’s quick movements, she began to cry.

“What did I do?” Stella wailed.

Enza pulled her close. “Nothing, bella, nothing.” She looked up at Eliana. “We have to go home.” Her tone changed. “Now.”

A feeling of dread came over Enza as she watched her sister gather the children.

Enza counted the heads of her brothers and sisters just as her mother did when they went to neighboring villages for feast days, careful to keep track of every child, careful not to lose one to the gypsies, or in a large crowd.

Stella nestled into the warmth of her older sister, holding her tight.

Mama always said a good family has one heartbeat. No one knows you like the people you live with, and no one will take up your cause to the outside world quite like your blood relatives. Enza knew Battista’s moods, Eliana’s courage, Vittorio’s ego, Alma’s restlessness, and Stella’s peaceful nature. When one laughed, eventually they all did. When one was afraid, they did whatever they could do to shore up the other’s courage. When one was sick, soon they all felt the pain.

There was an especially deep bond between the eldest and the youngest. Enza and Stella were the beginning and end, the alpha and omega, the bookends that held all the family stories from start to finish as well as the various shades and hues of personality and temperament. As Enza held Stella closely and rocked her, the children silently gathered the lunch, cleaned up the napkins, and repacked the basket. Enza could feel Stella’s warm breath in the crook of her neck.

The boys hoisted the food hamper, while the girls helped Stella onto Enza’s back, to carry her back down the mountain. Eliana followed, keeping her hand on the small of Stella’s back, while Alma led them, kicking away any rocks or sticks on the path that could trip Enza as she carried Stella. A small tear trickled down Enza’s face. She had prayed for spring to come, but now she was afraid it had brought with it the worst of luck.