Beneath a Scarlet Sky

“It’s so beautiful,” Anna said. “I see why you love it here.”


“I’ve stood here a thousand times, and it still doesn’t look real to me, like it’s God’s vision, nothing human about it, you know?”

“I do.”

“Let me take a picture of you here,” Anna said, pulling out General Leyers’s camera.

“Where did you get that?”

“In the glove compartment. I’ll just keep the film and put the camera back.”

Pino hesitated, and then shrugged. “Okay.”

“Stand in profile,” she said. “Chin up, and get your hair back. I want to see your eyes.”

Pino tried, but the breeze kept blowing his curly hair over his eyes.

“Hold on,” Anna said, digging in her purse. She came up with a white headband.

“I’m not going to wear that,” Pino said.

“But I want to see your eyes in the picture.”

Seeing how disappointed she’d be if he didn’t go along, Pino took the headband, put it on, and made a funny face to make her laugh. Then he stood in profile, lifted his chin, and smiled.

She clicked the camera twice. “Perfect. I’ll always remember you like this.”

“Wearing a headband?”

“So I could see your eyes,” Anna protested.

“I know,” he said, and hugged her.

When they broke, he pointed to the far northern stretch of the lake. “Up there, below the snow line? That’s Motta, where Father Re runs Casa Alpina. The place I told you about.”

“I remember,” Anna said. “Do you think he’s still helping them? Father Re?”

“Of course,” Pino said. “Nothing gets in the way of his faith.”

In the next moment he thought about Platform 21. It must have shown in his face, because Anna said, “What’s wrong?”

He told her about what he’d seen on the platform and how terrible he’d felt watching the red cattle cars pull away, and the tiny fingers waving.

Anna sighed, rubbed his back, and said, “You can’t be the hero all the time, Pino.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. You can’t carry the world’s problems on your back. You have to find some happiness in your life, and just do your best with the rest.”

“I’m happy when I’m with you.”

She seemed conflicted, but then smiled. “You know, I am, too.”

“Tell me about your mother,” Pino said.

Anna stiffened.

“Sore scar?”

“One of the sorest,” she said, and they began to walk along the lakefront.

Anna told Pino her mother went slowly crazy after her husband drowned at sea and her daughter survived. Her mother told Anna that she was responsible for her father’s death and for all the miscarriages she’d had after Anna’s birth.

“She thought I had the evil eye,” Anna said.

“You?” Pino said, and laughed.

“It’s not funny,” Anna said, dead sober. “My mother did horrible things to me, Pino. She made me think things about myself that just weren’t true. She even had priests perform exorcisms on me to cast out the demons.”

“No.”

“Yes. When I could, I left.”

“Trieste?”

“Home, and soon after, Trieste,” she said, and looked away toward the lake.

“Where did you go?”

“Innsbruck. I answered an ad, and met Dolly, and here I am. Isn’t it strange how life is always taking you to places and to people you’re supposed to see and meet?”

“You believe that about me?”

A wind came up, blew strands of her hair across her face. “I guess. Yes.”

Pino wondered whether God’s plan was for him to meet General Leyers, but when Anna brushed back her hair and smiled, he forgot all about that.

“I don’t like lipstick from Paris,” he said.

She laughed. “Where else can we go? What other beautiful place?”

“You pick.”

“Around Trieste, I could show you many places. But here, I don’t know.”

Pino thought, looked reluctantly at the lake, and then said, “I know a place.”



An hour later, Pino drove the staff car over railroad tracks and up a farm lane to the hill where his father and Mr. Beltramini had performed “Nessun Dorma,” “None Shall Sleep.”

“Why here?” Anna asked skeptically as dark clouds were rolling in.

“Let’s climb up there, and I’ll show you.”

They got out and started up the hill. Pino described the trains that had left Milan every night during the summer of 1943, how they’d all come here for safety in the thickest, sweet-smelling grass, and how he and Carletto had seen Michele and Mr. Beltramini perform a minor miracle of voice and violin.

“How did they do it?”

“Love,” Pino said. “They played con smania, with passion, but the passion came from love. There’s no other explanation. All great things come from love, don’t they?”

“I guess they do,” Anna said, and looked away. “The worst things, too.”

“What does that mean?

“Another time, Pino. Right now, I’m too happy.”

They’d reached the crest of the hill. Fifteen months before, the meadow had been green, lush, and innocent. Now, the vegetation had faded to browns. The long grass was matted, gone to stalks, and the fruit trees in the orchard were barren. The sky darkened. It began to drizzle, and then to rain, and they had to run downhill to get to the car.

When they got inside, Anna said, “I have to say, Pino, if it’s my choice, here or Cernobbio? I’ll take Cernobbio.”

“Me, too,” he said as he looked up through the rain-streaked windshield toward the hilltop gathering fog. “It’s not as wonderful as I remembered, but then again, my friends and family were there. My father played the best violin piece of his life, and Mr. Beltramini was singing to his wife. And Tullio, and Carletto, he . . .”

Overcome with emotion, Pino laid his head on his hands holding the steering wheel.

“Pino, what’s the matter?” Anna asked, alarmed.

“They’ve all left me,” he choked.

“Who left you?”

“Tullio, and my best friend, even my brother. They think I’m a Nazi and a traitor.”

“Can’t you tell them you’re a spy?”

“I shouldn’t have even told you.”

“Oh, that’s a lot to bear,” she said, rubbing his shoulder. “But they’ll know eventually, Carletto and Mimo, when the war’s over. And Tullio? The best thing is to grieve for the people you loved and lost, and then welcome and love the new people life puts in front of you.”

Pino picked his head up. They gazed at each other for several long moments before Anna put her hand in his, leaned close, and said, “I don’t care about the lipstick anymore.”





PART FOUR

THE CRUELEST WINTER





Chapter Twenty-Two


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