“That used to hurt, Pino. Now it’s just what everyone says.”
“Well,” he said, still struggling with the news. “Tell me about him.”
It had been an arranged marriage. Her mother, who continued to blame Anna for her husband’s death, was keen on getting rid of her and put up a house she’d inherited as dowry. His name was Christian.
“He was very handsome,” Anna said with a bittersweet smile. “An army officer. Ten years older than me the day we were married. We had a wedding night and a two-day honeymoon before he was shipped off to North Africa. He died defending a desert town called Tobruk, three years ago now.”
“Did you love him?” Pino asked, his throat closed tight.
Anna cocked her chin and said, “Was I crazy for him as he set out to fight Mussolini’s stupid war? No. I barely knew him. There’d been no time for real love to kindle, much less burn. But I admit I liked the idea of falling in love with him when I believed he would return to me.”
Pino could see she was telling the truth. “But you . . . made love to him?”
“He was my husband,” she said, irritated. “We made love for two days, and then he went to war and died and left me to fend for myself.”
Pino thought about that. He looked into Anna’s searching, wounded eyes and felt the music stir in his chest. “I don’t care,” he said. “It only makes me adore you more, admire you more.”
Anna blinked back tears. “You’re not just saying that?”
“No,” Pino said. “So can I say I love you?”
She hesitated, but then nodded and came to him shyly.
“You can show me you love me, too,” Anna said.
They lit a candle and drank the third bottle of Chianti. Anna undressed for Pino. She helped him from his clothes, and they lay down on a bed they made of pillows, cushions, sheets, and blankets on the living room floor.
Had she been any woman other than Anna, Pino might have fixated on the thrill of her skin and touch. But beyond her lips’ beckoning and her eyes’ bewitching, Pino was seized by something much more compelling and primal, as if Anna were not human but a spirit, a melody, a perfect instrument of love. They caressed, they joined, and in that first ecstasy, Pino felt himself fuse with Anna’s soul as deeply as her body.
Chapter Twenty-Three
There was no sleep and no war for Pino that night, only Anna and the pleasure of their duet.
As dawn came on Christmas Day 1944, they drowsed in each other’s arms.
“Best present ever,” Pino said. “Even without Dolly’s outfits.”
Anna laughed. “They’re not my size anyway.”
“Makes me glad the sentries didn’t demand a fashion show.”
She laughed again and slapped him softly. “Me, too.”
Pino began to drift and was right on the verge of falling off into a deep, satisfied sleep when he heard the sound of boots coming down the hall from the bedrooms. He jumped up, clawing for the Walther in his holster on a chair. He got it and spun around.
Already aiming a rifle at his brother, Mimo said, “Merry Christmas, Nazi boy.”
Mimo bore a nasty, livid scar down the left side of his face. The rest of him looked as battle-hardened as the German soldiers down along the Gothic Line. Uncle Albert had reports that Mimo had engaged in ambush and sabotage, that he had seen combat and shown great courage in battle. By the hard patina to Mimo’s eyes, Pino knew it was true.
“What happened to your face?” Pino asked.
Mimo sneered. “A Fascist put a knife through it and left me for dead, coward.”
“Who’s a coward?” Anna said, standing up angrily with the sheets around her.
Mimo took one look at her, shook his head at Pino, and said with disgust, “Not only are you a coward and a traitor, you bring some whore to Mama and Papa’s house on Christmas and screw her in the living room!”
Before he even felt rage, Pino flipped the pistol, caught it by the barrel, and whipped it overhand at his brother. The Walther hit the wounded cheek, threw Mimo off balance, and he howled with pain. Pino came over the couch in two huge bounds, tried to punch his brother in the face. Mimo dodged and tried to hammer him with the rifle butt. Pino grabbed the gun, twisted it from his brother’s grasp, and hit Mimo in the gut the way Tito had hit him back at Casa Alpina. It was enough to blow the wind out of his brother and send him sprawling backward onto the dining room floor.
Pino tossed the rifle aside, leaped astride Mimo, and grabbed him by the throat, wanting to drive a fist into his younger brother’s face, once and hard, wound or not. But as he cocked back, Anna cried out.
“No, Pino! Someone will hear, and then everything will have been for nothing.”
Pino desperately wanted to hit him but released his throat and spun off him to his feet.
“Who is he?” Anna asked.
“My little brother,” Pino said with loathing.
“Used to be your brother,” Mimo said from the floor with equal hatred.
Pino said, “Get out of here before I change my mind and kill you on Christmas.”
Mimo looked like he wanted to go at him, then settled back on his elbows. “Someday, very soon, Pino, you’re going to hate yourself for turning traitor. The Nazis will fall, and when they do, may God have mercy on you.”
Mimo got to his feet and picked up his rifle. He didn’t glance back but walked down the hall toward the bedrooms and disappeared.
“You should have told him,” Anna said after Mimo was gone.
“He can’t know. It’s for his own good. And mine.”
Pino was suddenly shivering. Anna opened the blankets wrapped around her and said, “You look cold and alone.”
Pino smiled and went to her. She wrapped the blankets around them both and held him tight, saying, “I’m sorry that had to happen to you on Christmas morning, after the most wonderful night of my life.”
“Was it?”
“You’re a natural,” she said, and kissed him.
He grinned sheepishly. “Think so?”
“Oh, my, yes.”
Anna and Pino lay down again and, snuggled in each other’s arms, drifted off into the last good sleep they’d have for weeks.
Storm after storm struck northern Italy in the following days. New Year’s brought bitter Russian winds and snow that further buried the landscape in dull whites and sullen grays. For Milan, it was the cruelest winter on record.