The Garden of Letters by Alyson Richman Read Free Book Online Page A

he’s going to come through this door any minute, demanding breakfast.”
    Her mother shook her head. “I pray you’re right.”

    Two days later, after Elodie and her mother were besieged with worry and had received not a shred of information from the police, there was a faint rapping at the door.
    When Orsina went to answer it, she discovered a very badly beaten Pietro, with one arm draped over the back of their neighbor, Giacomo.
    It was clear by the way his right leg dangled that it was broken.
    “Oh my God,” Orsina gasped, covering her mouth with one hand. “Pietro!”
    Giacomo helped bring him into the living room.
    “I found him outside your apartment just a few minutes ago. They must have dumped him there and sped off.”
    “Who?” Orsina said in disbelief. She couldn’t believe anyone could do something so savage to her gentle husband.
    Pietro looked up at her with his swollen eye and bloody lip.
    “Four Blackshirts in the
Squadrisiti
confronted me outside the music school as I was on my way home. They told me I was under investigation and took me to a place near the Roman theater. I think it was somewhere on Via Redentore where they interrogated me.
    “They bound my wrists and covered my eyes. They called me a Communist. They said I had no loyalty to my country . . . that I’ve never worn a Fascist party pin on my lapel.”
    “This is sheer craziness!” Orsina cried. She looked to Giacomo and Elodie to agree with her, but both of them were transfixed on listening only to Pietro recount his story.
    “I told them my only sin was that I played a record. I tried to tell them it was by Verdi . . . one of Italy’s greatest composers.” His tone, even through his wounds, was unmistakably sarcastic.
    “I insisted I was not anti-Fascist. That I was only a musician, just trying to listen to my record.
    “But whatever I said, they ignored my reasoning. They just kept beating me, and kept smashing me in the ear every time I mentioned music . . .”
    “They are nothing but bloody savages!” Orsina cried.
    “Orsina, please . . .” Giacomo whispered. “We don’t need them knocking on your door again. Or heaven forbid, mine . . .”
    Orsina tried to regain her composure. “No, of course not.”
    “You should call a doctor for him,” Giacomo suggested. “Do you have one you can trust?”
    “Yes, yes. Of course. We’ve used Doctor Tommasi for years.”
    “Good,” he said. “Call him and take good care of Pietro. Maria and I look forward to hearing him play his violin again soon . . .”
    “Giacomo, we are indebted for you bringing him home to us. What can we do to thank you?”
    “Nothing, Orsina. Just keep him safe and keep him away from the record player.” He kissed her on both cheeks, then squeezed her hands in his.
    “I must get back to my family now.” He shook his head and lowered his voice. “This is not the country of my childhood . . . to beat an innocent man like this makes me sick to my stomach. I fear for myself and my children now.”
    Orsina nodded as she thanked him and said good-bye. Once Giacomo left, she took a deep breath and quickly locked the door.

SIX

    Verona, Italy
    M AY 1943
    Since his return, Pietro remained bedbound. His foot was encased in a plaster cast and propped up on pillows by a diligent Orsina. He spent the majority of the day sleeping.
    “He seems to sleep more than ever, Mamma . . . Shouldn’t we be concerned he’s not trying to walk around more? Doctor Tommasi even left crutches for him, but he never attempts to use them!”
    Orsina shook her head. “Who wouldn’t be tired after receiving such a beating? If a body is tired, it should rest.”
    Elodie was not convinced. “I know if I go two days without playing, my hands feel stiff. I think he needs to get up and move around.”
    “Let’s give him a few more days, Elodie. It’s only this week that those terrible bruises on his face have started to fade. Once he gets more