The Man from Tuscany. Catherine Spencer

Someone you met over there, obviously.”

      “Yes,” I said, studiously avoiding her gaze. “A friend. We promised we’d keep in touch.”

      I’d been home nearly two weeks. Although the skies remained clear, the days were growing shorter, the nights cooler and the maples turning color. Fall had always been my favorite season, until this year when each hour was a purgatory to be endured.

      Every day, the news from Europe grew more ominous. On September 10, Canada had joined the Allies. The war had reached North American shores, after all. But Italy was still uninvolved, and the sight of that flimsy blue envelope with its foreign stamp, the first from Marco, sent such a wash of relief over me that I thought I might be sick.

      My mother watched me, smiling. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

      “Later.” I moved away, busying myself with the dishes our housekeeper had set on the sideboard in the breakfast room. “After I’ve eaten.”

      But the bacon and hotcakes turned my stomach. “I hardly call that eating,” my father remarked, eyeing my slice of toast and cup of coffee as he rose from the table. “What happened to your appetite?”

      “I’m not very hungry lately.”

      “That’s not normal for a girl your age.” He paused long enough to drop a kiss on my head and another on my mother’s cheek. “Perhaps you should take her to see Dr. Grant, Isabelle. Could be she needs a tonic.”

      “Your father’s right,” my mother observed after he’d gone. “Lately you’re not yourself at all, Anna. You’re pale and listless. I hope you didn’t pick up some sort of disease when you were away.”

      For a moment, I was tempted to tell her that I had, and it was fatal—that I’d fallen desperately in love with a handsome Italian and was heartsick at being separated from him.

      “Travel can be exhausting,” she continued sympathetically. “Your aunt Patricia remarked just yesterday that she’s still not back to normal. She mentioned, too, that you tired easily when you were away, even though you and Genevieve were never late getting to bed. I suppose, if the truth be known, the pair of you spent half the night talking when you should’ve been sleeping, and now it’s catching up with you.”

      “That’s probably it,” I mumbled, ashamed not that I’d spent so many nights in Marco’s arms, but that I was lying about it and perhaps hiding an even bigger secret, one that would devastate her should my suspicions prove correct. “Don’t worry, Momma. There really isn’t anything wrong with me that time won’t cure.” In a fever of impatience to read my letter, I added with false cheer, “I’m sure you have a million things to do besides watching me eat toast, so don’t feel you have to keep me company.”

      “Then I won’t, because you’re right. I do have a full day ahead. Will you be home for lunch?”

      “No. I’m meeting Genevieve at the yacht club.”

      “I’ll see you at dinner then. Have fun, honey, and give her a kiss for me.”

      The door had barely closed behind her when I used my butter spreader to slit open the pale blue envelope. My pulse hammered erratically as I extracted the folded sheets of paper and smoothed them flat. Did he still love me? Had distance made his heart grow fonder, or was I fading in his mind now that I was out of sight?

       I OPEN THE FOLDER on the table in front of me, extract the first page of the letter and show it to Carly. Then I begin to read:

      Firenze

      September 4, 1939

      Anna, my love,

      It has only been a few days since I watched the train to Paris take you away from me, but even in so short a time, the world as we knew it is forever changed. The war people have talked about for months has finally come to pass and I, who should fear for the future of my own country more than ever before, care only about you.

      How glad I am, tesoro, that you are safe in America. Yet how lonely I am without you. I consider myself a brave enough man, prepared to fight for what I believe is right and just, but courage is no match for the desolation I feel at knowing we shall be apart much longer than we expected.

      Adolf Hitler has changed the face of Europe. Even if it was possible, you must not think of returning to Italy until he and his Nazi thugs have been crushed. The danger is too great. To live without you a few months more than I expected will be difficult. To risk living without you forever, impossible. You have become my life, and I ask nothing more of God than for the day to come when I wake up beside you every morning, and hold you close in my arms each night.

      The news here is disturbing, amore mio. Only the most naive among us believe that Mussolini has our country’s best interests at heart. He is corrupt and evil. If he can further his own ambitions by allying himself with Adolf Hitler, he will do so without a moment’s thought for the ultimate cost to Italy. Those opposed to his regime no longer have the right to voice their opinions openly. In the last week alone, one of our group here in Firenze was “interrogated” by government officials for eight hours. He is recovering in hospital. A second has been thrown in prison. Two others have disappeared. Consequently our partisan rallies now take place in secret.

      I am desolate at what all this implies, but as long as you are safe, my memories of you will help me survive whatever restrictions or hardships I must face. If my English were more fluent, I might find it easier to express the depth of emotion you inspire in me. But it is not, and so all I can say is I love you, my Anna. I miss you. And I count the hours until we can be together again. Until then, know that I carry you deep in my heart. You are with me always.

      Forever yours,

      Marco

      “I devoured every word that day, Carly,” I tell her, tracing my finger over each letter, as if, by doing so, I could touch him. “I realized I was crying when my tears blurred the ink and left great wet spots on the paper. Look, Carly.” I point at several places. “All these years later, you can see how faded some words are.”

      She bends her head close to look. Nods. Touches the paper, ever so softly.

      “I was so afraid for him,” I continue, “but I believed in him. He was brave and strong, he was alive, and most of all, he loved me still. I told myself that as long as those things remained constant, it would be enough.”

      Carly covers my hand with hers. “But it wasn’t, was it, Gran?”

      “No, it wasn’t, because nothing remains constant in war except death and destruction, not merely of cities and innocent men, women and children, but of the hopes and dreams of those who somehow manage to survive.”

       CHAPTER FOUR

       A S S EPTEMBER of 1939 progressed, mellow with sunshine during the day and sharp with a hint of frost at night, Marco and I wrote daily, without waiting for each other’s replies. But where I hid my fears, especially the one I had increasing reason to think was the legacy of our weeks together, and filled my letters with plans for our future, his took an increasingly dark turn.

      Sifting through my letters, I choose one to illustrate my point.

       There is a stillness here in Firenze, he wrote toward the end of the fourth week. A sort of calm before the storm. Mussolini’s Blackshirts are on every street corner, watchful for any hint of insurrection. Their motto, Me ne frego, means I do not give a damn, and its message begins to make itself felt in every quarter. As a result, neighbors keep to themselves and are careful in what they say. Doors open cautiously after dark to admit a stealthy visitor, and close quickly again, before he can be recognized. Shutters are drawn across windows.

       Hitler’s influence is felt ever more keenly in our country. The fellow who lives on the floor above mine, a Jewish scholar and a gentle, harmless man, was taken by the Blackshirts two days ago. There has been no word of him since and when a friend went to inquire for him at militia headquarters, he was