CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
EPIGRAPH
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part Two
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Three
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Part Four
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ALSO BY ANTHONY CAPELLA
COPYRIGHT
“I am concerned at the increasing number of applications by officers or other ranks to marry Italians. COs must realize that everything possible will be done to discourage such marriages.”
Bulletin issued by the General Officer Commanding, No. 3 District, Naples, 5 September 1944
Part One
1
THE DAY Livia Pertini fell in love for the first time was the day the beauty contest was won by her favorite cow, Pupetta.
For as long as anyone in Fiscino could remember, the annual Feast of the Apricots had incorporated not only a competition to find the most perfect specimen of fruit from among the hundreds of tiny orchards that lined the sides of Monte Vesuvio, but also a contest to determine the loveliest young woman of the region. The former was always presided over by Livia’s father, Nino, since it was generally accepted that as the owner of the village osteria he had a more subtle palate than most, while the latter was judged by Don Bernardo, the priest, since it was thought that as a celibate he would bring a certain objectivity to the proceedings.
Of the two competitions, the beauty contest was usually the more good-natured. This was partly because it was unencumbered by the accusations of fixing, bribing and even stealing of fruit from another man’s orchard that dogged the judging of apricots, but also because the girls of the village were remarkably similar in appearance—dark-haired, olive-skinned and built along the voluptuous lines that a diet of fresh air and pasta invariably produces—and it was thus a relatively simple matter to decide which one combined these features in the most pleasing way. The apricots were another matter altogether. Each time Vesuvius erupted, it covered its slopes with a deep layer of a remarkable natural fertilizer called potash, and as a result the mountain supported dozens of species of fruit and vegetables which grew nowhere else in all Italy, a culinary advantage which more than compensated for the area’s occasional dangers. In the case of apricots, the varieties included the firm-fleshed Cafona, the juicy Palummella, the bittersweet Boccuccia liscia, the peachlike Pellecchiella and the spiky-skinned but incomparably succulent Spinosa. Each had its ardent champions, and the thought of the honor going to the wrong sort of apricot provoked almost as much debate as the decision over which farmer had produced the finest specimen of fruit.
Livia was too busy to pay much attention to either contest. A feast day meant that the little osteria would be even busier at lunchtime than usual, and she and her sister Marisa had been up since before dawn preparing the dishes that would be spread out on the tables lining the length of the terrace, where vines provided shade from the fierce midday sun. In any case, she had a rather low opinion of both kinds of competition, her view being that with apricots it very much depended on what kind of mood you were in, while in the case of female beauty all the girls in the village got stared at quite enough already. Besides, everyone knew that one of the Farelli sisters would win in the end, and she didn’t see why she should give them the satisfaction of beating her. So, while everyone else was out in the piazza, arguing, cheering, booing and clapping for the contenders, she concentrated on preparing the antipasto, deftly wrapping burrata in fresh asphodel leaves.
“Hello?” a male voice called from the little room which doubled as a bar and a dining room. “Is anyone here?”
Her hands were full of wet burrata and shreds of leaf. “No,” she shouted back.
There was a short pause. “Then I must be talking to an angel, or perhaps a ghost,” the voice suggested. “If there’s no one around, I don’t usually get an answer.”
Livia rolled her eyes. A smart-ass. “I meant, there’s no one to serve you. I’m busy.”
“Too busy to pour a glass of limoncello for a thirsty soldier?”
“Too busy even for that,” she said. “You can help yourself, and put your money on the counter. It’s what everyone else does.”
Another pause. “What if I’m not honest, and don’t leave the full amount?”
“Then I will curse you, and something very unpleasant will happen. I wouldn’t risk it if I were you.”
She heard the sound of a bottle being uncorked, and the sound of her father’s lemon spirit being generously poured into a glass. Then a young man in a soldier’s uniform appeared in the kitchen. He was holding a full glass in one hand and some coins in the other. “It occurred to me,” he said, “that if I left my money on the counter and some other rogue came along later and stole it, you would think that it was me who was the dishonest one, and something unpleasant would happen to me after all, and that would be a terrible thing. So I thought I’d bring you the money myself.”
She pointed with her elbow at the dresser. “You can put it over there.”
He was, she noticed, quite extraordinarily handsome. The black, tailored uniform recently redesigned by Mussolini showed off his lean hips and broad shoulders, and his dark eyes grinned at her from beneath a soldier’s cap that was set at a jaunty angle on the back of a mass of curls. Caramel skin, very white teeth and an expression of confident mischief completed the picture. A pappagallo, she thought dismissively, a parrot—the local expression for young men who spent their time trying to look handsome and flirting with girls.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked, leaning back against the dresser and watching her. “I thought everyone was outside.”
“I shall pray to Santa Lucia for you,” she said.
“Why’s that?” he said, surprised.
“Because you are clearly afflicted by blindness. Either that, or you’re a cretin. What does it look like I’m doing?”
This sort of remark was usually enough to deter unwelcome visitors to her kitchen, but the young soldier didn’t seem at all put out. “You look like you’re cooking,” he remarked.
“Brilliant,” she said sarcastically. “The saint has performed another miracle. You can go now; you’re completely cured.”
“You know,” he said, crossing his legs at the ankle and taking a swig from his glass, “you’re much prettier than any of those girls in the beauty contest.”
She ignored the compliment. “So that’s why you’re here. I should have guessed. You came to stare at the girls.”