Read Online The Golden Hour by Margaret Wurtele - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret Wurtele
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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farmers than you do with your own family.” He finished chewing, then swallowed. “What is the purpose of all your education if the only people you associate with are the peasants?”
“Enrico,” Mother interrupted. “Personally, I think it’s a sign of good breeding that she’s kind to the people who work our land. That’s a quality I’ve always hoped she would have. Besides, she’s been such a source of comfort to Catarina since Pietro died. You know that.”
“Well, just see that you remember your place in the scheme of things, young lady,” he growled, not looking at Mother. “Now change your clothes.” He shoved back from the table. “I’ll meet you on the court.”
I left the house after lunch, bound for Catarina’s with a large market basket over my arm. Violetta had given me two pairs of pants—from an English soldier—and a French jacket that was much too warm for this time of year. I’d kept these hidden for a couple of days in the drawer of my dresser, and now they were flattened in the bottom of the basket, covered by a dish towel.
“I’m a complete failure,” I moaned, setting the basket on the table with a thud and collapsing into a chair. “Now what will Giorgio do? What will he think of me? I’ll probably lose my chance to help.”
Catarina, with a little smile, raised her eyebrows. She beckoned me over to a corner of the kitchen. There on the floor was a lump hidden by a colorful tablecloth. “Tonino’s in the orchard,” she said, “but keep an eye out in case he comes back. I just haven’t wanted to tell him yet.” She pulled back the tablecloth. There was the army green duffel bag, unzipped, with some of its contents spilling out. Catarina began pulling, moving the things from the bag to a pile next to it. There were two men’s shirts, several sets of underwear, a pair of boots, and some extra laces. There were two loaves of bread, a tied handkerchief full of dried beans, and—best of all—a gunnysack with three heads of lettuce, some tiny new potatoes, baby carrots, and fistfuls of peas and fresh beans. “I raided my own garden,” she said. “Thank God it’s growing well this year.”
“Oh, Catarina. I love you!” I hugged her tight. “This is perfect. Can you keep it hidden until tomorrow?” I added Violetta’s clothes to the bag.
“Whose are these?” Catarina asked.
I sobered, wondering how much to tell. “They belong to two young men who no longer need them. And their mothers are far away.” I held Catarina close again. “I’ll be back tomorrow, right after lunch.”
Chapter Five
W ar hung over us like an insistent fog. It was always there, clouding everything, separating us from one another under a blanket of secrecy and fear. Sometimes I felt as if I couldn’t breathe, as if I were fighting for air in the atmosphere that infected my relationship with my parents, with Violetta, with the sisters at school. As for the partisans, everyone knew they were hiding out in the woods and hills that surrounded us, but no one talked about it. Most people were on their side, hoping they would be able to slow the Germans down and do what they could to help the Allies’ progress. People like me, or like the wheat farmer’s wife, had family members who were among them, but they were silent on the subject.
Occasionally we would hear about a night raid on someone’s garden, root cellar, or barn, in which some rifles or a radio were stolen. Even though it was for a good cause, it annoyed those particular landowners and frightened them, since they knew that the Germans might learn of it and punish them for aiding the rebels. I felt as if we were all in some sort of play, acting out our roles indaily life, but our real selves were hidden away. What burned inside and kept me going was a sense that in deciding to help Giorgio I was doing the right thing, working toward a higher purpose despite the impostor I had become.
On Sunday morning, I went to church with
“Enrico,” Mother interrupted. “Personally, I think it’s a sign of good breeding that she’s kind to the people who work our land. That’s a quality I’ve always hoped she would have. Besides, she’s been such a source of comfort to Catarina since Pietro died. You know that.”
“Well, just see that you remember your place in the scheme of things, young lady,” he growled, not looking at Mother. “Now change your clothes.” He shoved back from the table. “I’ll meet you on the court.”
I left the house after lunch, bound for Catarina’s with a large market basket over my arm. Violetta had given me two pairs of pants—from an English soldier—and a French jacket that was much too warm for this time of year. I’d kept these hidden for a couple of days in the drawer of my dresser, and now they were flattened in the bottom of the basket, covered by a dish towel.
“I’m a complete failure,” I moaned, setting the basket on the table with a thud and collapsing into a chair. “Now what will Giorgio do? What will he think of me? I’ll probably lose my chance to help.”
Catarina, with a little smile, raised her eyebrows. She beckoned me over to a corner of the kitchen. There on the floor was a lump hidden by a colorful tablecloth. “Tonino’s in the orchard,” she said, “but keep an eye out in case he comes back. I just haven’t wanted to tell him yet.” She pulled back the tablecloth. There was the army green duffel bag, unzipped, with some of its contents spilling out. Catarina began pulling, moving the things from the bag to a pile next to it. There were two men’s shirts, several sets of underwear, a pair of boots, and some extra laces. There were two loaves of bread, a tied handkerchief full of dried beans, and—best of all—a gunnysack with three heads of lettuce, some tiny new potatoes, baby carrots, and fistfuls of peas and fresh beans. “I raided my own garden,” she said. “Thank God it’s growing well this year.”
“Oh, Catarina. I love you!” I hugged her tight. “This is perfect. Can you keep it hidden until tomorrow?” I added Violetta’s clothes to the bag.
“Whose are these?” Catarina asked.
I sobered, wondering how much to tell. “They belong to two young men who no longer need them. And their mothers are far away.” I held Catarina close again. “I’ll be back tomorrow, right after lunch.”
Chapter Five
W ar hung over us like an insistent fog. It was always there, clouding everything, separating us from one another under a blanket of secrecy and fear. Sometimes I felt as if I couldn’t breathe, as if I were fighting for air in the atmosphere that infected my relationship with my parents, with Violetta, with the sisters at school. As for the partisans, everyone knew they were hiding out in the woods and hills that surrounded us, but no one talked about it. Most people were on their side, hoping they would be able to slow the Germans down and do what they could to help the Allies’ progress. People like me, or like the wheat farmer’s wife, had family members who were among them, but they were silent on the subject.
Occasionally we would hear about a night raid on someone’s garden, root cellar, or barn, in which some rifles or a radio were stolen. Even though it was for a good cause, it annoyed those particular landowners and frightened them, since they knew that the Germans might learn of it and punish them for aiding the rebels. I felt as if we were all in some sort of play, acting out our roles indaily life, but our real selves were hidden away. What burned inside and kept me going was a sense that in deciding to help Giorgio I was doing the right thing, working toward a higher purpose despite the impostor I had become.
On Sunday morning, I went to church with
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