Anna Hayward

Prologue

22 June 1938

River Mollarino, Apennine Mountains, Italy

Forgive me, piccina mia, little one.

Icy water rises up and grabs at the woman’s stretched, empty belly. In the makeshift sling her newborn baby wails, strong fists and feet against her mother’s swollen breasts. The baby opens her pale blue eyes, eyes that belong to a much older soul, and looks up.

The woman presses her pockets, feeling the weight of the pebbles, and she lifts her hand towards her child’s face. Her fingertips hesitate on the baby’s soft skin, the dimple on her right cheek.

She can’t do it.

Her hands plunge back into the water, and she tears at her pockets. The stones are too heavy.

The river pounds downstream, glistening in the moonlight, and swallows the wretched cries from the baby’s tiny body.

As the woman tries to edge backwards, her feet struggle on the slippery riverbed.

‘Almost safe, tesoro,’ she lies, as the baby lets out a terrified cry.

A wave hits the woman’s side.

All at once, they’re sucked down, deep into the water.

No, no, per l’amore di Dio, no.

The sling is unravelling.

The woman kicks with all her strength, but the water pulls her this way and that. Her back strikes a boulder, hard. Suddenly her head breaks the surface of the water. She’s gasping for breath, the sling clutched tight in her hand, but there is no weight to it.

‘Elisabetta!’

Her scream echoes across the valley. The water is dragging her back into its cold embrace as she hears a voice.

A young man, crying out, thrashing in the water nearby.

Just before she disappears, she sees her child in his arms.

Part One

1

April 1949

Atina, Apennine Mountains, Italy

Orfanotrofio Santa Scolastica

Adelina

I bit down on my chewed thumbnail and stared at a pockmark of crumbling plaster in our orphanage basement. The walls were bare, except for the wooden crucifix above Elisabetta’s bed.

Hurry up, Elisabetta.

Her tired hairbrush lay waiting on the blanket. I ran a strand of her silky, chestnut hair between thumb and forefinger, all the way down its length. Surely, she would be back soon for our bedtime routine. Watching in the mirror, still and quiet, while I brushed her hair one hundred times, come una principessa.

If she didn’t come back soon, I’d have to make up a story for the nun at bedtime inspection. I didn’t want to be in trouble with Sister Beatrice again.

Outside the last birds had fallen silent. With my back to the mirror, I pulled my worn nightdress over my head while wriggling out of my smock and underwear beneath. Almost transparent in places, the thin white cotton now stopped well above my knees. It clung to the breasts I hated and skimmed the dark hair down below. As I fumbled with the chipped buttons, the tight seam ripped at the armpit.

My face hot with shame, I climbed into bed and covered myself quickly with the blanket. Nobody would know that I hadn’t said my prayers. Santa Scolastica and the rest of the angels and saints could wait until tomorrow. Elisabetta would disapprove, but she didn’t need to know.

My eyes struggled to stay open while I strained to listen out for her on the stone steps. Feeding and cleaning the new babies in the nursery was hard work. But when no-one was watching, I’d get to play peek-a-boo with them. I liked how they gurgled and smiled at me.

~

When the door of our room did creak open, it made me jump.

Elisabetta slipped in, silently pulling the door closed behind her.

‘Where have you been?’ I rubbed my eyes, reaching for the light, annoyed at her for disturbing my sleep.

She touched the cracked red cover of the book she was clutching. Slight in her bright white nightdress which flowed down to her bare feet, her hair hung loose in long dark waves across her back. A mischievous grin lit up her face.

‘What have you done?’ My eyes flicked from the book back towards the door. ‘What if Sister Beatrice finds out?’

‘Così bambina! Why are you always so scared?’

She traced the gold letters on the spine of the book with a careful fingertip, her pale blue eyes flashing. ‘I’ll have it back on her shelf before she’s even noticed it’s missing.’

‘Really? Are you sure Sister Beatrice won’t—’

‘Don’t worry.’

The iron bed sighed and she patted the space beside her. ‘Come here. There’s a picture I want to show you.’ Elisabetta reached out her hand.

Her fingers curled round mine as I perched next to her, one eye still on the door. If Sister Beatrice discovered her most prized possession, Il Grande Libro dei Santi, gone under the cover of darkness, there would be no escaping her stick. She’d never believe that little Elisabetta could take her precious book about the saints. Any punishment would be mine.

Elisabetta opened the book with great solemnity, raised her hands heavenwards, and took a deep, slow breath in. She turned and scowled at me.

We couldn’t hold in the giggles for long. Mimicking Padre Bosco was one of her many talents. Neither of us cared for the old priest with his stale garlic breath who made it clear that we disgraced children of the orphanage were not worthy of his attention.

As Elisabetta flicked through the pages of the book, my eyes skimmed over the words. They were a complicated puzzle I had no way of solving, so I took in the pictures. There were stern old men with pointy noses and shifty eyes.

‘Look at this one.’ I laughed, careful not to touch the yellowing paper with my finger.

A straggly beard fell on the saint’s chest, giving him the air of a beggar rather than a holy man.

Elisabetta laughed too but moved quickly through the pages. I glanced up at the door, trying to ignore the nerves in my stomach and what Sister Beatrice might do if she found us huddled together with her book.

‘Here she is,’ announced Elisabetta with a flourish, pushing the book towards me.

A blurred photo of a young woman wearing a nun’s habit lay in front of me. She was holding a wet piece of clothing and a flat wooden paddle.

‘She’s washing clothes with the other sisters,’ said Elisabetta, her finger resting on the text beneath the picture. ‘Communal laundry, 1895.’

I already knew who she was. Santa Teresa di Lisieux had always been Elisabetta’s favourite. The young girl who wanted to become a saint. I remembered Sister Beatrice’s stories about Santa Teresa, even though I had little interest in the teaching of the church.

‘Look at her, Lina! That’s why I took the book. I wanted you to feel the power of Santa Teresa and her smile.’

I examined the photo, not wanting to disappoint her. Santa Teresa had a pleasant smile, but it looked painted on, like a fancy lipstick. Her sad eyes drew me, not her smile. It was a look I recognised. The ability to appear happy, only for the eyes to tell another story. It was the same expression I’d seen in Elisabetta in the six years since she’d arrived at the orphanage, when she was five and I was nine, the tired old building already my home for a couple of years. We’d been together ever since.

‘I hope Santa Teresa brings you some comfort,’ said Elisabetta, squeezing my hand.

‘I know how upset your Mamma’s birthday makes you feel.’

We reached for one another, her thin little body against mine. Tears pricked my eyes. She held me tight, as I had her held so many times, especially when she woke from her nightmares, the sheets wet.

‘Sometimes I can’t remember her face,’ I sniffed. ‘I’m scared I’m forgetting her.’

Mamma had died from a fever, a couple of years after Papà had left for the war. I’d clutched at Mamma’s legs as we watched the army trucks leave the piazza, the cries of the women, handkerchiefs being waved. After the telegram arrived, she wasn’t the same again.

Papà’s relatives had come from the north, an elderly silent woman, and her stooped husband. But they didn’t take to me, looking down their noses when they stayed at our home, complaining that I cried continually for my mother. They left me in the orphanage, signing in a book for Sister Beatrice, looking away as they did so. I was seven years old.

Santa Teresa’s eyes stared up at me. Elisabetta shushed me as if she were the older of the two of us, not the other way round. The way she acted and talked, she was always wise beyond her years, and it was easy to forget she was only eleven years old.

‘I’ll ask Sister Beatrice if we can light a candle to remember your Mamma at San Donato,’ Elisabetta said in her soothing voice.

‘You think she’ll allow us to go?’ I replied, brushing away a tear.

‘If I ask her,’ she pronounced.

I snuggled up to Elisabetta and put my head in her lap. Mamma used to stroke my hair or sing me a lullaby when I did that, and Elisabetta knew what to do.

~

‘What’s going on? Who said you could take my book?’

Sister Beatrice’s shrill voice pierced my sleep, and I leapt up, my back pressed against the cold bars at the head of the bed.

Red with anger, Sister Beatrice’s face fixed on me. She snatched at my hand to drag me from Elisabetta, whose body was curled into a ball beside me. Why was she pretending to still be asleep?

Sister Beatrice lashed out towards the book lying between us. The hard edge of her bony palm caught my face and I recoiled against the hard bars, my hand testing my stinging cheek. She leant forward to take the book, but it was wedged beneath Elisabetta’s body. The battered cover came away with a few torn pages in her hand.

‘I can explain.’ Elisabetta raised herself to her knees, clutching the remaining body of the naked book. ‘It was my fault—’

Sister Beatrice cut her short and turned back towards me. Her tight headdress was rising with her temper.

I gripped the metal bars of the bed, my eyes scrunched shut, ready for the next blow. It never came.

Elisabetta fell backwards towards me, and I caught her limp body in my arms.

All at once, Elisabetta turned rigid. She shook and jerked. I’d never seen her like this before and I gripped her as firmly as I could. She was flailing, and it took all my strength to keep hold of her, struggling to stop her body hitting against the wall or the bars of the bed.

Sister Beatrice remained rooted to the spot, open-mouthed, the colour draining from her face.

Without thinking, I snatched the cover of the book of saints from Sister Beatrice and pushed it between Elisabetta’s teeth so that she couldn’t bite her tongue.

Her eyes rolled in their sockets and foam drooled from the side of her mouth.

‘I’m here,’ I repeated over and over again, shushing her, wiping her mouth with the corner of the bedsheet. My insides were churning but when I was little, I’d had a cousin who suffered from fits, and I’d seen how Mamma had helped him.

Elisabetta gradually stilled. As she did, my heart started to slow but my hand in hers was still shaking.

On her knees beside the bed, Sister Beatrice watched in silence. Her knuckles were clasped so tight they had turned white.

When Elisabetta seemed to be finally sleeping, I loosened the cover of the book from her mouth. It was wet from her spit, with a clear semi-circle of teeth marks in the leather. I tried to wipe the cover clean, but the scratchy blanket only spread her saliva further.

Hesitating, I offered it up to Sister Beatrice. She accepted it, slipping the body of the book back between its covers.

‘It can be mended.’ She set it down on the chair and took Elisabetta’s hand.

‘Forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted like that.’

Elisabetta sighed, seeming to drift deeper into sleep.

Sister Beatrice must’ve seen my expression, that I was shocked that she was so tender towards Elisabetta. But she had started to recite a prayer.

I’d always known Elisabetta was her favourite child in the orphanage, singled out for special lessons in her study because she was bright and interested in her endless stories about the female saints. Normally she was strict, and she certainly never showed any affection towards the children.

When Elisabetta’s breathing was calm and even, she stood up and turned to me.

‘You did well, Adelina.’

Proud, I sat up straighter on the bed and smoothed Elisabetta’s hair away from her face. It was the first time Sister Beatrice called me by my name or said anything nice to me.

‘Look after her. If need be, I’ll fetch for Dottor Visconti.’

‘I’ll take good care of her,’ I replied, eager to please Sister Beatrice.

She nodded, allowing her eyes to rest on Elisabetta’s fragile sleeping body before closing the door quietly behind her.

~

During the night, Elisabetta didn’t stir. Eager to obey Sister Beatrice’s instructions, I watched over her like a cat waiting on a bird. Her breathing was deep and even. There were none of her usual night-time terrors and the sheets remained dry. It was the reason we had our own room near the steaming cauldrons of the basement laundry. Upstairs the scrapping children were stacked twelve to a dorm.

Outside, the birds were singing, welcoming the day. The nuns’ footsteps echoed on the stone steps as they brought clothes down to the laundry and then returned upstairs. Bright shafts of sunlight broke through the splintered shutters, warming the room, catching my cheek where I sat beside Elisabetta. With her chestnut hair falling onto the pillow and her pale complexion, she looked like a bambola, a beautiful doll. Like a big sister, I was relieved to be looking after her, keeping her safe.

When the chimes for seven o’clock rang out across the small town of Atina from the Church of San Donato, I startled awake. I must have fallen asleep briefly.

Elisabetta was sitting upright in bed, a broad smile lighting up her face.

‘How are you feeling? I was so worried about you.’ Yawning, I climbed onto the bed beside her. I twiddled a piece of her long hair around my index finger, something I always did after one of her nightmares.

‘Something happened,’ she said.

‘Do you remember? Sister Beatrice… the book?’

Elisabetta shook her head. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘Should I?’ She shrugged and brushed an invisible fly from her face.

Elisabetta took both my hands in hers. She was excited and pulled herself onto her knees, so that we were facing each other on the bed.

‘A beautiful, radiant woman came to me.’

Her voice was shaking with emotion, but her smile seemed to make her pale blue eyes shine brighter than usual.

‘She was surrounded in golden light.’ Elisabetta raised her arms above her head, drawing a circle with her hands.

An uncomfortable sense of dread took hold in my stomach, a bit like the feeling I got when our teacher, Signora Rossi, asked me a question. As in class, I stayed silent, too slow to make sense of what was happening.

‘She was there just for me,’ she said, pressing my hands.

I wasn’t sure what she was saying, sleep and the heat in the room muddling my thoughts.

‘I feel so special, like I am the only person who matters to her. It’s like she wants me to know her.’ Elisabetta rose to her feet, standing tall above me, her arms outstretched. ‘She told me to come to her.’

‘What?’

She continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, the dimple in her right cheek widening her smile. ‘I walked towards her embrace and joy entered my heart.’ Elisabetta held her hands in a tight fist to her chest.

I was confused. Stupid, trying to understand, the girl who always made Signora Rossi cross when I didn’t have the answer ready in lessons. Should I get up and join Elisabetta or ask her questions about what was happening?

She didn’t give me the chance.

‘River Mollarino is special to her. If we go there, with love in our hearts, I know she’ll come back to me. She’ll guide us.’

I’d never seen her like that before, so happy, so excited. What sort of friend was I if I didn’t go along with what she wanted?