The tears of monterini, p.1
The Tears of Monterini, page 1
The
Tears
of
Monterini
Amanda Weinberg
Published by RedDoor
www.reddoorpress.co.uk
© 2020 Amanda Weinberg
The right of Amanda Weinberg to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover design: Clare Connie Shepherd
www.clareconnieshepherd.com
Typesetting: Jen Parker, Fuzzy Flamingo
www.fuzzyflamingo.co.uk
For Natasha for believing in this book, and for Elena
In love is found the secret in divine unity.
It is love that unites the higher
and the lower stages of existence,
that raises the lower to the level of the higher –
where all become fused into one.
The Zohar
CONTENTS
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
PART TWO
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
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
PART THREE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
1946
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART ONE
A Perfect Place: 1921-1929
CHAPTER 1
Monterini 1921
Silefnce weighed as heavy as the heat.
It was the hour of siesta. Olive trees balancing on the parched earth provided shelter for sagging vines. Beyond the river, a golden mound of tufo burst heavenwards. From the seams of this limestone rock Monterini sprouted; hectic, unplanned, a mélange of rooftops and church spires.
The sun sliced through gaps between houses, toasting washing draped across poles in every via and vicolo. To remain outside in the sweltering afternoon was considered foolhardy, so the villagers escaped to the coolness of their homes, the comfort of their beds.
Except for two men.
In one of the cobbled streets that crisscrossed the village they waited, in silence. Unaware of the dust settling on his clothes, Jacobo Levi sat on a wooden stool, lower back pressed against a stone wall. His suit and shirt clung to his back. He loosened his tie and reached up to remove his hat. He used it to fan his face, then with the back of his hand, wiped away the garland of sweat moistening his forehead. He breathed deeply, staring ahead of him at the black shutters of his house. He replaced his hat on his head and from the inside of his jacket pocket, removed a small, leather-bound prayer book. He thumbed through the pages, lips moving silently. ‘Eso Enei. Eso Enei.’
Next to him, shuffling on a stool too small for his limbs sat his neighbour Angelo Ghione. He was gazing up at a house with grey shutters. The skin of Angelo’s face was pockmarked and toughened by the sun. His hair, the colour and texture of sand, was covered with a cloth cap. His blue overalls were pinned up with string. He was a farm worker, one of the contadini.
From Angelo’s left hand hung a rosary. It was his mother’s. Jacobo knew Angelo had carried it with him since the day she’d died, hiding it in his pocket, so no one would notice this female ritual. Now his fingers shamelessly played with the tiny, black beads.
Angelo shook his head from side to side muttering, ‘What a heat wave, I could do with a drink.’ His eyes wandered up and down Via Meravigliosa as if hoping a door would open and a neighbour would spare a mouthful of pasta, a sip of espresso. Jacobo smiled, then returned his gaze to his prayer book. The streets remained silent save for the pattering of a dog’s paws on the San Gianni path.
The houses were set back from the street, reached by a flight of uneven steps. Like a bridge across two continents a veranda stretched from the black to the grey door, uniting them. Terracotta pots of geraniums covered the chipped, tiled floor and sunflowers trailed over the iron railing supporting the steps.
Behind the grey door lived Angelo Ghione and his wife Santina. Behind the other lived the Levis. To escape from the sweltering heat, Jacobo and Angelo had moved their stools into the cool shade of the narrow street. Here, they waited as the hours mingled into the stillness of the afternoon.
A scream disturbed the tranquillity. Jacobo raised his gaze towards the black shutters of his wife’s bedroom; they remained tightly closed. Angelo made the sign of the cross and peered at the shutters of his house. A hand appeared between them, wrinkled, covered with brown liver spots, and moved the shutters apart. They flew open and a face appeared, red with uncombed hair pressed against the forehead. It was Clara Todi, the village midwife.
‘Angelo. Un maschio. Vieni.’ Voice and face faded into the blackness of the room.
The two men turned their heads towards each other. Their eyes met. Angelo removed his cap and wiped the sweat gathering at his temples. His rosary slipped from his grasp, the beads cascading down the cobbled street in a ripple of coloured waves. He picked up and kissed the small, silver cross.
‘Thank you, Virgin Mary, mother of God.’
Jacobo closed his Hebrew prayer book and placed it in his suit pocket. ‘So, yours is first then,’ he chanted as if still praying.
‘A son? My son? And so soon!’ A ladder of creases appeared at the corner of Angelo’s eyes. He attempted to rise but sank back onto his stool. ‘My legs are shaking; I can hardly stand.’
‘Vieni, I’ll help you.’ Jacobo placed one hand under Angelo’s elbow and the other behind his back. Resting his lips close to Angelo’s ears, he whispered, ‘auguri’ and guided him up the crooked steps, around the flowerpots and through the grey door into the kitchen. The stone floor was sprinkled with flour and, in the centre of the table, a bowl lay on its side; the ingredients for a crostata Santina had been baking smoothed the edges.
Jacobo and Angelo crossed into the sitting room and climbed the stairs up to the first floor. At the door of the bedroom Angelo shared with Santina, Clara Todi waited, a whimpering bundle nestled in her chubby arms. Face streaked with blotches, she greeted them.
‘Auguri Angelino. You’re a father now. Meet your son.’ Passing the baby over to Angelo, she added, with a mixture of pride and pleasure, ‘To think I delivered you both. And now your children!’
‘And Santina? How is she?’
‘Benissimo. She’s a strong woman, that wife of yours. Go in and see her now, vai.’ Turning to Jacobo, she patted his arm and said with a smile, ‘Not long for you now, Jacobo Levi. No doubt your Bella’s persuaded her baby to wait until I’m good and ready! She knows what she wants that one. He’ll be out in no time, don’t you worry.’
Jacobo and Angelo peered into the blanket nestling in Angelo’s arms. Charcoal eyes gazed back at the two men. Angelo struggled to speak; words seemed to hang on his lips like invisible burdens.
‘Enrico,’ he whispered finally. ‘Enrico… because now my life is richer.’
The sun sank low in the sky; an orange glow tinged the clouds. Via Meravigliosa throbbed with early evening energy; women happily sauntered in and out of Angelo’s house to greet the new baby, carrying trays of crostini and minestra for Santina. Men clinked glasses of Chianti. From across the street, Pino Petri the blacksmith, cradling a donkey’s hoof in one hand, nodded at Jacobo.
‘It will be Bella’s turn soon Jacobo, you’ll see.’ Pino plied off the old shoe, replacing it with gleaming new metal.
‘Let’s hope it’s not too long.’ Jacobo’s voice barely rose above the clamour. He attempted a smile. The fragrance of sweet bread and braised beef mingled with the smelting of iron and the smell of cats’ spray.
He returned his gaze to his prayer book, eyes darting from one psalm to the next. His heart continued to bang in his chest, the muscles around his throat tightened. If only prayer would take away the worry of waiting. He removed the round-rimmed spectacles from his nose and looked around him. An air of celebration drifted through the streets of the Fratta, the area on the west side of the village, where sunsets painted the skies. Palatial buildings bordered dilapidated hovels; rosy-cheeke
It was a mélange of class and wealth.
And religion.
The news of the double pregnancy had spread around Monterini quicker than a fire in the vineyards. Every Monterinese was aware that the Levi-Ghione babies were due within the same month. The villagers from both sides of the religious divide were convinced that God in his mercy had blessed the families simultaneously. And about time for the Levi family, Jacobo heard them utter under their breath, what with the loss of Jacobo’s two older brothers during the Great War. But for labour to arrive to Santina and Bella on the same day, was more religious intervention than the village could contain. The news drifted, not only through the gaps of every shutter in Monterini, but over the mountains to the villages of Montore and Favore, sliding through the slits of each doorway. Contadini, businessmen, children and housewives waited with bated breath for the arrival of baby Levi.
And they waited, amidst the chaos that was early evening.
The sun slid behind the hills, staining the sky pink. Angelo joined Jacobo on the veranda. They gazed up at the black shutters; they remained tightly closed. Around them a group of women, pinafores tied around their waists, swept the cobblestones. Signora Petri, the blacksmith’s wife, unpegged the washing stretching across Via Meravigliosa, worn hands smoothing the fabric, folding it into neat piles. Men with shirtsleeves rolled up to their elbows, stretched out on metal chairs reading the evening paper. Spirals of cigarette smoke curled above the smart hats and cloth caps. Children still played in the street, some sat together drawing chalk circles on the stones, others collected pails of water from the stone fountains at either end of Via Meravigliosa.
Jacobo’s prayer book lay unopened on his lap. He twiddled with the gold wedding band on the fourth finger of his left hand. He couldn’t stop the thoughts from flitting through his prayers like irritating insects. He wondered whether his son would be blessed with the deep, inky eyes and strong Levi jaw that he had inherited. Would his son and Enrico pass the bonds of friendship from one generation of neighbours to the next, just as Jacobo and Angelo and their fathers had done? After six generations of sons there was no doubt in Jacobo’s mind that Bella would give birth to a boy. But could he love him as much as he loved his Bella, his beautiful wife? The thought disturbed him, so he pushed it away.
The black door opened. Cosimo Levi, Jacobo’s father, stepped on to the veranda. He wore the same round-rimmed spectacles and shared the long, straight nose and sculptured cheekbones that were the Levi trademark. But Cosimo’s hair was white and his short beard was speckled with grey. His knuckles were swollen with arthritis and when he spoke, he breathed heavily into the night air.
‘It won’t be long, mio figlio.’ Cosimo placed a wizened arm around Jacobo’s shoulder and nodded towards the end of the street. ‘Looks like you have some company.’
Jacobo squinted into the distance. Striding down Via Meravigliosa from the Ghetto district, Rabbi Coen led a procession of followers wearing skullcaps and holding prayer books.
‘Jacobo!’ the rabbi shouted as he approached. ‘We thought a few extra souls might be helpful tonight. So, we’ll perform maariv here in the street with you.’
Jacobo sighed. Coen had been the rabbi for as long as he could remember, his beard like whisked egg whites and his smiling eyes never seemed to age as the years passed. Neither did his casual attempts to engage Jacobo in the service seem to tire. But that night relief flooded through Jacobo at the sight of the rabbi and his men.
The group came to a halt at the bottom of the stone steps leading to the veranda. Pulling their prayer shawls over their heads they faced east for the evening service. Backwards and forwards they shuffled, heads low as Hebrew prayers floated over the rooftops, fusing with church bells and the mating call of crickets.
Midnight crept into the early hours. The stream of supporters dwindled; only Jacobo and Angelo remained in the empty street. From behind the black shutters, screams pierced the night air. Jacobo raised his eyes to Monte Amiata shrouded in the black night and mouthed the words of the prayer Eso Enei:
‘I raise my eyes to the hills from whence comes my strength. My strength comes from the Lord.’
But Bella’s screams echoed wild and endless. Jacobo placed his hands over his ears.
‘I can see her waving at me,’ he said.
‘Don’t be silly!’ Angelo’s hand fumbled in his pocket for the rosary beads, but they sparkled like jewels in the cracks beneath his feet. He made the sign of the cross and stared up at the shuttered room. ‘You’re exhausted, that’s all, it makes you see things.’
‘Bella.’ Jacobo pointed towards the mountains, dark and eerie in the quiet night. ‘It’s Bella. Can’t you see her? She’s over there.’
‘Don’t worry, Dottore Mazzola’s there. And old Dottore Vetrulli. They’ll look after her, you’ll see.’
‘But can’t you see her?’ Jacobo grasped Angelo’s shirtsleeve and pointed beyond the two houses, where the valley full of Etruscan tombs lay hidden in the darkness. ‘Look, Angelo, in the moonlight. She’s blowing kisses to me.’
‘No Jacobo, you can hear screams. It’s childbirth. Listen.’ Angelo placed his finger to his lips.
‘She’s going, Angelo. I know it, I feel it.’ Jacobo tapped his heart. He pointed into the distance. ‘Eccola. There she is.’
He sprung from his stool, knocking it against the wall of his house and ran across the veranda. Flinging open the front door, he crossed the kitchen where jars of rice and flour sat orderly on shelves, polished and clean. The tiled floor sparkled, chairs were placed neatly around the solid, oak table. He sprinted upstairs to the bedroom, pummelled at the locked door.
‘Let me in.’
‘You can’t come in, Jacobo. The doctors are here.’ There was the sound of clunking metal and Clara Todi appeared in front of him, her face the colour of slate, eyebrows knitted together.
‘But I have to.’ Jacobo jammed her against the open door as he fought past her. Her chubby hand grabbed his hair, his arm, his suit jacket. He shook himself free.
The screams faded as quickly as morning mist.
From the arms of Dottore Mazzola came a bleating sound, like lambs, Jacobo thought. He stared at the bed. Bella, nightgown ripped and bloodied, was draped across the sheets; layers of hair like autumn leaves tumbled around her pale face, with its arched eyebrows and soft, pink lips. Her body motionless, legs covered with blood. Shy, beautiful Bella with flashing, green eyes and hair that rippled like the Fiorina waterfall at sunset. His Bella, who barely one year ago promised to bear his children, love him forever.
Jacobo sank to his knees, arms reaching towards his dead wife. He opened his mouth to scream but there was no sound.
It was the twenty-first of June 1921, the day Jacobo became a widower. And a father.
The new day dawned like any other. Streaks of crimson chequered the rooftops and the village stirred. Smells of brewing coffee flickered on the nostrils of those still sleeping. As the sun’s rays danced on the stained-glass window of the Beit Israel Synagogue, life began again.
But not for Jacobo.
He sat on the rocking chair in the sitting room overlooking the silvery leaves of the olive trees. All around him everything seemed the same; the vase of cornflowers he had collected with Bella on the San Gianni path two days earlier; the acres of books lining the shelves on every wall of the sitting room; the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. The day before he had been filled with love. Now all that remained of that love was air.
Angry bleats of sound punched the silent room. Jacobo flinched but his body remained rooted to the chair. The front door slammed. A chair screeched in the kitchen as it was pushed sideways, heavy footsteps crossed the stone floor. Angelo appeared in front of Jacobo, his eyes shadowed with half-moons, his straw hair tousled. Deep grooves littered his pockmarked skin.
‘I’ve brought you coffee and some cornetti.’ Angelo touched Jacobo’s arm and unwrapped the pastries, still warm from the oven. ‘They’re from Signor Carlo. He heard the news this morning, in the bakery.’
Jacobo tightened his lips into a thin line. His fingers stroked a photograph of Bella on her wedding day. The angry bleats became louder, more forceful.
