Andreja
Andreja
September 8, 1943
Central Trieste
I last saw my husband Renzo almost a year ago. Just before his unit shipped out to Libya. The army gave us a weekend. After months of separation and with our only child Miha himself away in the army, it was the most passionate forty-eight hours I had ever lived. Since then, every time I left the house meant a return trip down tidy Via Lazzaretto Vecchio, wondering. Wondering when Renzo might return. Wondering if there might be a letter.
And missing him. Missing the sensation of his hand in mine. Missing our mountaineering and hunting adventures. Missing his smile every weekday morning when I arrived at our architecture firm. I went to the office after getting Miha off to school or, when Miha was drafted, after doing my obligatory civic duty teaching riflery to Mussolini’s Avanguardisti, the teenage Fascists-in-training.
Now I avoided our favorite spots. The caffe’ on Via Cavana. The pasticceria in Piazza Hortis. But not the Molo Audace wharf just off Piazza Unita. There I could stand during even the coldest Bora Nera windstorm, imagining his troop ship appearing over the horizon.
It was a hot September afternoon, nine months since Renzo’s last letter. That letter had come from Libya, so I knew he’d made it to Africa without having to swim. Many times I fiercely imagined him there, in a truck, an armored car, a tank, anything but walking through sand dunes.
Fighting alongside Germans against the British and Americans seemed to be turning into a losing proposition, but there should still have been letters. Maybe he’d been captured. Maybe my Renzo was in a POW camp, working on his English.
I shoved my building’s old oak door open. I missed the aroma of my neighbor Elisabetta cooking ragu – meat was hard to come by – and glanced up at my mailbox. Upper row, right corner, number 305. The small glass window showed something there.
I tugged at the front of my cotton frock in a vain effort to cool myself, then slid the little brass key into the mailbox lock and turned.
One letter, from the mayor’s office.
As I tore open the envelope, I had a vague feeling I shouldn’t do this alone. But I couldn’t think of anyone I wanted to be with. No one was available anyway. It had been just me since Miha was drafted.
Gentilissima Signora Andreja Zupancic Cescutti, this Office offers you and your family our deepest condolences for the loss of your beloved, Royal Army Captain Renzo Cescutti, fallen in Tunisia for the greater glory of Italy, in the name of the King, under the orders of the Prime Minister.
Be proud of the glorious offering that must fill your soul with pride and that will comfort you in your pain. We stand with you in this time of mourning.
If this Office can assist you in navigating this difficult period, we beg you to contact us without hesitation.
I felt dizzy. I couldn’t breathe. I scanned the pink enclosure: An army form, with the date of death, April 12, 1943. Where had I been five months ago? I couldn’t remember anything about April. Did I have an inkling that day? The room spun, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t feel, and I doubled over, thinking I would fall to the marble floor. I managed to stop myself, tensing every muscle in my body to prevent a collapse. I staggered to the staircase and sat down hard on the second step, and crumpled.
The door opened. A delivery girl from the grocer up the street poked her head in. I must have been weeping. She looked at me with a face full of sympathy.
I didn’t want her sympathy. I wanted my Renzo.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” she said, “I have a delivery for Signora Ancona.”
“Prego, come in,” I said, stifling my tears and pointing. “Down that hall.”
The girl tiptoed past me. When she came back, I’d wiped my face but still couldn’t move. Only then did I notice she was dressed head to toe in black. “You’re in mourning?” I asked.
“Si, signora. My brother,” she said. “Killed in Albania.”
“My condolences,” I managed to say.
“Grazie. Is that a letter from the mayor?”
I couldn’t speak, so I held the letter out.
“I remember when we got ours,” the girl said. “We’re all crying our eyes out and the letter said we should be proud.”
“Si,” I said, shaking my head. “Same.”
“Please accept my condolences, signora. Buona sera.”
I eventually hauled myself up three flights of stairs to our apartment. I dropped the letter on the little table in the foyer and collapsed in one of the living room chairs. It was a warm evening. I thought about opening the windows but didn’t have the energy. I’m sure my mind swirled with all kinds of thoughts but the only things I remember about that evening were trying to decide whether to open the windows, and trying to figure out how to get word to Miha. Last I knew, he was stationed somewhere in Yugoslavia.
I must have listened to the radio because I concluded that with all the confusion in Rome, with Mussolini fired and jailed somewhere, the English claiming we’d surrendered, the king and the new prime minister fleeing the capital, and our troops totally confused and either fighting the Germans, surrendering to the Germans or continuing to fight alongside the Germans, depending on what part of the world we were talking about, it would be up to me to tell Miha.
I decided to go find my son.
After scrounging something to eat, I opened the cabinet that contained our mountaineering and hunting gear. Rifles, ammunition, boots, rucksacks, hiking and camping gear, I laid everything out on the bed. I did my best to think through what I could carry, what would be useful.
As I packed, I realized that locating Miha could take a while, so I sat down at the kitchen table and wrote two notes. First, to Renzo’s number two at our architecture firm, telling her she was now in charge. Second, to my banker, instructing him to exercise his power of attorney to take care of the house, which wouldn’t be difficult, pay my bills, which weren’t many, and collect payments from the firm. No details, other than “I’m going to find Miha.” Envelopes, stamps, addresses, done.
That night, I started walking. I carried my mountaineering rucksack loaded with camping gear and food, my hunting rifle taken apart so I could tuck it inside.