Chapter 18
So began what Zaneta came to think of as the time of her imprisonment.
Not that she’d been free before; it wasn’t as if she had been able to walk the shore or visit with neighbors or even go outside with the sun above, but now—now she shared her home, such as it was, and her food with the enemy.
Now an intense wariness weighed on her. She was like one of the wild Giara horses, poised to bolt when the bushes rustled.
He hadn’t hurt her—not yet—but she suspected this was only because he needed her skills.
His name was Jan; he’d told her that much.
Having had no news for so long, Zaneta tried to pull what information she could from him.
“Won’t they miss you at the port?” she probed. They sat in the flickering candlelight, although she hated to waste the wax.
“Not just yet, I think,” Jan replied. With something in his stomach, he became more talkative. “My unit’s on furlough. A well-earned break, let me tell you, Fr?ulein. It’s been nothing but shit and shrapnel from Sicily all the way back home.”
“Germany—I mean, we—are winning, though?”
He shook his head and spat against the wall.
Zaneta winced. She still thought of this dark place as her sanctuary, and his casual defilement disgusted her.
“Winning? That’s what they said, at least before I landed here.
” He waved a hand airily. “In this luxury Italian apartment.” He stared at her, his blue eyes empty of emotion.
His features were pointed, his jaw angular and sharp, though its outline was hidden by the wiry beard that had grown in across his chin.
“Perhaps it will end soon, then?” She pulled her shawl tighter around her torso and tucked her knees up tight to her chest.
“Not likely. Now that Japan’s got the United States’ hackles up, they’ve been nonstop with the Brits.
I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned in. “More than one of us is sick to death of the whole business. Let’s just divvy up the map and be done.
I’m dying for a cigarette and a stout stein of beer.
Not many left to drink it with now, though, are there? ”
Zaneta pushed a handful of nuts over to the soldier. “Here,” she said. “You need to keep up your strength for when you return to your unit.”
He tossed back the handful in one mouthful and chewed noisily. Zaneta would have rationed them, allowing herself one every hour or so. Now she’d have to collect more. “Return? Ah, you’re eager for that, are you? Save me from eating all your hard work.”
“It’s all right.”
“You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” he said. They’d been going on like this for a week so far. “What’re you hiding from? Your parents Jewish sympathizers, is that it? Your brothers deserted?”
She’d considered her answer. “I don’t like the shelling. My family was killed in an air raid in Cagliari, and I don’t want to end up like them. It’s quieter down here.”
“Then why not invite your neighbors and share food? Why do you only go out at night?”
“It’s quieter then. The war’s been . . . hard.”
He considered this. “What did your family do here? It’s nothing like Berlin. Berlin’s a big city, lots to do and see, always something stirring. Here—everything is slow. It’s just the ocean and fish.”
“But it’s beautiful,” she defended. “People sometimes come for holiday. And yes, fish. My father is—was—a fisherman.”
“And your mother a fishmonger?” He snorted.
“No,” she said proudly, before she could help herself. “A weaver.”
“Is that what I’ve seen you working on at night?”
Zaneta’s heart stopped. She’d been certain the soldier had been asleep before she dared pull out the precious lyre loom to occupy her fingers and calm her raw nerves. Again, she cursed herself for her carelessness. “The moon’s up,” she said, rising to her feet. “We should go out.”
He followed her up the steps and out into the fresh air.
Had she been alone, Zaneta would have stopped a moment and listened for the rush of the sea.
Sometimes on clear, cold nights, she imagined she could hear its voice, even this far inland.
With the soldier—she wouldn’t call him Jan—she headed straight for a small grove of trees.
She’d noticed the pink blossoms earlier and wanted to check on them.
It had been a warmer and wet winter, and spring was coming early.
Despite everything, the world kept turning, spinning its seasons in succession.
“I’ve been thinking,” he whispered. He held the squeeze light, though Zaneta didn’t need it. The moon had risen full and bright. “I’m going to go down to the port tomorrow.”
Zaneta had found a dead tree among the grove and was inspecting it, but at his words, she stopped.
The soldier knew the area now, where she looked for food, and of course, where the well room was.
If he went back to town, he need only tell someone else, and they’d find her soon enough.
Zaneta knew she probably lived on borrowed time.
She sweetened her voice as she replied. “What’ll you do there?
” A bright flower caught her eye, and she peered at the plant in the moonlight.
Was it yellow? Clusters of the flowers spread on low bushes beneath the trees, and it sparked her mental catalog of plants, dyes, and their uses that her mother had insisted Zaneta know by heart.
“Military business.” He sounded brisk, dismissive, as if she shouldn’t worry her little head about such matters.
“But I can try to pick up some rations, or maybe part of a catch at the docks.” He meant to return.
Zaneta felt ashamed: her mouth watered. It had been months since she’d tasted fresh fish.
She still hadn’t figured out why he hadn’t returned to his unit, how he could spend such time away from the war.
When she remained quiet, he said, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about you.
Your house can stay our little secret.” Though the night was warm enough, Zaneta tightened her shawl and led the way to a puny abandoned vegetable garden she thought might yield some volunteer asparagus.
A few bright green spears poked through the earth, but she decided to leave them to grow.
She thought she could hold out for another day or so.
If the soldier didn’t return, she wouldn’t have to share, and there would be more for her.
Then again, she might be dead tomorrow. Sending every thought and decision through this sort of crucible put Zaneta on edge, and she sighed in frustration.
“No luck?” he asked, and she shook her head. He wouldn’t know a spear of asparagus from an olive tree, she thought.
“No, we might as well go back.”
Back in the atrium, the soldier settled against a wall once more. “You can weave if you like, if that’s what you’ve been doing. If I can, I’ll bring some candles, too.”
“Why would you do that?” she asked all in a rush. “Why would you come back here when you can have all the food you want at the port? When you can be with your friends and walk about in the sun?”
The soldier stared at her, breathing steadily for a full minute before answering.
“I’ll tell you. My unit is gone. I was on a ship just off the coast of Sicily.
A group of us had just boarded a landing craft when all hell broke loose.
Must have been some dead-on torpedoes or maybe an air drop—there were those, too—but we lost the whole ship.
Maybe about twenty men left on my rig, trying to stay low and out of the ship’s pull.
” Zaneta listened without sympathy. Although the end of the story was sitting right in front of her, she irrationally hoped it would end with no survivors.
Why was he telling her this? As if she cared anything about the loss of a German ship; it was less than they deserved.
“We were sitting ducks out there. Half of us jumped in the water to try to head to shore.” He scratched the hairs on his chin, stared into space.
“Something exploded on deck as the ship went down, and we were right in the path of that hailstorm. I figure I got knocked in the head because when I woke up, it was night, and I was floating somewhere in the middle of the Tyrrhenian. My life jacket saved me. You ever been in the water at night? Of course you have—you live on an island. It’s more than a little spooky, thinking of all the things swimming below you.
” He shook his head to dislodge the thought.
“Next morning, of all things, a unit from North Africa happens by and I get picked up, so I guess it wasn’t my time.
They dropped me at the port here, figuring I could get back to base at Sicily, but I guess I wanted away from the water for a while, and I went for a walk.
” He glanced around the stone walls as if to say voilà.
“They probably think you’re dead,” she said.
He nodded his head slowly, and she understood. That’s what he wanted. He was hiding out from the war, too. Not only was he a German but also a deserter.
“Still, I can probably get away with going down there. No one here knows me. Trouble is, I don’t have any lire or marks. Nothing, really, to trade with. But you . . .”
Zaneta was incredulous. “What do I have? Spare onions?”
“You weave,” he said. “I’ve seen it. It’s some kind of gold?”
Her heart beat faster. “No, it isn’t. It’s just thread. You can’t use it to buy things.”
“Why not? It’s unusual. I bet a lot of soldiers have never seen anything like it. I know I haven’t. Just give me a few samples and I’ll see what I can get for it.”
Her mother’s words echoed in Zaneta’s head.
It had been so long since she’d had such a clear memory of that voice that tears stung her eyes.
“Byssus can never be bought or sold. It’s a gift from the sea that can only be given in return, never consumed.
Any who break this covenant will meet a bad end.
” She recalled the stories of greedy, powerful men who had used the byssus for their own gain, usurping the weavers’ work.
Their businesses had failed, fortunes crumbled, and worse. Zaneta’s hands trembled.
The soldier frowned at her hesitation. “Look, it’s the only thing we’ve got.” Again, the we. “You must see that. How long can you last up here on oranges and half-rotted cabbages?”
She started to speak, but her throat was sand.
Like a beached fish, her mouth opened and closed.
She couldn’t use the byssus to sell or barter, even for her life.
Before she could think, the soldier had crossed the room and was on his knees in front of her.
He’d snatched the canvas bag from its spot behind the altar and dumped it, roughly pawing through the photos and spools.
Zaneta held her breath. She had sewn the lire and extra food into the lining, and in his haste and the dim light, he had overlooked it.
She wasn’t sure what he would do if he discovered she’d kept them secret.
“Here.” He pulled out three weavings, small, frameable vignettes of seabirds by a cliff face, boats in the harbor, and a nuragic vessel under the moon. “This. And this. I’ll take these. You’ll still have some cloth left to weave more, right?”
She snatched up the photos and thread, reached to catch the vial of dye that rolled across the stone floor.
“Don’t,” she said. The soldier stopped and handed her the bag.
He breathed loudly through his nose and looked at her with his unblinking blue eyes.
He said nothing, but he pocketed the three byssus weavings and let her pick up the mess.
She was so thankful she’d thought to fold the robe she’d worn for her water oath and hide it beneath a crag in a dark corner.
It represented her last good memory with her mother, and she didn’t think she could bear it being sold by a German soldier.
In the morning, Zaneta woke with her hands aching from clutching the bag all night. She was exhausted after a tense, fitful sleep. A small shaft of sun shone down the steps, and she heard the faint chatter of birds up above. The soldier had gone.