Chapter 20
By September, Zaneta had contracted malaria from being forced to be outside during prime mosquito hours, still scavenging what she could find from the land.
The memory of that last meal of cooked fish with the soldier could still make her mouth water.
She was amazed she could even think of food, given her overused gag reflex over the past weeks while the soldier’s body moldered at the bottom of the well.
When she could see that next morning, she’d tossed the evil black gun in after him. She’d kept the flashlight.
Though she scoured every inch of the stone floor, she couldn’t find the lyre loom.
The soldier must have knocked it over the edge just before he’d fallen in.
Its loss hit Zaneta like a fist. It was her last connection to her mother and their work together.
It had kept her sane, occupying her hands during the hours of idle time she’d been cloistered here.
Perhaps it was her price to pay for what she’d done.
Hands of the water women should deliver peace and grace through the sea’s gifts, and she’d sullied them.
She would bear the loss of the loom as a penance.
Zaneta hadn’t thought far enough ahead about having to share the space with the soldier’s smelly corpse, but by then it was too late; she spent as much time as possible outside or sitting on the highest steps where she could breathe the fresh air.
She took to singing again like she had before the soldier had appeared.
The songs of her mother and sisters soothed her fevered brain and led her to dream of the sea, still rolling and obeying the moon’s pull even if she couldn’t see it.
One night, in a haze of delirium, Zaneta leaned against an outcrop of rock and tried to make sense of what she was seeing.
The violet sky above erupted in colors, bursts of white and red falling in streams like anemones stretching in a tide pool.
At first, she thought the explosions must be a new kind of bomb, part of the never-ending Allied air raids, but the wind that night—she thought it was a dream—carried less familiar sounds, laughter and singing.
Zaneta discerned the traditional Italian melodies that had once been a staple in her childhood.
Fireworks. The word came to her, finally, as she idly observed the strange sight playing out beneath the lemon slice of a moon.
It had to be a good sign. No one would risk such a thing if there was danger of inciting a raid.
A weary heaviness weighed upon Zaneta like wet sand.
She pulled herself upright and shook off the dizziness that made her vision swim.
Was it over? Had the war ended? Zaneta stumbled as her leaden feet, of their own accord, followed the path down the hillside for the first time since she’d fled.
She tried to recall how long ago that had been. Ten months? Twelve? She’d lost count.
She wanted—she wasn’t sure what she wanted exactly—to swim in the sea with her sisters; to eat with her family, laughing and teasing; and to see her friends again.
Most of all, she wanted to hug her mother and tell her she was sorry for running, for leaving them as she had.
She imagined walking through her front door and seeing them all sitting at the table.
Zaneta’s heart leaped like a porpoise, spurred by the spark of hope that had flared inside her.
Her feet scuffled forward. She didn’t know to what end.
She was vaguely aware she wasn’t thinking clearly, but she couldn’t remain in the nuragic well house for another minute with the ghost of the soldier moaning in a voice only she could hear.
A miracle. Her home stood intact by the shore, its windows glowing bright green and yellow from the light show over the water.
Zaneta’s hand closed over the cold knob, and she pushed the door open.
It was mostly how she remembered. Sand had been tracked in over the floor, of course, and the cabinets pillaged for food.
The loom stood in the corner, the shadows of its structure stretching across the wall and onto the ceiling, almost as if it were spreading wide its arms to welcome her back.
For a moment, her stomach lurched, and Zaneta shuddered.
She imagined the greedy soldier here, his hands casually rummaging through the tidy bins of thread, his eyes falling on their photos, the clothes that hung in the closet, their shoes abandoned by the front door.
She’d never been so tired in her life. With her last bit of energy, she moved toward the bedroom she’d shared with her sisters.
In front of the window hung a whimsical mobile Dahlia had made—stars, moon, and sun that would sparkle with light when the sun hit the byssus edges just right.
The sight of it caused hot tears to sting Zaneta’s nose.
She reached a finger out to touch one of the stars, and the mobile danced and circled, sending shadows spinning across the ceiling.
She collapsed on the bed nearest the door and pulled the quilt up to her nose, scooting until her back pressed against the wall.
Her eyes followed the dancing moon and stars until she drifted into an exhausted sleep.
The brisk songs of greenfinches and warblers outside the window woke her. Zaneta’s eyes opened slowly as her brain registered that she lay in a bed instead of on the cold stone floor next to the well.
“It is you,” a voice whispered. Zaneta froze. “Zaneta? Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”
The fog in her brain receded, and her eyes focused on the man who sat on the bed opposite hers, Marta’s bed. Zaneta scrambled to her feet, weak and dizzy.
She recognized the dark curls and tanned face, kind eyes, and upturned mouth. “Luccio?” Seeing someone she knew—who knew her—took her breath. She’d lost count of the months she’d been denied such a gift. She must have looked a mess. How long since she’d had a proper washing?
“I saw the door open on my way home and came in to make sure everything was secure. I’ve been keeping an eye on the place since—well, since your family left. I can’t believe it’s you.”
It was too much. Zaneta threw herself against him, this boy—man—she hardly knew, really, and buried her face in his chest, the sobs welling up from a place so deep inside she’d hardly known it had existed.
Luccio held just as tight, letting her go on until she’d cried herself out, his arms the first safe place she’d known in too long.
When she’d finished, composing herself finally as she wiped her eyes and sniffled, she stepped away and looked up at him, full of questions she didn’t know how to ask.
“Sit,” he said. “I’ll get you something to eat and we’ll talk.
” She did as she was told, sitting at the kitchen table and running her palms over its surface while he opened a sack and set out fruit and smoked fish, a jug of water, and a loaf of bread.
Zaneta tried to remember manners, willed herself not to tear apart the meal like a wild animal.
Luccio held back, gestured for her to eat all she wanted.
“Go ahead. I snacked while you slept. I’m not hungry.” In spite of this, Zaneta heard his stomach grumble while she devoured every crumb.
“Thank you,” she said between bites. “This tastes like heaven.”
“You’ve been sick.” It wasn’t a question. “You’re very pale.” His brow creased with concern.
Zaneta nodded. “Malaria, I think. I’ve been taking doses of wormwood. But it’s been a while since I’ve sat in the sun.” She waved away the subject. “Tell me. What news?”
“We surrendered to the Allies. Sardegna is done with the war, I hope. It’s been hell.
I’m sorry, Zeta.” He used his nickname for her.
In spite of herself, Zaneta smiled. “Over in Kefalonia, Italy resisted the Germans, but it was no good. They outright killed all the POWs as some kind of punishment.”
“The Greek island?” Zaneta swallowed a swig of water to wash down the lump of bread that stuck in her throat. “What do you know?”
Luccio shook his head. “I’ve been watching the postings for families from the village. There’ve been so many losses. Every family. Between the fighting and the air raids, hardly anyone lives in the houses along the shore anymore.”
“And the deportations,” she said. “Don’t forget those.”
“Yes.” His shoulders sagged. “I thought you’d been taken when the trucks came. Where have you been, Zeta? How did you get back here?”
She shrugged. “I found a place. It doesn’t matter.”
Luccio drew in a deep breath, like he was fortifying himself to tell her something.
“I saw a soldier here, at your house. A German.” She stopped chewing.
“Not long after, I heard talk at the port about a weaver able to spin gold. They passed around the byssus pieces in the tavern like it was an auction block. I hoped . . .”
“Anyone else?” Zaneta hardly dared ask it.
Luccio hung his head. “No one’s heard from any of them since they were taken,” he admitted. “The other families—weavers like yours—are gone. The only reason this house wasn’t looted more was that I kept watch and claimed it belonged to a relative of ours.”
Zaneta swallowed hard. No one? None of them were left?
Perhaps they might still return. Perhaps they hadn’t been allowed to send letters back home from wherever they’d gone.
“Well. I’m grateful.” Already, the seed of resentment sprouted, that she should be grateful for what was rightfully hers and her family’s.
“I don’t expect gratitude, Zeta. I wish I could’ve done more. I wish I’d known where you were.”
“No, it wouldn’t have been safe. It was best I was alone.” She realized the lie as she spoke it; she had hardly been alone.
Luccio reached across the table and held her hands. “I have to tell you: Avi and Lev were on the list of POWs executed at Kefalonia. More than that, I don’t know. But I’ll help you. We’ll find the others.”
Zaneta let the tears stream and hung her head. Her brothers dead. She said nothing.
“The war’s not over yet, but I think here the noose is loosening.
I’ve still got the boat, and the fish haven’t gone anywhere.
The byssus is still there.” At that, Zaneta lifted her head.
“I sailed near there just a day or so ago. I kept a watch on it, in case.” He stopped, held her gaze.
His earnestness made her want to weep. “I’ll take you to the cove when you’re feeling better.
I’m going to go to the clinic today. I’ll get something for the malaria. ”
“The wormwood will work,” she said. “I’ve collected enough and know how to fix it. Thank you, Luccio. I’m so glad you were here. It—hasn’t been easy.”
He squeezed her hands again. “Let me help you. I can’t tell you how happy I was to find you here, sleeping, like an angel had visited, appearing out of nowhere.
It may take a while. We’ve all been through a lot.
But I believe everyone longs for things to go back to how they were.
The things that have been in the news . .
.” He trailed off. “People are trying to face what’s happened.
I think you’re safe here. It’s your home. ”
Zaneta smiled at him. Besides her animal hunger, she still wore her wariness like a cloak.
True, it was a comfort to have Luccio here, his familiar voice and face, a reminder of better days.
She could use the help—she had only the house and didn’t know when or if she’d see her parents and sisters again.
Already, she realized, she’d relegated her brothers to memory.
She’d wondered how her neighbors would receive her, but Luccio had been reassuring.
Luccio, with his dark beard and merry smile, had always been kind to her and her family, a good friend.
“Your family, Luccio? How are they?”
“They left for Assisi. There were rumors it was safer. The air raids here were constant, German Krauts everywhere, and you know Mamma can’t see well.
So I stayed. This place—Sant’Antioco—I couldn’t live anywhere else, and I wanted to do what I could so there might be something to return to.
” Zaneta remembered that about him: how he loved the island and its waters, much like she did, but for different reasons.
“A church there helped them out. Friend of a friend, everyone’s pulling all their strings these days.
Leo, my younger brother, got involved in a group there, helping shelter Jewish families.
” Luccio swallowed hard, took a breath. “He was caught. Shot in the street, and the rest were arrested and sent north.” His mouth set in a firm line.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. A ridiculous response. Words that solved nothing.
“Yes,” he said. “And here I am. And here you are.”
Zaneta nodded. It was what they had left, tatters of the life they’d each lived before the war.
Though she was barely sixteen and Luccio not much more than that, they’d aged beyond their years.
She rose from the table and moved toward him, touched his shoulder.
He stood with her, only hesitating a moment before he drew her to him, the top of her head tucked neatly beneath his chin.
Whether for shared solace or in memoriam of some long-past flirtation, the embrace signified some new, unspoken agreement.
Zaneta mentally tallied what they shared in common: loss, loneliness, survival, guilt.
In the positive column, there were memories of each other’s families, happier times, and a love of the island and its gifts.
Between them, perhaps it was enough to make a whole person, live a whole life.
Alone, she wasn’t sure she had the strength for it.