41
Dear Diary,
Two weeks ago, we thought the war was over, but how wrong we were.
We heard about the armistice with Italy on the radio. Or, rather, most people heard about it on the radio.
I found out a little earlier through Enzo.
“You’re not to share this information with anyone, understood?” he told me over dinner. My forehead was beaded with sweat, even though the night was cool.
“You know I won”t,” I replied, stroking my belly without realizing it. It was getting bigger and bigger, and people had started asking me questions.
“I”m leaving, Carmen. Tomorrow. It’s not safe for me to stay here.”
I felt a deep regret that I would never see him again. I could have made him stay, but it didn”t seem fair nor fitting in our circumstances.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice urgent as he took my hand. “You”ll be safe. I promise.”
I felt a sense of déjà vu. But instead, I saw Jakob for an instant, making the same promise to me in Spain. Trying to save me from a fate that was clearly mine.
“The city is sieged,” I replied, tired. My legs were swollen from the heat, and by nightfall, my strength gave out. “Nobody’s allowed to travel anywhere.”
And, in my condition, I wouldn”t have gotten very far either.
“I”ll get you a safe conduct. I can do that.”
I shook my head. More false documents. More lies. A new exodus. Another start, another language to learn. I didn”t feel able to face all that again.
“You know I”m expecting a child,” I said, trying hard not to let my voice break. “By my late husband.”
“I know.”
“And yet you ask me to accompany you?”
Enzo nodded, completely serious.
“I knew he wouldn”t have blamed you for doing such a thing. In fact, I think he would have been happy for you and your child.”
I looked at the man in front of me, straight hair, perfectly combed with a side parting. Round glasses, crystal clear eyes, well-ironed shirt. Long violinist”s fingers, always stained with ink. He was handsome, though not as handsome as Jakob. Intelligent. Calm. A good man, despite his dubious convictions and taciturn character. Attentive. He treated me well. He would have taken care of me and my child.
But he wasn’t Jakob.
I was fond of Enzo, but I didn’t love him.
And, besides, I couldn”t bear the thought of having to run away again.
“I can”t do it,” I said, mustering what little poise I had left. “But thank you for your offer. From the bottom of my heart.”
Enzo left the next day, and when I arrived at the house, he was gone. I was glad I didn’t have to upset him one last time.
It was better this way.
I didn’t have the strength to follow him, although I could have made him stay. But it would have been a selfish act, and I would have condemned him to the same fate as my husband.
When I arrived in the morning, I opened the door with my copy of the key. On the dining room table, Enzo had left his violin, along with a note.
‘To Carmen. With all my love. Enzo.’
I took it home, not knowing what to do with it.
Then, I cried for the rest of the day. I didn”t eat either.
Two days later, all of Europe learned of the armistice when the announcement from Rome was broadcast over the radio that evening. People danced and sang in the streets, thinking it was the end of the war.
Except me.
The next day, the Germans arrived. The Italians who hadn’t fled ended up in San Vid prison. It gave me some consolation, knowing that Enzo wouldn’t be among them. I was glad that I had made the right choice.
Ljubljana is still busy, and life goes on. We survive as best we can. Just like the new life that continues to grow inside me, undisturbed by circumstances or by the nationality of the invaders.
I should destroy this diary. If it’s found by someone capable of understanding it, I will end up in jail or shot. And now that Martin is coming, I can no longer afford the luxury of a quick death.
Aunt Miroslava wasn’t wrong.
She said that I would be a mother and that my son would be named Martin. But she never said, dear diary, who would be the father of my child.
Only you and I know.
You, me, and the doctor who calculated the dates.
Now that Enzo is gone, the secret will die with me and with these pages when they burn.
But I’ll keep his father”s violin for Martin, just as he would have wanted me to do.