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Religion. History. Grammar. The morning passes. Desktops bang open, slam closed. The boys wait. She nods approval and faces the blackboard in a swirl of dark blue wool. Raising her arm, she places a centimeter-long stub of chalk against the blackboard. “When subtracting a—”
Two planes flash by, level with the hillside school. For an instant, she sees a pilot clearly. Machine-gun fire spits in both directions. Bombs bounce off stonework into the river. Water erupts into the air. Boys surge toward the windows.
“Get away from the glass!” she shrills, seizing Angelo and Bruno by their shirts. She can hear the planes’ engines as they climb and bank to reapproach German gun emplacements. Fabric gives way as she flings the boys toward the door. “Into the corridor! All of you! Now! Now! Now!”
“Did you see him?” Angelo asks Bruno excitedly. “The pilot looked right at us! Did you see him?”
Trembling uncontrollably, she wants to slap the child for not being terrified, but by the time she has the whole class crouched along the edges of the hallway floor the attack is over, and someone is tugging on her sleeve, a
Mario stares at his lap, fat tears slipping down thin cheeks. “O poveretto!” she sighs with exasperated sympathy. “Don’t make fun!” she orders sharply, glaring until nervous laughter lapses into suppressed giggles. “Bruno! You and Angelo take Mario to the dormitory. Ask Suora Idigna to help him clean up and change. Get clean shirts for your use and bring the ripped ones to me for mending. Be back here in ten minutes! The rest of you: into your seats!”
The three boys march off: Mario bowlegged around the shamefully stained trousers, Angelo and Bruno tattered and torn from her own assault. Next time, she tells herself, grab arms, not collars.
The balance of the day is uneventful, until the school portress knocks. With a stern look toward the boys, Suora Corniglia lays down her chalk and goes to the classroom door.
“Sorry for the interruption, Suora,” the portress whispers. “There’s a Padre Righetti here to see you. He’s waiting at the convent.”
She glances at the wall clock. “Grazie, suora. Ask him to forgive me, but I can’t leave until recess.”
There are, in the event, two additional minor crises to manage. Sweeping into the convent receiving room, she says, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Padre. One of the boys—”
The priest turns from the window. Suora Corniglia’s mouth drops open. So does the visitor’s.
“You’re Angelo’s teacher?” He snaps his fingers twice, trying to recall where they met. “You— you were scrubbing the floor at San Giobatta!” he says. “September eighth, right?”
“Yes!” she says with quiet excitement, placing him now. “You helped with the broken glass! You’re the—” She stops herself.
“The Jew who went off with the German. I see you got a promotion.” His eyes flick toward her black veil. “You’re an officer now! How have you been, Sister Dimples?”
“It’s Suora Corniglia,” she says primly, hands under her scapular. “And if that’s a costume for Carnevale, you’re a little late in the season. What are you doing in a cassock?”
“Trying earnestly not to get arrested.” He holds up the biretta’s square crown, with its three shark fins and pompon, and puts it on his head, vamping like a Parisian model before sitting at the table. “I borrowed the ensemble from Osvaldo Tomitz, who was carrying a doctor’s bag last time I saw him.”
“Not getting arrested seems to be Italy’s national sport,” she remarks, feeling a great deal less tired now. “I need to get back to the students in fifteen minutes. What was it you wanted, Padre?”
She expects him to laugh at the title, but he sobers instead. “I’d like to meet with Angelo, if that can be arranged.”
There’s something about his tone. “But— no! His parents?”
“His mother and baby sister are safe. His father’s been jailed as a hostage.” He holds up a hand when the nun gasps. “For the moment, everything is fine, but I’d like to speak to Angelo. I led him to believe I could arrange a visit, and I want to explain. Is there any way I can talk to him without arousing suspicion?”
“If he were older, you could pretend to hear his confession, but his class hasn’t had First Communion yet.” She thinks for a moment. “On Sunday afternoons, the children are allowed to hike up toward the monastery. Within reason, we let them do as they please for a few hours. They can play or read. Most of them hunt for mushrooms or berries— there’s so little food. If you were to wait by the monastery gate, I could steer him toward you.”
“Do you think I could stay with the brothers until then?”
“Ask for Fra Edoardo. You won’t have to explain anything to him.” She hesitates. “When Angelo comes to you, he’ll bring a little girl along. She’s only three, or maybe four. We think she might be one of the refugees who came over the Alps last year.”
“What’s her name?”
“We don’t know. She’s almost mute, poor thing. The children call her Isma. The only thing she ever says is, ‘Isma glai.’ ”
“Isma glai…? Ist mir gleich? Is that what she says?”
“I suppose… Yes! That could be it— nursery German for ‘I don’t care’?”
“Don’t say anything to her yet. Let me talk to her first.” Fussing with unfamiliar fabric tangled around his legs, Renzo stands. “Until Sunday, then, Suora Fossette.”
“Until Sunday. And don’t you dare call me Sister Dimples in front of the children!”
A slow grin forms above the Roman collar. “The thought,” he lies, “never entered my mind.”
Wrung out by five minutes’ effort fueled by a diet of poor-quality starch, spring chard, and not much else, Suora Corniglia leans against a terrace wall to muster strength and catch her breath. Beside her, tiny brown lizards dart into crevices between stones. Fig trees bake in the basil-scented warmth above meticulously tended vineyards that crisscross the hillside. The Mediterranean is a stripe of silver between gray-green foothills, and when the wind shifts, the astringency of pine from nearby mountains is replaced by the barest hint of salt and seaweed.
The breeze carries Angelo’s heartbroken angry wail as well, and Corniglia aches for him. In her first year of teaching she’s learned that the emotions of eight-year-olds are as outsized as their new front teeth, big as barn doors in their little faces. Frowning curiosity, stu
Leaning forward to take better advantage of rubbery muscles, Corniglia climbs again until she reaches two small children and the ersatz priest, sitting on a bench shaded by the brothers’ grape arbor. Gravely, Renzo Leoni shifts Isma from one black-gowned knee to the other. “Suora Corniglia! Permit me to introduce Signorina Stefania. Stefania is this many,” he says, holding up four fingers, “and lived in Austria when she was little. Angelo was just telling me about a squadron of British pilots who strafed the school yard on Friday. Blow,” he says, holding a large white handkerchief over the little boy’s nose.
Face blotched by the purple stigmata of childish rage and anguish, Angelo swallows. “What I meant was, they didn’t really strafe us.”
“Well, they might have,” Renzo allows, his sincerity less specious. Switching to German, he asks Stefania quiet questions. She starts to cry, and he pulls her close. “Of course, you were scared! Planes are scary!” He winks at Angelo. “Just like Suora Paura! Angelo, Suora Corniglia has a nickname, too! It’s—”