Love Song for Dancing Strings

By Marilyn Ekdahl Ravicz

Forget the flute case. Get your butt behind me and run! Weve got to make it to the house, Gino. With that desperate plea, Sophia, a young and talented puppeteer, chides and hastens her youthful flautist-companion, Gino, to run for home and safety. They must escape the German landmines about to destroy the heart of Florence. It is August of 1944.

The Germans are losing World War II, but angry at Italys surrender and negotiated alliance with the Allies, their withdrawals from Italy become hot rakes of needless destruction, aided by fervent neo-Fascists propped up by Hitler-backed Mussolini. The withdrawing Wehrmacht destroys many villages and towns, loots artworks and continues to conscript workers, deport Jews and jail or murder defectors.

The stage is set for tensions at every level: between German and Allied military forces; between partisans and liberals in Italy and Spain and neo-Fascists across Europe; between Communist/Socialist parties and conservative Roman Catholic support of Fascism in Italy and Spain; between starving Italian women and children and occupying armies; and between Jews who hide and struggle to survive and those who support the Nazi final solution.

On the August night the departing German Wehrmacht activates its landmines and destroys many magnificent renaissance buildings and Arno River bridges in Florence, Sophia, a brilliant puppeteer whose family has for generations operated a famous marionette theater, and her flautist, Gino, a refugee youth she befriends, hide in her cellar. They survive the night of terrifying explosions, although the mines destroy much of the back wall of their house.

Their home is damaged and unsafe, and Sophia who has used marionettes as cover when acting as a courier for the partisans in a local cafe must flee. Gino, a young and strong adolescent must leave with her in order to escape German labor camp conscriptions.

The partial destruction of the back wall of Sophias house reveals a hidden storeroom they think was once an old wine cellar. Searching for things to take with them or trade on the black market, they force open an old trunk and discover an ancient manuscript, some gold ducats, a few not-too-valuable gemstones and a roll of drawings Sophia thinks are backdrops for their stage. She reasons they were discarded with unused, exotic porcelain marionette parts and old scripts.

Sophia and Gino realize they must survive alone and without family support. Sophias father is a conscripted worker, and her brothers are soldiers in different armies: one in Italy, and an older brother, Achille, who disappeared from his International Brigade during the Spanish Civil War. Ginos parents died during bombing raids, and Sophia has promised to care for and protect him. Rather than hide and risk discovery or death, they decide to make their way to Barcelona to find Sophias older brother.

Their identification papers and ration cards are buried by debris, and they escape with a few articles of clothing, several marionettes, a folding traveling stage, and selected items from those discovered in the newly revealed storeroom: a mysterious, ancient manuscript they later learn is the memoir of a thirteenth century trading trip through the middle east to South China made before Marco Polo by a Jewish merchant from Ancona; gold ducats that prove basic to survival; and the roll of renaissance drawings that later prove to be valuable for the renovation of their lives.

Much of the plot turns on the odd fact that the thirteenth century merchant who wrote the memoir-manuscript has the same family name as Sophia. Moreover, its cover page bears the signature of Sophias father (among many others) and includes a written charge to care for the manuscript and related objects. They cannot leave it behind.

Who was this merchant who bore the same family name? An ancestor? Or is the do

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 6, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462832279

Marilyn Ekdahl Ravicz

Marilyn Ekdahl Ravicz, a retired Cultural Anthropologist, enjoys writing fiction, non-fiction and culinary history. After many world travels, she appreciates retirement in the beautiful, rocky desert surrounding Palm Springs. She invites you to travel with her on her published trips through the times and spaces of a fictional shared world and history.

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Copyright © 2007 by Marilyn Ekdahl Ravicz.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

Dedication

For my grandchildren: Miranda, Rio, Josh, Kodiak and Daniel with my love and hope for a more peaceful world.

Weapons are tools of destruction avoided by followers of The Way.

The citizen favors the creative in the time of peace, the citizen

Favors the destructive in the time of war.

Weapons are the tools of destruction not used by people of dignity,

But when their use cannot be avoided, the best policy is calm restraint.

There is no beauty in victory. Whoever calls it so delights in slaughter.

Whoever delights in slaughter is not fit to rule.

Tao The Ching (31)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Love Song for Dancing Strings is a work of historical fiction based on some actual events that occurred during the final year of World War II in Italy and Spain. The timing and locations of military and partisan activities happened much as portrayed, and Franco (as has been recently documented) created many concentration camps in Spain.

While the characters are fictional (except for Giovanni Poggi, Superintendent of Fine Arts in Florence, whose interactions were imagined by me), they are evocative of archetypes from the time and places mentioned. In fact, they sprang into my imagination while I researched Blood, Soil and Art, my previous novel about Nazi art thefts during the same time period in Italy. Partisan descriptions and escape plans are modeled on descriptions culled from histories/memoirs of persons who experienced similar events.

The novel owes much to a book I cite or refer to several times, and I wish to acknowledge that debt here. The book is: The City of Light, Jacob d’ Ancona, translated, edited and annotated by David Selbourne, Citadel Press (Kensington Publishing Corporation), New York: 2000. Remarks by Wang Lianmao are also included in this most interesting journal-memoir written by a Jewish merchant who traveled to south China four years before Marco Polo. Although the memoir recounts a true story, I changed the merchant’s surname and other details to support the plot. I recommend The City of Light to anyone interested in thirteenth century European and/or Asian history.

Visiting the cities and places mentioned in the novel on various occasions and in different time periods has been my pleasure. Two favorites, Barcelona and Florence, are centers for art and drama where the eye and mind are equally stimulated and rewarded.

I fudged a bit with respect to the artist Giotto’s dates. Although his dates are uncertain (his name as generally agreed was Giotto Bondone), it is probable the artist would have been a child or teenager during Nathan’s trading voyages. I chose to use Giotto, since he seemed a better representative of the period than lesser painters, and the geography was correct. I beg your indulgence in this. (See: The World of Giotto, Eimerl, Sarel, Time-Life Books, New York: 1967).

I used dollars instead of lire in the text simply because they are easier to understand.

Marionettes were my childhood hobby, and I owe much in this story to recollections of happy years spent making puppets, painting backdrops, reworking scripts and performing for fundraisers. There is no better multi-faceted spur to creativity than puppetry. It is infinitely better than watching television.

For more historical details about puppetry I owe thanks to: The Art of the Puppet, Bil Baird, Bonanza Books (Crown Publishers), New York: 1973; and The World of Puppets, Rene Simmen, Phaidon Press Ltd., London: 1975. I hope you enjoy Love Song for Dancing Strings half as much as I enjoyed researching and writing it.

Marilyn Ekdahl Ravicz

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ONE

Sometimes nightmares come before sleep.

That is what happened to residents of Florence, Italy, in August of 1944.

During the late afternoon of August third, megaphone-enhanced voices repeated a mandate in droning waves of Italian. It was an announcement warning of potential death and certain destruction.

‘‘Run, Gino! Follow me! Hurry – we must make it home!" Sophia shouted above the shrieking sirens, human screams and grinding motors of military trucks. She grabbed one of Gino’s arms and pulled him after her. His other hand held a beautiful flute and flailed wildly. His young face was an open-mouthed mask of terror.

Terrified, Gino struggled for the right words. "Si, Sophia, he shouted in a cracking voice, just let me grab my instrument case."

Jesus and Maria, get your butt behind me and run like a deer! Damn the case!

Military trucks with loudspeakers lumbered up and down the crooked streets of Florence hurling hollow-sounding warnings, and the desperate cries of refugees huddled in squalor along the streets or crowded into piazzas chorused the repeated announcement: "Achtung! Achtung! Everyone must leave the streets and take immediate shelter in cellars if possible. Do not leave the shelters and remain there until told you can come out. Achtung! Achtung! Everyone must leave the streets and . . ."

The warnings were meant to terrify rather than educate.

"How dare they announce their intent to destroy us as if it were evening news! How dare Germans order Italians to take shelter and not come out without their permission! Is that so they can kill us in groups?" Sophia muttered angrily while jogging down narrow cobbled streets, dragging Gino behind her.

People scurried. People ran, walked, jogged, limped, hobbled and helped each other into any shelter or niche they could find. Thousands of refugees were camped in the Pitti Palace gardens and around other renaissance buildings flanking the Arno River. They fought and clawed to cram into cellars, churches, museums, palazzos, stores or public buildings – pushing, shoving, dragging or carrying their rags and children on their backs or in buggies and carts.

The able fled in terror, running or riding the rare bicycle away from the enchanted heart of renaissance Florence. They headed out. Headed anywhere as far from Nazi announcements as possible. It seemed like the final Armageddon.

Suspicions blackened thoughts. Germans warned Florentines to ‘get off the streets’ and into cellars, but they often lied and were not to be trusted. Cellars? How many cellars were there anyway? Not enough for thousands! Would they shoot them once they gathered like sheep in cellars? Was the order meant to make genocide easier?

Except for neo-Fascists, most Italians hated hearing German by now.

The pseudo-palmy days of the Italian-German alliance were over and done.

In July of 1943, the Italian Council deposed and jailed Benito Mussolini; however, Nazis later rescued him in a daring glider raid, and Hitler set him up as the puppet-head of a neo-Fascist Party government in the northern Lake Garda region. Field Marshall Kesserling announced the prearranged codeword ‘AXIS,’ and crack German paratroopers dropped into Rome like drab snowflakes. ‘AXIS’ meant that dissenting Italians (although still allies strictly speaking) would be ‘disarmed,’ and Italy became an occupied country.

Meanwhile, Allied forces invaded from the South and slogged their way through Sicily and into Italy until, in June of 1944, an uneasy, starving Rome was liberated amid internal chaos. Italian partisans used guerilla tactics to kill as many withdrawing Germans as possible, and graffiti excoriated not only Nazis, but also the Church for its refusal to condemn the excesses of occupying Germans.

Internal events moved quickly, and the anti-Fascist Badoglio government surrendered to Eisenhower and declared Italy an Allied co-belligerent by September of 1944. But horrors continued unabated. Rabid Italian neo-Fascists, firmly under Nazi control, worked with the Wehrmacht, hell-bent on revenge, to strengthen defense lines.

Much of Italy became a battleground.

Progress for the Allies was not always easy. After their 1943 invasion of Sicily, they made a surprise amphibious landing on Anzio beaches behind the German line in January of 1944; however, after that, advances were often slow and bloody along the Gustav and Gothic battle lines. In areas like Monte Cassino, where the Wehrmacht had dug in firmly, months passed before the Allies (who bombed heavily there), broke through and reached central to more northern cities like Florence.

In spite of strong German build-ups along entrenched battle lines, the Allies finally advanced until they occupied the southern borders of Florence during the dog days of August, 1944. Though important, these advances became blips in a war that continued for months across several battlegrounds and in the skies above Italy and Germany.

Nazi opposition weakened across Europe, and United Nations Forces (as the polyglot Allies were called) pushed northward in Italy. France was ‘liberated’ step by step after the June Normandy Allied invasion, and German forces were in retreat everywhere. However, their typical withdrawal patterns dragged red-hot rakes of destruction in their wake. They were very poor losers.

By evening of August 3, 1944, the ancient streets of Florence were cavernous, silent, hot and humid. The announcements dwindled into fearful memories and, as dusk darkened into night, the cobbled streets became threatening canyons instead of paths of lightness and beauty where Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Boccaccio and other Great Ones had walked. The Ponte Santa Trinità floated like a bird over the dark ribbon of the Arno River, and jagged plumes of smoke fouled the air from areas burning south of the city.

Florence soon reeked of death and destruction, garbage and undiscovered bodies. A few hours after the loudspeaker announcements, around ten at night, the first explosions rocked the heart of the city. Night came dragging its own demons with it.

Time and place were enemies of the people. Electricity, water, transportation and communication services had already been destroyed by the Nazis. Now the Wehrmacht was withdrawing en masse to the north, where thousands of Italian conscripts and looted artworks had preceded them into slave labor camps and hidden storage places.

The whines and thudding explosions of long-range weapons resounded louder every hour from Allied troops massed south of Florence, and Allied planes flew overhead but dropped no bombs. They were observing the bedlam below. Jagged red and orange rings transformed the southern horizon into a false sunrise, an odd harbinger of hoped-for liberation. So far they avoided striking the heart of the city itself, but who knew when…

Florentines and refugees awaited their fate at the hands of vengeful Nazis or neo-Fascists and wondered wearily what the next army would bring. They hoped desperately for food. Many were starving. They prayed for food, shelter and medical help, but mostly for peace and not to live wrapped in fear any longer.

It was late afternoon when Sophia Buonaiuto and Gino Cenni stumbled hurriedly through crowded streets to her house. She twisted her brass key in the large lock of the carved wooden door with shaking hands. They crept in, holding hands, and scurried down ancient stone stairs into a cellar. An odor of dampness rose to meet them, but the air was cool and clear.

Gino sank to the floor and dropped his flute. Sophia used two precious matches stowed nearby to light a candle with trembling fingers. Damn! Here’s a light, but it’s the only candle left here, so look around. Grab this old blanket, and get ready for the night.

Couldn’t you have managed to find a bit of bread too?

Shut up, Gino, and stop complaining. We’re safe here, Sophia hissed. I may be in trouble with Nazis and neo-Fascists, but one knows where I live yet, and this ancient house is heavy stone – especially the cellar.

Outside it was hot. The atmosphere was fetid and increasingly hazy with floating debris from blasted areas. Dust was suspended in the air like fog. The sickening odor of uncollected garbage and rotting bodies under the rubble seeped everywhere, but inside the cellar the air was still relatively clear and cool. Sophia and Gino sucked in the damp coolness and sighed out their pain.

Sophia couldn’t rid herself of fear. She felt punched in the belly by vengeful images, and terror settled like a pain in her bowels. She tried to look brave in front of Gino.

They sheltered in the basement of Sophia’s house situated five curving renaissance blocks from the Arno River, huddled between narrow Via Osteria and Via del Guanto. The Buonaiuto family had resided there for countless generations. Florence had grown up around Sophia’s ancestors until they were crowded in a maze of renaissance paths intersecting with modern streets. Earlier generations of Buonaiutos modernized or rebuilt the house to accommodate their needs; however, expansion meant building another story, so the house grew taller. Once in the distant past, the Buonaiuto house had been rebuilt to include a marionette theater. But more of that later.

Sophia and Gino waited in aching silence amid periodic explosions followed by rumbling crashes of falling walls and the slow, inevitable rising heat from street fires. If it was hell, it was a noisy hell. Building stones and bricks moaned and groaned as they ground against one another over streets vibrating from explosions.

By now everyone knew the truth: the withdrawing Wehrmacht had mined the heart of Florence and Arno River bridges. Some Germans had denied it, but that was another lie.

Gino was a young sixteen and without a family for more than two years. His parents died in an air-raid, and Sophia, a ripe twenty, felt deeply sorry for her young friend. She had assumed the role of ‘older sister’ when he started playing the flute for her marionette performances about a year earlier. She didn’t know it, but Gino felt sorry for her too – alone as she was. Her brothers were off fighting, and the Nazis had conscripted her father into forced labor the previous year.

Relax, Gino dear, Sophia muttered and patted his tightly clasped hands. When the all-clear sounds, I’ll fix our two eggs and a little rice. She clasped her own hands tightly and pressed the cold, bony ridges of her knuckles until they hurt.

Gino grinned in the dark. She was so good to him! Thanks, Sophia, I’ll sleep or play my flute if I can find my mouth in the dark. I don’t think there’ll be an all-clear tonight.

She giggled nervously. Good idea. Play something, and we’ll dream of better days.

Gino’s breathy lyrical run settled into a melodious aria from Verdi’s La balla Maschera. Gino was a virtuoso musician whose melodies spun beautiful webs that helped cocoon their strife. Sophia started to sing softly, weaving words of the aria she recalled with others she made up. They huddled under their soiled blanket and made music until they napped, leaning against one another in profound exhaustion.

Time passed while rumbles ebbed and erupted again. One time they exploded into ear-splitting shockwaves, and Florence shook like an earthquake. Explosions rocked the house until the clash of falling objects, breaking glass and splintering wood terrified Sophia and Gino. Helpless, they clung together. Too afraid to cry out, they waited for death or oblivion. It was black inside the cellar, but they sensed the approaching fires as the temperature rose higher.

Sophia imagined this must be like the end of the world and recalled Dante’s descriptions in his Cantos. Gino was too terrified to think of anything but survival. They breathed in ragged gasps. Their throats became raw from inhaling tainted air in shallow pants that left them dizzy. Sophia gently placed her scarf over Gino’s nose and felt his cheeks wet with tears.

Sophia felt smothered and recalled Dante’s verse where he spoke of choking in ‘a veil so harsh and with such stinging stuff as was that smoke that poured around.’

The next round of booming explosions lasted so long they coughed and gasped in wrenching waves from the dust rising around them. They pulled the dirty blanket tighter over their heads and moaned.

When the explosive rumbles stopped again, they strained to hear something human: a voice, a cry, a scream. They heard only the occasional bellow of falling beams, crash of breaking glass or thunder of falling stones, brick and wood. Sophia could never have imagined that a dying city had such an almost animal voice of roars.

Afraid to get up, they grew stiff with tension. Their muscles ached from being coiled tight like internal ropes. Gino turned, poked Sophia and muttered, I have to pee.

Damn. Just turn around, creep a bit and pee on the floor. Don’t get up or you’ll fall over something. Sophia would have liked to say something comforting, but couldn’t.

I can’t find my flute. Gino’s garments rustled as he groped around, and Sophia felt the absence of his presence. The fallen debris was troubling. Had walls caved in? Had the roof collapsed above the second floor? Were they trapped in the cellar, pancaked under stone and masonry? The crashes and explosions were waning but…

Don’t worry, the flute’s not going anywhere. You’ll find it tomorrow.

They were silent, wondering if there would be a tomorrow. Wondering what the outside world was like. Wondering if it had ended. Sophia recalled a line of poetry from someone: In my beginning is my end. For some reason, she thought about eggs. Hunger? In my belly is my hunger?

Weariness won and they napped again, holding each other like little children while breathing in shallow gasps.

Later, the explosions started again. Sophia recalled rumors that the Nazis were mining not only buildings, but also ancient bridges. She had even shuttled that rumor among partisans weeks earlier. But even as some Italians witnessed Germans planting land mines, the Wehrmacht denied it. Accusations became embittered accusations and denials that meant nothing but insults.

The screeches of falling timber and stones grinding together erupted again, and Sophia felt an odd compulsion to count the explosions. She lost heart after twenty. The old house groaned, trembled, and at one point the entire structure shuddered as upper portions of the back wall crashed down. The building moaned like a wounded creature after that blast, and Sophia and Gino felt a rush of hot air enter from the rear of the cellar.

They lifted a corner of their blanket and saw tongues of flame fringing their view of the outside as fetid air rushed in. The back street near their house was burning! They wondered how badly it was damaged and waited for the next cataclysm. Maybe the last.

Should we pray, Sophia? asked Gino amid stifled sobs.

I don’t know, Gino. I’d just as soon swear as pray to a god who creates or allows so much death and destruction. Pray if you want, dear, I’ll just hope.

Gino fell silent. He was familiar with Sophia’s wild and radical ideas. He would pray quietly if he could remember a suitable prayer. He wouldn’t trouble her. She had a right to her ideas, even if they were unusual. Maybe even irreligious. Whatever that meant.

Unable to sleep during the renewed attack, they huddled and waited for oblivion or dawn. There were no more explosions, and dawn came before oblivion.

During their night of terror, Sophia realized that many famous bridges and buildings lining the Arno River had been mined. Magnificent renaissance structures and celebrated bridges were probably destroyed! And what did that really accomplish?

Germans could teach Italians a thing or two about revenge, Sophia muttered.

Gino was napping. Sophia tried to extricate her numb arm from around his bony shoulders. She stared into the dark until a reddish haze announced a fiery, chaotic dawn and she saw that part of her house had been destroyed. Through a fog of smoke and foul odors, reddish light seeped in between cracks and over a jagged profile of the remaining back wall. It was difficult to discern reality behind the haze.

Suddenly Gino sat up and rubbed his eyes. Sophia, I see light. It’s dawn but…

Yes, it is dawn – a red dawn. We can see it from here, because the back wall is partly destroyed. The cellar didn’t have windows, and now we don’t need them. Come on, Gino, we need to creep out and see what’s happened to our world. I think the explosions are finally over.

The atmosphere was foggy with floating grime. They coughed, choked and pulled their collars over their noses before moving out of the cellar. Holding hands, they half-crept, half-walked toward the reddish dawn. It would be easy to leave the cellar. Upper portions of the two-story rear wall had fallen and left a jagged brick and stone profile above cracked walls and heaped debris. They would need to climb up and then down.

Clambering up, Sophia tripped over rubble, slid down on her haunches, regained her balance and stared into a small room opening off the back wall. She had never seen it before. She tugged Gino back and they peered ahead. She recalled her father had once mentioned closing-in part of an old wine cellar as a storeroom and supposed this was it. Sophia studied the cracked and broken wall as they crept closer.

Let’s see if there’s any wine left. We could always barter it for food, Sophia said.

They scanned the tiny storage room, but only saw empty boxes and clumps of tattered marionettes hanging from pegs along a wall. They must be discards. No wine, only junk, Sophia complained. I wonder why such useless things were saved. Maybe this was a secret hiding place and not a real storage area. Wonder if there are others.

They looked around to decide the best way to creep out. Architectural barriers had shifted or were partially gone. Outside was inside and inside was outside. This means that security is also gone. We’ll be murdered in our beds. No, actually people can be murdered in the kitchen or brushing their teeth, not like they always say – in bed. Sophia grimaced at the hanging marionettes, decided to leave them and turned away.

Forget the storeroom. Let’s leave, muttered Gino. I’m scared for us now.

They crept over broken bricks, plaster and wood, some still smoking, and slid into the alleyway flanking a narrow back street. They scrambled down into a cobbled alleyway which was a yawning canyon banked with debris.

Holding hands, they paused to look around and Sophia giggled nervously. They were covered with grime, but alive. They had survived! Tears mapped tiny runnels in the grime on Gino’s cheeks, and he half-groaned, half-laughed.

Holy mother, muttered Gino, there isn’t much left here. Let’s see what happened along the river in front. I hope someone is still alive. We’ll never know about our friends now. We’re alone, Sophia, really alone!

Sophia said nothing as they scaled refuse and smoldering chunks of plaster. A few ghostly figures stood around or sat huddled together pallid as marble sculptures. Others wandered in a stupor. Covered in dust, they resembled pale ghosts from another world. Occasionally a cry or shriek would erupt and then fade into groans.

Rumor and denials had become manifest reality. The Wehrmacht’s souvenir was a gesture of destructive rage. Angry at losing and Italy’s peace-seeking voltafaccia to the Allies, they scribbled hate messages on city walls: Our allies are miserable turncoats. And, Italians are all cowards. Or, Italian tanks have only one gear – reverse. Verbal punishment from the master race. Their other punishments were much worse.

Germans were also enraged by increasing guerilla attacks made by partisans emerging by the hundreds from enclaves in the rocky hills rising around Florence. For these reasons, and so Allied forces could not use them, Nazis mined the ancient bridges and partially destroyed the most beautiful renaissance architecture in Europe. One general, who didn’t care a fig that Ponte Santa Trinità had probably been redesigned by Michelangelo, snarled, A bridge is just a bridge.

Sophia and Gino stood mute with shock and stared. The dark Arno flowed on, unwieldy with chunks of debris, floating beams, trees and bushes, as well as furniture adorned with drapery, clinging birds and cats. It bumped along as if in a traffic jam, slow and ponderous with refuse and an occasional bloated animal or human corpse.

Seeing clearly through air tainted with ashes was difficult. They stood immobile until Sophia groaned, Come on, Gino, let’s see if we can get in our house from the front. We need to see what’s left of our theater. We have eggs and rice – if there’s still a kitchen.

They were surprised to discover the front of their house was virtually undisturbed, although the street was clogged with debris. Partly buttressed by rubbish from adjacent structures, Sophia’s house stood, leaning very slightly toward its immediate neighbor, but almost regal in its uprightness. A sentinel amid fallen comrades.

They entered the heavy door cautiously. Gino followed Sophia and muttered, Let’s eat our food before scavengers come. Everyone is hungry, Sophia, and our papers are under that fallen wall. We don’t have identification or ration cards anymore.

Sophia merely frowned, shrugged dully and blinked.

They worked their way to the kitchen, and a mute Sophia cooked the two eggs and rice in stale water remaining in the pipes, using the last of their fuel. They sopped up their food with dry bread they carefully dusted off, but had nothing to drink.

Determined to be positive, Sophia said, We’re better off than most people. Many folks haven’t eaten in days. They’re living on the hope that the Allies will arrive and give them food before they starve. At least Allies and partisans won’t torture them.

What are we going to do, Sophia? Nobody will want marionette plays, our theater is a wreck, and there’s no food or water. I’m scared for us alone in a broken house.

Sophia tried to act more adult than she felt. She smoothed her rich chestnut hair and smiled. Her teeth gleamed white through the grime on her face, and Gino laughed in spite of everything. You look like a vaudeville character, Sophia.

Yasss, boss, she drawled. And, Gino, for one thing we’re going to leave this broken-down place now.

Leave? But go where? And why? The Germans will be gone soon, although neo-Fascists can be bad. We can hide out and hope they’ll leave us alone. Can we lock part of the house?

"We can’t stay here, and I’ll tell you why. For months I used my marionettes as a cover. I wandered around dancing strings in public – usually at the Café Porcellino – as if for money; however, I was actually a courier, a staffetta carrying partisan messages."

Damnit, Sophia. Were you out of your mind? You never even told me!

"What you don’t know can’t kill you. I didn’t want you to know. A Fascist officer gossiping with Gestapo buddies saw me talking to suspicious persons once too often and chased me. I hid in a toilet and escaped that time, but he marked me well and won’t give up. I can’t hide out waiting to be arrested. I’m the only puppeteer left in Florence. In days, vengeful neo-Fascists might drag me off to The House of Sorrows.

Besides, she giggled nervously, there’s no actual inside or outside now, and we’re not safe. Refugees will flood in and make trouble, although I don’t blame them. She tried to finger-comb her matted hair and blinked her stinging eyes.

I have no family, Gino muttered, your father is in a labor camp and your brothers in different armies. Who knows about Achille, his Spanish Republicans and that Spanish Civil War? Where can we go for help without family?

We have to help ourselves. We’ll leave for the countryside. You’re right. Achille stayed on after Republicans lost in Spain, and it’s been over three years since I heard from him. Italian mail has been shitty for years, but I still have two of his Barcelona addresses. Before they conscript you for a work camp or catch me, we’ll leave Florence. Better yet, we’ll leave Italy!

Sophia swiped her itchy nose and grinned hopefully. Let’s go to Spain and find Achille. He’s older and responsible. He’ll come home and help us. We’ll make it, Gino. In Spain you won’t have to hide from labor raids.

Spain? Barcelona? How can we get to Spain? And I don’t speak Spanish.

We’ll find a way. We’ll join the refugees traveling west and see what happens. I don’t have much money, but we can take a few marionettes with our traveling stage and give impromptu puppet shows in villages for food.

Gino looked skeptical and scratched his grimy face. Sophia didn’t want him to defect. The thought of a long journey alone was frightening. Besides, she had taken care of him for some time, had promised to continue and loved him like a brother.

Sophia tugged at Gino’s arm. Come on, we’ll make a fine pair of gypsies. She stood, brushed off her dusty pants and added as if planning a picnic, We’ll carry two changes of clothes, extra shoes and any dried food left. I’ll go to my room and pack. You do the same. We’ll need raincoats, a tarpaulin to wrap the stage and our backpacks.

Gino followed Sophia instead of going to his room. He was afraid to be alone. They worked their way past the ruined theater along the damaged first floor of the house and studied the ragged remains of the back wall. Some jagged sections rose higher than others. They approached the stairway rising along one side of the house, but the floor sagged and groaned as they neared it.

They stopped, waited and stared. On the remaining back wall of the first floor, almost under the stairway, was a small opening to what appeared to be another small storeroom. Sophia couldn’t remember seeing or hearing about that one. The fracturing of the back wall had cracked open a plastered-over door to a closet-like space.

How odd. One in the cellar and one here! Old houses hold secrets. Or they hold a lot of junk that was never discarded, Sophia muttered thinking about the old house.

Aside from hidden alcoves, the Buonaiuto house was different in another basic way. It was a long, narrow, but substantial two-story building. Generations earlier, both stories along the front half had been converted into a marionette theater with a high ceiling.

Only the back half of the house was maintained as a family residence. A large salon, workroom, dining room, kitchen and studio occupied the first floor that opened onto a patio and garden. Five bedrooms and two bathrooms occupied the second floor. There were no windows along the back of the second story, and the cellar was used for storage of seldom-used items, wine and root crops.

For countless generations the Buonaiuto family had owned and operated a famous Italian marionette theater. Their lives were inextricably woven into the tapestry of classic Italian puppetry, and family members were trained in the various skills required for creating and performing marionettes. Their fame was secure, because they handed down their unique reputation, expertise and talent through a family line.

Before Sophia’s great-grandmother, Buonaiuto women were only assigned the making of costumes and props, but that had changed. Sophia’s mother was a skilled maker of marionettes, and her ability to dance their strings was unparalleled. She had a beautiful singing voice and was a natural mimic, easily able to dramatize male or female roles. Sophia resembled her.

Sophia and Gino approached the back wall area gingerly, holding hands. The floor groaned and she whispered, I wonder if the door was plastered over for insulation or to disguise a hidden storage place.

Who knows? So what’s in there? Junk like in the other one?

I have no idea, but old Florentine houses sometimes had hidden niches for secreting valuables or even people during troubled times.

They studied the crumbling wall and small storage room until Gino muttered, Look at those old marionettes hanging on the wall. They’re different and very beautiful!

Sophia drew in her breath. She saw the dull glitter of old brocade, a tangle of broken strings and blank, staring eyes of miniature wooden or porcelain heads above exquisitely carved hands and booted feet. She had never seen such magnificent marionettes. Porcelain heads and hands? Why and when were they discarded?

I’ve never seen marionettes like those, Gino continued wonderingly, they’re so finely made. Do you know who created the gorgeous costumes?

I have no idea, Sophia muttered as she stooped to touch them. Maybe they’ve been here since my grandmother’s time. She was great with costumes.

The tiny gowns, suits of mail and shields attached to marionette warriors were exquisite. The dull gleam of arabesques and scrolled designs shone on worked metal surfaces, and sequins glimmered on brocade skirts and jackets. Some marionette heads and hands were made of carved and painted wood and others were of porcelain. Sophia and Gino had never seen porcelain marionettes before. A silent, dumb, exquisite group.

Should we look around or forget this storeroom? asked Sophia, thinking out loud.

It’s spooky, but let’s check those trunks fast and leave, answered Gino, scratching his leg and rubbing his face. He itched with dust, but was very curious too.

Alright, I suppose we should. Fetch a hammer from the studio, please. I’ll need it for the old locks. We’ll check, she laughed, because maybe we’ll find a fortune in jewels decorating the old mice nests.

Sophia squatted near the trunks and saw they were made of leather-covered wood and had finely incised brass fittings. The storeroom was dry and relatively airtight, so the trunks were old but