Levanto
she had always loved the evenings, sitting on the old silk
sofa, glass in hand watching darkness creep in.the doors
would be open to the terrace, where tonight the cane chairs
were empty...she could hear the drip of watered plants,
smell the familiar scent of cedars in the air..the marble
floors still held the warmth of the sun as the colours on
the painted ceiling grew mellow in the fading light, out to
sea a sprinkling of lights, which tonight shimmered through
her tears, she heard the cicadas join the clatter of the
kitchen as Riquetta sang in her cracked old voice. early
that morning she too had said goodbye to her son as he left
for the safety of the hills. beyond the high wall, tyres
scrunched to a halt, voices and footsteps grew close,
holding back the urge to run, she forced her body into a
pose of indolence, the long ebony cigarette holder to her
lips...the door opened to reveal Riquetta, ashen faced .
"Baronessa...the Germans are here....."
this is a true story.
she was my aunt, and even with the germans in her house,(
an old peeling pallazo, in Levanto). she managed to hide
escapees in the eaves of the chapel, and down the well in
the garden.
she established a safe route for many. they would arrive to
see my mother with messages/stories. and was awarded with a
medal.
Pim Claridge