The lost dresses of ital.., p.1
The Lost Dresses of Italy, page 1
THE LOST DRESSES OF ITALY
A NOVEL
M. A. McLaughlin
Dedicated to my dear husband, Jim
“Il percorso verso il paradiso inizia all’inferno—The path to heaven begins in hell.”
—Dante Alighieri
PROLOGUE
Verona, Italy
April 1945
I couldn’t wait much longer; it was too dangerous to remain in the empty streets of Verona at such a late hour. Vile things happened to those who lingered alone in the dark, the kinds of unspeakable acts that people only hinted at in hushed tones for weeks afterwards—and never quite forgot.
Glancing up and down the Via Salerno, I watched as the night shadows crept along the street with spidery tentacles, moving along from building to building as if hunting for lost souls. My hands grew clammy at the chill, black silence.
But I stood my ground, flattened against the palazzo wall behind me, trying to blend into the hard stone against my back while I waited anxiously for my buyer to arrive; he’d promised on the phone to bring enough lire to purchase what I had to sell: a valuable Renaissance emerald. The stone had been attached to a basket pendant of woven yellow gold which I had already melted down, and now I needed to dispose of the jewel. After some haggling, we had eventually agreed on a sum and a meeting time; he said he would wear a white rose in his lapel so I’d recognize him. The color of purity and innocence, though our transaction was neither since I was a thief and he was a criminal.
Granted, I shouldn’t have taken the jewel, but these were desperate times, and those I loved needed food and shelter. Once they were taken care of, I would make certain the partisans received the rest of the proceeds.
We all simply wanted to survive the war and were holding our collective breath as if in the moment between the thunder and the rain; perhaps when the skies finally opened, they would wash away all of our sins. At least, I fervently wished that would be true.
If I lived to see it …
Everyone was terrified the end would not come soon enough.
No lights appeared in the windows along the street—just empty, dim portals, behind which people huddled, hesitant to switch on even a single lamp for fear it would draw attention to their homes. It was safer that way because, after midnight, the last remnants of German soldiers would come out and pick through the rubble, helping themselves to any scraps of food or clothing. Their Führer’s surrender was all but certain, but a few loyalists remained in parts of the city, hiding in the ruins of bombed buildings, not willing to accept defeat in spite of their hunger and misery. They were starving, and I knew their despair only too well; but I also hated them enough to kill over this jewel. I touched the pistol tucked into my belt. I had used it before, and I would again.
If they knew what I possessed, they would surely try to shoot me first.
Then it began to drizzle, just a light mist—hardly a redemptive cleansing, but enough to blur the harsh reality of the ruins that lay around me: the crumbling palazzos and unevenly pitted streets took on a hazy glow. And the smell of decay turned to a pleasant scent of moss and cedar.
Allowing my thoughts to drift away for a few moments, I could see the Via Salerno in my mind’s eye on a bright summer’s day, with the vividly colored palazzos of my boyhood: shutters thrown open and flowering vines across the doorways. Vibrant and alive. And all along the avenue, I could watch people talking and laughing as they strolled with their children during the early evening passeggiata. Sunbeams streaming down with the radiant joy of peace and prosperity.
A flash of lightning streaked across the sky, and my vision from the past faded abruptly into a view of the dim wreckage of the present. I closed my eyes for a few brief seconds to summon those beautiful memories of the past again, but I still couldn’t block out what lay before me.
Yet, in my heart, I believed those idyllic days would return. I knew it. And I would walk in the light of hope again, perhaps even with my own wife and family. A daughter with the smiling eyes of my recently deceased mother, and a son with the sweet demeanor of my long-gone father. Anything would be possible once this damned war ended. I had to cling to that image of the future …
A quick, light step on the cobblestones caught my attention, and I froze in place, curling my fingers around the weapon. I could feel my heart beating faster as I squinted in the mist to make out who was approaching, but I couldn’t see anyone yet. As the steps grew closer, I felt my breath coming in shallow, quick gasps. Squaring my shoulders, I gritted my teeth in resolve. I would see this through and show everyone that I had coraggio.
A figure finally appeared, wearing a large, hooded coat that hid his face. Then I spied the white rose in his lapel and I exhaled in relief, letting go of the gun as I reached for the jewel in my trouser pocket.
“Buona notte,” I said, moving out of the shadows as he approached.
He stopped in front of me and slipped down the hood.
I blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here? It’s too risky to be outside at night—”
“I want the emerald. You should not have taken it and set up this transaction on your own; we were supposed to do it together. Remember?”
“I knew if I told you, you would want to hold out for more money, but we can’t wait. People need to eat, and the partisans need ammunition.” Holding my ground, I kept the stone in a tight clasp. “Where is the buyer?”
“When I overheard you on the phone talking with him, I found out who it was and decided to pay him a visit in person. I was even able to negotiate a higher price, with certain incentives.” A deadly flatness accompanied the last word. “He is waiting at the Castelvecchio—for me.”
I drew back. “Did you reveal partisan names?”
“Not exactly.”
I didn’t believe it.
“Just give me the emerald, Tonio, and you can simply walk away. I’ll even share a small amount of the profits with you.”
More lies.
“You know I can’t do that.” Another jagged line of silent lightning lit up the night. “I have to complete this task because so many people need what this money can provide for them, and we can’t be selfish with so many lives at stake. We have fought too long and hard to turn into mercenaries now. But if you’ve been double-dealing with my buyer, I will find someone else to purchase it because there are only too many men who will pay well to own something this valuable. I don’t want to discuss this any further because I have to finish my task, so you need to move aside—now.” When there was no reaction, I lunged forward and, suddenly, felt a sharp, thin blade pierce the flesh on my side. A stiletto. I gasped at the burning pain for a few moments and then pressed my hand against the wound. When I looked down, my fingers were covered in blood.
Dio mio.
I fell to my knees, dropping the jewel, and it flipped over and over, finally landing just out of my grasp.
“I’m sorry, but you gave me no choice. Truly, I wish it could have been otherwise.”
My attacker retrieved the gem, pulled up the coat’s hood, and started to withdraw, but not before casting the rose into the rain-soaked gutter next to me, its petals floating on the water’s surface like wings of an angel.
But I faced the devil.
“After what we’ve been though, I’m begging you to send someone to help me—per carita!”
“It’s too late.”
Then I was alone again.
Moaning in agony, my eyes stung with tears as I clutched the wound, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. I struggled to stand again, but my legs began to shake as if I were facing a strong and violent wind, and I collapsed fully onto the cobblestones. I couldn’t die this way—not after everything that I’d endured.
“Aiutami! Aiutami!” I shouted to anyone who might hear, propping myself up with one elbow.
I heard a window open and then close again. But no one came to help; they were too afraid.
Just then my arm gave out, causing me to fall flat onto my stomach, and I began to pray for God’s mercy and grace.
Padre nostro, che sei nei cieli, sia santificato il tuo nome …
Gradually, everything seemed to turn calm and numb, with only the gentle patter of the rain on my back. I managed to twist my face toward the sky, thinking I could see my Mama’s sweet face gazing down at me in love and pity as she murmured my name: Tonio.
As I felt her reach for me from the heavens above, I realized that my dream of the future was rapidly fading away. No wife. No children. Niente.
Only Mama.
At least she would be waiting for me—with Papa.
As I stretched my fingers toward the rose to give to her, I touched its silken petals and drew my last breath.
CHAPTER 1
MARIANNE
“Come back to me, who wait and watch for you:—
Or come not yet, for it is over then …”
(Monna Innominata, Sonnet I)
Verona, Italy
October 1947
How do you begin anew when all of the beauty in the world has disappeared? Even two years after the war had ended, it seemed an impossible task. Every sunrise cast its light on the crumbled dreams of what we had lost, and every sunset spread across the horizon with a sigh that yet another day had passed without a change of heart. Yet the future somehow still beckoned, ever elusive, in the next moment’s breath, with a whispered promise of hope.
But who could say for certain when it would happen?
All we could
So I had traveled all the way from Boston to Verona to take on the task of helping a colleague and friend who had struggled through the horrors of war and was trying to revive her life and her country through the artistry of the past. My dear Rufina Rovelli, classmate from my student days at the College of Art and Design in Massachusetts, had contacted me a month ago about mounting an exhibit of Victorian dresses; it would be a part of the many new initiatives to restart the fashion industry, which had been all but destroyed. She had studied industrial design, not fashion curating, and was out of her depth. At first I had resisted Rufina’s persistent appeals, not wanting to open the emotional doors connected to people and places from my past, which I had firmly shut. It was too painful. Instead, I had found contentment by being constantly busy with work at the college; but, ultimately, the pull of our friendship was too strong. I couldn’t ignore her requests since she had been my closest and most cherished ally when I was a freshman and, later, novice curator trying to find her place in the world. Rufina. Her name meant “the woman with red hair,” and she had the sassy unconventionality to match her wild mane, but she was also kindness itself.
And she seemed to bring out those same qualities in everyone she met—including me.
Perhaps she and Italy would help me find those lost keys to the doors that had sealed up my soul.
Forse.
I had flown into Rome’s Ciampino Airport yesterday and boarded the train for Verona, though I was afraid to see how much the war had ravaged the country since my last visit a decade ago. On this exact rail route with Rufina in 1937, the last time I’d visited, I had spent most of my time absorbing the same dreamy landscape dotted with hilltop villages, fascinated by how the sky shifted between green and ochre like a silken fabric of undulating colors under the sunlight. Now, as then, I couldn’t take my eyes from the breathtaking views and, at first glance, it did not appear as bad as I had anticipated.
The usual signs of harvest season were everywhere—leaves scattered in thick layers across the ground and a slight mist hovering around the valleys.
Yet, as I peered closer, the towns still bore the wounds of war, only half healed. Some buildings still stood with all four walls but vacant spaces within where the roof and windows had once been visible. Around them lay decayed piles of rubble. Roads scarred by deep holes. Abandoned, blown-out cars rusted into skeletal, twisted frames.
All of it waiting to be fully brought back to life.
My own vacant image in the window glass wavered over the scenery: dark eyes with pale skin and pale lips, an angular chin, and thick, inky-colored hair cut into a bob that barely brushed my shoulders. No expression except for a blank stare. I, too, was waiting.
If it ever happened.
Sighing, I glanced away from the window and took in my fellow travelers: a nicely attired young woman scolding her two little girls in rapid-fire Italian as they kept poking at each other, and an older man who was doing his best to ignore them as he read the latest La Stampa headline. None of us spoke to each other, but their furtive glances in my direction gave me the feeling of being immediately identified as a stranger in their country.
Someone who didn’t quite belong but wasn’t a threat, just acknowledged as different from the normal passengers.
An aging, slightly stooped conductor approached, asking for my passport and ticket, and I handed him both.
He looked at the documents carefully, then me. “Signora Marianne Baxter?”
“Sì.” I said nothing more. Even though the war had ended over two years ago, I knew they were still looking for Nazi agents and Italian traitors.
Apparently satisfied that I was neither, he moved on to the hassled mother.
I checked my watch. We would arrive in Verona, the “Painted City” of Romeo and Juliet with its aching beauty and ancient history, by late afternoon, and it could not come soon enough. Not having journeyed overseas in years, I felt bone-weary and wanted nothing more than to lay my head on a soft pillow and sleep for an entire day. Still … my curiosity about what awaited me would not let me rest fully until I actually saw the garments that Rufina had found. In her letter, she had listed the discovery in a matter-of-fact manner:
One blue poplin walking dress, one summer silk evening dress, and one day dress of figured India muslin. All impeccably preserved, except the last one, which has some damage to the skirt and neckline.
But her mundane tone belied what I knew was barely controlled elation about the discovery.
It was a miracle to find so many nineteenth-century pieces in one place. The thrifty women of that era tended to refashion clothing, often altering items from generation to generation, until the fabric grew too thin and worn to assemble into yet another dress. Then they would be discarded or cut into rags. Sometimes a wedding dress or a very expensive designer piece would survive intact, with only minor wear; but finding three well-preserved gowns was remarkable, especially in a city that had seen so much destruction during the Allied bombings.
Certainly, in the scheme of world events, it appeared a trivial find; but, to a costume historian like me, it was thrilling. A textile dream come true, which allowed me to peer through a portal into the life of a once living and breathing woman. A chance to connect with something tangible after the wearer was long gone. I could already imagine myself brushing the fabric nap and feeling the threads of each meticulously sewn seam, through my gloves, of course. Even from brief contact, the natural oils from human skin could damage antique fabric.
In contrast, as I smoothed down my own black striped A-line dress, I grimaced at the mass-produced cotton under my fingertips, so different from the handwoven materials of the past. Like most curators, I could never afford the kind of garments I worked with since they were reserved for only the very wealthy. Certainly, a far cry from my middle-class Midwest roots where my chemistry teacher parents counted every penny to buy discounted apparel; but they kept their jobs during the Depression and managed to keep the three of us fed as well as clothed. And they scrimped and saved to send me to college, even though they never quite approved—or understood—my chosen path.
Their hearts beat to the hum of a bubbling test tube in their lab, whereas mine followed the song of a sewing machine, repairing some long-lost piece of fabric. Two different worlds. And, as an only child, I always felt like the odd one out who was never understood, only accepted. Like a chemical reaction that couldn’t be explained.
But from the moment I first saw my mother unpack a box of old garments that belonged to my aunt, I was enthralled. It was a few days after my tenth birthday, and I thought when the mailman delivered the package, it might’ve been a late present. But it turned out to be so much more than that, rather the gift of a lifetime: blouses, dresses, and even a pair of blue leather T-strap shoes—all from the twenties. I took each piece of clothing up to my room, laid them out on the bed, and saw my future unfold in front of me with absolute certainty.
I had found my calling.
But it was a lonely one, until I went to college and bonded with fellow students who’d chosen the same path, almost a second family—not that I didn’t try to bring my parents into this new reality.
Once, on a semester break, I had brought home a fashion book that Rufina had bought for me at a secondhand store in Cambridge; it contained a picture of a Schiaparelli scarf and, as I waxed poetic about it, I saw puzzlement flash across my mother’s face before she managed a slight smile. She tried to connect with my passion for its unique style and craft. Over and over. But it was a challenge.
However, a year later, my parents gave me a Schiaparelli scarf for Christmas: a coral, geometrically patterned sliver of silk. I don’t know how they found one—or afforded it—yet for that and their love, I would always be grateful to them. They had let me pursue my dream. They were nearing the end of theirs with looming retirement, but that wouldn’t be for a few years yet. For now, their beloved lab still beckoned.
Even as antique clothing called out to me.
I wore the scarf in their honor today; it was tied loosely around my throat with one end tossed over my shoulder and, as always, I felt transformed by its elegance.
