Chapter Text
Riccardo enters the bakery, the ring of the bell above the door cutting through the afternoon hum. He sits at a table, turning the radio on. “Tribunal indicts participants of the Cavriglia Massacre”. He hears the man’s name and hesitates momentarily before changing the channel. His leg quivers. Mrs Bianchi, a woman with greying hair, works away at a pile of dough in the kitchen. He walks over silently as she hums an old tune.
My love cannot disperse itself in the wind, with the roses…
He dons a weathered apron, fumbling at the knot. A customer greets them, purchasing a dusted loaf. He’s the first one in a while. Riccardo looks at the rising bread as the fire pops. “They’ve arrested him.”
It will not fade, I will watch over it, I will defend it
“Who did what, boy?” Mrs Bianchi says, eyes on the dough.
“The one who killed my sister.” His eyes bore into the slumping dough. Keep it together, he thinks.
From all those poisonous snares that would tear it from my heart “Oh.” She turns to see his face.
“Who?” “Alberto Farina” He turns his face away. He feels his lips twitch and bites the inside of his cheek until the pain focuses him.
All beauty has already faded, you will find in me
“Oh.” She nods to the dough. “He’ll get what's coming to him.” The song becomes tinny and warped behind them. He leaves.
Fin ch'io vivo sar vivo in me Solo per te! As long as I live I will be alive in myself only for you!
***
‘Happy Birthday Riccardo!’ Mrs Bianchi says, placing a small cake in front of the now twenty-year-old. It is crowned with white frosting and cherries – a pre-war luxury. They eat a slice each and pack away the rest. She turns on the radio, met with the Tribunal’s list of convictions. They sound like ordinary men - tailors, bakers, fathers. His name isn’t there. The rest will be exonerated, for ‘national unity’ the tinny voice proclaims. The name echoes in his head, rattling and crashing like loose springs. They look at each other, suspended in nothingness before she leaves. Riccardo sits there and thinks that the crackle of flame sounds like cackling.
Riccardo spends the rest of the day in a repetitive blur, refusing to acknowledge the dull and large thing growing in his throat. On a break, Riccardo sits next to the radio, waiting and listening, listening and waiting.
Breathe in, breathe out.
His calloused hands find his face, pressing, squeezing, kneading. His skin suddenly feels cold and clammy, like spoiled dough. His exhales become shallow and quick. Alberto Farina’s name is too large in his mind. He looks for a distraction, the picture of her. No, not her. He finds an American flag, and it pulls him backwards.
Amalfi, just an hour's train ride away. Arched laneways loomed over cobbled roads. A man hopped down from the Jeep. His khaki jacket marks him a member of the Judge’s Advocate Corps. Riccardo asked about Alberto Farina.
“Him? Yeah, we’ll make sure that scumbag goes to the gallows.”
The words now churn in his stomach.
Riccardo’s own radio stares back at him.
“Why?” He says, repeating it over and over, throat raw. He stands, grabs the radio, and pulls his arm back. He sets it down with a sigh. It is too valuable.
Breathe in, breathe out.
He hears a creak. Mrs Bianchi stands at the door with a glass of water, face stoic and composed.
Breathe.
She sits beside him and stares at the floor as he tries to steady himself. The mattress shifts to fit them both. “Drink.” She says, her voice warm. “I want to do something. They promised.” He whispers, feeling the shaking slowly soften. “I know, but what can we do?” She says, in a more sombre tone. He thinks about her words for a moment and sips the water. “You want to strike a giant with a baker’s pin, Riccardo,” she says, her voice a steady anchor. “There is nothing you can do.” Riccardo grips the glass, knuckles white. “So we just watch while they decide her life never mattered?” “We endure,” she replied, her eyes weary and hard. She stands, the mattress sighing. “Put your hands back in the flour tomorrow. It is the only thing you can actually control.” Riccardo is left to the silence of the room.
***
Riccardo enters the bakery, the bell slicing through the morning fog. He sits at a table and turns the radio on. He waits.
“Quality carries on, even after the war. Drink Coca Cola today!” He waits until the ads die away. Then a familiar tune fills the room.
Fin ch'io vivo sar vivo in me Solo per te!
Riccardo chuckles to himself.