The Fisherman's Daughter by Melinda Sue Sanchez

Author:Melinda Sue Sanchez
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: young women, WWII, hope, trust, suspence, romance, survival, trust, secret, clean, LDS, Italy
Publisher: Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published: 2017-12-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

Marianna

Although I knew the threats that Massimo warned us about were real, we could not leave as he wanted. Papa’s fatigue and illness became chronic and kept him in bed. He moved as slowly as a child learning to walk. Each day his eyes were weaker and puffier, his face drawn and sallow.

As a child I was sure there could never be a world without the daily bob of my father’s boat on the horizon of the Mediterranean and the briny smell of a fresh catch growing fishier as the day warmed. Papa smiled and kept assuring us all that he would soon be back on the sea, but we all prayed for a miracle while more and more of the fishing responsibilities were transferred to me and Aviano. My arms and shoulders ached until they burned while we worked, but I had no time to give them relief.

New information traveled down the booths at the open market; despite the scorn toward religion by the Nazi party, the Santa Lucia procession to honor our patron saint would be allowed to take place the next week. Franca, Laura, and I made a plan to march with the crowds. We would carry dedicatory candles and walk in our bare feet behind the statue of the saint in hope that our sacrifice would bring the blessings we craved for our loved ones. We would march for Bruno and Papa. And, in my heart, I would sanctify my sacrifice for Massimo.

We were all aware that Laura’s feet swelled and throbbed by each evening, but she refused to let anyone march for Bruno in her stead. When we tried to convince her, she accused us all of heresy, sure that God would not let her or the baby be harmed while honoring one of his holy saints. In the end we all agreed she would march and that Mama and Signora Chessari would wait at the end of the procession in the Chessaris’ truck to take her home immediately. It was risky; the truck could be confiscated for military use, but it was a risk we would have to take.

The day of the procession arrived. The lacy hem of my skirt brushed across my ankles with each step I took to the beat of somber drums, the cobblestones warm beneath my bare feet. A tatted scarf covered my hair and tapped rhythmically against my lower back. I grasped my procession candle while its flame battered against the breeze and fanned waxy black smoke into my nostrils.

Dour clergy robed in black carried the statue of Santa Lucia on a platform on their shoulders. The ornate statue, draped in gold shimmering cloth, rocked back and forth to the beat of drums—ceramic piety atop a throne piled with gifts, money, and desperate appeals for mercy scribbled on notes and letters. Hundreds of people lined the streets, waved handkerchiefs, and crossed themselves when the procession passed. Some pressed against the wrought-iron rails of their balconies overhead and leaned over to toss flower petals down on the patrons.

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