GEMMA RANG THE BELL and knocked again and again without an answer. She put her ear to the shutter but heard no noise. Then, steadying her hand, she opened the door to Silvia’s house.
She was used to emergencies. She knew the tension that lashes the body like a steel cable. She was from Friuli, where she’d been born in 1903. Whenever anyone talked about the Second World War she’d say, “Just think: I’ve been through two of them.” She enjoyed saying that. She enjoyed the fact that she was still alive despite the Battle of Caporetto, the Spanish flu, widowhood, bombs, and the German roundups, though many people she knew felt guilt more than anything else. Her daughter, Luisa, for a start. But for Gemma the past was just that: it was behind her, gone. I won’t end up fleeing at night, I won’t get across the bridge by a whisker before it blows up, my daughter won’t be sent to Germany to work like a slave. She maintained that this was all anyone needed in order to live optimistically.
Yet that morning, when she found Silvia’s house empty, Gemma was overcome with an inexplicable sense of danger. It was too early to become alarmed. Silvia couldn’t have left much more than an hour ago: the coffee grounds in her cup were still wet, her bed was unmade, the soap had slid onto the green tiles of the bathroom floor. The teacher wasn’t your typical housekeeper, so nothing strange about that. But as for being there: she wasn’t. Gemma promptly phoned the school to let them know.
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