Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop Page 5

  “They are called Lulus.”

  “Lulus?”

  “Si. You’ll never forget that silly name.” Madre Carmela smiled before continuing. “They are bignè or cream puffs, but these are Sicilian cream puffs, and they are baked. When we fry bignè, they are known as sfinci.”

  “I remember my mother used to make sfinci.” Rosalia’s eyes filled once more with sadness.

  Fearful that she would lose her again, Madre Carmela returned to the subject of the Lulus. “As you tasted, they’re filled with cream—vanilla in the lighter ones, and chocolate hazelnut in the chocolate puffs.”

  “They are very delicious.” Rosalia took another chocolate one. As she ate, her brows creased together, and her eyes held the vacant stare Madre Carmela had become accustomed to seeing when she entered Rosalia’s room. She couldn’t help wondering what thoughts were flashing through the young woman’s mind.

  “Si, Rosalia. They are very delicious. I knew you would love them. I am so overjoyed you are feeling better. If you want, you can come down to the kitchen later and watch me make a few of our pastries.”

  Rosalia didn’t seem to hear Madre Carmela. She had lost her again. Just as Madre Carmela’s spirits began to sink, Rosalia said, “Why hasn’t my family come to see me?”

  “Your family?”

  Rosalia nodded her head. “Where are they?”

  “Rosalia, we haven’t been able to notify your family. You haven’t remembered your surname, and it seems like there are fragments of your memory that are missing. I, and the other sisters, have asked you a few times about your family and where you live. At first, I thought it was just that you weren’t feeling well enough to tell us, but later I could see you were struggling to try to remember. You’ve forgotten all of this?”

  The past few weeks were mostly a fog for Rosalia. She did remember the nuns rescuing her by the cave and how weak and sore she had felt. Her body had ached terribly. She remembered Madre Carmela and the wonderful sweets she brought her every day. Suddenly, visions of the nuns sitting at her bedside, sponging her body, and feeding her spoonfuls of minestrone came back to her. They had talked to Rosalia, but their words were a jumble. She even remembered they had prayed aloud for her. Their prayers would often wake her, and at night their prayers would lull her to sleep as she watched the nuns fingering each bead of their rosaries.

  “Rosalia, if you remember now your surname and where your family lives, I can let them know right away you are safe.” Madre Carmela looked at Rosalia, concern filling her large, almond-shaped eyes.

  Rosalia liked the nun’s face. She felt immediately comforted when she saw her, much as she had whenever her mother greeted her every morning. At the memory of her mother, a stab of pain pierced her heart. She had to return home right away. Her family must be worried sick about her.

  “I live in . . .” Rosalia’s mind went blank. Of course she knew where she lived. She had known no other home since she was a baby. It was the home she had dreamed of returning to every day since . . . No! She couldn’t, wouldn’t, let her mind go back to that horrible place. She tried once more. “I live in the town of . . .” Nothing.

  “That is all right, my child. It will come to you. Don’t worry.”

  “How long have I been here now?”

  “A month.”

  “A month? I need to go home. My family must think the worst has happened to me.” Rosalia pressed her fingers to her forehead as if willing herself to remember her name and her family’s town. Tears spilled onto her cheeks. Madre Carmela reached into her pocket and took out a handkerchief. She patted the tears dry, then sat down on the bed. Taking Rosalia’s chin in her hand, she gently lifted it, forcing the girl to look her in the eyes.

  “Please, don’t pressure yourself. You have had a horrible ordeal. Your mind is just tired. Allow it to get more rest. Your memory will return.”

  “How can you be so sure, Madre Carmela?”

  The mother superior pursed her lips. She began to speak, but then paused. Since that first day when she had found Rosalia, a fierce protectiveness had taken hold of her. But she knew the day would come when she couldn’t shield Rosalia from everything.

  “Rosalia, when we brought you back to the convent, our first priority was feeding you since you looked so malnourished. I also wanted you to feel safe here, and I did not want to do anything that would cause you alarm. But by the end of the first week, I knew I had to have a doctor examine you, especially when Sorella Giovanna found a large bump on your scalp while she was washing your hair. Upon closer inspection, I saw your scalp was swollen, and it was badly bruised. So I asked the local doctor to come and examine you. Do you remember that?”

  Rosalia shook her head.

  Madre Carmela wasn’t surprised that Rosalia had forgotten the doctor. At first, she had refused to let the doctor anywhere near her, though Madre Carmela and the other nuns had repeatedly assured the young woman he would not hurt her. But she had become like a wild beast, shrieking and trying to evade capture by its predators. She had run from one corner of the room to the next, looking for an escape. The doctor had been forced to tranquilize her with a sedative. Once she was unconscious, he had examined her. Madre Carmela had remained in the room, but had asked the other nuns to leave. Though she had already seen the bruises and cuts that covered Rosalia’s entire body, she had still winced when the doctor removed her nightgown so that he could fully examine her.

  The doctor had confirmed Madre Carmela’s suspicions. Rosalia had been severely beaten, and her head injury was most likely the result of being hit with a blunt object. Rosalia had a concussion, and he believed that was the cause of her memory loss. He had assured Madre Carmela that Rosalia’s memory would return.

  “Rosalia, the doctor confirmed for us that you were badly beaten. Someone hit you in the head, and you suffered a concussion. That is why you are having problems now with your memory. But the doctor believes your memory loss is temporary.”

  “So I will have my memory back?”

  “He believes so.”

  “Is that why I have been so dizzy?”

  “You have been dizzy?”

  “It comes and goes.”

  “Si, the concussion must be causing the vertigo as well.”

  “What will happen to me if I don’t remember where my family lives?”

  “You will. Please, Rosalia. Place your trust in God.”

  “But what will happen to me?”

  “You will live here with the sisters and me.”

  Madre Carmela’s words seemed to calm Rosalia for the moment.

  “All I want you to focus on now is getting stronger. And I think you are ready to leave your room and explore the grounds of our convent. We have a vast library. I’m sure you can find a few books you will enjoy reading. And our courtyard is beautiful. I have been bringing you flowers from our gardens every day.” Madre Carmela gestured to a simple white vase filled with miniature pink rosebuds. “I thought you might like roses since your name begins with Rosa.”

  A memory suddenly returned to Rosalia. Her father brought her roses from her mother’s garden every year for her birthday. He would tie them with a purple ribbon. Purple was her favorite color. That she remembered. And there was something her father used to say when he presented the flowers to her. What was it? “Beautiful roses for my beautiful rose.”

  “I remember. My father always gave me roses for my birthday.”

  “See. Your memory is coming back. Now just rest.” Madre Carmela placed a kiss on Rosalia’s forehead and turned to leave.

  “Grazie, Madre Carmela.”

  “You don’t need to thank me, Rosalia.”

  “Madre, you mentioned earlier that I might be able to come to the kitchen and watch you bake. If you are not too busy now, I would very much like to see how you make your pastries.”

  Madre Carmela’s face beamed. “Now would be the perfect time.”

  With the help of Madre Carmela, Rosalia carefully stepped o
ut of bed. It felt strange to have her bare feet touch the cold floor. She had been lying in that bed for so many weeks now. Letting Madre Carmela wrap her arm protectively around her back, Rosalia slowly stood up. Though her legs felt shaky, she knew she had to push herself to regain her strength, and that wasn’t going to happen if all she continued to do was lie in bed. Her family was waiting for her, and she was not going to let them down.

  4

  Ossa dei Morti

  BONES OF THE DEAD

  November 1, 1955

  Rosalia was in the kitchen, helping the nuns and the laywomen who worked at the pastry shop. Since that first day when she decided to live again rather than waste away in her bed, she had come down to the kitchen and helped with whatever the workers needed. Immediately, she became fascinated with the art of pastry making. She had no doubt in her mind that it was an art and marveled at how the workers on a consistent basis could bake and create such beautiful little treasures of sweets. Her favorite part was when it came time to decorate the fancier sweets like the marzipan fruit or the elaborate cakes such as Trionfo di Gola—Triumph of Gluttony.

  She soon learned that the pastry shop operated on a calendar, in particular, the religious calendar. Pastries were made either to honor a saint’s feast day or for a religious holiday like Christmas or Easter. Today was the first of November and was also All Saints’ Day—a church holiday that honored all the saints. The weeks leading up to this religious holiday were among the busiest for the convent’s pastry shop. Though the nuns and other workers had been preparing for a month, they were still baking and decorating marzipan and Ossa dei Morti—Bones of the Dead cookies made to resemble bones. These cookies were consumed every year on November 2nd for All Souls’ Day, which was tomorrow. Both the marzipan and the bone-shaped cookies had been selling out. For the past two weeks, long lines of customers had waited to purchase the brightly colored, realistic-looking marzipan fruit and the white, hard bone-shaped cookies.

  While marzipan was one of the pastry shop’s most popular sweets and was sold throughout the year, the demand for it soared in late autumn. On November 2nd, All Souls’ Day, children in Sicily woke up to find baskets containing marzipan, pupi di zucchero—or sugar dolls—and other toys and treats. The baskets were supposed to be gifts from their ancestors who had passed away. On the afternoon of All Souls’ Day, families descended upon cemeteries with picnics and flowers to celebrate the memory of their loved ones who had passed on.

  Rosalia’s parents had also taken part in this long-held Sicilian custom, but they had never been able to afford a basket for each of the three children or the marzipan fruit that was sold at their local pastry shop. Instead, they prepared one large basket containing apples or pears, and her mother made her simple Taralli cookies that were more savory than sweet and meant to be dipped in wine or coffee. Rosalia did not even know that the tradition was to add marzipan fruit to the baskets until Madre Carmela told her. The families of her school friends were poorer than hers, and many of the other children did not receive a basket on All Souls’ Day.

  Tears fell down her face. Rosalia lifted the apron tied to her waist to wipe her tears, but she didn’t notice that a teardrop had fallen onto one of the raw bone cookies that she had neatly lined up on a baking sheet. When she lowered the apron, her head suddenly began to throb. Closing her eyes, she rubbed her temples. A fuzzy image of a shop flashed before her. Customers were walking out of the shop holding hangers of men’s trousers or suits that looked as if they had been freshly pressed. The shop’s sign came into view, and she could make out the letters. They spelled “Sarto DiSanta.”

  Rosalia opened her eyes. “Sarto,” she said aloud to herself. Of course, her father was a tailor. That was his shop she had just seen in her mind. “Sarto DiSanta,” she whispered once more. Her heart raced. She remembered. DiSanta was her last name. Rosalia DiSanta. Yes, that was it!

  She ran out of the kitchen, much to the dismay of the nuns, who shouted after her, “Rosalia! Where are you going? We still have much work to do!”

  Running out into the corridor off the kitchen, Rosalia bumped hard into Sorella Domenica—one of the few nuns she still hadn’t met. But she had noticed her during the past few weeks in the kitchen. She always seemed to stay apart from the other nuns, and sometimes Rosalia caught her glowering in her direction. Then again, Sorella Domenica often had a scowl on her face. Rosalia had not given her much thought since she was always busy in the kitchen and focused on her work. She knew her name only because she’d heard the other nuns talking to her.

  “Excuse me,” Rosalia said in a low voice as she tried to hurry past Sorella Domenica. But the towering nun continued to block her path. At 5′11″, Sorella Domenica loomed over Rosalia’s petite frame.

  “Excuse me, Sister. You must always address me and the other nuns as ‘Sister,’ ” she said in a very harsh tone.

  Rosalia was taken aback by her demeanor. Until now, all the other sisters she had come into contact with at the convent had been nothing but kind to her.

  “I’m sorry, Sister. My name is Ro—”

  “Rosalia. I know who you are.” Sorella Domenica looked angry. “You must never run in the convent—or even in the courtyard. This is a place of God, and as such, we must always respect it as well as carry ourselves in the most dignified and humble manner. The Carmelite Sisters do not call attention to themselves, and we expect everyone who resides and works here to abide by our rules.”

  “I understand, Sister.” Rosalia looked down at her feet. She could feel her face burning up.

  “So why were you running? What is so important that you could not walk?”

  Rosalia glanced up into the sister’s face. Her expression still looked contemptuous. Rosalia did not want to tell her. She wanted Madre Carmela to be the first to hear the news that she remembered her surname and the name of her father’s tailor shop. But she knew she had to tell Sorella Domenica something if she hoped she would clear her path.

  “I was just looking for Madre Carmela.” Rosalia silently prayed that would be enough explanation for Sorella Domenica to let her be on her way. But Sorella Domenica remained fixed in place as she stared at Rosalia, making her feel as if she could see right through to her soul. Rosalia was tempted to look away, but she knew that might give the nun cause to think she was lying. So with all her willpower, she stared back at Sorella Domenica, doing her best to maintain a wide-eyed, innocent stare.

  After a few seconds of silence, but what felt like an eternity to Rosalia, Sorella Domenica said, “Very well. But remember what I told you.”

  Sorella Domenica stepped aside. Rosalia bowed her head in the nun’s direction and walked away, doing her best to take slow steps. She could feel Sorella Domenica’s stare on her back for as long as it took her to reach the end of the long corridor. When she reached the corner, she stole a sideways glance to see if the nun was still watching. She was. How strange!

  Once out of Sorella Domenica’s sight, Rosalia resumed running. She wasn’t going to let the likes of Sorella Domenica intimidate her—well, at least when she was far away from her peering gaze. Rosalia ran to the tiny office that Madre Carmela used. She had told Rosalia that the office used to be a linen closet that she had cleared out so she could take care of the convent’s affairs. Madre Carmela was often in here in the late afternoon.

  Though the door was slightly ajar, and Rosalia could make out Madre Carmela making entries with a pencil into her ledger, she still knocked gently on the door.

  Madre Carmela looked up. Unlike Sorella Domenica’s perpetual scowl, Madre Carmela’s face instantly beamed when she saw Rosalia.

  “Ah! Rosalia! Come in. Is it time for cena already?” She glanced at the clock that hung on the wall to the side of her desk—the only adornment in the room.

  “No. It’s not suppertime yet. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, but it is important, Madre Carmela.”

  She waved for Rosalia to enter. “You can always come to me, my chil
d. Don’t ever be afraid.” She smiled warmly.

  Rosalia’s heart lightened. She thanked God every day that Madre Carmela had found her. While she was anxious to be reunited with her family, she had quickly grown fond of the nun who had cared for her these past couple of months.

  “I remembered my surname, Madre Carmela! DiSanta. That is my family’s name!”

  “Ah! That is wonderful, Rosalia! See, I told you your memory would come back!” Madre Carmela stood up and went around the desk. She wrapped Rosalia in a tight embrace.

  “There’s more! My father is a tailor of men’s clothes. He owns a shop called Sarto DiSanta. I still don’t remember the name of my hometown.” Rosalia’s happiness from a moment ago was quickly overshadowed by the realization that she still had not remembered where she lived.

  “That is all right. I will contact the local police now that I know your surname and even the name of your father’s shop. They can make inquiries here and in the neighboring towns. We are closer to finding your family. And who knows? Maybe you’ll even remember everything by the time the police are done with their inquiries.” Madre Carmela squeezed Rosalia’s shoulder encouragingly as she lowered her head to peer into her face. “Don’t be discouraged.”

  “Si, Madre. I must be patient. I’m sorry. I do not want you to think I cannot stand being here. I just miss my family so much, and I know they must be very worried about me.”

  “Naturally, your place is with your family, Rosalia. I will call the police first thing in the morning.”

  “Grazie, Madre Carmela.”

  “It’s nothing. So is it still crazy down in the kitchen?”

  “Si! I should return. I abandoned them in my excitement over remembering. I wanted you to be the first to know.” Rosalia smiled.

  As Rosalia and Madre Carmela made their way back to the kitchen, they walked arm-in-arm. Madre Carmela had a habit of telling Rosalia a saint’s story whenever they worked side by side in the kitchen, and since today was All Saints’ Day, it was even more fitting. Madre Carmela was about to tell Rosalia the story of Saint Rita when an idea suddenly came to her. Taking a deep breath, she knew she was taking a chance and that Rosalia might not be ready. She quickly uttered a silent prayer to God before beginning.