The Tuscan Orphan: A BRAND NEW epic, emotional historical novel from Siobhan Daiko for 2024

PROLOGUE

MIMI, TUSCANY, AUTUMN 1944

‘Non avere paura,’ a voice whispers. Don’t be scared. ‘Stai all’ospedale.’ You’re in the hospital. ‘Prendiamo cura di te.’ We’re looking after you.

I blink my eyes open. My head feels heavy, and my mind is woozy. There’s a lady sitting on a chair right beside me. ‘Ciao, tesoro.’ Hi, darling. ‘Come ti chiami?’ What’s your name?

‘Mimi.’ I attempt a smile.

The woman is a nurse, I realise, and she smiles right back at me. ‘Mi chiamo Carrie,’ she says.

I’m tired, so I fall into the strangest dream.

I was huddling with my friends in the back of a truck, my heart booming. We’d left the convent where the nuns were looking after us only a short time ago, all of us terrified because German soldiers had locked us up in the cellar until two men had come to rescue us.

It had been the most horrible time of my life. Not as bad as when I’d had to leave Mammina and Babbo behind in Florence a year before, when I was only four – that had made me cry for days and days – but horrible all the same. We could hear the soldiers’ loud voices coming from the dining room above us. The nuns were praying and we were crying and then we heard big explosions and we could smell burning. Our eyes stung.

Someone began to shoot at the cellar door, and we cried out in fear. A tall man ran forward and Sister Immacolata called out his name. Vito. She picked me up and ran towards him. He took me from her and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘Our prayers brought you to us,’ she said.

Mother Superior spoke next. ‘I presume you killed those Germans. May their souls rest in peace.’

‘Indeed.’ Vito shifted me onto his hip. ‘We’d best go back upstairs and work out a plan.’

We met another man in the hallway, and Vito asked him to check on the German vehicle outside.

I wriggled in Vito’s arms and stared at him.

‘Ciao,’ he said before introducing himself.

I felt shy and buried my face in his chest.

‘So,’ he said to Sister Immacolata. ‘Who are these children and why are they with you?’

‘They’re Tuscan. From Florence. Their parents are Jewish and went into hiding from the SS after the Wehrmacht occupied the area. The church arranged for us to take the bambini into our care. I don’t suppose they ever imagined the front could possibly move up here.’

‘Ah.’ Vito frowned.

His friend ran back into the hall, a set of keys jangling in his hand. ‘These were still in the truck’s ignition.’

‘Excellent.’ Vito turned to him and suggested that he go to Bologna. ‘I’ll meet you there as soon as I can,’ he added.

‘Don’t you need my help?’ the friend asked.

‘There isn’t enough room in that truck with the nuns and children. And it would draw too much attention if you marched alongside us.’

‘Where are you heading?’

‘Florence,’ he said.

My heart leapt. We were going home.

Sister Immacolata touched his arm. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea? There’s a big battle going on in the area between San Ruffillo and the road south.’

‘Germans are attacking from the north. We’ll soon be at the rear of the Allied lines.’

After Vito and his friend helped us all climb aboard the truck, his friend shook his hand and wished him luck.

Vito got behind the steering wheel and started the engine. The truck set off up a winding, narrow dirt road, its massive tyres churning up chunks of mud.

I grasped hold of Sister Immacolata’s arm.

Something had landed on the road.

The truck juddered to a stop.

A bomb exploded with a loud bang. It covered us in dust and bits of rock.

My whole body began shaking.

‘Get out,’ Vito yelled. ‘We need to take cover.’

German soldiers were coming down the road towards us. My heart thudded as loud as a drum.

Vito helped the nuns from the truck, then he picked me up and ran towards some trees. ‘Follow me,’ he shouted.

And then, without warning, he stopped running.

More soldiers were coming from the opposite direction.

Bullets whistled past my ears.

Explosions made me cry out in fear again.

A sharp pain pierced my forehead.

I opened my mouth and gave a scream.

1

AIN EL TURK, ALGERIA, SEPTEMBER 1943

A warm breeze, redolent with the fragrance of jasmine flowers, blew a strand of hair into Carrie’s eyes. She tucked the errant blonde curl under her cap, her chest fluttering with anticipation.

The truck on which she was travelling had pulled up in front of the hospital staging area. She adjusted the olive-green cuffs of her uniform jacket, proudly glancing at the insignia worn on her epaulettes. The single yellow bar indicated she was a second lieutenant, like all newly recruited American Army nurses. The gold-coloured US pin worn on both of her collars, and the golden caduceus with a red N on each lapel, shone brightly in the African sunshine as she climbed down from the back of the four-tonne vehicle, about to start the biggest adventure of her life.

She bumped arms with Louise, the fellow nurse she’d met on board the USS Edmund B. Alexander. The ocean liner, which had been converted into a troop ship, had brought them to Oran from New York, zigzagging across the Atlantic, completely blacked out to avoid U-boat attacks. It was only after they’d sailed that they’d gotten the low-down on their destination: a troop convalescent facility in Algeria.

‘Well, we’re finally over yonder,’ Carrie said to Louise as they went to find their luggage.

Louise’s laugh tinkled. ‘You mean over there, eh, Tex?’

Louise had given Carrie the nickname from the outset and Carrie, not wanting to use the pejorative term ‘hillbilly’, called her new friend ‘Kenny’ in return. Chubby, with chestnut-brown hair and hazel-coloured eyes, Louise hailed from Kentucky. She smoked a corncob pipe and had taught Carrie to play cribbage. They were both worried about how they’d cope so far away from home. During the crossing, they’d gone up on deck every night to gaze at the stars and escape the stuffy heat of their quarters below. There, they’d shared family tales and stories of their youth, promising they would look out for each other come what may.

Carrie gazed at the tented campsite up ahead, which was set on a bluff overlooking the azure Mediterranean Sea. They’d been told they’d be there only temporarily prior to being transferred inland. She pulled in and then slowly released a deep breath. Had she done the right thing?

She’d only just turned twenty-four when she’d enlisted a couple of months ago. Fresh out of nursing school, like many others, she’d rushed to answer Uncle Sam’s call to join the Army Nurse Corps. She’d soon realised she had no clue what she was letting herself in for. The daily drills. Hup, two, three, four, left face, about face; lectures twice a day; foxholes dug into the dry earth beneath the hot Texas sun; obstacle courses, crawling in the dirt under barbed wire with live ammunition being fired overhead; the session in the gas chamber wearing impregnated clothing and a mask. Gritting her teeth, she’d soldiered on, excited about the prospect of serving overseas.

She set her jaw, picked up her kitbag and slung it over her shoulder. Smiling, she linked arms with Louise. ‘Let’s go report for duty,’ she said.

A week later, Carrie was strolling past the big red cross painted on the ground at the back of the General Hospital, erstwhile known as the Grand Hotel in Bou Hanifa. The building rose out of the desert like an art deco mirage and had been a hot water spa resort before its requisition by the US military. Palm trees swayed in the warm breeze and bare brown hills formed a backdrop to the scene.

Under her white nurse’s cap, sweat prickled Carrie’s hairline, and she rubbed her hands down the skirt of her seersucker ward dress. Shame she was no longer stationed by the ocean; at the staging camp, she and Louise had enjoyed swimming off the beach.

She stopped in her tracks. A tall man was approaching. A captain, judging by his insignia. She raised her arm and saluted.

‘At ease, Lieutenant.’ A smile gleamed in his light blue eyes. ‘Have you just arrived?’ He removed his hat and wiped his brow. Dark red hair cut short, Army-style, framed his freckled cheeks.

‘Yes, I’m Carrie Adams. I’ve been stationed here to learn the ropes.’ She tore her gaze from his attractive face.

‘Bill Ainsworth, surgeon.’ His accent sounded Midwestern. ‘We need more nurses. We’ve been hard-pressed to handle the casualties sent here for further treatment from Sicily. Not to mention German and Italian POWs requiring surgery.’

‘I’d like to specialise in surgical care,’ she said. It had been a long-held ambition.

‘Well, you’ve sure come to the right place.’ He gave a wry laugh.

She laughed with him. ‘I’d better shake a leg, sir. My shift is about to start.’

‘No doubt we’ll cross paths again.’

She wanted to say, I hope so, but that would have sounded dumb. Instead, she simply nodded and saluted once more.

After returning her gesture, he turned and set off in the direction of the tented accommodation area.

A sigh escaped her. Chances were the good-looking doctor had a wife back home in the States. As for her, she’d been too busy of late for a heartthrob and didn’t expect the situation to change. There was a war on, wasn’t there?

Her attention was drawn to the imposing white buildings up ahead. The main three-storey block housed the hospital, but a domed structure to the right bore the inscription ‘Les Thermes’. She couldn’t speak French but guessed the thermal baths were inside and wondered if the medical staff were allowed to use them.

She made her way up the wide front steps and reported to 1st Lieutenant Betty Thompson, nurse anaesthetist. Frizzy red hair poked out from under the older woman’s cap. She gave Carrie a warm smile.

‘Follow me, Lieutenant. We’ll scrub up and then you can make a start.’

Carrie lifted her eyes from the letter she’d just received from Mom and Daddy. A small brown mouse had come into the tent. She stamped her foot to scare it away, but it simply stayed put and stared at her. Since disembarking in Algeria two months ago, she’d learnt that creatures in this country seemed to move at a snail’s pace. Because of the daytime heat, she guessed. Whenever a fly landed on her arm, it wouldn’t move until she’d brushed it off.

She returned her focus to her letter and carried on reading the latest news from home. Food, gas and clothing were still being rationed. The radio provided her parents with updates on the fighting overseas. They missed her, hoped she was safe and not too lonesome for them.

She folded the pages of the letter and tucked them back into the envelope. How she longed for her family. She remembered her eager-beaver attitude when she’d first arrived. She’d been so busy, she’d barely had time to think, let alone be homesick. Her work involved preparing the operating rooms for patients, setting up the equipment and making sure everything was sterile. She also helped the surgical teams into their masks, gloves and gowns. Her favourite job was when she was called upon to work with the physicians during surgery and pass them instruments. Often, she’d worked with Captain Ainsworth. Their eyes would meet over their masks as she passed him scissors, wound retractors, or forceps. Each time, a thrill would tingle through her and her pulse raced.

When not in the hospital, she liked to stroll around the village with Louise, making purchases to brighten up their barren tent. She’d bought a tufted rug made of natural-coloured wool that she’d placed beside her cot, together with an orange camel-skin hassock embossed in gold and a hand-woven blanket which went on her footlocker. A big copper tray with a hammered design, an artisan bowl, a jug and a wooden inlaid box completed the décor.

In the evenings, she went to parties and dances given by some of the nearby units. Men whirled her around the floor, cutting in constantly. She’d never been as popular in her life but reminded herself it was because there were so few girls and all the guys had been away from home for such a long time. Her head spun from dancing and listening to non-stop flattery, but there was only one person she longed to dance with. Bill. And dance with him she did. When they were both exhausted from jitterbugging, they would sit it out and talk. Being with him made her feel less lonesome for her folks.

She learnt he was born in December 1912 in Scranton, a small town in Pennsylvania, the third child and oldest son of a doctor and stay-at-home mom. Bill had played quarterback in high school and Georgetown University. After graduation, he’d taken the necessary science classes to apply to medical school and had gone on to study at Jefferson Medical College, from where he’d graduated in 1939. He’d done a year of internship followed by a year of residency in surgery before he’d been called to active duty. He was shipped overseas in November 1942, part of the Western Task Force whose mission it was to take Morocco from the Vichy French. He hadn’t enjoyed Casablanca; there hadn’t been enough for him to do. At the end of March, he was moved to Rabat where again he’d sat around reading surgical textbooks, doing calisthenics and going on marches. Finally, in early May, as a ‘mobile surgeon’ he was flown to Oran and from there transferred to the General Hospital, where he’d hit the deck running.

Carrie, in turn, recounted that she’d studied at the Texas Woman’s University nursing school, having grown up in Dallas, the eldest daughter of schoolteacher parents. Her younger sister, Helen, taught grade school. Carrie shared with Bill that she enjoyed hiking, swimming and playing tennis. She’d hugged herself with joy when he’d revealed that he was single. Apparently, he, like her, had been too caught up with study to have time for a steady sweetheart.

She glared at the mouse and puffed out a quick breath. Rumours had been flying around of late that the General was soon to be closed as hospitals were being set up in Italy for convalescence instead. She recalled how, after the Allies had conquered Sicily, they’d launched attacks on the Italian mainland. An internal revolt had overthrown Mussolini, and the new Italian government had signed an armistice with the Allies. Everyone thought they would make haste to Rome and conquer the rest of the country in no time at all.

But the Germans had other ideas. Their reaction to the news of the Italian capitulation was to rapidly occupy the entire peninsula, disarm the leaderless Italian army, and smash any units who resisted.

On 9 September, the US 5th Army under General Mark W. Clark landed near Salerno, 150 miles up the western coast from the toe of the boot. Since Italy had capitulated, Clark expected only light opposition, seemingly. Perhaps a few coastal defence units who hadn’t gotten the memo, but nothing serious.

Bill had a radio and listened to the BBC bulletins from London. He told Carrie that American troops had run into searing fire from the moment they’d hit the shore. Expecting Italians, Clark had met Germans. The adversary was a veteran, battle-tested unit – the 16th Panzer Division – who dug into strongpoints along the beach, with artillery emplaced on the high ground. Clark’s shaken army had managed to land, but the unexpected resistance penned it into a shallow, vulnerable semicircle along the coast and, before too long, German attacks had crumpled the American beachhead.

But then the US had reached for the hammer and laid on their heavy metal. With assistance from their British allies, they’d poured down a rain of death on Jerry. On the first of October, the Britishers went on to occupy Naples without opposition, leaving the city to be garrisoned by the Americans, who’d set up a hospital there. Carrie chewed at her lip. Was that to be her next posting? She hoped she wouldn’t be separated from Bill. He’d come to mean everything to her.

Her heart throbbed as she thought about him. That night, a dance had been organised on the roof of the hospital. She’d go for a bath in the spa before getting ready. One of the perks of staying here was that the blue-tiled Thermes had been made available for the staff. She planned to doll herself up so Bill would be proud of her. Maybe he’d even ask her to officially be ‘his girl’.

She clasped her hands in prayer and pressed them to her lips. Please, Lord, let it be so.

‘Dagnabbit, there’s a peeping Tom mouse staring at me!’ Louise exclaimed as she was putting on her white V-necked evening dress.

Carrie laughed. ‘I’ve decided to call him Mickey.’ The thought had just occurred to her. ‘Ain’t he cute?’

She smoothed the silk of the emerald-coloured gown she’d made for herself while at college and checked that the pencil-thin straps were securely placed.

Louise shooed the rodent out through the tent flap. ‘If we leave him alone in here, he’ll eat all my candy.’

Carrie giggled. Her roommate had the sweetest tooth she’d ever encountered. All Louise’s parcels from home contained homemade cream toffees from her mom.

‘He stayed put while I went for my bath. Anyway, I think mice prefer cheese to candy,’ Carrie said, reaching for her lipstick tube. ‘But you could be right.’

‘So, are you fixin’ to dance every dance with the dreamy Captain Ainsworth?’ Louise said, changing the subject.

‘That’s if he’ll ask me.’

‘Oh, he’ll ask you for sure. He’s sweet on ya, Tex.’

A blush warmed Carrie’s cheeks. ‘I like him too.’

She went to stand in front of the mirror and applied a dash of red to her lips. She’d pinned her blonde hair up in a victory roll earlier and had applied mascara to emphasise her green eyes.

‘You two are made for each other.’ Louise sighed.

Carrie glanced at her friend. All the men liked Kenny, from what she could gather. But Louise appeared to be playing it cool and didn’t flirt with any of them.

‘Let’s go,’ Carrie said. ‘The night is young but it won’t get any younger if we stick around here.’

She fetched her wool bolero – the desert nights were cold as a frosted frog – then linked arms with her friend. Soon they’d climbed the stairs to the terrace at the top of the hospital. It was the only part of the building which had kept its pre-war function and provided an oasis of tranquillity for the hard-working doctors and nurses.

Brass brazier fire pits warmed the air as Carrie made her way to where Bill was standing by the bar. An Army combo was playing ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ and the music was so catchy that she found herself dancing a jive with Bill almost as soon as she’d said, ‘Howdy.’

Dance followed dance – all fast. Eventually, they took a break and went to drink a Tom Collins, sitting on cane armchairs at the edge of the roof garden. The fresh scent of blue irises, flowering in pots lining the terrace, wafted towards them. Carrie glanced up at the bright moonlit sky. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said.

Bill took her hand, lifted it to his lips. ‘Not as beautiful as you.’

‘Or you,’ she said, blushing.

‘Will you be my girl, Carrie?’ He gazed deep into her eyes. ‘I love you so much.’

Happiness radiated through her. ‘I love you too, Bill. Of course I’ll be your girl.’

The music switched to a slow number, ‘Cheek to Cheek’.

‘Let’s dance,’ he said. ‘I want to hold you.’

She fell into his arms, relishing the feel of him against her.

‘I’m in heaven,’ Bill whispered.

She lifted her face and he kissed her. His lips so tender and loving she could dissolve. He held her close and her body melded to his, desire igniting between them.

Without warning, the combo stopped playing.

An expectant silence came over the terrace.

Major Wood, in charge of the hospital, tapped the microphone.

‘Sorry to break up the party,’ he announced. ‘But we’ve received our redeployment orders. Tomorrow we’ll start packing our equipment. Then we’ll leave for Oran. Can’t tell you where we’ll be going next.’

Carrie grabbed Bill’s hand. ‘Will it be Italy?’

‘More than likely. Although it could be France.’

‘Hope it’s Italy,’ she said wistfully. ‘I’ve always dreamed of seeing Rome.’

‘You’re so sweet.’ He kissed her on the lips. ‘I love you with all of my heart. No matter what happens.’

His words brought home to her the uncertainty of their future. A shiver of fear chilled her. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he held her as if he never wanted to let her go.

2

It was a week before Christmas, and in the medical facility near Naples where she was now stationed, Carrie was gazing up at a mural painted on the ceiling of the operating room. Depicting the square-jawed Mussolini riding on horseback, dressed like a Roman emperor, the painting was peppered with bullet holes made by the Germans prior to their retreat. Before the war, the buildings had housed an exhibition promoting Italy’s colonies, with exhibit halls for each of the subjugated territories. The mobile surgical service had been set up in the ‘Albania’ building, its partially bombed roof patched with plexiglass and gobs of asphalt. A recovery ward had been established in a chamber decorated with images ironically praising the prowess of Italian soldiers. But she and Louise were both auxiliary surgical nurses; it fell to others to give post-operative care to American casualties.

While Carrie scrubbed the operating table, she thought about the events of the past month. After sending her Bou Hanifa purchases back to the States and helping to pack up the General Hospital equipment – she’d heard it had been secured into more than three thousand crates – she’d travelled with Louise and the others