Olivia’s hand instinctively went to her cheek, still tender from her father’s blow.
“Did you ever consider how your sins would affect the family? That it could jeopardize your brother’s calling?” he’d shouted, eyes wild. “Taking up with an Irishman was bad enough, but this? You are a disgrace to the Rosetti name.”
Only her mother’s tearful pleas had stopped Papà’s tirade, half in English, half in Italian. Then, with a last curse word, he’d slammed out of their apartment over the store and stomped down the stairs, off to drown his sorrows with his comrades. Olivia prayed he hadn’t told them the reason why he was drinking that night.
Static from the radio crackled over the room. Olivia fiddled with the tuner, attempting to get a clearer signal.
“Eight people were killed and sixty-two injured in Munich last night in a failed attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler. The German leader, who had been speaking only moments before the bomb went off, was unharmed.”
She twisted her fingers together at the mere mention of the dictator’s name. Would the war have ended if the assassin had been successful? She breathed a prayer for forgiveness for wishing such a thing. Yet it seemed this one man continued to wreak havoc on the entire world, and she couldn’t really blame someone for trying to eliminate him.
On some level, Olivia was proud of Rory for wanting to defend his country against such a despot. But on the other hand, she wished he hadn’t been quite so patriotic. Quite so willing to leave her behind.
A loud knock sounded on the door. Olivia’s heart began to race. Who would be coming here at this hour? Everyone in the neighborhood knew the store was closed, and most of her parents’ friends would be at the church hall. Leo was at the local tavern playing pool with his friends and wouldn’t be home until the wee hours.
She clutched the threadbare arm of the chair, a shiver of foreboding racing through her. “Who is it?”
“Toronto Police. Open the door, please.”
The police? What did they want? Had someone been in an accident?
Heart in her throat, Olivia smoothed her hair and removed her apron, draping it over the armchair. Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room and opened the door.
A large man in uniform stood on the landing. “Are you Miss Olivia Rosetti?”
“Y-yes.”
A flicker of emotion passed over his granite features. “I’m here to inform you that you are under arrest.”
“Arrest? For what?” Her hand flew to her throat. Was this a joke? There had to be some sort of mistake.
“You are charged under the Female Refuges Act with being incorrigible. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”
“What does that mean? I don’t understand. . . .” Her legs trembled so hard beneath her pleated skirt that she grasped the hall table for support.
A glimmer of sympathy shone in the man’s eyes. “Your father has taken out a warrant against you. He claims that you are unmarried, under the age of twenty-one, and . . .” He hesitated, his gaze sweeping her slender form. “. . . with child.”
Heat flooded her face, but she held her head high. “That may be undesirable, but surely it’s not a crime.”
“I’m afraid it is. Granted, it’s not a law I’ve had to enforce very often, but when a complaint is made, we must act.”
Her mind spun, still unable to grasp what the officer was telling her. “My fiancé left for the war, otherwise we would already be married.” A tiny but desperate fib. “As soon as he comes back, we’ll . . .” She trailed off at the immovable set to the man’s jaw.
“I’ll give you a minute to get ready. Then I have to take you down to the police station.”
1
April 1941
Freedom. Open spaces without any horrid, confining bars.
Olivia had craved this luxury for almost eighteen months, yet now that she was finally released from prison, the reality fell far short of what she’d imagined.
Her blue plaid work dress and navy cardigan hung loose, offering little warmth against the chilly spring air as she trudged along King Street, carrying her near-empty handbag. With each block she traveled, her sense of panic increased.
Freedom, it turned out, came with a whole new set of problems, proving she wasn’t really free at all.
Instead, she was homeless, penniless, and friendless. Where could she go? Did she dare darken her parents’ doorstep? Without even enough money for bus fare, it could take an hour to reach her family’s store on foot. If she did, and she was able to get her mother alone, would Mamma help her? Or would obedience to Papà keep her from aiding her only daughter?
Olivia’s steps faltered. Unused to walking for so long at a time, her feet screamed in protest. Blisters burned on her toes and heels. Her shoulders sagged forward, as if unwilling to bear the burden of her problems. But with little choice, she forced herself to plod on.
Just when she thought she couldn’t continue, a familiar street sign appeared above her. Kensington Avenue. A few blocks farther west and she’d reach Rosetti’s Market. Her stomach growled and curled in on itself, the gruel she’d eaten for her last meal at the Mercer Reformatory long since burned off. The little extra weight she’d put on during her pregnancy had been stripped away by long hours of laboring at the sewing machines in the reformatory factory. That, along with the meager food rations, had left her much thinner than before her incarceration.
Olivia approached the storefront with caution, her steps slowing as conflicting emotions swirled within her. How she’d dreamt of this moment every day during her confinement, of returning to the sights and sounds of the store. The vision of Mamma in her apron at the front counter, laughing at the chatter of the Italian ladies as they chose their vegetables. The smell of overripe fruit on sale at the front aisle. The clang of the cash register
