Copper Tapestry: A Novel

CHAPTER 1

March 20, 1941

The king and queen were here in Plymouth tonight. I caught glimpses of them through the crowds. I danced with a handsome American, an Italian-American. His name is Nick … Nick Bonanni.

Earlier that evening, she had watched in awe as the king and queen of England danced under the stars. This night will live in history, she thought.

Isabella Juarez looked up from her writing. The blackness that was war enveloped her, descending like a shroud she couldn’t lift. Her senses were fine-tuned to war. The clock said 8:30 pm. It was as though she heard the drone; she cocked her head, looked up, and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

She could not have heard them. Somewhere in the distance, pilots were strapping themselves into cockpits, making last checks. Luftwaffe engines were raging. But how could she know that?

Isabella noticed the large black roach scurry across the floor toward the crumbs at her feet. She watched the small, black army assembling around her. She flinched as the leader crawled over her foot onto the next crumb. She reached over to the lamp and turned it off. Starlight lit the room. She knew it was time to close the heavy drapes. Isabella walked to the window and stared straight ahead through the grimy windowpane. She saw her reflection; her features were unrecognizable in the cloudy glass. She gazed past her image to the small boats bobbing in the harbor. There was a solemn silence tonight, except for a few men returning from the pub to their homes. They sang in muffled, slurred voices. Quiet! came a voice from a dark doorway below her flat. Most nights, darkness enveloped Plymouth. Curtains were pulled and the streets remained deserted.

The men below her window hoisted their empty Plymouth Gin bottles over their heads as if they’d accomplished a great feat and these bottles were their trophies. They left boot tracks in the soot as they kicked up dust and debris, dragging their boots through remains of the homes and businesses that once had lined this street. During the day, when Isabella walked through the streets of Plymouth, she tasted the grit in the cloudy air. She watched the smoldering gray dust settle on top of layers of more gray. The partially buried objects were unrecognizable. In a few hours, daylight would dawn, and the reality of war would be apparent.

Isabella left the drapes open and the room dark. She decided to take the chance. This night was too perfect. The stars shined brighter. There was a peculiar silence. This peace, this beautiful night, will never last till morning, she thought. An eerie stillness enveloped her and changed her peace to uneasy caution. She yearned for a few hours when she didn’t need to be vigilant, fearing for her life. Would there be an end to this bombing, this ugly war? She thought about a day when she could live without the fear. What would it be like to gaze at these stars without the dread of bombs piercing the sky, wrapped in the arms of a lover who would be with her always?

Isabella gave in and dropped the blackout curtain. Her sanctuary offered a limited sense of comfort and solace. Her vigilance could never waiver. She settled into the overstuffed sofa left by the previous occupant. Immediately, she was cradled in rich chenille of blue, burgundy, and green. She pulled a velvet wrap around her that she had found in an alley. She removed the hairpins from her hair, letting heavy blue-black curls fall freely to her shoulders. At seventeen, she was proud of her thick black hair, dark skin, and almond eyes. These were the stamps of belonging to her mother’s family. Her slender, graceful limbs were trademarks of the generations who had preceded her.

She kicked with awkward, clumsy jerks. Finally, the black boots fell from her feet. Bits of dirt fell from the dirty, tire-tread soles. The dried bloodstains on her socks reminded her of the young man who had died in her arms as he bled onto the street and onto Isabella. She tended the wounded, did what she could to help this war-ravaged community. Her pay was a meager wage, sometimes only food. These days, her world was very different. The harsh blasts and crashes replaced the sweet sounds of mandolins and clicking castanets of her childhood. The comforting odors of gypsy campfires were replaced with the stench of burning buildings. The panorama of mountain roads, fields of flowers, and big blue skies was now replaced with sights of destruction and death. Pain lived in her heart.

She tried to relax but couldn’t sleep.

Then suddenly the siren blared, stabbing her to the core. This was the signal. War raged outside her window. She glanced at the clock. It was 8:40. The piercing noises from the street startled Isabella to her feet. She jammed her wool-stocking-covered feet into shoes that were a size too small. She had found them in the street hours after a bombing. She had run out of her own shoes that night when she stumbled over a mound of garbage. She moved quickly now with the laces untied. She scrambled to the armoire and grabbed her one precious possession, an etched copper box. Her hands trembled. Her heart beat wildly and pulsed in her throat. Her peace was shattered. She knew that she must again trade the fleeting tranquility of her haven for the uncertainty of the shelters. She knew that she must take the risk of running into the streets with bombers flying above her. This was not like the other raids. She ran to the window and knew this was the quickest way to a shelter. She jumped to the street and hit the bricks with the grace and agility of a cat. Minutes were precious. She glanced at familiar landmarks as she meshed with the crowds. It was a tapestry of terror tonight. The streets were ablaze, the sky transformed into an artificial daylight. Bombers flew so low over the village that she could almost see the pilot’s eyes. The pounding was merciless.

The stone roads were clotted with masses of villagers. They ran; they tripped on debris. Others looked back to make sure their families were in sight. Others sped and dodged through the crowd on bicycles. Small children sat perched in the front baskets of bikes. They screamed, with terror in their eyes. They held on for their lives. She broke away from the crowd, ran up a side street. She found herself in front of a row of burning houses.

Isabella’s skin burned from the intense heat radiating out to the streets, yet she stopped. In a flash, her mind burned with the memory of this one house in particular, with its red-painted window boxes. The gentle people who lived there had welcomed her into that home one afternoon. With a sudden explosion, glass flew from the third story. Another explosion sent her fleeing around the corner into an alley. She expected darkness, but what she found was quite different. The alley was illuminated with flames and then a bright white light. Overhead, a bomber ascended and then turned, leaving death and destruction in its wake. Ferocious terror propelled her through the rubble. As she ran, she felt a tugging at her coat. She glanced down and looked into the frightened eyes of a tiny girl, dressed only in her nightclothes, and barefoot. Her hair was stuck to her face, wet with tears. Isabella scooped the waif into her arms without breaking her stride and cradled her under her coat. The child’s ear-piercing screams mingled with the sounds of deadly destruction. It wasn’t her own life she fought for in that moment. She felt a strong sense of urgency to bring the girl to safety.

Amidst the chaos and blasts, songs resonated in the air. The people chanted familiar songs. Their voices remained calm. How strange, Isabella thought. People ran through the streets, singing The White Cliffs of Dover and Run Rabbit Run. These songs would come to haunt her as long as she lived.

Isabella, follow me, someone screamed and ran past her. Portland Square. The shrill cry evaporated into the terrifying shrieks of the townspeople. Their words were lost in the ear-shattering blasts—the sights and sounds of war. She choked on dust and smoke.

A sudden, stabbing pain gripped her. Just as quickly, it was gone. When she felt the sticky wetness with her hand, she wondered if it was sweat or blood running into her eyes. She smelled the blood. It was unmistakable, although too dark to see. Am I bleeding or is that the child’s blood on my hand? Who is pushing me, lifting me? Am I floating? Where is the child?

It seemed like her body spun in violent circles. As if in a vacuum, she heard herself screaming, but no one answered.

Images of people who belonged to another time and place flooded her thoughts. Her father smiled as her mother danced to his guitar. They were here with her now, in so much confusion. Suddenly, they were stilled into a deathlike hush as another slicing pain bored its way into her skull. A shroud of blackness enveloped her.

CHAPTER 2

March 23, 1941

Plymouth, England

The clanging of metal upon metal, the screams, all these sounds were familiar to Isabella. Children cried. She heard a woman ask the whereabouts of her husband. A shrill scream followed that question. She heard the sounds of a birth; a new life entered this ugly place. Her first thought was to help these people as she had been so comfortable doing.

Yet when she tried to move, she found it was impossible. Pain seared through her. She opened her eyes little by little and then focused on the ceiling fan. The room began to spin in circles, whirling, following the direction of the fan blades. The gray-brown hues all around her blended into the stark whites, blurring the room into an impressionistic scene moving in crazy directions before her like a runaway work of art. Art and music were always a source of comfort for her. No wonder now, at this moment, that is what came to mind. Isabella remembered the horror of that night. She couldn’t remember how long ago it was, but she knew it wasn’t a dream. Nothing was ever so real. She wondered about the little girl whom she had clutched to her chest when she had run from the bombs. She would find her, but all she could think about now was a knifelike pain that split her head. The pain radiated into her eyes. The light filtering in through the paned glass was too much to bear. Squinting to dull the piercing white light, she fought to focus. She held onto the sides of the gurney with all the strength she could muster. She reasoned she could not be spinning out of control. She reached up to touch the pain, to try to counter-pressure it away. Instead, her fingers came upon the taut layers of bandaging. She could picture the white, bloodstained gauze turban. She had seen those dressings so many times before. She realized the pain was too great to be eased with words or the touch of a stranger. The thought of how she had tried to comfort those in pain became absurd. She fell into a strange state of awareness. Intense pain stabbed at her. Her head felt as though it was in the grip of a tightening vise. It paralyzed her so that she couldn’t speak. She felt as though she was between two worlds. She closed her eyes and listened. Some sounds were magnified, others muffled. They were the now-familiar sounds of unbearable misery. It was the human condition at its lowest point.

After what seemed like an eternity, the room came into focus, and then she saw him.

The pain subsided a bit, although still intense. Isabella struggled to keep her eyes open. She watched him move across the floor from bed to bed. A nurse followed him, never taking herself more than a few feet from him. She toted a stack of clipboards and pushed a treatment cart. Together they worked with the precision of a perfectly choreographed ballet.

His name was Nick. She remembered him. He was the charming Italian-American who had swept her across the dance floor. She closed her eyes to the light. She felt a gentle tap on her arm.

Isabella? His voice seemed distant, but familiar.

Nick? All she could manage was a whisper.

I will give you something for the pain; you have a nasty gash. You were cut with glass from an explosion, but you saved a little girl’s life. You’ll be fine, but we have to get you through the next couple of days. When the medication starts working, I’ll be back to change your dressing, he explained.

Today he was her doctor. He must remember dancing as though we were the only two on that hill, she thought. She looked at him, and her hazel eyes filled with tears. I thought I’d never see you again, she whispered.

His dark eyes seemed to look right into her soul, mirroring her feelings completely, hinting at a sense of delight to see her again. He held her gaze, transfixed, until someone called out, Doctor! with life-and-death urgency.

Only then did he look away from her. She followed him with her eyes as he dashed toward the cry.

Isabella knew this drill too well. Another life trying to hold on, fighting. There were the frantic actions of the medics, doctors, and nurses. She heard the final whispers behind the curtain that documented the precise time of death, another casualty of war.

For what seemed a very long time, Isabella waited, and then dozed. She was awakened by moans, dozed again, and was again awakened by the jarring of her gurney as emergencies rushed past. The pain subsided, and she opened her eyes. The sun was setting. The oranges and yellows, pinks and gray-blues in the twilight sky were visible through a smoky haze, framed by broken glass. What would this night bring? Her thoughts were interrupted.

I will change that bandage now, a woman said. The doctor is quite tied up at the moment. We need to clean this wound. You were lucky, miss.

The stinging brought on by the antiseptic radiated throughout her scalp. In minutes, her bandage was replaced. She touched the new, smaller, clean gauze. She could move with a fair amount of ease now. She realized she would be able to leave the hospital soon. There wasn’t room for her. She knew that she was one of the fortunate ones. She thought of Nick, savored the memory of his strong arms, which had held her as they danced. His dark eyes had never glanced from her. These were memories she cherished. His olive complexion and dark hair were like her own. She was Spanish; he was Italian. They were both full of passion and fire, she thought. Together, they could love and laugh and live in peace. If only this war could end, she thought.

Isabella, jarred from her thoughts, spoke to the nurse. What happened to the little girl I tried to take to safety?

She came in here with you. Her grandfather came to take her home. Thanks to you, she was spared. Isabella felt a tremendous sense of relief. She had saved the life of a child. Nothing else was quite as important.

You will stay here tonight. You can probably go on home tomorrow, the nurse said.

I may not have a home. Have your heard if Sutton Harbor was spared? Were the houses spared? Where will I go? The nurse had no answer. She moved on.

In the days and nights to come, Isabella experienced more of the same terror. Firebombs leveled much of the city. In three days’ time, the bustling streets of the Plymouth shopping district were destroyed. Old Town Street, Bedford Street, and George Street were leveled.

Isabella recovered within weeks. She possessed a defiant sense of spite for those who violated her home with such harsh disregard for humanity. She vowed to survive. She again joined the Civil Defense and worked around the clock to aid in recovery by nursing the wounded. There were several successive, horrendous nights of bombing and relentless terror. Many of the citizens who owned businesses in Plymouth relocated to outlying towns in the suburbs. Thinking ahead during the early days of war, they had set themselves up for security with temporary premises. Others, homeless and weary, slept in the country or in nearby towns and returned to the city to continue working in the morning. Life marched on.

In all this chaos, Isabella found Nick. They worked together every day for the same reason. They shared the same passion to heal and comfort the citizens of Plymouth—Nick ordered to Plymouth by the government, Isabella there because she didn’t have anywhere else to go. She felt the sparks between them. At first, they became friends and spoke of that first night they met on the grassy Plymouth Hoe overlooking the water. What a beautiful night. Isabella often thought of that night. The frequent bombing instilled caution in nearly everyone she encountered. In Efford Cemetery, they attended the common funeral for nearly four hundred civilian victims. It was here that Isabella realized what they truly meant to each other. Partly because she was exhausted and partly because she was tired of the pretense, she reached for him and held on tightly. She felt his hand tighten around hers. She looked up at him as his eyes roamed over the devastation. From then on, whenever the opportunity arose, they escaped the chaos to be alone. They were weary from watching the devastation and death around them. The Plymouth Blitz had hit hard. The king and queen of England had narrowly escaped by three hours. The familiar church, guildhall, post office, and council chamber—all were gone. She didn’t wonder if it was the heat of the war or the forced closeness or convenience. She knew that they were destined to be together. She hoped that Nick thought the same.

We could have been in this grave, you know. Why were we passed over? Isabella asked Nick.

We were spared because we need a chance. We can do anything together, he said, looking away from her. Isabella sensed that he knew a different fate awaited him. She sensed that he knew a secret that he wasn’t willing to share with her.

We have to make the most of our time together, take each minute and treasure it, Isabella. This war doesn’t care. Life can be so cruel. We have to find the happiness, make memories, he said to her.

Isabella wondered why he turned away. He was still a mystery to her. She thought better of asking him to be honest with her. After all, their love was new; it was all too precarious with the influence of war.

Plymouth was a target. Isabella watched their lives tremble in the uncertainty. Aware that their fates were challenged every day and every night kept her vigilant but passionate. Not one minute should be wasted. Their future together came under fire nearly every day, and she realized their vulnerability. She became uncharacteristically reckless and gave in to her instincts of passion. Nick loved her; she felt it. Their romance propelled them into fiery desire. It mirrored the intensity and urgency that went on around them. They were desperate to find refuge and happiness in the midst of all that war brings. She cherished the moments and was greedily thankful if the moments stretched to hours. Isabella found hope when they talked about and looked ahead to a future together. On the other hand, she knew that it might never come to pass. Maybe Nick felt it, too. Could that be why he seemed hesitant sometimes and pulled away? He confused her, but she gave him all her unconditional love, without hesitation.

They discussed his duty to go back to the States, complete his residency, and serve his country in the trying times ahead. That discussion pulled her back from her dreams. She stepped back into the reality of the present. Still, she gave him all she had. Through all this passion and closeness, she felt something between them was not quite right and honest. Maybe it was the uncertainty of war. Maybe it was her Gypsy soul. Maybe he had a secret, or maybe he was afraid to love her in this restless time.

* * *

The air was crisp and clear. It was spring 1941. Isabella was conscious of her expanding waistline. Nick was oblivious. He had no idea he was to leave a child behind.

Questions consumed her. Realistically, she knew she could not tell Nick; she could not force him to stay. If he knew her feelings for him, knew of the baby, what would he do? She did not want his love out of pity or obligation. Even after these months together, she could not be completely sure of him. Trust was not a luxury for her. She questioned everything now. She doubted him. She’d heard of other women caught in this web of love, only to be left with little else than a broken heart. She decided to distance herself, rely on herself. She hadn’t needed anyone in the past; why should it be different now? She realized with love came hurt and reasoned that it is less hurtful not to let others too close. My heart will hurt less if I love less; let no one in.

The months passed by. She tried to love him less but she couldn’t do that. With news of the United States Army assembling, Nick had no choice but to return to the States. They had one night to come to terms with the fact that he would be gone in the morning. What would happen now? She needed a plan, a plan that did not include Nick. The obstacles seemed impossible to overcome.

That night, neither Nick nor Isabella slept. Their conversations turned to telling each other all they thought needed to be said for a lifetime.

I hope you will be able to leave England … he said, turning so that she couldn’t see the tear glistening, falling over his unshaven cheek. This is a difficult time, Isabella. If we come out of this war, I will find you. Believe that. My life is more complicated than you can ever know.

Maybe he has someone else, or maybe he thinks he will not survive this war, she thought.

Shh. Please don’t say anymore; just let me remember you now, in this moment. That is all I ask of you. If our love is meant to survive, we will be together, Isabella said. She knew in her heart it would never be.

Isabella walked to the window. She saw the first glimpse of sunlight breaking through the sky. She heard the first noises of the new day begin to fill the air.

It’s time to go, Isabella. His words blanketed her like a shroud, suffocating all hope.

They took each other’s hands and walked down the stairs spiraling to the street. This was their story now. Their lives were indeed also spiraling out of control.

Nick dragged his duffel across the torn streets. He and Isabella moved as if they were bearing a weight too heavy even for both of them to carry. Their fingers entwined, gripping each other until her fingers ached. She wanted to bind their lives and love forever, no matter the outcome of this war.

Isabella felt a raindrop, then another and another. She raised her eyes, and there in front of them was a rainbow—the sun shining, yet it was still raining. Nick handed her a flower he plucked from a crumbled wall—new growth amid the ruin.

He left within the hour. Isabella was on her own again, another test of strength. This time with a new challenge; it was not just her life now. Her legs were heavy with fatigue as her feet stumbled along the broken pavement bricks. There were broken shards of glass crunching under her heavy leather boots, laces flopping, causing her to trip sometimes. She didn’t have the energy to tie them. She tromped uphill through remnants of households, pieces of furniture, dishes, clothing, some toys, other scraps that were unrecognizable. These households were gone now, families scattered to the shelters, or gone. Occasionally, she spotted a photo still framed, the photo left unharmed. She wondered if the people in the photo were also spared. Even if they were in a shelter, safe for today, they would be touched by war forever.

Hunching over, she kept her hands inside her torn pockets and wrapped the large coat around her waist. She pulled it close to keep out the world. She did not look up, but gazed downward at the charred, broken ground. This was her life now, broken, charred, never to be the same. Her apartment had been damaged in the air raids, but still, she had a roof and a place to sleep. She walked up to the broken door that hung precariously on its hinges. She didn’t need to unlock it anymore. There was no handle. The steps inside were damaged, now ominous with split, shaky boards and railing. They loomed in front of her. Isabella’s movements were slow and cautious. She mounted the stairs but stopped midway and sat on one of the sturdier steps. A lonely cat brushed past her and scurried down the stairs. She felt empty and spent.

She wished for her mother, just to see her one more time, to hear her voice for a second. She longed to speak to her, to ask her advice. She craved the comfort only a mother could provide.

Isabella fell onto her sofa as she had so many other tired days and nights. Outside her window, the sun shone, and she heard people in the streets. Life in Plymouth began again, a new day. No one knew when, if, or what tragedy would come.

She glanced at the small oval table. There sat the copper box. It was all she had to remember the life to which she was born. She reached for it. Her arm felt like concrete, heavy as the bricks she moved almost daily to recover whatever was salvageable after the air raids. The familiar, sweet music chimed when she opened the lid. There on the other side of the lid was a beveled mirror. Her reflection took her by surprise. She noticed the pink scar.

Oh, is this who I am now? she thought.

This was the first time she’d seen herself in days. This mark would be the lifetime reminder of the ever-raging hell she lived now. It was her remembrance of a lost love, a wound etched in her being. Blue-gray circles that had never been there before framed her eyes. Tears fell from her lashes. She let one tear roll down her chilled cheek, not caring to wipe it away. The pallor in her face startled her. This was the color reserved for the ill, the wounded, those who had lost a great deal of blood. She realized, Oh, that’s right, I’m one of them. She could now identify with the victims. Her lips were no longer the color of burgundy wine. They were cracked, barely pale pink. Her raven hair lay on her shoulders in frizzy tangles, each going in its own direction. She could not look at herself anymore.

With care, she studied the objects inside the box: her mother’s castanets and two photos of Nick and herself, taken after a dance on the Hoe, overlooking Plymouth Sound. Surely she would not dance there again. Nick was gone. These dances temporarily numbed the sadness and renewed town spirit. No matter how far into herself she reached, she couldn’t find a glimmer of hope, except when she was with Nick. She was just numb. She thought of what it would be like to crawl into a box like this, where all was safe and familiar again. She wanted somewhere to escape, to flee from this horrendous nightmare. It was now only a reminder of the life she would never have. It all came crashing down on her now, like the bombs that, with savage rage, had crashed down on Plymouth and ripped apart everything in their path.

Throughout this war, all rules of Gypsy marime codes were violated. What did it matter? Her family was gone. Now she was in love with an outsider. She would have a child, a child who would not be Gypsy or know his father.

For most of her life, Isabella had observed the codes, until this war turned her life into confusion and her beliefs were challenged. Falling in love with Nick and now carrying their child would surely have excluded her permanently from the tribe. There would be no kris, or trial, for her. Her assimilation into society was inevitable now. The bitter facts, the realization of her life, consumed her. Uncertainty hung over her, shrouding her in blackness. A future with Nick was impossible. She had lost her tribe; she felt stripped to her core.

It became more difficult each day to remember her childhood, to remember her father, his voice, his face. Her grandmother, Zoe, came to her in dreams, to soothe her with her gentle words and songs. Her mother’s voice began to fade from her memory. Isabella tried to remember, but all she could manage to recall were her mother’s screams the last time she heard her voice. She would will the memory away. She wanted to hear