The Lodge

Trentino, Italy, Post World War II



The heavens rained white flakes, armies of crystal faeries drifting through the ancient wood planks where the roof had once been. Delicate particles landed on Antonio’s face, cold at first then warm, welcoming, melting.

“Damn war.” He hunched against the icy darts pelting his neck.

“Italian!” Her voice wafted from the shadows. “I am so happy to see an Italian!”

Glad, surprised, to hear another person, here in this crumbling, proud, sad, lonesome fortress, Antonio whirled around, his pulse dancing.

There she stood, pressed against the stone wall. Bundled in a white overcoat—a stylish, clearly expensive coat with a pale sable collar—and a thick knit cap hugging wild black curls. Her smile, the cheer in her onyx eyes, defied the heavy gray that hovered through the gaping skylight of the deserted lodge. The skylight that had once been weathered, magnificent oak planks. “You are Antonio Agnello.”

“And you are..? Antonio headed toward the woman, his boots crunching on the icy, cracked pavement. “What…how…what are you doing here?”

“I am Carmen Vincenza. On my way home through the village and I had the driver stop here. My family came to this lodge every winter.”

How strange, seeing her here, almost like an angel, white and dark and otherworldly, in the middle of nowhere. Well, it had been somewhere once. Before the war. Now, though…

“The lodge is yours, yes?” Carmen’s voice, soft, delicate as the drifting snowflakes, drew him from his reverie.

“What is left of it.” Antonio lifted a shoulder, sighed. He brushed ice droplets from his face, the rough wool gloves stinging his skin.

He wanted to, tried to sound cheerful, to match this angel’s aura. Very hard it was, though, to dredge happiness, even in her ethereal company, with the pitiful remains of the lodge promising to eventually cave in on itself. That the structure even stood now, beaten yet stoic, was a miracle.

“No!” Carmen’s smile flashed perfect white teeth, her eyes glistened. She had dimples—what a time to notice that—which only made her beautiful face more…well…beautiful. “It is wonderful! Look!”

Following to where her gloved hand pointed, to the sky, Antonio nodded. His heart swelled. Yes, the sky was dark, even though it was only early afternoon, but the gentle white flakes were friendly, heavenly, contrasted against the gloom of the canopy of clouds.

“You see?” Carmen neared, closing the distance between them. Peeking from the hem of her coat were winter galoshes, melting snow glistening on the toes. “Is this not the most beautiful sight you have ever seen?” Her giggle warmed the gloom.

“I do see.” Closing his eyes, a quiet chuckle rippled through Antonio as snowy dust melded his lashes, tiny cold needles on his lids. It did not matter. There was only this moment, this cold, wonderful, moment in time with a perfect stranger. It might even be a dream. Yes, it was s dream, that was it. He would enjoy this dream. “I see you and me.”

“You and me?” Carmen shook her head, her raven’s wing black curls dancing against the white of her coat. “But I hardly—”

“Mmm.” Lovely fantasy, whatever this was, he would banish the sadness, forget the war, that it had ever happened. And he would… “The snow is outside, wild and dark.” He gazed into her eyes, searched deep inside them. “But we are inside.” Oh, how war made one bold, forcing one to grasp opportunity, no matter how whimsical or impossible. “Warm and light.”

Carmen touched a finger to her chin, glanced up to the sky, nodded. “I like that.” Tiptoeing, she nuzzled her nose to his chin. Her chilled skin sent shivers along his spine, but her warm breath comforted. “So it is you and me.” Her skin, so soft. Her fragrance, she was so close, so very close! “And we are..?”

This was a dream, wasn’t it? It had to be a dream. A beautiful woman, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, so eager, so open.

Antonio would dive into this glorious dream. Tomorrow would come and it would all be over. Enjoy it, cherish it. Now.

“I see the fireplace.” Nodding toward the stone wall where the massive collapsed hearth held court, he whispered, “Ah. The fire roars, warm and orange, crackling, singing. It heats my face like a sunburn.” He held up a finger. “Listen! The chestnuts pop like firecrackers. Ah! And the laughter!”

And, indeed, he swore he heard ghosts of merriment, faint echoes of happy times, laughter tinkling cheerfully along with the crystal goblets clinking in hearty toasts. Candle flames dancing from brass sconces along the stone walls in sync to the rollicking accordions, fiddles and drums, holly and pine garlands draping stair balustrades and the hearth mantle. Even the mighty oak planks basked in the fireplace’s yellow-orange glow.

Turning to the shelled-out wall, Antonio stared at the sea of white stretching into a bank of willowy trees. The spans where, just yesterday, or it seemed like just yesterday, sleds pulled by gorgeous, proud horses, bells tinkling with their movements, had dotted the landscape.

Pulling Carmen closer, he murmured, “And what did we do on that snowy night?”

Only in a crazy dream would he dare to be so bold. Only in a crazy, dizzy dream, a dream such as he had never had since the war, would he be so outrageously daring.

Carmen melted against him, clutched the lapels of his overcoat, and breathed into his plaid muffler, “We made love.”

“Ah.” His lips so close to hers, he ventured to ask, “Was I a good lover?” A delicious ache radiated in his chest.

“You were a gentle lover.” Her voice lowered, husky, “Was I pleasing?”

“You were so pleasing, I thought I would die in your arms.” His lips caressed the petal-soft corner of her mouth.

“And I begged you to never stop.”

“Then I will not.”

Which was better, Antonio wondered? The dream they shared, the one where they were not strangers, where they made love and enjoyed Christmas festivities here in an imaginary past? The dream he believed he imagined beneath the snowy sky, in the middle of the ancient crumble of stone, the dream he was in right now?

It did not matter, did it? The snow, the wonderful, cold, armies of flakes touching his face, his hair, were assurance that this moment was not a dream.

A song wanted to slip from his lips, he was so happy. But, instead of singing, he pressed his forehead to Carmen’s. “And what else did we do that night?”