Dein Hand, in Meine

Chapter 5

Florence, 1940

"Feliciano, you idiota, keep up with me!"

My arm ached in pain as Lovino's powerful grip pulled me along.

The crowd around me cheered and fidgeted. I felt like I would drown in the vast sea of people.

"Feliciano I said catch up!"

He growled, pulling my arm harder.

I winced. I did not like being here. I did not want to be here. I wanted to be back at home, cooking food and singing songs. I did not want to be in the Palazzo Vecchio, even if it was with my fratello (brother). But I was glad to be here with at least, someone.

Lovino was a couple of years older than me. His hair was a dark brown and his eyes were the same amber color as mine. We looked very similar, as we each sported a curl. His droops off on the right side of his head while mine curls on the left side of my head. He was also easy to agitate and often yelled at me.

I wondered why he had dragged me here today or even went at all himself. Especially since he knew who would be here. I suppose he came just to mock them.

Me and Lovi finally came to a stop in the center of a crowd, his grip on my arm no longer existent. I rubbed the skin where my brother's thumb had pressed into, which had turned a very dark red color.

I looked around, a very slight breeze cascading over my face. It was quite a beautiful day, despite it being late October. This was one of the reasons I loved my country; it was warm for most of the year and the sun never ceased it's shine.

Italy is my heart, and it has always been. My Nonno (grandpa) had raised me and my brother since the day I was born, due to birth complications that had caused my Mama to fall very ill. My father was not present either, for he had left my Mama prior to my birth. Over the next few months, my mother grew worse and worse until we were no longer permitted to see her. After a year and a half, news came that she could no longer fight the illness and had perished. My brother at the time was only three and a half and I was one and half. But it seemed to have affected Lovino the most. The color drained from his face more and more every day. His eyes are saddened, but rough and stern. He grew very aloof. My grandpa noticed it too and it worried him greatly.

I guess you could say when Mama died, Lovi died with her.

Her death never really affected me as much due to the lack of connection. I never really knew Mama, but it still bothered me that she was not here. I feel like Mama would have been a great teacher. Nonetheless, I still loved Nonno, he always knows what to say, or well, knew.

Nonno died not too long ago, about a few months after the war started. He had died of lung cancer and I blamed those cigarettes he would smoke on a daily basis. But maybe God just needed him. After all; he was quite the Saint.

Growing up in Florence was not a bad experience though. I was glad I was able to have been raised in such a beautiful city. The architecture is unbelievable! It was often said that Florence was the birthplace of the Renaissance and is known for its art and architecture from that time. It is also widely known for its cultural appeal. I guess that's why it had caught even, Hitler's eye.

The crowd grew silent as the balcony doors swung open and headed by guards, Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini stepped out.

The crowd immediately began to cheer, louder and louder as Florence flags were waved. I looked around and could see men tearing up and mothers smiling and coddling their children.

Then within a few seconds, everyone's arms shot up into the air, their hands following suit, and their mouths boomed the words "Heil Hitler" and the words "Il Duce" right after.

Lovino did not follow, nor did I. This was a big risk to take, especially in a place like this, where the majority would surely crush the opposing.

After the salute, the crowd began to cheer once again, Fascist Italian and Nazi German flags waving in the wind.

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I stared hard at my brother.

"What was the point of that?"

I asked, my voice soft and eyes drooping.

Lovino looked at me and sighed, locking the door to our small stone house and massaging his temples.

"I was trying to see if I could somehow gain access to the inside, maybe get some details on Füh-ker you idiota!"

I frowned.

"Well that did not seem to work out very well. It is not like we can do anything to stop him or Il Duce."

I said, my eyes fixing themselves on a succulent bowl of Fettuccine Alfredo.

I licked my lips and reached towards the bowl.

Smack.

I froze.

"Fratello..."

My eyes began to water.

"Do not call him that, Feliciano."

Lovino growled, turning around and stomping down the hallway.

I wiped away my tears, glancing down at the table. I turned away despondent.

I had lost my appetite.

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I picked up my brush and dipped it into the sunny-yellow paint. With a big smile, my eyes traced ferociously over my canvas; the sitting room wall.

Beaming, I whisked the yellow-tipped brush against the bare wall. My eyes glimmered as my imagination bloomed and the blueprint in my mind came alive onto the wall's surface.

Painting was a passion of mine that had developed when I was just two, slapping my paint-slicked hands onto the walls and leaving little hand prints all over. This eventually caught my Nonno's attention which landed me in the corner. He did admire my creativity, though.

Everyday he would let me add something new to the wall and my skill grew noticeably better. Soon enough I was drawing real people and detailed faces.

I traced each finger of the faded handprint and smiled softly to myself.

I someday hope to leave a mark on this world too.

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