Finally, in February, he learned there was an opportunity for him to fly again. By March he would leave New York. He had spent the past two months retreating from those he loved, but now he sought them out one last time in order to say good-bye. He called Silvia to tell her he was leaving soon, and the silence between them on the phone was not one of frostiness, but of supreme sadness and understanding. She knew that he was never going to come back to her.
He arrived at her apartment in the middle of the night, without any advance notice. When she answered the door in her robe, she saw him standing there in an ill-fitting outfit he had purchased from a shop in New York, which was the closest thing he could find that resembled a French air force uniform. The sleeves, which were far too long, hovered over his wrists, and the jacket was so tight the lapels floated forward like two wings.
She stood motionless. She struggled to memorize his image.
“Are you hungry?” she whispered, in a last effort to entice him to spend even a few more minutes with her.
He shook his head no.
In his hands, she saw he was holding his camera and a crumpled brown paper bag that was on the verge of breaking.
“I wish I had something splendid for you to remember me by. But this is all I have.”
He then placed the camera and the bag on her entrance table.
He would not touch her. Her skin, her smell, and the texture of her hair would make any good-bye impossible, so he masked himself in a soldier’s stoicism and refused them both a teary farewell.
She closed her eyes and let him turn and walk away. Only after she was sure that he had left the building did she open the bag.
When she did, she discovered he had left her his personal manuscript of The Little Prince.
***
Saint-Exupéry’s American publisher published the novella in English in May 1943, while he flew reconnaissance missions for the Allies. The pilot continued to write Silvia long and heartfelt letters, which she had translated. He provided her with evocative descriptions he knew she in particular would love. Of the quiet of the desert and of all the exotic animals he saw there. Of the night sky and the stars.
She replied that she worried about him, and that she hoped he was taking care of himself under the harsh conditions of war. She also informed him that she had met a man with whom she had almost achieved the same kind of connection she had shared with him. For not only was her new suitor passionate about ideas and art, he also adored Stephen and met all the qualifications her parents believed would make a suitable husband. She hoped her pilot would be happy for her, as Gottfried had already spoken of marriage and she planned to accept.
In what would prove to be his last letter to her, Saint-Exupéry responded that he was very happy she had found someone with whom she could share her life. He also indicated that he, too, had found a measure of peace, as in between his reconnaissance flights, he was playing his piano for his Free French compatriots throughout North Africa.
Two months later, Silvia awoke one morning to find the newspaper blaring the headline that Saint-Exupery’s plane had vanished off the coast of Marseille. For weeks thereafter, she and the rest of world held its breath, hoping he would be discovered alive somewhere. Everyone was desperate for the kind of real-life rescue that he could have written. But neither Saint-Exupéry’s plane nor his remains were ever found. From that moment on, Silvia felt a piece of her heart was forever suspended in the dark sky.
The Little Prince would not be published in France until 1946, two years after the pilot’s death and a year after his deepest wish had been realized. His beloved France was finally free.
For nearly twenty-five years, Silvia kept among her most cherished possessions the copy of the manuscript that he bequeathed to her, often taking it out during the early morning when she had the apartment all to herself. His final gift to her, a constant reminder that love reaches immeasurable distances. It exists even as far away as the stars.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank Stephen Gordon, Margy Hargraves, Laurie Kefaladis and Mark Reinhardt for their assistance with the research of this short story.
Alyson Richman’s latest novel The Garden of Letters contains several references to The Little Prince.
Turn the page for an excerpt from
THE GARDEN OF LETTERS
Available now from Berkley
Chapter 1
Portofino, Italy
October 1943
Her rucksack contains her life reduced to small pieces. Though their physical weight is inconsequential, everything she carries feels heavy to her. She tries to pull her skirt underneath her, but the wind coming off the bay is relentless, and the cotton billows around her like a parachute.
She closes her eyes and tries to picture herself being lifted from the deck of the boat, floating above in the cool air and looking down as the vessel moves across the water. Genoa, Rapallo, and the western coast of Italy look like a knife’s edge against the water. From the boat, she can see the pale facades of the villas nestled into the cliffs and the century-old hotels that face the sea.
She has been traveling for days, but it feels like months. With a gray scarf covering her dark hair and her navy blue dress modest and unassuming, she could be any young Italian girl in her early twenties.
Her stomach is empty. She tries to forget her hunger by scanning her fellow passengers. The boat carries close to thirty people. Seven of them are German soldiers, along with a handful of grandmothers dressed in their widow black. The others are nameless men and women who all appear unremarkable to her.
Just as she hopes she appears to them.
Early on in the war, she learned how to lose herself: to appear plain, and not worth stopping in the street. She can’t remember the last time she wore a brightly colored dress or her favorite silk blouse, the one with the white flowers. Beauty, she has come to realize, is another weapon, better packed away and revealed only when absolutely needed.
She instinctively cups her hands on her stomach as the boat approaches the dock. She is surprised to find so many Germans there, as she had believed she was finally on her way to safety. She has spent weeks trying to avoid them, yet now here they are standing at the dock, waiting to check everyone’s papers.
She feels her entire stomach turn. She takes off her rucksack and instinctively clutches it to her chest.
She stands up, her legs feeling like they may give out from underneath her. She takes her palms to her cheeks and gently presses the skin, so that the pallor of fear is replaced with color.
Afraid the soldiers might search too deeply inside her rucksack, she withdraws her forged papers and holds them to her side. She walks slowly behind one of the widows whose crucifix is so large, she hopes it might cast off a bit of protection onto her as well—or at least temporarily distract the soldiers.
She walks carefully across the deck until she finally reaches the dock. High on the hill, the white houses look like teeth. She sees bougainvillea roping over terraces and hibiscus flowers opening up like parasols to the sun. She inhales the scent of jasmine, but she is weakening from fear with every step.
“Ausweis!” The Germans are barking their orders and grabbing papers out of nervous hands.
Elodie is next in line. Her hand clasps her false papers. A few weeks before, she had destroyed the identity card that bore her real information. Elodie Bertolotti is now Anna Zorzetto.
Anna. Anna. She tries to concentrate on her new name. Her heart is pounding.
“Next! You!” One of the Germans grabs the papers in her hand, his fingers seizing them with such force that their fingers momentarily overlap. She shudders at his touch.
“Name!” the German snaps at her. His voice is so sharp, she finds herself momentarily freezing and incapable of uttering even the slightest sound.
“Name!”
> Her mouth is now open, but she is like a muted instrument. She begins to stammer when, out of nowhere, a voice shoots through the air.
“Cousin! Cousin!” a large, barrel-chested man shouts to her from the crowd that had congregated at the dock.
“Cousin! Thank goodness you’ve come. I’ve been waiting for you for days!” The man pushes to the front of the crowd and embraces her.
“She’s with me,” he tells the German soldier.
“Well . . . take her then,” the soldier mutters as he reaches for the papers of the next person in line.
This man, whom Elodie has never seen before, squeezes her arm tightly and begins steering her through the crowd. He pushes people away so she can walk freely in his path.
He turns his head toward her and waves his hand in the direction of the hill. “This way,” he whispers. “I live above the port, deep into the cliff.”
She stands for a moment, frozen in her tracks. She can still hear the noises from the harbor: the Germans barking orders, the shouts as people try to locate each other, and the cries from tired children.
“I am not your cousin,” she finally says to him. “You must be mistaken.” She tries to speak slowly and clearly. She notices his speech is more proper than the dialect she heard on the dock. He speaks in an educated tongue. But still, Elodie wants her words to be received without confusion.
Her scarf has loosened, allowing her face to emerge from a sea of drab cloth. Like water receding to reveal a well-polished stone. Immediately, he is struck by the green of her eyes and the intensity of her gaze. He looks at her without speaking, then finally forms his words. “I know you’re not.”
“Then why? Why did you save me?”
She hears his breath, a whisper of air escaping from his chest.
“Every few months I come here and save one person.”
She looks at him, puzzled. “But why did you pick me?”
He studies her face, reaffirming what he already knows.
“Why? It’s simple. I choose the person who looks the most afraid.”
Chapter 2
Portofino, Italy
October 1943
He asks if he can carry her rucksack for her. She tells him no. “I carry this myself.” He does not push her. He cannot read her quite yet. He can only smell the fear on her. To him, it’s the scent of a hunted animal. She is restless and suspicious. Her expression does not soften as they walk up the narrow streets toward his house. She focuses her eyes ahead and does not stop once to gaze at the unspoiled beauty of the village or the sea below.
He alternates from walking in front of her to moments of lagging behind. Sometimes he feels the betrayal of his own body. The swell of his stomach, the shortness of his legs, the foot injury that kept him out of this war. She is steps ahead of him, and he notices the strength of her body. The ribbon of muscle in her calves, the tightness in her hips. The firmness of her arms.
“We’re almost there,” he tells her.
She looks back at him and stares. He has seen that look—the vulnerable wanting to appear strong—countless times over the past year.
“You can trust me,” he tells her.
Again she stares at him. One of the straps of her rucksack slips off her shoulder and she readjusts it.
“What is your name?” he asks.
She is so tired that “Elodie” nearly slips from her tongue, but she catches that word before it escapes her. “Anna,” she says. “Anna Zorzetto.”
“Anna. I am a doctor. The only one here in the village. I promise, you have nothing to fear from me.”
His explanation seems to register with her, but she does not soften in the sunlight. He notices that the exact opposite happens instead, as if her body stiffens with his every word.
She tries to read him. The look in his eyes, the lines of his face that suggest both a sadness and an earnestness at the same time.
She turns her head back again, as if to look one more time at the port below. She is desperate to forget the sheer terror she felt only minutes ago, when she feared they might question her papers, or even worse, search her bag.
“Well,” she finally manages to say, “I suppose I will have to trust you. I don’t have any choice, do I?”
***
They walk deeper into the rocky cliffs, climbing a small, narrow path, passing over ancient stone walls that barricade a steep mountainside, before they arrive at a small archway covered in vines. Tucked within the jungle of flowers and thicket is a white house with a heavy door, the wood painted in glossy coats of green. She notices the lemon and fig trees and, again, the perfume of jasmine in the air. She feels dizzy. These are not the trees of her childhood in the north of Italy, with its crisp smell of pine and juniper berries in the air. Here she feels as though she has awakened from a dream. The dialect is foreign. The skin more weathered, the clothes less refined.
How many days has it been since she has slept deeply? The fatigue inside her is paralyzing, and she is thirsty for sleep. Everything she does seems to require an inordinate amount of energy, compounded by the strain of trying not to appear tired and vulnerable.
Inside the house, he offers her a glass of water. She drinks it down greedily and he refills the glass. And, then, one more time. He goes into the kitchen and cuts her three pieces of bread. He spoons some honey into a bowl. He removes the stem of a persimmon and quarters it with a knife before scooping out the soft flesh into a saucer.
She takes only one spoonful of the honey with the bread even though she wants more. She takes only a little of the persimmon. She does not want to reveal the nakedness of her hunger. But the third glass of water, she finishes entirely.
“You are probably tired from your journey,” he tells her. “I have a spare room, where you can get some rest.”
He walks her to a small room with white walls, painted tiles on the floor, and a window that overlooks the sea. The air billows through the translucent curtains, and the image reminds her of her skirt lifting in the ocean breeze.
“Yes, I need to sleep,” she says.
He closes the door behind him, and she waits until she hears his footsteps down the hall. She notices the key in the door and turns it, hearing the lock click. Then, knowing she is finally safe, at least for the moment, she lifts up her rucksack to the bed and unpacks it.
***
The contents are both what one would expect and what one would not.
She takes out the first layer. The spare blue dress, her slip, and her underclothes. Then, the sweater from Luca, which she brings to her face and inhales.
Her heart pounds as she removes the second layer. A small toiletry bag that contains her toothbrush, a bar of soap, and her comb.
She next comes to her nightgown, then the small pouch with the amulet on a leather cord, which she cups in her hands. But then on the bottom of her rucksack, she withdraws a book, so slender it could be a journal. For a moment, she pauses. She rests her hand on its well-worn cover. Then, slowly and with great reverence, she opens it. Inside this book is another folded piece of paper. But it’s not something written in a code that she doesn’t understand. Nor is she meant to deliver it as she did during her days as a messenger for the Resistance. Instead, she unfolds it to reveal a sheet of musical score.
She closes her eyes and hears the song imprinted on it.
***
How does one hear music? Is it the rhythm of an unspoken language? An untranslatable code?
Elodie hears the notes inside her head like the movement of water. It begins in soft ripples. She also hears the notes in color. An ink wash of pale blue, or the glimmer of white stone. Soothing at times, then escalating. Long, interconnected strokes that enter her in a wholly different channel. Not through her mind, but in the deepest cavity of her belly.
She closes her eyes and remembers her cello back in Veron
a. The prestigious music school where she carried her instrument every morning, in the black case nearly the same size as she.
She remembers holding the cello between her legs. Her knees two bookends against the lowest curve, one arm embracing the neck, while the other held the bow. With each stroke of her bow, her body coaxed the instrument into song.
But now, she merely takes the sheet of music to the bed and folds her hands over the top. She relaxes as the notes float through her. Sleep finally takes over her, until there is nothing but the melody of the notes inside her head.
***
Her parents had given her that first instrument when she was seven. For several months prior, she had gone to sleep hearing them discuss which instrument she would study. Her mother had wanted the flute, but her father had pushed for the violin. But Elodie had begged for a cello. She had first become enamored by the instrument’s beautiful sound while at a concert at her father’s school. The students had played the Dvořák cello concerto, and she sat there mesmerized.
On that walk home, she pierced the air with her own imaginary bow. She still heard the music in her head, every note lingering inside her. The dance of that cellist imprinted on every fiber of muscle and piece of bone.
The day she was finally given her first cello, and the sight of her father placing the dark leather case on their dining room table, were memories that Elodie stored inside her mind, each image like a single note connected to the next. She would never forget the sight as her father unsnapped the case. The instrument had been wrapped in a beautiful red scarf to protect the bow from scratching the varnish, and when her father removed it, Elodie gasped.
“It’s a three-quarter size,” her father told her as he handed the cello for her to hold. “When you get a little older, you’ll play on a full size.”
She took the instrument from him and, immediately, Elodie felt her heart begin to race. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever held.