Beneath the Almond Tree

Chapter 4 : THE LETTERS IN THE ATTIC

The attic smelled of old cedar and time-layers of memory and dust mingled in the still air.Elena pushed open the crooked wooden door with effort,the hinges groaning like an old man disturbed from sleep.A thin stream of light spilled from the window at the far end,illuminating dust motes dancing like golden snow.

She hadn’t been up here,since she traveled abroad,and even then,only few times.Her grandmother used to say the attic was full of forgotten things and children should concern themselves with the present, not the past.But now,years after her mother’s passing,the past has a way of calling her name.

She stepped over a toppled lamp and made her way toward a small chest tucked beneath the eaves.It was inconspicuous-just a plain cedar box with a brass latch-but something about it felt deliberate,as though it had waited for her all these years.

The latch clicked open easily.Inside,resting in a bundle tied with a blue ribbon,were letters-at least a dozen,all addressed in the same slanted handwriting. The envelopes were yellow and brittle, but the ink remained dark.Elena gently untied the ribbon and pulled the first letter free.

August 12th,1963

My Dearest Elena,

The nights are cold here,colder than I thought Italy could be. The stars are unfamiliar, but I think of you when I see them. I imagine you sitting by the window,reading one of those novels you loved.I miss the way your brow furrows when you’re lost in a page,and I miss the sound of your laughter echoing through the orchard.

Elena took the letters downstairs,her fingers trembling.She laid them across the kitchen table and turned on the kettle,more out of habit than need.As steam curled out of the spout,she studied the handwriting again. It was elegant,careful.A man used to expressing himself on paper.A man in love.

May 4th,1875

My Dearest Anna,

Tomorrow we begin the return.They say the war is ending,and I should be happy.But a part of me is terrified.What if you are not there?What if too much time has passed?You said once that love,true love,could endure anything. I pray you were right. I have dreamed of our reunion every night for years now.Soon,soon,soon..

There was no letter after that.Just silence.

Elena sat motionless,her tea forgotten.Who was Thomas?And why had her grandmother hidden these letters away,never spoken of them?Had she loved this man more than her husband?Or had something gone terribly wrong?

The next morning,Elena drove into town to visit her great-aunt Margaret,her grandmother’s younger sister,now 91 but still sharp as flint.Aunt Margaret lived in a small cottage surrounded by rose bushes and a herb garden that smelled of thyme and lemon balm.

“She never told you?”Margaret asked when Elena dropped the letter before her.

“No.Not once.I thought Grandpa Richard was her only love.”

Aunt Margaret sighed,her eyes softening.

“Anna and Thomas were inseparable before the war.He lived down the road-worked on his family’s farm. They were going to be married in the summer of ‘85.Then he enlisted.”

“And the letter?” Elena prompted.

“She wrote back,of course.Every week.But one day the letters stopped coming.A few months later,a telegram arrived saying Thomas had been killed in a bombing near Rome in the war.Anna was inconsolable.

Elena stared at her. “But..he wasn’t dead.He wrote this letter in May of “75.”

“That means he came home,” Elena whispered. “Why didn’t she find him?Why didn’t he find her?

Margaret was silent for a long moment. “ Richard came into her life that fall.She was fragile,broken.Maybe she thought Thomas really had died.Or maybe- “She trailed off,her voice, “-maybe someone made sure she believed that.”

Elena frowned. “You think Richard lied to her?”

“I don’t know.But I do know he was very much in love with her.And people do desperate things when they’re afraid to lose someone they love.”

The day was gone so fast ,with a lot on her mind.