The Girl with the Scarlet Ribbon by Suzanne Goldring
Genre: Historical fiction, WW2
Read: 22nd February 2022
Audio:
Published: 25th February 2022
DESCRIPTION:
Florence, 1943. A missing painting. A war-scarred city. A brave young girl on a black bicycle risking her life for the country she loved…
As the bells toll and arrogant soldiers torment her family, fourteen-year-old Gabriella is determined to act. She seeks out her old friend Stefanina, an unlikely member of the Italian resistance with her dark curls and scarlet ribbon. Soon the two girls are criss-crossing the river with deadly information in their bicycle baskets. But then one terrible day Stefanina disappears…
London 2019.Sofia is mourning the loss of her father, a famous painter. Desperate to feel closer to him, she begins to go through his paintings of wartime Florence, a time in his life he would never talk about. But then she realises one is missing…
Determined to learn more, she discovers that he had a sister she never knew about. She flies to Florence, the place of his tortured memories, to meet her aunt Gabriella, an elegant old woman living in a palazzo filled with roses. Therein a little bedroom, locked away from the world, she finds the missing painting, a tiny picture of a beautiful girl with a scarlet ribbon.
As Sofia uncovers the story behind the hidden painting, a tale of extraordinary bravery and terrible betrayal emerges. But will understanding her family’s haunted past bring her peace, or further heartbreak?
A completely compelling and heartbreaking story of a beautiful city, a violent war and a young woman’s daring. Fans of The Alice Network, The Nightingale and My Name is Eva will be captivated by The Girl with the Scarlet Ribbon.
EXTRACT:
PROLOGUE
FLORENCE
8 September 1943
Gabriella had tried moulding the potato dough into little dumplings the way her mother had shown her a hundred times.
‘Lightly, girl, lightly,’ Mama had said. ‘Gnocchi need only the lightest touch.’
She rolled a long sausage shape on the floured marble counter, then pinched off lengths no bigger than the top of her thumb. But she still couldn’t get it right. The dough looked yellow and shiny, compared to her mother’s flour-dusted pillows, scored with a fork to capture the sauce. But if she didn’t make the gnocchi, what would they eat tonight? There was so little flour to be had these days that they couldn’t make pasta. But the basil was still growing well, so perhaps they could make pesto to add flavour to the bland but filling mouthfuls of fresh dough.
Even before the war started, supplies had become restricted. Everything was state property; everyone had their allocation. Gabriella grumbled to herself, but knew she was luckier than most. Since Grandmama died and her parents had moved from their house in Rome to live in their family’s high-ceilinged palazzo in Florence, she had eaten well. Somehow, Papa’s contacts were able to bring them fresh aubergines, peppers and onions from farms in the surrounding valleys.
Mama said they were better off in Florence and now the Germans were heading towards their previous home, she said she knew they had been right to leave. And Gabriella knew she wouldn’t starve here like the ragged urchins on the streets of Rome. But without flour there was no spaghetti, no tagliatelle or, her favourite, orecchiette, little ears of pasta that captured a spicy sauce of sausage, Parmesan and rocket in their hollows. Maybe if they were lucky enough to find more flour, Mama would teach her how to make pasta, the way she had been taught by Carla, the household’s cook before she left the palazzo for the relative safety of her family’s farm. And even if they didn’t have meat or spices to enliven the sauce, they could use peppers or broccoli.
‘Aren’t you finished yet?’ her mother called as she returned to the kitchen from the courtyard, in her arms a basket of ripe figs picked from the twisted tree that spread along one wall of the enclosed kitchen garden, ensuring all its purple fruit basked and ripened in the sun. Mama had to manage all the running of the house now, neglecting her art studio, where she had loved to paint and draw to the music of Puccini.
‘It’s so boring—’ Gabriella began to say, but was interrupted by a sudden shout from outside. Her twelve-year-old brother, Riccardo, face flushed, chestnut hair flopping over his forehead, limped at speed past the door, yelling.
‘Come and see, Gaby!’ he shouted. ‘They’re coming. The Allies are coming!’
Gabriella jumped down from her stool, dusting her floury hands on her apron, and ran into the courtyard with its dry fountain, where the lamb was lying down in a shady corner, panting. Soon they would have to slaughter the beast. The garden could offer no more grass after the hot summer and fetching hay would bring suspicion. Who else had a prime source of meat fattening in their garden, who else might betray them for a joint of succulent lamb?
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