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“Meira, Meira, come here, my dear one,” Fredo pleaded.
Meira was coughing so she could barely weep: “I don’t like the oven, il forno … even though I love the smells … at times. Even your fornello here, I do not like your stove … I must keep away!”
“Please let me hold you,” Fredo begged.
Meira spoke, “Stove, I cannot bear to hear it as an English word. Did you ever notice that I choose oven instead most of the time?” Meira looked over Fredo’s shoulder. “Fredo, I have said things … I have never told you about that summer … many summers ago in Assisi in 1941, in the middle of the War:
