The days passed, and Nonna Enza found herself busier than ever, though for very different reasons than before. Angelo's absence was still an ache in her chest, but there was little time to dwell on it. Grief, she'd learned during the war, didn't stop the world from moving. And in these new, uncertain times, there was plenty of work to be done.

She leaned on the familiar rhythms of her life to stay active, focused, and grounded. The restaurant, though not as busy as it once had been, still provided a hub for the community. She found herself drawn to practical matters—keeping things running, helping the neighborhood kids, and more recently, teaching people how to grow their own food.

It had started simply enough. She'd always maintained a small garden behind the restaurant, growing herbs, tomatoes, zucchini, and other basics for her cooking. But with food prices fluctuating wildly and the supply chains becoming more unreliable, she began to see the importance of self-sufficiency. It reminded her of the aftermath of the war when food was scarce, and everyone had to make do with what they could grow or barter for.

One afternoon, while pulling weeds from the garden, Enza noticed a group of kids watching from the alley. She recognized them—Dominic and some of the others she'd been helping. Troublemakers, mostly, but good-hearted underneath it all. They were curious, and she could see that they were hungry. Not just for food, but for something to do—something productive, something that gave them hope.

"Come here," she called out, waving them over.

They hesitated for a moment, but eventually shuffled closer, their curiosity winning out.

"You ever plant anything before?" she asked, handing Dominic a small trowel.

He shook his head. "No, Nonna. That's not really our thing."

"Well, it's going to be, now," she said with a grin. "The way things are going, you can't just rely on someone else to feed you. You gotta learn how to do it yourself."

The kids exchanged uncertain glances, but they didn't leave. Enza started showing them how to till the soil, how to plant seeds, and how to care for the garden. To her surprise, they were quick learners, and soon, they were helping her with the work. Word spread, and before long, other neighbors started stopping by, asking for tips on growing their own food.

What had started as a small project behind the restaurant quickly grew into something much larger. Enza organized informal classes, teaching people how to use every inch of soil in their backyards or on their balconies. She showed them how to make raised beds from scrap wood, how to compost food waste, and how to collect rainwater. In a time when people were feeling powerless, these small steps toward self-sufficiency gave them back some control. The food situation had normalized, but if her Christian friends were to be believed, that would not last. Besides, the point was cultivating a resilient mindset. She wasn't just teaching them to grow food. She was helping them grow hope.
-

One day, after a particularly busy gardening session, Enza found herself at the local library. She'd been collaborating with the librarians on setting up a small community seed exchange, a place where people could come and trade seeds for different crops. It was a simple idea, but it had taken off quickly. People were desperate to make the most of what they had, and the library had become a central hub for this new wave of bartering and skill-sharing.

As Enza finished discussing the logistics of the seed exchange with one of the librarians, a young woman approached her.

"Nonna Enza, right?" the woman asked, her eyes bright with interest.

Enza nodded. "That's me. What can I do for you?"

"I heard you've been organizing barter markets and teaching people about growing food. I was wondering if you've ever thought about setting up a website or using email to coordinate with more people. It might make things easier for you."

Enza chuckled. "A website? I'm getting by with my home phone and my journal. I know what email is, but I wouldn't know where to start getting one - do I have to pay for it?"

The woman smiled, undeterred. "I can show you. It's not that hard. And once you get the hang of it, you'll be able to reach so many more people."

Enza wasn't one to shy away from learning something new. After all, she'd learned to make do during the war, and if there was something practical that could help her help others, she was willing to give it a try.

"All right," she said, "show me what I need to know."

Over the next few weeks, Enza found herself becoming something of a student again. The young librarian, whose name was Sarah, patiently walked her through the basics of using a computer, browsing the web, and setting up an email account. It was slow going at first, but Enza's practical nature helped her pick it up quickly.

Before long, she was sending emails to local community members, organizing gardening meetups, and even posting updates about the barter market. The whole thing felt strange at first—reaching out to people through a machine instead of face to face—but she had to admit, it worked. She was able to keep things organized, and more people were getting involved.
Her restaurant's website was made in Notepad, had pleasant earth tones and no blink tags, and eventually she even figured out how to scan and put up some pictures.

As winter approached, the garden slowed down, and with it, the pace of life in the neighborhood. People were spending more time indoors, huddled around whatever warmth they could find, and the barter markets that Enza had helped organize became quieter. But still, she kept busy, and one evening, she decided to do something she hadn't done in a long time: tell stories.

It started casually, as she sat at the counter of the restaurant, a few regulars chatting over coffee. One of the younger men, a mechanic who had been trading his services for fresh bread, asked her about the war. He had heard bits and pieces from others in the neighborhood, whispers of her time with the partisans, but he didn't know the full story.

"Nonna Enza, what was it like? During the war?" he asked, leaning forward with interest.

Enza chuckled, shaking her head. "It was different. Hard in ways you can't imagine, but... we found a way to survive."

"Did you fight?"

"Not in the way you're thinking. I wasn't on the front lines with a gun. I was just a lookout. My job was to keep watch, to warn the others when the soldiers were coming."

The room grew quieter as she spoke, the few people left listening intently. Enza smiled softly, her fingers tracing the edge of the counter. "We were all just kids, really. Barely old enough to understand what we were up against, but we knew enough to know it was wrong. We were scared, all the time. But we did what we had to do."

She paused, letting the memories wash over her. She rarely talked about this time in her life, mostly because she didn't see her role as anything special. The young men and women who had fought, who had died—that's where the real stories were. But the people here, now—they needed to hear something. They needed to believe that even in the darkest of times, there was still a way to resist.

"I used to sit up in the hills," she continued, "with a pair of binoculars, just waiting. My heart would be pounding every time I saw a dust cloud rising on the road. I'd signal down to the camp, and then I'd run. We had to move fast. The Germans didn't take kindly to people like us. We knew what would happen if we were caught."

"Did you ever get caught?" Clara asked, her voice quiet.

Enza shook her head. "No. But we came close. There were a few times when I could feel their breath on my neck. We lost good people, brave people. But we kept going. We had to."

As she spoke, she could see the way the young people looked at her—some with admiration, others with a mix of awe and disbelief. They weren't used to stories like this. But Enza wasn't here to be admired. She was here to help them see that they, too, could survive whatever was coming.

"I wasn't a hero," she said firmly, her eyes sweeping over the small group. "I was just doing my part. That's all we can do, any of us."

They nodded, understanding. And as the night wore on, they stayed, listening to more stories of the war, of the resilience of the people she had known. Enza never played up her own role, always focusing on the others, on the brave souls who had done more than she ever had. But the message was clear: even in the worst of times, you could still stand against the tide.

And as they left that night, she could see it in their faces—hope. A small flicker, but it was there.

Enza sat back in her chair, the room finally empty, and allowed herself a moment of quiet. She missed Angelo more than ever in moments like these. But he was gone, and she was still here. And as long as she was here, she would keep doing what she had always done: help those who needed it, teach what she could, and find a way to survive.