From Sand and Ash(10)

“Can you walk with me?” she asked in a rush.

“Eva? What is it? Tell me what’s wrong. What’s happened?”

“Everyone is fine. It’s not anything like that. I . . . just, please, Angelo. I need to speak with you.”

“Give me a moment,” Angelo acquiesced, and turned, walking as swiftly as his limp would allow. “He was back a few minutes later with the wide-brimmed black hat typical of seminarians, and the cane he had stopped resisting.”

“Can you just leave with me?” She felt like she was going to be detained at any moment.

“I am twenty-one years old, Eva. And I am not a prisoner. I’ve told Padre Sebastiano that I am needed at home and will be back in the morning.”

They walked across the piazza and out into the street, but Eva didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

“Can we walk for a bit? I’ve spent all day listening to Fabia’s tears, my father’s strategizing, and Santino’s hammering. Why does he always find something to hammer when he’s upset? Uncle Felix has been playing the violin all day—terrible, terrible songs—and when he’s not, he’s pacing.”

“The laws.” Angelo didn’t ask. He already knew.

“Yes. The laws. I can’t go to school now, Angelo. Did you know that? I should have enrolled last summer, like my father told me to do. They are letting Jews already enrolled in the universities continue with their studies. But I wasn’t enrolled. Now I can’t. No new Jewish entrants allowed.”

“Madonna,” Angelo breathed, the word sounding like a curse instead of a plea. They walked in silence, both of them lost in helpless fury.

“What will you do instead of school?” he asked finally.

“I wanted to teach music. But there will be many Jewish teachers looking for work now that they can’t teach at the regular schools.”

“You could teach private lessons.”

“Only to Jewish students.”

“Well . . . that’s something, isn’t it?” He tried to smile encouragingly. Eva frowned back at him.

“Maybe I will marry a nice Jewish boy and have fat Jewish babies and live in the ghetto! And maybe we will be run out of our country like the Schreibers were run out of Germany, like my Grandfather Adler is being run out of Austria, like Uncle Felix is being run out of Italy.”

“What are you talking about? Who are the Schreibers?” Angelo tipped his head in question.

“The Schreibers! Remember? The German Jews who came to stay with us?” Eva couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. When Adolf Hitler became chancellor of Germany in 1933, things started to go very badly for Germany’s Jews. Laws had been passed, just like the laws being passed in Italy.

Eva stopped walking, her stomach churning. They had thought it couldn’t happen in Italy. But they were just like the Schreibers. They were just like all the refugees that Camillo had opened his home to. For two years, they had had people in the guesthouse. Different families. All Jews. All Germans. And none of them stayed long. The Rosselli villa was a place to regroup before permanent plans could be made. All the refugees were quiet, and they kept to their rooms.

The Schreibers had a daughter who was Eva’s age and one a little older—Elsa and Gitte. Eva thought they could all be friends—she spoke German—but the German girls never came out of the guesthouse. Eva complained in the beginning that they might as well not have guests at all. To her, having guests meant entertainment. Fun. Camillo explained that the refugees were tired and afraid, and none of this was fun for them.

“Afraid of what? They are in Italy now.” Italy was safe. Italians didn’t care if someone was Jewish.

“They have lost their homes, their businesses, their friends. Their whole lives! Mr. Schreiber isn’t even Jewish.”

“So why did he have to leave?”

“Because Mrs. Schreiber is.”

“She is Austrian,” Eva retorted, so sure of herself.

“She is an Austrian Jew. Just like Mamma was. Just like Uncle Felix is. It is illegal under the new laws in Germany for a German to be married to a Jew. Mr. Schreiber was going to be sent to prison even though he was married to Anika long before the laws were passed. So they had to leave.”

The Schreibers were the first. But there had been many more. A steady stream, actually. Some were more open than others, relating horrors that seemed impossible. Uncle Augusto had even scoffed at some of the stories. Privately, of course, and only in conversation with Camillo, who grew increasingly gray during those two years. What couldn’t be denied was that most of the refugees they took in, even if for only a short time, seemed to be in varying states of shock, and there was an ever-present nagging tension among them, as if any moment, the local authorities would swoop in and arrest them.

“I don’t remember them, Eva,” Angelo said softly. “But I do remember there being strangers for a while.”

“For two years, Angelo! Then they just stopped coming. Babbo said they couldn’t get out of Germany anymore.” Eva hadn’t really understood what that meant. She had just shrugged and life went on. But there were no more skittish Jews at the villa. Until now. Now their villa was full of skittish Jews.

Eva clenched her fists and stopped walking, needing every ounce of strength to keep her tears behind her lids. But they seeped out the corners and dribbled down the sides of her face. She turned and blindly walked the other direction, looking for someplace to let them fall without an audience. Angelo followed, a silent shadow, his slightly uneven gait oddly soothing. Eva walked without realizing that she’d known her destination all along.