From Sand and Ash(108)
Pierre’s mother, Gabriele LaMont, didn’t survive that final winter in Bergen-Belsen, though she held on for eight months, which was almost unheard of. My son and I would not have survived that long. I doubt my baby would have survived my womb. Sixty thousand prisoners were interned there by the end of the war, and typhus was rampant. Bergen-Belsen was liberated by the British in April 1945, giving the world its first real glimpse of the horrors that no one had believed possible. I made myself look at the photographs. I owed it to those who didn’t have a white angel to hide them, those who hadn’t found the strength or opportunity to jump, and those who hadn’t been able to hold on.
Angelo and I didn’t stay in Italy, though we went back to Florence for a time after the war. We were married in a small ceremony—non-denominational, though we added our own defiant touches. I am still a Jew and Angelo is still a priest. Those are things that cannot be undone, nor would we want them to be. But he is laicized—unable to perform holy ordinations—and our marriage is not recognized by the Catholic Church. But I think it is recognized by God, and that’s good enough for me. No one calls him Father anymore . . . except our four children, and they usually call him Babbo. It is Italian for “Daddy,” and we are italiani after all. We always will be.
Santino and Fabia wanted us to stay with them in Florence. They wanted to love our children and love us. They wanted to be a family again. After all, the villa was our home, a home they returned to me after the war. But there are some hurts and some memories that are better laid to rest, better left to the mellow patina of photographs and selective remembrance. We needed to make a life together beyond the shadow of war, beyond the dictates of our pasts, and beyond the whispers and speculation of those who thought they knew us.
We stayed in Florence until little Angelo was two and Felix Otto—our second son—was six months old. The twins were born in America, two little boys we named Fabio and Santino, a nod to their great-grandparents, who had decided if they couldn’t convince us to stay in Italy, they would join us in America.
The years have been kind, and I am teaching my children to play the violin, insisting on long notes and scales, making them read the dots and count the lines, reminding them that music is something no one can take from them. They are undisciplined, much like I was, but when they play, I hear my life and the life of my family lifting off the strings, just like Uncle Felix said it would.
Angelo teaches history and theology at a small college in upstate New York. He is Professor Bianco now, and the title suits him. He knows more about religion than any man I know, yet he still has a million questions. I just smile and shake my head when he gets tangled in dogma and disillusioned by doctrine.
“There are two things I know for sure, Angelo Bianco,” I tell him, just like I’ve told him a dozen times before, and he always pretends not to know what I’m going to say.
“Tell me,” he says. “What do you know?”
“No one knows the nature of God,” I insist, holding up a finger.
“What else?” he asks, with a twinkle in his eyes. I point my finger toward him and shake it, as if I’m scolding him like a good Italian wife should. But my voice is tender.
“I love you. I have always loved you, and I will always love you.”
“That is enough for me, my wise and devious wife,” he whispers, and he wraps his arms around me so fiercely that I can barely breathe.
It is enough for me too.
Batsheva Rosselli-Bianco
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I have long been fascinated with World War II, but I never thought I would be able to write a book set in the time period, simply because of the vastness of the topic and the enormity of the task. When I stumbled upon an article about Italy’s Jews being hidden by members of the Catholic clergy, I was intrigued and dug deeper. And deeper. And I started to believe that there was a special story for me to tell. My prayer is that the people of today will know the past so they won’t repeat it.
The historical setting and the events that Eva and Angelo find themselves immersed in are all factual. The gold that was extorted from the Jews in Rome—and then simply left at the Via Tasso when the Germans left Rome—the massacre at the Ardeatine Caves, the roundups in cities throughout Italy, as well as the experiences of those hiding in convents and monasteries, were based on actual events. Many priests, monks, nuns, and so many regular Italian citizens risked everything for the sake of others, and I was truly awed and touched by the sacrifice and courage of so many. It was a terrible time, but the silver lining was the revelation of such goodness and heroism. For me, the horror was eclipsed by the stories of bravery and valor. Eighty percent of Italy’s Jews survived the war, a marked contrast to the eighty percent of Europe’s Jews who did not.
As with most historical fiction, Eva and Angelo were not real, but they interact with people who were. Jake Prior was an actual American doctor who worked the aid station in Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge. I thought about changing his name, but then thought how lovely it is to give credit, even through the use of a name, when I can. Pietro Caruso, Rome’s Chief of Police; Peter Koch, head of a violent Fascist squad in Rome; as well as Lieutenant Colonel Herbert Kappler, head of the Gestapo in Rome, were actual people. The Irish priest, Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty, was a true hero, working from the Vatican to rescue and aid up to sixty-five hundred people in and around Rome during the war. Rabbi Nathan Cassuto was the spiritual leader of the Jews in Florence in 1943, when the Germans occupied Italy. His story both inspired and haunted me. He showed incredible leadership and courage and survived Auschwitz only to die in February of 1945 in a forced death march at the hands of his captors. He was thirty-six years old when he died, and showed more fortitude, grace, and strength in his young life than most will ever exhibit. I dedicated the book to him.