From Sand and Ash(12)

“Eva!” The word was like a whip, and Eva flinched. “You can’t say things like that.” He stood abruptly, his cane gripped in his hands. “We have to go. It will be dark soon, and after a day like today, your father will wonder where you’ve gone.”

Eva stood, but she wasn’t finished. “Babbo says so many boys become priests because of family pressures. Because they can get an education they may otherwise not get. He worried that you were forced into the seminary because your father and your grandparents wanted you to go and because you never felt like you had a home.”

“It wasn’t like that for me, Eva. You know that. You know being a priest is what I want.”

“But you were a child.” Her voice was hesitant. “How could you have known what it would cost?”

“It has cost me very little compared to what it has given me.” His eyes were so clear, so guileless, yet so fierce, that it was all she could do to hold his gaze.

“God makes me strong. He gives me courage. He gives me peace. He gives me purpose.” His voice was filled with conviction.

“And he can’t give you those things unless you’re a priest?” Eva asked sadly.

“No. No, Eva. I don’t think he can. Not in the same way.” He held out his arm—a peace offering—and Eva slipped her hand through it, letting him lead her out of the cemetery. They picked their way among the graves, and Eva was suddenly glad for his arm. Her anger and despair had boiled over and left her cold and weak, tired. She numbly placed one foot in front of the other until Angelo spoke again.

“I would have been a soldier. A pilot. If I’d been born with two good legs, I would have been a pilot. I’ve dreamed of flying since I could walk. Maybe it’s because I couldn’t run like the other boys. You don’t need to run if you can fly. Now, with war in the air and Mussolini passing these insane laws, I’m grateful for my bad leg. I’m grateful I won’t have to drop bombs and fight for things I don’t believe in.”

“Is the Catholic Church the only thing you believe in?”

Angelo sighed. “Eva, I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

“Do you believe in people? Do you believe in me?” Her voice was tired; she really wasn’t trying to fight. Not anymore. Fighting with Angelo was like kicking a wall—she only ended up hurting herself.

“I put my faith in God. Not people,” he said softly, stubbornly, and Eva wanted to slap him.

“But God works through people. Doesn’t he?” Eva insisted.

He didn’t answer but waited for her to continue, looking between her face and the road they walked along, the lengthening shadows giving them a sense of privacy. He hadn’t even pulled his arm away, and Eva let herself cling to it.

“My father used to believe in Italy. Uncle Augusto even believed in Fascism. Fabia believes in the Pope, Santino believes in hard work, and you believe in the church. Do you know what I believe in, Angelo? I believe in my family. I believe in my father. I believe in Santino and Fabia. And I believe in you. The people I love most in the world. Love is the only thing I believe in.”

“Don’t cry, Eva. Please,” Angelo whispered, and his voice broke in distress. Eva hadn’t even realized she was. She raised a hand to her face and wiped at the moisture that clung to her cheeks.

“These laws are going to destroy all of us, Angelo. It’s only going to get worse. I believe that too.”





1939





29 June, 1939


Confession: I’ve never hated anyone before. Not a single soul. But I’m learning.



There are more Racial Laws. Angelo raced home when he heard, only to find us completely unaware of what had transpired. He became the bearer of bad news—there is never good news anymore, it seems.

Jews can no longer practice their trade among non-Jews. Doctors, lawyers, journalists—all the trained professions. In one day, they lost their livelihoods. And that isn’t all. We are banned from popular resorts and vacation spots. We can’t spend our holidays at the beaches, the mountains, and the spas. We can’t put advertisements or death notices in the newspapers. We can’t publish books or give public lectures. We aren’t even allowed to own radios.

I laughed at that one and said to Angelo, “We can’t own radios? What about electric razors? Babbo loves his new electric razor—don’t get too attached, Babbo! What’s next? Washing machines? Telephones?”

Angelo didn’t laugh. Instead, he stared down at the decree in his hands.

“You can still own a telephone. But your names will no longer be listed in the telephone directories, and you are barred entrance from certain public buildings.” No one had laughed after that. The absurdity of it all was the most insulting part. And the insults never seem to end.

Eva Rosselli





CHAPTER 3


VIENNA


“My father won’t leave his apartment. He says the last time he did, a German soldier made him scrub the sidewalk. The bleach burned his hands, and he can’t play his violin.” Uncle Felix threw himself onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands.

“They stormed his house and took his art, his valuables. He is living in my old bedroom, with nothing but his violin—which he is lucky to have—and he is worried that he can’t play because of the sores on his hands. There is a German commandant living in his apartment, sleeping in his bed, eating off his plates, and sitting at his table! But he still thinks he will be able to wait it out. He still thinks it will all blow over. Many of his friends have already been arrested. Musicians, artists, writers, academics, taken to a work camp! How long will they last, Camillo?” Felix wailed the question from behind his hands.