From Sand and Ash(2)

“George was a Roman soldier, a captain of sorts. He would not renounce his faith in Christ. He was promised gold and power and riches if he would simply worship the gods of the empire. See, the emperor did not want to kill him. He valued young George very much. But George refused.”

Angelo had pulled his eyes from Donatello’s sculpture. The man beside him was a priest like Father Sebastiano, older than Angelo’s father, but younger than his grandfather, Santino. The priest’s eyes were bright and his hair neatly groomed. His face was kind and curious, but his hands were clasped behind his back, his very posture bearing solemn witness to his self-denial.

“Did he die?” Angelo had asked.

“Yes, he did,” the priest answered gravely.

Angelo had supposed as much, but the truth still wounded him. He had wanted the young hero to be victorious.

“He died, but he defeated the dragon,” the priest added gently.

That hadn’t made any sense to Angelo, and he wrinkled his nose in confusion as his eyes returned to the sculpture and the huge shield in George’s hand. He thought this was a true story, and there was no such thing as a dragon.

“The dragon?” he asked. “He fought a dragon?”

“Evil. Temptation. Fear. The dragon is a symbol of the battle he must have waged within himself to stay true to his God.”

Angelo nodded, understanding perfectly. They fell into silence once more, staring at the sculpture of the soldier brought to life by a master’s hand.

“What’s your name, young man?” the priest had asked him.

“Angelo,” he answered. “Angelo Bianco.”

“Angelo, Saint George lived more than fifteen hundred years ago. Yet we are still talking about him. I think that makes him immortal . . . don’t you?”

The thought had moved Angelo to tears that he tried to blink away. “Yes, Father,” he whispered. “I do.”

“He risked everything, and he is now immortal.”

He risked everything, and he is now immortal.

Angelo groaned, the memory making his stomach twist. Oh, the irony. Oh, the incredible, terrible irony. He too had risked everything, and he may have lost the only thing he would trade his immortality for.

As dawn started to creep into the eastern sky, pale light falling over spires and campaniles onto the Eternal City, Angelo finally reached the gates of Santa Cecilia. The bells of Lauds began to ring, as if to welcome him back, but Angelo could only cling to the iron spires and pray that, by some miracle, Eva waited for him inside.

Mother Francesca discovered him a few minutes later, sitting with his back against the gate as if he’d been propped there by Satan’s henchmen. She must have thought he was dead, because she cried out in horror, crossing herself as she ran for assistance. Angelo was too tired to reassure her.

He watched through swollen lids as Mario Sonnino appeared above him, checking his pulse and crying out instructions to several others to carry him inside.

“It’s not safe.” Angelo struggled to speak. Mario was not safe outside the gate. Mario was not safe inside the gate.

“Someone could see you,” Angelo tried to warn him, but the words were sloppy on his lips.

“Take him up the stairs to Eva’s room!” Mario commanded.

“Where’s Eva?” Angelo asked, forcing the words out, needing to know.

No one answered him. They took the stairs quickly, and Angelo cried out as his ribs protested the motion. He was laid carefully on the bed, and Eva’s scent rose up around him.

“Eva?” he asked again, louder this time. He peered through the eye that wasn’t completely swollen shut, trying to see, but the shapes were blurred and the people were ominously silent.

“We haven’t seen her for three days, Angelo,” Mario finally answered. “The Germans took her.”





24 March, 1944


Via Tasso



Confession: My name is Batsheva Rosselli, not Eva Bianco, and I am a Jew. Angelo Bianco is not my brother but a priest who wanted only to protect me from the very place I now find myself.



The first time I met Angelo, he was a child. Like me. A child with eyes that had known too much disappointment for someone so young. He didn’t speak for a long time after he arrived in Italy. He just watched. I thought it was because he was American. I thought it was because he didn’t understand. It makes me laugh a little to think of it now, how I would act things out and speak so loudly, as if there were something wrong with his ears. I would dance around him, playing my violin and singing little songs, just to see if he would smile. When he did, I would hug him and kiss his cheeks. There was nothing wrong with his ears or his comprehension. He understood me perfectly. He was just listening. Observing. Learning.

Camillo, my very patient father, would tell me to leave him alone, but I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. I realize now how the pattern never changed. I danced around him for years, trying to get his attention, wanting only to see him smile. Wanting only to be near him, wanting only to love him and be loved by him. I was rebelling even then, pushing back against the fear, though I didn’t recognize it. Rebellion was always my biggest ally, though sometimes I hated her. She looked like me and hurt like me, but she wouldn’t let me give up. And when fear took my reasons for fighting, rebellion gave them back.