From Sand and Ash(25)

“I can’t, Eva,” he said more firmly. “I won’t,” he added, his voice harsh. He would be strong. He would not lose the battle in this moment. Not even for Eva.

“You already have.” Her voice was mild, but the pain was sharp, making her mouth twist wryly. She mocked herself, and the agony in her face echoed in his chest. She was reflected in him, and he in her. It had always been that way. When she was in front of him, she was the only thing he could see. She filled his vision. But his eyes were single to a different glory.

He closed them briefly and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, only steel remained.

“It was wrong, Eva. On so many levels. You know it. I know it. Neither of us can afford to let it happen again. It won’t happen again.” He kept his hands clenched at his sides, holding himself firm.

“I love you, Angelo.” The last truth, and maybe the only truth that really mattered.

“And I love you!” he shot back. The truth was terrifying to him, but not as terrifying as turning from the only course he truly believed in.

“But not enough?”

“More than anyone I’ve ever loved before.”

“But not enough,” she repeated.

“We are only as good as the promises we keep, Eva. And I’ve made a promise. You don’t want a man who can’t keep his promises, do you?”

Their eyes caught and held. And he saw the moment she believed him. He recognized her defeat, saw her acceptance. He saw Eva, the little girl who had always given in to his whims and followed his lead. She knew he wouldn’t yield. Unyielding Angelo, she’d called him. She’d told him once that his virtue was as disheartening as it was admirable. He didn’t feel virtuous at the moment.

She nodded then. An acknowledgment, an acquiescence. A muscle in his jaw jumped and his lips firmed. Without a word he held out his arm. But she wouldn’t take it.

“Please just go, Angelo. Just go,” she whispered.

“I want to walk you home. I need to see that you are safe.”

“I need you to leave me now.” Her voice grew stronger.

“I won’t do that,” he insisted, willing her to yield once more.

“You already have,” she said again. And when her eyes rose to his, the little girl was gone. “Go, Angelo.”

It was his turn to yield.

With a heavy heart, he turned and left the quiet chapel, knowing this time, and forever more, Eva wouldn’t be following.





1940





10 June, 1940


Confession: I still love my country, even after what she has done.



Italy has not been loyal to her Jews, but in my heart, bruised and betrayed as it is, I am still Italian, and my soul quakes at the thought of what is to come for my country, even if she has rejected me.

We are officially at war. Italy invaded France and simultaneously declared war on Great Britain. No more rumors or threats, no more posturing and pounding of chests. Italy is at war, allied with Germany. We are allied with a country led by a man who hates Jews.

I wonder how many men, how many Jews, will have to die for Hitler to declare himself the winner. Germany already invaded Denmark and Norway, rolling over them without mercy. Belgium surrendered in only eighteen days. Next is France. When England falls there will be no one left to stop them.

America wants no part in the war. I want no part in it either. Jews are not allowed to fight anyway. Non-Italian Jews resent us for it. Impromptu work orders are popping up all over the city, run by the Fascist police. Jewish men and boys, and sometimes women too, can be randomly pulled from their homes or off the street to shovel gravel or dig ditches or move bricks from one place to another. It is our patriotic duty, the Fascists say. They say it is the least we can do, as if we made the laws that banned us from military service. Better banned than forced to fight with Hitler, I suppose. But it feels wrong to sit by while others fight, even if they die for terrible things.

Angelo has banned me too. Banned me and abandoned me. Just like Italy. Last November he was ordained to the priesthood, and I haven’t seen him since.

Eva Rosselli





CHAPTER 6


SHIVAH


Two days after Italy entered the war, Camillo interrupted Eva and Felix in the music room, and the desperate look in her father’s eyes had Eva’s palms sweating and her heart racing.

“There are immigration officials here, Felix,” Camillo said grimly. “Police. Carabinieri.”

Felix froze, his bow in midair, his violin positioned for the swelling high point that would never come. Resignation shrouded Felix’s features, and his hands fell to his sides even as his shoulders slumped. He set his violin carefully on the settee and placed the bow beside it.

They all descended the stairs slowly, as if pulling against an invisible band that sought to draw them back to the security of the music room, to the safety of Paganini and Bach, to the comforting routine of long notes and scales.

Three Italian policemen stood in the entry. Fabia had ushered them in and offered them refreshment. She never could get used to the fact that she wasn’t supposed to open the door like hired help. She was no longer a domestic. She was the lady of the house, but no one could convince her of that. In her mind, nothing had changed. Camillo’s maneuverings were just that, maneuverings. It was his home, and she was his housekeeper. Beloved. But still the housekeeper.