From Sand and Ash(26)

“Felix Adler?” one policeman asked briskly.

“Yes. I am Felix Adler,” Uncle Felix replied wearily. He looked almost relieved, as if he had been anticipating the visit and was grateful not to wait any longer.

“We have an order for your arrest.”

“I see.” Felix nodded slowly and clasped his hands behind his back, strangely docile. He was neither the fiery maestro nor the melancholy philosopher anymore.

“But he is an Italian citizen!” Camillo was not resigned. He looked stricken, as if he had somehow failed again. Otto and now Felix.

“He is a foreign Jew. His citizenship was revoked with the 1938 laws.” The policeman showed Camillo his orders. It had all kinds of official-looking stamps on it. Italians loved their stamps.

“But he received an exemption,” Camillo insisted.

“It has been revoked as well.” The officer folded the paper and tucked it beneath his arm.

Camillo reared back in shock, and angry color bloomed high on his cheeks. “When? Why?”

The policemen ignored Camillo and addressed Felix once more. “You will come with us, please.”

“Where will you take him?” Camillo said, his voice shaking with outrage.

“He will be detained for a time. Eventually, he will be sent to Ferramonti, or maybe Campagna in Salerno. Somewhere in the south.”

“But he will stay in Italy?” Camillo asked helplessly. He looked at his brother-in-law, but Felix didn’t comment. Felix’s quiet acceptance was almost as unsettling as the arrest order.

“Most likely. Don’t worry. We are not like the Nazis. He will not be mistreated. We are at war, and this is for the security of Italy. That is all. It is simply internment. Nothing to be afraid of,” the Italian officer reassured them. He’d noticed Eva and had puffed out his chest and smiled at her as if she would possibly welcome the attention at such a time.

“May I pack a small bag?” Felix asked politely. Eva could only stare at her uncle’s blank face as he waited for an answer.

“Yes. But quickly. There is not room or time to gather all your belongings. Your basic needs will be provided for.”

Felix nodded agreeably and walked from the room. The officer trailed him, as if those being arrested had been known to make a run for it, but he stayed at the top of the staircase, dividing his attention between Eva and Felix’s room. Felix had left his door ajar and they could hear him moving about, opening and closing drawers, letting everyone know he was doing as he was told.

When the gunshot came it was oddly muffled, yet it reverberated through the house like a slammed door. For several stunned seconds, no one moved. The officer at the top of the stairs was the first to react, walking briskly to the room where his detainee had disappeared.

They all stood, frozen, eyes lifted to the balcony overlooking the parlor, waiting for an explanation. Then they heard a shout and a string of Italian curses mixed with pleas to the Madonna.

Camillo began to run, taking the stairs two at a time, a sight Eva had never seen before. Camillo Rosselli didn’t run. His response had Eva racing up the circular steps behind him, but before she could enter Uncle Felix’s room, her father turned and, with shaking hands, bade her to remain outside.

“Wait, Eva!” he commanded. “Let me go first.”

The carabiniere was suddenly back, his face pale, his upper lip shining with perspiration. He shut Felix’s bedroom door behind him, as if the matter were closed.

“He is dead,” he said. “He has shot himself in the head.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but his throat worked like he was trying not to be sick. He shoved his black cap back on his head, avoiding Eva’s gaze for the first time since he’d arrived at the villa. She immediately shoved past him and reached for the door, bursting through into the masculine space that smelled like shoe polish, coffee, and the soap Felix used when he shaved. But there was another smell. Blood. It smelled like blood and an acrid scent Eva would later come to recognize as gunpowder.

“Eva!” Her father grabbed at her arm and pulled her back. But not before she saw the crimson pool that crawled like a living thing beneath the closet door and across the terrazzo floor.

Felix Adler had stepped into his closet, closed the door, and calmly killed himself.





As far as families were concerned, they definitely weren’t typical—Angelo was sure most Jewish families didn’t include a Catholic priest and his Catholic grandparents, but they were the only family Felix Adler had. Felix didn’t have any parents left—he only had Santino and Fabia. He had no siblings, just Camillo, a brother-in-law. He wasn’t married and he didn’t have children, though he’d treated Eva and Angelo as though they were his own. Thus, Camillo, Eva, Santino, Fabia, and Angelo gathered at the synagogue before the service, the five of them charged with the duty of avelim, official mourners.

Angelo had come from his little parish as soon as he received word, and Eva had fallen into his arms, the strain between them temporarily forgotten for a more immediate concern. They’d had no contact since his ordination. No letters, no telegrams, no friendly visits. It had been seven months since he’d received his Holy Orders, seven months since he’d been home.

Now they stood side by side, Eva’s arm wrapped around his as Rabbi Cassuto offered what little explanation he could for something inexplicable. Eva herself had had little to say. She had not been far from Angelo’s side since the moment he’d arrived, and though she’d clung to him, letting him know she needed him, she’d been silent—she even wept quietly—as if Felix had taken sound with him. The maestro was gone, and the music was too.