From Sand and Ash(30)

Eva Rosselli





CHAPTER 7


THE VILLA


Angelo had made the trip from Rome to Florence twelve times in the last eighteen months, and none of the visits were of a personal nature. He had a reason to visit his hometown, knew the city and its residents well, particularly those within church circles, and he spoke English, enough French to get by, passable German, and of course, flawless Italian. He was young and handsome, drawing some attention wherever he went, but his black priest’s robes, stiff white Roman collar, and his missing limb gave him an alibi that many Italian men did not enjoy.

There were Jews hiding across Italy, but there were twice as many soldiers running for cover, trying to avoid being shot on sight or rounded up and sent to Germany to labor in work camps. Italy’s surrender to the Americans on September 8 had put her citizens and her soldiers in an impossible situation. They were now Germany’s enemies instead of her allies, and the Germans considered the soldiers, when they found them, prisoners of war. More than one young priest had been hassled by the Gestapo, and a few had found themselves in jail until someone could come and vouch for them. Angelo didn’t have that trouble. He was exactly who he said he was, which made his movements a great deal easier.

That morning he had escorted a group of foreign refugees from Rome just as he’d been instructed. He’d separated the eight refugees on the train so that if one was caught the others might still have a chance. He’d told them all to pretend to sleep so when they were asked for their documents they could sleepily hand them over without speaking and giving themselves away.

The trip took six hours, but the refugees had played their parts. It had all gone as smoothly as he had hoped. He’d escorted them from the Stazione di Santa Maria Novella and from there to the nearby basilica with the same name. At the basilica they were met by another priest who would take them on to Genoa. From Genoa, someone else would take them on, hopefully, to safety.

There were other refugees who were escorted into the Abruzzi, where smugglers and a local priest would bring them into Allied territory. Angelo didn’t know who. None of them knew who was involved beyond their initial contact. It was safer that way. If one person was caught they couldn’t betray what they didn’t know. It was a network of volunteers who were blind to all but their part. No real mastermind, no official organization. Just desperate measures by willing people. And it worked only through the grace of God and the goodness and courage of each individual.

But Angelo hadn’t come to Florence just for the foreign refugees. Not this time. This time, Angelo was going home, and the visit was very personal. He’d known the trip was inevitable, that the day would come. He’d been watching and waiting. When Benito Mussolini was overthrown in July and General Badoglio took his place, Angelo had waited, holding his breath. Many thought the old laws would be repealed and all would be made right. That hadn’t happened. When the Americans started dropping bombs on Rome and the San Lorenzo district was destroyed, he reconsidered, wondering if Florence wasn’t the safer place to be. But when the armistice was announced, and the German tanks rolled in and occupied Rome, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer.

The war had hurt Florence—aged the ageless city—and her head was bowed with long-suffering, like a widowed bride. Like in Rome, there were Germans everywhere, long lines for rations, and the people didn’t amble. They darted to and fro, as if rushing made them harder to hit. Harder to see. Harder to oppress. As a people, Italians were exuberant and effusive, and they didn’t hurry. Italians meandered.

Not anymore. Now they scurried.

Angelo let himself in through the big gate. It wasn’t locked. He would have to scold his grandfather. The days for open gates were long past. He walked across the silent courtyard of the place he had once called home, a place where he and Eva had played in the fountain and broken a few windows when he’d tried to teach her American baseball. He was pleased to see the villa looked the same. His grandparents had taken care of it. The flowers still bloomed in riotous color, and the walks were neatly swept with no debris or sign of the calamity that had gripped Italy in its fist. The heat had eased, and the September air was balmy and the skies a brilliant blue. The beauty made him uneasy, as if the mild weather and the soft breeze conspired with the Nazis to lure them into complacency.

Angelo wondered if his grandparents’ tender care of the palatial home would simply make it a bigger target. A property in the heart of the city, easily accessible. It rose up behind a high wall on a main thoroughfare. Beautiful. Well maintained. Irresistible. Just like Eva and the wall she’d built around herself. But walls wouldn’t be enough. It was time for her to hide. He had to convince her to leave Florence. Eva and maybe his grandparents too. They would be better off out of the city, away from the property that could only bring them unwanted attention.

Camillo had been gone for almost three years. Three years and no word whether he lived or died. The only word they’d learned was Auschwitz. It sounded like a sneeze. Harmless. But when it was whispered among the fearful it became something else, the Grim Reaper come to call, the Black Plague. There were only rumors, but the rumors were enough to make some Jews flee with nothing but the clothes on their backs, looking for a hiding place. It made others cower in their homes, hoping that the plague would somehow miss them, spare them, and pass over, as it had once, anciently. But so often it didn’t.