From Sand and Ash(32)

“It’s going to get worse for a while, Nonna,” Angelo said softly.

“Worse?” Fabia cried, likely thinking of the losses Eva had suffered, the food shortages, the deaths of thousands of Italian young men on the Russian front and in North Africa, all for a war and an ideology most of the country didn’t support.

“You have to come back with me, Eva. To Rome. That’s why I’ve come.” Angelo turned to Eva, ignoring the stunned faces of his grandparents.

“Rome will be no safer than Florence,” Eva protested immediately.

“It’s farther south, closer to the Allied line. And no one knows you in Rome. You have false papers, yes?”

She didn’t answer. She just stared, probably wondering what he knew and how he knew it.

“A false identity card won’t do you any good here, Eva.” He continued as if she’d given him an answer. “Too many people know you. Too many people know you are Jewish. Your papers will actually get you in more trouble. That’s what got your father in trouble. He was recognized using false papers. You use them, and they will torture you until you tell them where you got them, until you give up Aldo Finzi and Gino Sotelo and Nonno and Nonna too.”

Three pairs of eyes widened and Eva’s chair shot back from the table. “How did you know about Aldo Finzi and Signore Sotelo?”

“I know all about them. They’ve been helping us for years. And I know all about what you’ve been doing too. ”

“Us?” Eva asked sharply.

“The church,” Angelo answered, unwilling to mention names, partly because he knew so few of them, partly because by not naming them, they were safer. To give the whole church credit—or blame—was disingenuous. He’d seen many pastors and parishioners who’d needed their arms twisted and their salvations threatened. But there were many who helped, in whatever way they could, opening their doors, their cellars, and their hearts to one refugee after another. He’d witnessed nuns opening cloisters that hadn’t been breached by a man, any man, ever. Jewish children were hidden in Catholic schools, Jewish mothers were wearing Catholic veils, and Jewish men were becoming monks—albeit temporarily—and learning Catholic prayers in order to stay alive, and no one was trying to convert them.

“Do you really think my friends and my neighbors will run to the Fascisti and give me up? I know many of the local police. Some of them are even friendly. They are Italians first, Fascists second. And most of them hate the Germans.”

“But the Germans are in charge now. Not the local carabinieri. And what about when they offer lire for the betrayal? When they start offering three thousand lire for every Jew? How desperate are your friends? How desperate are your neighbors? Someone will turn you in, Eva. I’ve seen it happen. Some Italians even think that the sooner all the Jews are found, the sooner this all will end. Give the Germans what they want so they will leave. That’s what some believe.”

Santino and Fabia jumped in then, trying to soothe Eva, trying to placate Angelo, trying to talk their way out of the threat they didn’t want to face. It was so much easier to hope it was all going to get better. Angelo knew it wouldn’t.

The subject was dropped for the sake of peace, and they all eventually retired to their separate quarters, Angelo back in his old room at the rear of the house—the servants’ quarters, though he’d never been a servant. There were times he had wished his presence in that house were that clearly defined, that simple to explain or justify.

He paced in his room and finally forced himself to kneel before the old cross Nonno had hung on his wall to say his prayers. It was the Hour of Compline, an hour that should be spent filled with praise and gratitude, but Angelo found himself veering away from praise and reciting psalms of entreaty. “Make me know your ways, O Lord. Teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation. For you, I wait all the day.”

Since becoming the pastor of a tiny parish at twenty-two years old, he had been begging God for direction on an hourly basis. It was a never-ending chant in his head. He didn’t see that changing any time soon. When he was finished, he stood and scrubbed at his face, feeling renewed. He washed his hands and calmed his breathing, and then left his room, slipping through the halls and mounting the stairs, determined to resume his campaign. He was not leaving Florence without Eva.

She answered his knock as if she’d been expecting him, and Angelo breathed a silent prayer of relief that she hadn’t changed for bed. He didn’t need to see Eva in a flowing dressing gown, regardless of how much it covered. She immediately retreated to the window overlooking the gardens Santino tended so carefully, the tennis court where she’d regularly trounced Angelo, and the moonlit darkness that was, to Angelo, menacing in its tranquility. It made his stomach feel hollow and his palms itch, as if the Gestapo stood in the shadowed corners of the yard and aimed their guns at the beautiful girl limned in gold and framed perfectly in the window. He walked to her and pulled her back, drawing the heavy drapes. She looked at him with eyebrows raised and didn’t protest. But she immediately left his side, retreating to the opposite side of her room.

“You told me once that you believed in me. Please, believe me now. The things I’ve been told, Eva. The brutality I’ve witnessed. The soldiers who have made it back to Italy have seen the camps. They’ve seen the trains overflowing with Jews. Train after train. And the refugees have stories. None of it is propaganda. People don’t want to believe, Eva, but I need you to listen. I need you to believe me again.”