From Sand and Ash(34)

“We love you, Eva,” she said firmly. “We have lived good lives. We have been happy. Don’t worry about us. We have each other, and we will be fine. Someday the war will be over and we will be together again. And you will play for me, yes?”

“Yes,” Eva whispered, unable to hold back her tears. Fabia hugged her close and spoke into her ear. “God sees you, Eva. He sees Angelo too. And he is a loving God.”

Eva embraced Fabia tightly, but her mind resisted the sentiments. Either God saw everyone or he saw no one. Too many were crying out for him to see them with no response.

Angelo touched her arm and picked up her heavy suitcase, setting his own small bag atop it, gripping it beneath his arm as he leaned into his cane and allowed his tiny nonna one more embrace. Eva clutched her little valise and her violin, and together they boarded the train, promising to send word as soon as they arrived in Rome.

“They will be all right. They have nothing to worry about,” Angelo said softly. He didn’t say, “now that you’re gone,” but Eva heard the words anyway. Those who sheltered Jews would not be safe now that the Germans were in charge.

“This is your pass.” He handed her a document and she took it, confused.

“I have a pass, Angelo.”

“A priest would not be traveling alone with a young woman he is not related to. You are my sister now. See?” He tapped the document she was holding, and she looked down at it. It looked completely authentic—from the different stamps, to the emblem on the front, to the type inside. And Eva would know. She’d been helping Aldo make false papers since her father had gone to Austria and never come home again. But her name was now Eva Bianco, and she was not a Jew.

“How?”

“Aldo,” he said briefly. “I asked him to make it a while back. Just in case.”

“I’m from Naples?” she asked, her voice pitched for his ears only.

“No one will give the Germans any information they seek south of the Allied line. They have no way to verify you aren’t who you say you are.”

“Except I don’t speak with a Neapolitan dialect.”

“A German won’t be able to tell. You speak Italian. They don’t. And if they do, you can fake it. You’ve always had a great ear, and a German won’t be nearly discerning enough to distinguish dialects.”

Their hushed conversation ended abruptly when a couple with a child entered the compartment and sat across from them. A heavy-set man followed a few minutes later and sat on Angelo’s right. Unless they wanted to discuss inanities, which was far too much work, they wouldn’t be talking much on the trip. It was better that way. Eva didn’t need to talk to Angelo. She didn’t need Angelo at all. She was going to go see her uncle Augusto as soon as they arrived, and she had every intention of moving in with him, Aunt Bianca, Claudia, and Levi. She would stay with them until the Germans left Italy. She would assist Angelo in refugee work where she could—she had grown adept as a printer’s apprentice if he could find her a press—but she wasn’t going to hide in a convent, as Angelo had suggested the night before.

The first hours of their journey passed without incident, but at the station in Chiusi, several German officers boarded the train with a civilian translator wearing a black armband, signifying his Fascist affiliations.

“Documenti!” the civilian shouted, and people started to scramble for their papers. Eva’s palms grew damp and her breaths short. There was always a first time for a false pass, and this was hers. Aldo had always told her his documents were without equal. She would know soon enough.

Angelo seemed completely at ease, and when the German approached and demanded their passes, Angelo bowed his head in a priestly fashion and placed his in the officer’s hand.

The German looked at Angelo’s pass for what seemed an eternity. He talked quietly to the Italian interpreter, and though Eva spoke fluent German, she couldn’t hear what he said. Finally, he leveled pale, suspicious eyes on Angelo, who did not seem at all alarmed by the scrutiny.

He then looked at Eva sitting next to Angelo, and his eyes narrowed further. He stuck his palm in front of her face. “Papers?”

She placed her identity card in his hand, the one Angelo had given her only hours before.

The German eyed the document with the same suspicion.

“Bianco, eh? Interesting. Her name is the same as yours?” He looked at Angelo. His companion rushed to translate.

“She is my sister,” Angelo lied calmly. He was a very good liar, Eva thought.

“Sie ist meine Schwester,” the translator repeated.

“I do not think this is your sister. I think this is your wife,” the German said.

The translator rushed to spit out the words they already understood.

“For all I know you are a deserter,” he continued. “An Italian coward, a soldier running from your responsibilities. I do not think you are a priest.”

“She is my sister, and I am a priest. Not a soldier. Not a deserter.” Angelo pulled up his cassock and tapped his prosthetic, drawing the attention of the German inspector. “I was never a soldier. Men with one leg do better as priests.”

Convinced, but not happy about it, the soldier handed back their papers with a huff and moved on to his next victims. He’d been so intent on Angelo, he’d hardly looked twice at Eva’s pass, other than to pounce on her name. Eva slid her pass back into her bag and allowed herself to breathe, just for a moment. Her eyes slid to Angelo’s and he met her gaze, smiling slightly. There was no privacy, no chance to celebrate the tiny victory, but when he tapped his nose, she tugged her ear, an old baseball signal he’d taught her once, and turned her eyes out the window so she wouldn’t smile back at him.