From Sand and Ash(37)

He rubbed his hand over his heart, absentmindedly easing the old ache. His hand found his cross and he traced it, closing his eyes and trying to say his midday prayers, but the sway of the train and the shape of the girl beside him made his mind flit away, back to white beaches and forbidden kisses.





CHAPTER 9


THE CHURCH OF SANTA CECILIA


A gong sounded and a whistle blew, and Angelo awoke with a start. They were in Rome. He’d fallen asleep after all. Eva had too, and her head was tucked against his shoulder, as if she’d tried to prop it up against her seat, only to lose the battle to gravity. A surge of tenderness for her had him closing his eyes and asking for strength for the umpteenth time since he’d first seen her yesterday.

She stirred against his shoulder and pulled away with a jerk. He finished his prayer and stretched his arms, giving her time to compose herself. He straightened his collar and ran his hands over his closely cropped curls—as long as he kept them short, the waves conformed to the shape of his head, keeping the curl relatively tame—before placing his wide-brimmed black hat on his head.

“We’re here,” he said gently, finally turning toward her.

She nodded, a quick dip of her head, as she re-pinned her little white hat. She slicked a fresh coat of red across her lips and snapped her handbag closed, tucking it back down inside her small valise.

They stood and made their way off the train, the exhaust and bedlam of the station invigorating, even if the September day was still too warm.

“I have a place for you to stay. It’s not far from where I live,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he wove in and out of the crowd, using his cane to clear a path.

“I’m going to stay with my uncle. I sent a telegram. They’re expecting me,” she called out behind him.

He stopped abruptly, and Eva cursed under her breath as she collided with his rigid back. He resumed walking almost immediately, but when they reached the street and set down their luggage, waiting for a bus that could take them across town, he murmured his displeasure into her ear.

“They live in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood.”

Eva raised one delicate eyebrow and pursed her lips, waiting for him to continue.

“Living with a Jewish family is the most foolish thing you can do. You might as well wear a star on your chest.”

“Are you saying they’re in danger?” she murmured, keeping her voice as low as his.

“Yes! Eva, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” He shook his head, incredulous. “Staying with your uncle will completely undermine the whole reason I wanted you to come to Rome, a place where you aren’t known, a place where your name, your address, and your religion isn’t on some Fascist list, easily accessed by the SS. A place where no one can point you out.”

“I want to see them, Angelo. I haven’t seen them in two years.”

The bus pulled up and Angelo moved toward it, still lugging her suitcase and his much smaller bag.

“This is our bus,” he said, though she had no idea what that meant or where it went.

They boarded, sliding into a seat near the front, stowing their bags on a rack above their heads. When the bus lurched and groaned and eventually resumed its route, Eva tried to find out.

“Where do you live?”

“I’m not far from your uncle. I live on the west side of the Tiber near the Basilica di Santa Maria.”

Eva had no idea where that was. His landmarks were meaningless to her.

“Do you live with other priests?”

“I live in an apartment with Monsignor Luciano and his older sister, a lovely old woman who spends her days making lace when she’s not playing housekeeper. She likes to pretend I’m her son. She takes very good care of both of us.”

“I thought you lived in a . . . a rectory. Isn’t that what a priest’s home is called?”

“I used to. After I was ordained, I served in a village just south of Rome for about six months before I was assigned as a curate at the Church of the Sacred Heart east of Trastevere, not far from the Colosseum.”

“A curate?”

“An assistant to the parish priest. I served there for two years. In that time, I got to know the area very well.”

“And now?”

“Now my duties have changed.”

“You don’t conduct Mass every day?” She had always imagined him feeding wafers to open-mouthed parishioners and giving long sermons. She realized suddenly how little she really knew about Angelo’s daily life.

“I attend Mass every day. Several times if my duties allow it. But no. I am an assistant to Monsignor Luciano, who is a senior official with the Roman Curia.”

“What is the Roman Curia?’

“It is the administrative arm of the Catholic Church.”

“You work in an office?” She was stunned.

“Yes. I do. When I’m not running all over the city, I work in an office in the Vatican. It is a busy time for my department. It will only get busier.”

“What is your department?”

“Migrant assistance.”

She stared at him, bemused. “There is such a department?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. The official description is to promote pastoral assistance to migrants, nomads, tourists, and travelers. The congregation is overseen by a cardinal. Monsignor Luciano serves Cardinal Dubois. I assist Monsignor Luciano. My job is to attend the monsignor in whatever duties he assigns, but I rarely sit at a desk and type, if that’s what you’re thinking. There are lay secretaries and assistants to do that. I tend to be the physical liaison, and I mostly do legwork.”