From Sand and Ash(4)

“I miss my mother.”

Eva’s heart lurched in surprise. He was talking to her. In Italian. Eva knew Angelo understood when he was spoken to, but she had expected him to speak in English, like an American.

“I don’t remember my mother. She died when I was four,” she said, hoping he would say something else.

“You don’t remember anything?” he asked.

“My father has told me some things. My mother was Austrian, not Italian like my babbo. Her name was Adele Adler. Beautiful name, isn’t it? I write it sometimes in my very best penmanship. Her name sounds like an American film star. She even looked like one a little. My father says it was love at first sight.” She was babbling, but Angelo was looking at her with interest, so she didn’t stop.

“The first time my babbo saw my mamma, he was in Vienna on business, selling his wine bottles. Babbo has a glass company, you know. He sells his bottles to all the wineries. Austria has very good wine. Babbo has let me taste it.” She thought Angelo should know how sophisticated she was.

“Did she play the violin too?” Angelo asked hesitantly.

“No. Mamma wasn’t musical. But she wanted me to be a great violinist just like my grandfather Adler. He is very famous. Or so Uncle Felix says.” She shrugged. “Tell me about your mother.”

He was silent for several seconds, and Eva thought he was going to revert to silence once again.

“Her hair was dark like yours,” he whispered. He reached out slowly and touched her hair. Eva held her breath as he fingered a long curl and then dropped his hand.

“What color were her eyes?” she asked gently.

“Brown . . . like yours too.”

“Was she beautiful like me?” This was asked without guile, for Eva had always been told how beautiful she was and accepted it with a shrug.

The boy tipped his head to the side and reflected on this. “I suppose. To me she was. And she was soft.” He said the word in English, and Eva wrinkled her nose at this, not sure she understood. “Soft? Soffice o grassa?”

“No. Not grassa. Not fat. Everything about her comforted me. She was . . . soft.” The answer was so wise, so specific, so old, that she could only stare.

“But . . . your nonna is soft too,” she offered eventually, trying to find something, anything, to say.

“Not in the same way. Nonna fusses. She tries to make me happy. Nonna wants to give me love. But it isn’t the same. Mamma was love. And she didn’t even have to try. She just . . . was.”

They sat watching the rain then, and Eva thought about mothers and lovely, soft things and the lonely way the rain made her feel, even though she wasn’t alone.

“Do you want to be my brother, Angelo? I don’t have a brother. I would like one very much,” she said, her gaze tracing his profile.

“I have a sister,” Angelo whispered, not answering her, not looking away from the rain. “She is still in America. She was born . . . and my mamma died. And now she is in America, and I am here.”

“Your father is there with her, though.”

He shook his head sadly. “He gave her to my aunt. She is my mamma’s sister. She wanted a baby.”

“She didn’t want you?” Eva asked, confused. Angelo shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

“What is her name . . . your baby sister?” Eva pressed.

“Papà named her Anna after Mamma.”

“You will see her again.”

Angelo turned his face toward her, and his eyes were more gray than blue in the shadow of the small lamp on Camillo’s desk.

“I don’t think I will. Papà said Italy is my home now. I don’t want Italy to be my home, Eva. I want my family.” His voice broke, and he looked down at his hands like he was ashamed at his weakness. It was the first time he had said her name, and Eva reached for his hand.

“I will be your family, Angelo. I will be a good sister. I promise. You can even call me Anna when we are alone if you want to.”

Angelo swallowed, his throat working, and his hand tightened around hers.

“I don’t want to call you Anna,” he said with a sob in his throat. He looked at Eva again, blinking away tears. “I don’t want to call you Anna, but I will be your brother.”

“You can be a Rosselli if you want to. Babbo wouldn’t mind.”

“I will be Angelo Rosselli Bianco.” He smiled at that and swiped at his nose.

“And I will be Batsheva Rosselli Bianco.”

“Batsheva?” It was Angelo’s turn to furrow his brow.

“Yes. It’s my name. But everyone just calls me Eva. It’s a Hebrew name,” she said proudly.

“Hebrew?”

“Yes. We are ebrei.”

“Ebrei?”

“We are Jews.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, exactly.” She shrugged. “I don’t go to religious lessons at school. And I’m not Catholic. Most of my friends don’t know our prayers, and they don’t go to temple. Except my cousins Levi and Claudia. They are Jewish too.”

“You aren’t Catholic?” Angelo asked, shocked.

“No.”

“Do you believe in Jesus?”

“What do you mean, believe in him?”