From Sand and Ash(53)

But Angelo was resourceful. Two weeks after the raid on Rome’s Jews, a woman in his old parish lost her baby in a house fire. Somehow Angelo got wind of it and brought the poor mother to the nuns of Santa Cecilia, giving the woman a roof over her head and providing little Isaaco Sonnino with a wet nurse. If there was a need, he found a way, his abilities as a goalie translating beautifully to his abilities as a wartime priest. Scramble, protect, defend.

Angelo inspired the same ingenuity and respect among everyone he served, and he never stopped moving. He’d drawn some attention from the local Italian police, who had questioned him on more than one occasion, but he’d just blessed and genuflected his way out of trouble every time, doing as much business as he could from inside Vatican City, where the law of Rome could not touch him. But he was adamant where Eva was concerned. She would not risk herself. It was his one stipulation, until it was taken completely out of his hands.



He sat on the long bench, slumped, his cap in his hands, a German officer alone, and people scurried past him. He seemed unaware of the discomfort he was causing, the fear and derision in the looks tossed his way.

Eva had spent the morning in long ration lines, the one thing Angelo would allow her to do, and she had very little to show for it. She had brought Mario’s violin with her that morning, instructed to barter with it if there was anything worth bartering for. There had been nothing. Now, several hours later, she was waiting for a streetcar to take her back across town.

She still had fifteen minutes to wait. At least. And she was tired, her feet hurt, and watching the big German occupy the whole bench suddenly filled her with a rage and an insolence her father would have trembled to see. She could almost hear his voice in her head.

Invisibility is our best weapon, Batsheva!

Invisibility may have worked for Camillo Rosselli, a thin, slightly stooped man of indeterminate years. But it didn’t work especially well for a beautiful woman. Eva had learned that long ago. Her best weapon was to make others stare. Stare, and assume she had every right to be exactly where she was. She sat down next to the man, her back stiff, her violin case in her lap. She perched with her nose in the air, reminding herself that he was the interloper, an unwelcome visitor to her country. He could move if she made him uncomfortable.

He looked up in surprise—she felt him jerk—and she turned her head and eyed him in haughty rebellion before looking away. He continued to stare, his gaze heavy on her face.

“Can you play?” he asked in German. Eva pretended not to understand. He sighed. He leaned over and tapped the violin case.

“Can you play?” he said again. He mimed the action, and Eva noticed how tired he looked, how dark the hollows were beneath his eyes.

She nodded once. A sharp inclination of her chin, and looked away again.

“Play,” he said simply, tapping at her case insistently.

She shook her head. No. She would not play for him. He fell back dejectedly, and she thought that would be the end of it.

“My father could play. He loved music. Beethoven and Mozart. Bach . . . he loved Bach.” He was speaking so softly Eva could have shut him out. But his voice broke on the last word, and his sorrow was palpable. Eva almost felt sorry for him.

“Play,” he demanded again, his voice rising. He leaned toward her aggressively and jerked the case from her hands. Eva instantly stood and stepped back. It was not her prized Stradivarius, but she wasn’t foolish enough to grab it back, even if it had been.

He set her case on the ground and opened it. He pulled the violin and bow free and stood, shoving them at her. She bobbled and almost dropped them, but he didn’t care.

“Play!” he yelled, his pale face suddenly ruddy with anger. A child started to cry, and Eva realized they were drawing attention. But no one stepped forward. No one intervened. Invisibility was the word of the day. She was too shocked to respond, and stood staring at him, her bow extended like a sword.

“Are you an idiot? Play!” he roared. Then he drew his pistol from the holster at his side and pointed it at her face.

With a quick tightening of her bow and a hasty tuning of the strings, she lifted the violin to her shoulder, and turning her face from the unwavering pistol, notched it beneath her jaw.

His father loved Bach. That is what he had said. Without looking at the German officer, Eva began to play “Ave Maria,” the version by Bach and Gounod, the one that had made her weep for her own mother and vow to master the violin if only to feel closer to her, to understand her.

From the corner of her eye she saw the gun lower slightly, but only a bit, and Eva squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on keeping the tone clear, the tremolo controlled, and the shaking in her legs, where it wouldn’t affect her performance. She had shunned invisibility. Look where that had gotten her. Now her only weapon was to play, and play well.

The first sustained note was shy, hesitant. But Eva bore down, gripping the instrument fiercely, her chin pressed against the faded varnish like she was embracing a lover. The melody shimmered and strengthened, and before long she was coaxing a soaring aria from the singing strings that not even a trained soprano could match. Still, Eva heard it all as though she listened through a waterfall, her heart drowning out the sweet, silvery slides and the quivering crescendos, and she wondered in the part of her brain that knew only thought—the part that watched as if from a safe distance—if this would be her final performance. She wondered if it was worthy of her uncle’s sacrifice, her uncle’s time, of all the hours she had spent practicing, hearing Babbo grumbling and Angelo begging for more.