From Sand and Ash(55)

She had hated him on sight. She’d hated him even more when he’d held his gun to her head. But then she’d seen his tears and felt his despair. She didn’t hate him now. She couldn’t. She understood him too well.

“Forgive me,” he’d said.

She did forgive him. Wholeheartedly. And she forgave her uncle Felix as well. For three long years she’d pushed all thoughts of him away. But there, in the dark, she could feel him with her.



They left her in the closet-like room for hours. Eva had no way of tracking the time, but she desperately needed to go to the bathroom, and her throat was so dry it was sharp when she tried to swallow.

When a soldier finally arrived and ushered her out, she was given a drink and allowed to use the bathroom—another dark closet with a bucket on the bare cement, overflowing with waste—before being led up a flight of stairs into an office that made the lower floors look like a different planet.

A uniformed German of medium height and compact build waited for her inside a large office beside a large mahogany desk, as if sitting were beneath him. His uniform was crisp, his manner brisk. His pale eyes were sharp, and his tone was sharper.

“I am Captain von Essen. What is your name, Fr?ulein?”

“Eva Bianco.” She’d been rehearsing her lines for hours.

“Why are you in Rome, Miss Bianco?”

“My brother is a priest at the Vatican. I came here to be closer to him and to find a job.”

“What is your brother’s name?”

“Angelo Bianco. He works for the Roman Curia.”

“No job in Naples?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“You speak German very well. But you sound Austrian.”

She nodded.

“Surely, you didn’t learn to speak German so well in school.”

“I learned in school, but I had a music teacher who was Austrian.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of music?”

“He taught me to play the violin. I spent a great deal of time with him.”

“And where is your teacher now?”

“He is dead.” She thought he would ask for details, and he seemed to consider doing so, but changed tacks.

“A German soldier is dead too. He was a very dedicated officer. I am having trouble believing he would just walk in front of a streetcar.”

“But he did,” Eva said quietly. Firmly. He met her gaze and then lowered himself into his chair and steepled his fingers in contemplation.

“You did not push him?”

“No!”

“And you didn’t see anyone else push him.”

“No. No one pushed him. He seemed very . . . upset.”

“And how would you know this?”

“He held his gun to my head and demanded I play my violin for him,” Eva said simply.

Captain von Essen raised his furry blond eyebrows and leaned forward.

“And did you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Show me.” He pointed toward the door. Her violin case had been set against the wall, just to the left of the entrance. It had been taken from her, along with her documents, when she’d arrived. She wondered why he was asking her questions he obviously already knew the answers to.

She stood and retrieved the case, willing strength to her limbs. For the second time in one day, Eva was being ordered to perform, wound up tight like a jack-in-the-box and told to play for her release.

“Do you know any Wagner?” the German asked curiously.

Eva stiffened, hearing Felix’s voice in her head. No Wagner. He doesn’t care much for Jews. So I don’t care much for his compositions.

“Not well enough to play.”

“Hmm. What a shame. But there are so many wonderful German composers. Mozart, Chopin . . .”

“Mozart is Austrian. Chopin too,” Eva corrected him. She knew she sounded belligerent and was pleased at her tone. She wasn’t sure at what point she’d stopped being terrified. Maybe sitting in the dark with thoughts about suicide had tipped the balance.

“But Austria no longer exists. You must know. Austria and Germany are one in the same,” he reasoned.

Eva just nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“Play Chopin,” he demanded.

Eva lifted the violin obediently. Shutting the captain out, she found the thread of music in her memory, the variation she’d played for Uncle Felix. Chopin mixed with Rosselli, sprinkled with Adler, and doused with anger.

“Genug,” the captain said briskly. That’s enough. The music didn’t seem to impress him. Eva stopped immediately.

“Others have verified your claim. It appears you have done nothing wrong. You are free to go.” He stood once more, as if it had all been a formality to begin with, as if the hours she’d spent locked in a four-by-eight room were just an oversight. She stared at him stupidly, wondering if he was toying with her.

“Can you type?” he asked abruptly.

Eva stared at him blankly, trying to switch from Chopin, to freedom, to this new line of questioning.

“Yes.” Her answer sounded more like a question, lifted on the end, confused.

“I need a secretary who speaks German.”