From Sand and Ash(56)

Eva could only sit in frozen horror.

“You want me to work here?”

“Yes. Here. We will compensate you well. You will run errands. You will file. You will type. You will get coffee. Nothing too difficult. No one will hold a gun to your head and demand for you to play your violin.” He didn’t smile, though Eva was sure he was attempting to be humorous. “You said you needed a job,” he prodded.

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Her mind reeled with the horror and the possibilities.

“Then it is settled. Six days a week. You will have Sundays off. Be here Monday morning at eight. You will leave at five. Your brother—the priest—is here. He’s been waiting for you. You must tell him you were treated fairly.” It was not a suggestion.

Eva could only stare in amazement once more. Angelo was there?

“It is after curfew. We will have a car take you both home. You will report back on Monday.” He waited for her to stow her violin and then handed her her fake identity card. It had held up twice now. She would have to tell Aldo.

He had a soldier escort her to the reception area where two Germans with submachine guns were parked on both sides of the entrance and two more behind a large desk. Angelo sat on a metal chair with his head bowed. His hat had been removed and he held a cross in his hands. When she approached the bottom of the staircase, he raised his head halfheartedly, like he’d been lifting his head all day to disappointment.

He shot to his feet, his eyes on her face, scouring her expression for duress. She tried to smile to put him at ease, but the twist of her lips felt strange, and the effort made her feel like weeping, so she gritted her teeth and let the soldier lead the way.

“There is a car out front,” the young German said to Angelo. “You will both be taken home. Please follow me.” He strode briskly for the door, expecting them to do as he said. Angelo took Eva’s arm, clutching her so tightly she would have bruises. She welcomed his grip, though the irony that she would leave German headquarters bruised only by Angelo was not lost on her.

Their armed escort held open the door of a shiny Volkswagen for them, waiting as they slid into the backseat. He leaned down, his gray turtle-shell helmet pointing toward them.

“Address?”

Angelo answered for both of them, supplying the address that Eva assumed was the apartment he shared with Monsignor Luciano and his sister. The German snapped his heels together and shut the door firmly. He relayed the directions to the driver, and seconds later the car pulled away from the curb.

The streets were quiet, Romans hiding obediently in their homes waiting for sunrise when they could start the process all over again. She and Angelo didn’t converse. The German at the wheel shot them a curious look in the rearview mirror, his eyes lingering on Eva and then flitting to Angelo before looking away. Angelo had released her arm when she’d climbed into the vehicle, and he didn’t take it up again.

“There was a woman hung from a streetlight today. A partisan,” the driver said conversationally, in German. Neither Angelo nor Eva responded. “She asked for last rites. Were you aware, Father?” he pressed.

Angelo nodded once, but his hands balled into fists.

“When you said your sister had been brought in, Father, there was talk going around that the partisan was your sister. We don’t have many women at headquarters. Not yet. Fortunately, I was wrong.” He commenced whistling like it was truly a happy occurrence.

With the streets bare, the ride took a quarter of the time, and before long, Eva and Angelo were stepping out onto the dark sidewalk in front of a building Eva didn’t recognize and watching the black Volkswagen pull away.





10 November, 1943


Confession: I never used to pray.



Prayer wasn’t something I ever thought about when I was younger. It wasn’t something that mattered to my father, and so it didn’t matter to me. Then one day it did matter. So I started to listen. And I started to pray.

The prayers of the Jewish people have been passed down, generation after generation, and when I say the prayers, they are like lullabies. In the prayers I feel my parents, and their parents, and their parents before them. I feel them all, singing to me, and they are not gone, but just away. We are apart, but not forever. So I will keep saying the prayers. I will never stop, and because of this, I will always be a Jew.

Angelo does not pray the way I do. He calls his God a different name. But I’m convinced God is not just my God or Angelo’s God. He is God. He wouldn’t be God if he was only God to some of his children . . . would he? Whether or not his children call him by the same name. I call my father “Babbo.” Angelo refers to his father as “Papà.” Does it matter what we call him? Does it matter how we pray, if our devotion is pure, if our love for him leads us to love and serve and forgive and be better?

I guess it does. Sadly, it does. Because my prayers could get me killed.

Eva Rosselli





CHAPTER 13


THE CHURCH OF THE SACRED HEART

“Come with me,” Angelo said softly. He turned, not taking her hand, not holding her arm. He acted as if the buildings had eyes. He walked swiftly, his cane clicking on the cobblestones, and turned up a narrow alley. He walked in the shadows along the back of the building until he reached the rear entrance of a large church surrounded by a high wall. Eva realized belatedly that it was the Church of the Sacred Heart. They’d just approached it from another direction.