From Sand and Ash(61)

“I have the type for the documents. I break it up after every session, but I was able to grab it, all my samples, and my province stamps. I also have a stack of finished documents and a hundred more that need pictures and names. Everything is in a suitcase in a locker at the train station. If you can find me a printing press in Rome, I can continue with my work.”

Angelo didn’t know how he would manage it, but they would find a press, even if they had to put one in a cloister. He kissed the little man’s cheeks and promised not to be long, striding down the street, his heart galloping sickly, his sights set on the villa.

The SS beat him there.

When he arrived, several soldiers were overturning beds, opening closets, tapping walls, and peering into dark corners. A captain stood in the courtyard with Santino and Fabia, a clipboard in his hands. A member of OVRA, recognizable by his black uniform, had taken the lead in the questioning, though his translation skills left a great deal to be desired. Angelo’s grandparents had obviously been ordered from the house and were now being questioned about the whereabouts of Camillo and Eva Rosselli. As he approached, a weapon was leveled at him, but he was greeted civilly.

“You are Angelo Bianco?” the SS officer asked. Angelo’s blood ran cold. He hadn’t lived in Florence for four years. But they knew who he was. They knew his connection to the residence.

“Yes,” he answered in German. He wouldn’t mind leaving the Italian Blackshirt guessing about the conversation. He looked familiar to Angelo, and familiarity with your enemy is often portentous of bad things.

“Can you tell me where Batsheva Rosselli is?” The Italian jumped in immediately.

“No.” Santino was shaking his head. “We haven’t seen her in months.”

“I find that hard to believe. You are her family. Surely, she would tell you where she was going.” The OVRA official said this with such certainty that Angelo was sure the man must know Eva personally.

Angelo realized suddenly who the man was. He’d courted Eva, years before. Eva had said she liked him because he looked good in a uniform and he was a great dancer. It had made Angelo jealous, though he’d never admitted it, even to himself. His robes were hardly masculine, and his inability to dance was well established. It had rubbed at him, Eva’s enthusiasm for things he couldn’t do with her.

The policeman had even dated her a few times after the Racial Laws were passed. And now he was here, looking for her, asking after her whereabouts, so he could assist the German occupiers in arresting and deporting her. The name came to his mind instantly. Georgio. His name was Georgio De Luca.

“Georgio! It is you! I didn’t recognize you at first.” Angelo greeted him with forced levity and clasped his hand, patting it affectionately as if he and the Italian thug were dear old friends. Then he turned to the SS man and, in German, clued him in on the Blackshirt’s romantic interest in the woman they now searched for.

“I thought maybe Georgio and little Eva would marry. They were quite taken with each other!” he lied effusively. The German’s eyebrows rose dramatically.

“So you don’t know where Eva is?” the Italian shot back instantly, his eyes hardening. He didn’t like Angelo undermining his credibility with the Germans.

“We have it on good authority that she is engaged to be married and living in Naples,” Angelo lied. “But with the difficulties in communication between the north and the south, you understand, we have not heard from her in months.”

The German didn’t like being left out of the loop, and he cleared his throat expectantly. Angelo instantly translated.

“Interesting. I could have sworn I saw her with you in September, Padre. You were at the station boarding a train to Rome.”

Angelo did not translate this. He just shook his head and shrugged, adopting the old Italian response to anything sticky or uncomfortable. Shrug and shrug some more. I don’t know. Don’t ask me.

The German SS officer seemed a little unsure of himself. His men had returned to the courtyard. He waved them back to the truck and turned to Angelo.

“It is against the law to hide or harbor Jews, Father. I hope you aren’t hiding Miss Rosselli. It would not go well for you or your grandparents. Think of them.”

Angelo nodded immediately. “Of course. You can rest assured, sir. I want only to do the right thing.” He bowed subserviently and turned to Georgio De Luca. “And Georgio. So nice to see you again. If we do hear from Eva at some point, I will tell her you came by.”

Georgio flushed angrily and stomped to the jeep. The German officer clicked his boots and followed him, a deep groove between his brows. They rolled out of the courtyard, through the gate, and Angelo, Santino, and Fabia stood in silence and watched them go, badly shaken.

The house had been searched from top to bottom, various valuables removed for the “support of the Reich,” but his grandparents were unharmed, and the house had not been commandeered. But had Eva stayed in Florence, she would have been arrested. They had known exactly where to find her.

“It’s time for you to leave Florence, Nonno,” Angelo told his grandfather. “Go stay with your brother.” He had a feeling the Gestapo would be back.



“Where do you live, Fr?ulein Bianco?” Captain von Essen asked Eva out of the blue one morning. She had delivered his coffee and the stack of reports that he’d had her type.