From Sand and Ash(72)

“What is the nicest hotel in Rome?” he asked Eva.

“The Villa Medici, Captain. It overlooks the Spanish Steps, and it’s reasonably close to the Trevi Fountain and all the finest shopping. It’s a beautiful hotel.”

It was the first thing that came to Eva’s mind. She’d overheard two women talking about the hotel, newly restored and renovated with an acclaimed chef, on the streetcar that morning. She parroted what she’d heard, hoping the women knew what they were talking about.

The captain was on his phone immediately, demanding to be put through to the Villa Medici. Eva made a hasty retreat but could hear him snapping out orders and demands.

“Fr?ulein Bianco!” he called, causing her to jump from her desk and quickly return to his office. “Where can I find entertainment at this short notice? The hotel has a small dinner band, but I need something more. Something special.”

Eva was at a loss. She didn’t think the captain would be interested in Catholic children’s choirs or chanting monks, which were about the only thing she had access to at the moment.

“You.” He stood from his chair abruptly and rounded his desk, pointing at her accusingly. “You!” he repeated, practically shouting.

“What?”

“Himmler loves classical music. You are a violinist. A very good violinist, if I recall. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart. You will play. A beautiful Italian woman playing the violin. Perfect.” He slapped his gloves against his desk victoriously and reached for his phone once more, as if it were decided.

Eva could only stutter and stare.

“But I would have to practice! I haven’t performed in ages. And I have absolutely nothing appropriate to wear to such an affair,” she protested.

“I’ve heard you play. You will be wonderful. You have until eight o’clock tomorrow evening to practice. And Greta will help you with a dress. I will send for her immediately.” He waved his hand toward the door, signaling that he was done with her.

“I can’t do it! Please, Captain.”

“You will do it. I’m leaving you no choice in the matter. Must I hold a gun to your head and demand that you play?” He raised his blond eyebrows and cocked his head, waiting for a response.

Eva stared at him in horror. Did he think this was funny?

“I have all the confidence in the world that you will be able to pull this off, lovely Eva,” he said softly. “I know you will not let me down. Now be a very good girl and leave my office.”



Greta was ecstatic, rushing Eva from one shop to the next, insisting on dressing her from top to bottom—lacy lingerie and silky hose that were as rare as a cup of espresso made with real coffee beans instead of the chicory most Italians were drinking.

She had the dressmaker squeeze Eva into a red dress so low and tight that Eva broke out in nervous hives and refused to come out of the dressing room.

“Something elegant that I can actually play in, Greta, please! I don’t think you are understanding the gravity of the situation. I can’t breathe. If I can’t breathe, I can’t think, and if I can’t think, I can’t play. If I don’t play, your husband and I will face the firing squad.”

Greta tittered as if such a thing were preposterous, but she found a sleeveless, glimmering black sheath with a low, square neck that skimmed Eva’s body without being tight.

“We will paint your nails, and you will wear red on your lips. Wear your hair down. We want to play up your Italian beauty.”

No, Greta, Eva thought. Drawing attention to herself was the most dangerous thing she could do.

As if she could hear Eva’s thoughts, Greta added slyly, “When Herr Himmler sees you, he will want to make you his mistress.” Greta laughed again, but there was a concerned crease between her brows, as if it had just occurred to her that Eva worked for her husband. Eva’s stomach knotted all over again.

“Are you trying to terrify me, Greta?” Eva asked softly. “I cannot think of anything worse than catching Herr Himmler’s eye.”

“He is a very powerful man.” Greta shrugged, her eyes a guileless blue.

“I have no desire to be with a powerful man.”

“What kind of man do you want?” Greta asked, removing the pins from Eva’s hair so she could see the effect. She ran her fingers through the curls and pulled all the hair to one side, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“A good man. A kind man. A man who loves me.” Angelo’s face rose up in her mind, but she pushed his image away. She had humiliated herself in front of him, and every time she thought about him, her temperature rose, her skin flushed, and her body felt like a wanton stranger’s. They hadn’t talked about what had occurred between them after Aldo’s death. She couldn’t, Angelo wouldn’t, so they’d simply gone on, pretending it hadn’t happened.

“You are in love with someone!” Greta interrupted her reverie. She was staring at Eva with wide eyes. “I can see it in your face. You are all pink and rosy! Tell me.”

“What? No. I’m not,” Eva stammered.

“Yes. You are. There is someone. I’m going to be relentless until I find out who he is.”

“He is just a boy from home. It is nothing. I don’t want to talk about him,” Eva said.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Greta wheedled.