From Sand and Ash(73)

“Greta! Please. I don’t want to talk about him.” She didn’t want to talk about him. It was enough that she thought about him constantly, about the hopelessness of loving a man who would not yield, the hopelessness of a life spent hiding and pretending. When the war ended and she went home to Florence, what then? The thought of returning to the time when she’d spent years on end without seeing him was worse than her fear of death. It was worse than Via Tasso. Worse than the convent with the quiet walls and the quieter nuns. It was unimaginable.

Greta pouted, an adorable, practiced expression that Eva was sure she used on her husband. “But what else is there? Love is the only excitement we women have.”

“Maybe when the war is over I will think about love. Right now, I’m too afraid to think of anything else. I just want to survive tomorrow night.” Eva changed the subject.

“There are worse things than being afraid,” Greta said gravely, her sudden sadness catching Eva off guard.

“What?” Eva asked softly.

“Being resigned is far worse. Being afraid lets you know you still want to live.”

“Then I must want to live very badly,” Eva whispered. “Because I am very afraid.”

Greta squeezed her arm, their eyes meeting in the mirror. They were a striking contrast—Greta blond and statuesque, Eva dark and slim beside her.

“I envy you,” Greta said wistfully. “You have your whole life before you.”

“But none of us knows how long that life will be. My life could end tomorrow.”

“All the more reason to wear beautiful clothes and play beautiful music.” Greta winked, shaking off the seriousness that had them both frowning. “Now you must be sure and invite your brother. He will be so proud of his little sister. Plus, it will be wise to let others see you have a protector.”

The certainty that the night would end in disaster had Eva rushing home after Greta’s shopping spree and practicing her violin deep into the night, apologizing to the other refugees, who endured hour after hour of frenzied music. When it grew late, she banished herself to the church to allow the convent to rest, and continued playing and praying, plotting her performance as if her life depended on it, for, deep down, she believed it did.



The dress was simple, but the black silk gleamed and fell around her slim form, giving her an understated elegance. Her hair was carefully curled and deeply parted, tucked behind her ear on one side where a dangling diamond played hide-and-seek every time she turned her head. Her lips were red and her dark eyes softly lined. She was pale, but her skin was pearly and it looked dramatic against the ebony dress.

She stood on a small stage, all alone in the very center, and she raised the roof and the hair on his neck, piece after glorious piece. The audience clapped and there was no conversation, even hushed and polite, when she played.

She’d been waiting in front of his building that morning, her eyes tired and her nerves raw, and when she’d told him about the gala and he’d seen her fear, he had swallowed his own and bit back his insistence that she go into hiding. It had been a constant refrain in his head. Hide her. Hide her. Hide her. She’d refused every time. Insisting now would be no different, so he would be strong for her instead.

“Why are you afraid, Eva? You have been doing this all your life. You are a magnificent violinist. You have played for thousands. Surely, you can play for a mere handful.”

She had dropped her face into her hands, and he had shoved his fists into the pockets of his cassock to hide his tremors. She was afraid because she would be a Jewish girl in a room full of German police, the same reason he wanted to whisk her away and lock her in the cloister.

“I don’t want to share this with them,” she had whispered. “My talent is mine. My skill is mine. Mine and Felix’s. And I don’t want to entertain them. I don’t want to give them pleasure or enjoyment. I want to spit in their soup. I want to break dishes and poison their wine. I do not want to play for them.”

He had laughed so he wouldn’t weep. “You will play. And you will be magnificent. You will be the victor, knowing that you are Eva Rosselli, and they are applauding for a Jew.”

Her mouth had trembled, then the trembling became a broad smile. She had curtsied deeply, right there on the street, and when she stood, she had smirked at him. “I think you have a little devil in you, my white angel. I must be rubbing off on you.”

She was definitely rubbing off on him. Rubbing him raw and wearing him thin. In the last hour he had aged ten years. He stood at the back of the room, unable to dine while she played, even though his stomach growled at the scents in the room. He’d politely refused the place that had been set for him and kept his cross in his hand and his eyes glued to her face. He was terrified for her and proud of her all at once. He wanted to swoop her up and carry her to safety, and at the same time he wanted the world to listen to her play. He wanted to witness her triumph over the people who would, at the very least, turn their backs to her plight, and at the worst, kill her if they knew who she was. Still, she played, exultant and brilliant, powerful in her vulnerability, a conquering army of one. And the audience had no idea they were bested.

When she finally lowered her instrument and bowed, signaling the end of her performance, she tucked her violin and her bow against her side, and her eyes found his. He could see her terror even as she smiled graciously and inclined her head, acknowledging her audience. Her posture regal, she glided from the small dais, pausing as Captain von Essen stepped forward to assist her down the few steps. He escorted her to the side and seemed to be congratulating her effusively. He should congratulate her. Eva had made him look very good. He murmured something in her ear, his mouth hovering too close, and Angelo saw her stiffen even as she shook her head—smiling but refusing him. He leaned into her once more, obviously insisting on something, and he placed an envelope in her hand.