From Sand and Ash(77)

“Listen to the good father. He is wise,” the captain said, smiling. Angelo wanted to spit in his face.

“Go with the sister to the cloister, Schroeder, and take three men with you,” von Essen commanded. “You go too, Father. Offizier Schroeder may need some help getting his instructions across.”

Mother Francesca led the way, her head bowed as if she carried the weight of the world beneath her veil. She prayed vocally to Saint Cecilia for her forgiveness as she inserted the key into the grille that separated the cloister from the rest of the world.

“Can I at least explain to them what is happening?” she pleaded.

“Nein,” the officer said when Angelo translated. “It will only give them time to hide.”

But the nuns were ready, standing in a long line with their hands folded in prayer. They didn’t need any explanations. Angelo’s eyes shot to the middle of the row of bowed heads, black veils, and stiff white wimples. The two sisters were flanked on each side by nuns. Their youth and prettiness drew the eyes, and Angelo could only pray as Officer Schroeder paced in front of the nuns, eyeing each one with equal parts disdain and suspicion. He stopped in front of the youngest sister. She kept her head bowed.

He reached out suddenly and yanked at her wimple, as if to pull it from her head, but the wimple stayed put. The other men snickered, and the officer grew angry.

“Take it off,” he snapped. The officer must know that nuns shaved their heads upon taking their vows and kept it short. A woman with long, flowing hair would be instantly suspect.

The youngest sister glanced at Father Angelo in alarm but immediately turned away, as if she knew looking to him wouldn’t help her cause. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and Angelo did the same. Suddenly, the words that had been so hard for the girl to memorize, the words she’d learned for self-preservation, started to fall from her lips.

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” The SS men shifted uncomfortably. She spoke Italian, but it wasn’t hard to understand the Lord’s Prayer in any language. They were in the cloister, a place completely off limits to the outside world. No man, no woman, no soldier, no priest. These were cloistered nuns, and some of the men obviously knew what that meant.

“Take it off,” the officer roared, his face inches from hers, and his spittle flecked her cheeks. She raised her hands and removed her black veil. But she kept praying aloud, and she didn’t remove the wimple.

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts”—she looked directly in the face of the blue-eyed German—“as we forgive our debtors.”

“All of you. Take them off,” he commanded, waving his gun at all the nuns, then yanking at the girl’s wimple to indicate what he wanted. When they hesitated, he raised the gun to the youngest girl’s head.

“Take them off! Now!”

Angelo tried to control his rage. He was tired of weapons being pulled and aimed at women’s heads. Eva had endured the same treatment and had been brought to Via Tasso for nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They raised their guns with such impunity, with such insolence. And he could only pray that God saw and would mete out justice in his time and in his way.

The other officers moved nervously, realizing something had shifted in their leader. With shaking hands, the other nuns began to unfasten their wimples too, joining the girl in the recitation of the prayer. “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

“For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever. Amen,” the nuns finished, pulling their wimples free and averting their eyes from the men who stood staring at their shorn heads. Angelo swallowed his gasp. The two young sisters had cut their hair close to their scalps, their tufty hair making them indistinguishable from the other women who stood cowering and vulnerable beneath the scrutiny of the German men. In cutting their hair, they had saved their own lives.

The officer’s finger slid down around the trigger. His eyes were a storm and his lips a flat, hard line—a horizon of indecision beneath the tumultuous gaze. He dropped his weapon to his side. He looked like a fool, and he knew it. He holstered his weapon with flaming cheeks and began walking toward the iron grille that had warned him to stay away in the first place. “Let’s go.”

“All is in order,” the German officer reported to von Essen when they reached the courtyard. His face was still ruddy with embarrassment, but the darkness gave him a little cover.

Everyone else from inside the convent was assembled in a long line, von Essen standing before them with his hands clasped behind his back like a strutting professor. One of his men held the official register Mother Francesca had been so concerned about. Angelo’s eyes went directly to the Sonninos—Giulia holding the baby, little Emilia in her father’s arms, and Lorenzo clinging to Mario’s hand. Poor Lorenzo. He was old enough to know the danger and too young to understand why any of it was happening. It was the second raid his family would have to survive, the second night they would be forced to beat incredible odds. The woman Angelo had found to nurse baby Isaaco was standing with them, strangely blank-faced, like she didn’t care enough about herself to be afraid. None of the paperless Jews were in the courtyard.

The boarders’ rooms and the surrounding buildings had been searched while Angelo and the abbess accompanied the raid in the cloister. So far, no cries had gone up and no shots had rung out. Their papers must have passed inspection, and the rooms must not have yielded any clues. At that moment, three soldiers came jogging out of the church toward the captain, and Angelo could hear them discussing the locked door off the sacristy that led to the excavation below.