From Sand and Ash(82)

He touched his lips to hers, softly first, the only answer he had. And then he kissed her again, more insistently. He could not stop the world from trembling or people from hating. He couldn’t make any of it go away—she knew that—but with his kiss, her happiness returned like a waterfall, rushing from her head to her toes, washing the fear away, and she wrapped herself around him, returning the kiss, and finding safety in his hands.

The day dawned cold and clear, a sliver of pale light that grew and grew above the dark horizon and covered the sky above Rome. The war to the south continued. The death in the north raged on. The sorrow in the east was unrelenting. The struggle in the west never ceased. But in a room in an occupied city, with nothing left but love itself, Angelo and Eva held on to each other, and found peace, rest, happiness, and safety. If only for a while.



Monday morning Eva pulled on the red skirt and white blouse she’d worn on the train to Rome—she’d left Florence with four dresses, two skirts, and three blouses. She knew she had more than most, but they were growing dingy from being washed by hand. She’d brought a change of clothes to wear home from the gala so she wasn’t riding a streetcar in an evening gown, but she daydreamed about donning the black dress again, just so Angelo could look at her like he’d looked at her on Saturday night. Just thinking about it made her skin feel hot and her breaths grow shallow.

She and Angelo had spent the last twenty-four hours holed up in the Villa Medici, using her payment from the gala to stay another night. They’d eaten well for the first time in forever—fruit and chicken and pasta in a cream sauce—and they pretended the world was only as big as four walls and the two of them.

“I don’t want you going to work,” he stewed, biting his lip as he lingered at the door. Angelo had washed his shirt and his cassock in the sink and hung them over the rack to dry. He now wore his trousers and the shirt, but his cassock was folded over his arm. Eva didn’t know what that meant, but maybe he didn’t want to be seen in a cassock and a cross in the luxury hotel. At least not in the early-morning hours.

“I have to. It will be okay. There were no Jews found at Santa Cecilia. Von Essen has no reason to suspect me.”

Angelo bowed his head, his chin resting on his chest, and he exhaled heavily. She could feel the tension coming off him in waves, and she hated to part that way. She pressed her body against his and lifted his face until he returned her gaze, his dark brows furrowed over sky-blue eyes, and she kissed his mouth, keeping her eyes open so he would stay with her in the moment.

He responded immediately, wrapping his arms around her fiercely and pulling her off her feet. He’d taken quite well to kissing. He kissed like he prayed, tender and passionate and completely committed to the task. When they parted they were both breathless, and he said no more about her returning to work at Via Tasso.

Angelo needn’t have worried. Captain von Essen was in meetings all day. Other than delivering coffee to a room full of uniformed Germans, Eva had no interaction with him at all and went home almost as giddy as she’d arrived that morning.

Tuesday was no different. Captain von Essen stayed closeted in his office. His mood was dark, but even his sneering and his terse commands couldn’t penetrate the bubble she’d been floating in. She’d agreed to meet Angelo at the Church of the Sacred Heart, and she ran most of the way because she was too impatient to wait for a streetcar. She didn’t care what people thought as she sprinted through the streets with a smile on her face.

He was waiting by the altar, his eyes on the cross. She drew up short, suddenly nervous that he was suffering pangs of guilt and remorse. When he heard her, his head swung around.

He smiled.

It was a blinding, beautiful grin that hit Eva between the eyes. Her relief was so great she felt dizzy and weak, and she sank into a nearby pew. But Angelo had other ideas. He strode toward her, his cane clicking, his smile wide, and he took her by the hand, pulling her down the stairs to the little room where she’d known such sadness and fear. Once there, his arms went around her and his lips found hers. He tasted like apples—which meant he’d been bartering with black marketeers—and she licked into his mouth appreciatively, sharing the sweetness, thankful he was safe. He put himself at huge risk every time he ventured to the banks of the Tiber for things he couldn’t otherwise provide to those depending on him.

Eventually, he pulled his mouth away. “I was afraid of this,” he groaned into her hair.

“Of what?” she panted, not ready to stop kissing.

“Of not being able to control myself. I knew the moment I gave in I would be useless. I would think of nothing else but you. I thought of you constantly before, I confess. But now I have intimate knowledge. I don’t just love you; I want to make love to you. Every time I close my eyes to pray I can only see you.” He groaned again and squeezed his eyes shut as if in real pain. Eva giggled at his theatrics, and she kissed along the hard line of his clenched jaw.

“If I know you, you have not been useless. I’m guessing you have worked nonstop from the moment your knees hit the floor for your morning prayers. You did pray today, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“And what did you say?”

“I asked God to provide, to save the innocent, to protect the refugees, to ease suffering, to succor the weak, and to help me control my lustful thoughts.”