From Sand and Ash(9)

Not only could Jewish teachers not teach at the schools and universities, but no textbooks written by Jewish authors were allowed in Italian schools. Jews and non-Jews were no longer permitted to marry. Jews could not be legal guardians of non-Jews.

Camillo’s father, Alberto Rosselli, had been born in the ghetto. It had only been sixty-eight years since the Jews in Italy had been freed and given the full rights of Italian citizens. And those rights had been taken away again. Now Jews couldn’t hold political office. They couldn’t serve in the military. Foreign Jews weren’t allowed in Italy at all, which meant Felix Adler, Camillo’s brother-in-law, had four months to leave, and going back to Austria was no longer an option.

Eva read the list over and over, examining the language, the details. Then she read it again, not able to fully comprehend what was happening, what had already happened.

Uncle Augusto, Aunt Bianca, Claudia, and Levi came over, and the family all talked in varying tones of incredulity, until they lapsed into nervous silence as the day wore on. Augusto could only scratch his head. “Why does this keep happening? Why the Jews? It is always the Jews!”

Camillo told Santino and Fabia that there were ways around the laws, and he would think of something. He told everyone not to worry, but for the first time in Eva’s life, she didn’t believe him.



By late afternoon, Eva couldn’t stand the black mood in the villa and grabbed her hat and her pocketbook and walked to the seminary. It had been three years since she’d visited Angelo there.

In the beginning, Fabia and Eva would visit Angelo at the seminary almost every day. It made the transition easier for him, and they would walk to the trattoria and have a gelato or play a game of checkers in the piazza in his hour of free time. Padre Sebastiano, the director of the seminary, was indulgent with Angelo, giving him certain allowances due to his circumstances and regular donations from Camillo. Fabia would crochet, Angelo and Eva would talk and laugh, and Angelo would be fortified until they came again.

Slowly but surely, Angelo shed his little-boy-lost persona and became a true Italian seminarian, blending in with all the other boys who attended school with the goal of becoming Catholic priests. But when he turned fifteen, Angelo told Eva to stop waiting outside for him. He said it was frowned upon and the other boys teased him. Eva had laughed and said, “But we are family!”

He had looked at her then, his mouth pursed like he wanted to say something. He had waited until Fabia’s attention was elsewhere.

“What, Angelo?” Eva huffed, her hands on her hips.

“You and I are not related, Eva.”

“But we are family, Angelo!” She was hurt by his rejection, but he was unyielding, the way only Angelo could be.

“You are too beautiful, and I am too attached to you. And you are not my sister or my cousin or anything close,” he repeated firmly, almost as if the truth of it made him sad. “The other boys think you are beautiful too. And they like to say things about you. And me. So I need you to stop coming here.”

Things had changed between them after that. Eva stopped waiting outside the gate for him, and even though the seminary was only five blocks away from the villa they both called home, she only saw him on school holidays or on the weekends when he missed his grandparents. They still talked and laughed when they were together, and she still played the violin for him, but things had definitely changed.

She needed him now, though. She needed to talk to him, to tell him her world was falling apart. Their world. For their worlds were intertwined by their families, whether Angelo wanted to claim her or not.

She walked down the street, finding herself looking at the familiar buildings and people of her neighborhood through new eyes. No one acted any differently. No one stared at her or pointed a finger at her, yelling, “Ebreia! Jew!”

Donna Mirabelli was walking toward her on the street, and when she reached Eva, she smiled warmly, greeting her the way she always did. The shops were open; the earth had not opened up and swallowed Italy whole. The laws were silly, Eva told herself. Nothing would change.

This time, Eva didn’t wait at the gates for Angelo to appear. She walked across the piazza; past the fountain where John the Baptist stood in the center, his arms outstretched and surrounded by doves; and let herself in through the entrance with the neat little placard announcing to visitors that they had arrived at the Seminario di San Giovanni Battista. John the Baptist was the patron saint of Florence, and everything was named San Giovanni something or other. The door opened into a small foyer where a tired-looking priest with thinning hair was typing away at a little desk. A few students traversed the wide staircase beyond him. They stopped in their tracks when they saw her. Apparently, female visitors were unusual. The typing ceased and the priest looked up at Eva expectantly, removing his glasses.

“I need to see Angelo Bianco. Please. It is a family matter.”

“Wait here, Signorina,” he said politely, setting his spectacles down and smoothing his cassock as he stood. He walked swiftly to the double doors to his left, and Eva wondered if there was another set of stairs or if Angelo was just beyond the doors.

When Angelo appeared, his forehead creased with concern, his blue eyes wide, his hands outstretched toward her—he already had priestly mannerisms—Eva did her best to smile and put him at ease, though she wanted to throw herself at him. His hair was parted neatly and slicked down, tamed but not smooth. It rippled like the surface of the sea on a breezy night, dark and glossy. She fought the urge to run her fingers through it, freeing the curls. She gripped his hands instead and found herself fighting off tears.