From Sand and Ash(98)

“Eva, look!” Pierre stopped walking and pointed. “There. Can you see it?”

She hurried to his side and gazed in amazement. He was pointing at a thin white steeple rising above a small cluster of picturesque houses in the distance.

“Merci, Angelo,” Pierre said simply.

“Merci, Angelo,” Eva whispered. “Now let us find a priest just like you.”



She was a pretty woman, tall and voluptuous, easily as tall as her husband. But for all her Amazonian beauty, Greta von Essen was as timid and as frightened as a mouse. Angelo had watched her walk into the church, genuflect before the cross, and light a candle. He’d watched her briefly pray and then walk to the confessional, where she’d stayed for several minutes before walking out again and heading for the large doors at the back of the church. That is where he cut her off, standing directly in her path. He wasn’t wearing his cassock—he wore his work clothes and an old cap—and she glanced at him nervously.

She looked away, but her eyes returned almost immediately. She tipped her head to the side, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips, as if she couldn’t place him. He saw the moment she realized who he was.

She turned and started walking swiftly in the other direction, toward an exit just left of the apse. Angelo felt a flash of fury and, without thinking, he was pursuing her, almost running, loping awkwardly to overtake her.

“Stop!” he ordered as she picked up speed. “I only want to talk to you. You owe me that much.”

She stopped abruptly, as if following orders was second nature. She turned slowly and eyed him with trepidation.

“My husband said you were dead.” Her voice was accusing, as if the fact that he wasn’t was somehow dishonest on his part.

“I should be. Did he tell you how I supposedly died?”

She shook her head no.

“He wouldn’t. It wouldn’t make you love or admire him, I promise you that. Did he tell you what happened to Eva?”

She nodded sharply and looked down at the pocketbook in her hands. She was shaking.

“Tell me.” He lowered his voice and strove to use a lighter tone.

“She was deported.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t care enough to ask?” His voice was gentle, but she still flinched.

“She lied to me!”

“How? How did she lie?”

“She didn’t tell me she was Jewish.”

“That’s because you couldn’t handle the truth. Clearly. Look what happened to Eva . . . to me, when you found out.”

“She told me you were her brother.” Another accusation that had nothing to do with Greta, but one she had undoubtedly used to rationalize what she’d done.

“I’m not her brother.”

“So she told two lies.”

“Your husband is a murdering bastard, and you are worried about lies told to preserve life?” He fought to keep his voice level.

“Are you even a priest?” she asked, her voice dripping with scorn.

“Yes.”

“Not a very good one,” she retorted fiercely.

“No. Not a very good one, though I’ve always done the best I could,” he said honestly, and realized suddenly that it was true. He’d always done his best with the strength and resources he had.

“My husband said you were in love with Eva.” Again, derision, as if his love were incredibly distasteful.

“I am in love with her. I have always loved her. And I’m going to find her.” He held her gaze, unwavering, unapologetic.

“I knew there was someone. You are the boy from home. The one she wouldn’t talk about.”

He nodded once, and she deflated before his eyes. When she looked at him again there was no more defensiveness, no more contempt. There was only remorse.

“I didn’t want to tell Wilhelm. I cared about Eva. But I knew if he discovered it some other way, if he found out I knew, he would hurt me. Frau Caruso knew, and it was only a matter of time before she talked to others. The secret was just too good. Too rich.”

“I need to find out where Eva was taken. Can you find out?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, shaking her head. She seemed to fall back to helplessness when she was scared, and he guessed Greta von Essen was scared most of the time.

“Find out where she was taken, and we will do our best to get you out of Rome if you need help doing so. You need to go home, Signora.”

This brought her head up. “Why? Aren’t the Germans winning? The Americans have been defeated at Anzio Beach . . . haven’t they?”

Angelo shook his head. He knew it was only a matter of time. God would not be quiet forever. “They’ve been stalled. But America has the firepower, the manpower, and most important, they have the right on their side. The kind of evil I have seen has to be stopped. This war isn’t about two equal but opposing forces who disagree. This war is about right and wrong, good and evil. And evil must be stopped. It will be stopped. And people like you will be caught in the cross fire when that happens.”

“If I find out where she was sent, how will I get word to you?” she said quietly, not even arguing about good and evil, right and wrong. She had to know on some level. She had to.