From Sand and Ash

by Amy Harmon

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Amy Sutorius Harmon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503939325

  ISBN-10: 1503939324

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  To the real Rabbi Nathan Cassuto—I have no words, only awe

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1929

  CHAPTER 1

  1938

  CHAPTER 2

  1939

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  1940

  CHAPTER 6

  1943

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  24 March, 1944

  Angelo must have slept in the damp grass beside the road for a while, but the evening was cold and his cassock was thin, and he awoke, shivering. Even that small movement made him moan, but at least the sharp pain along his right side revived him. It was dark, and his mouth was so dry he licked the dew from the grass near his face. He had to move in order to get warm, and he had to move to find water. He had to move to find Eva.

  He struggled to his feet and took a step, then another, telling himself that walking wouldn’t hurt as badly as lying down. Each breath felt like fire, and he was pretty sure a few of his ribs were broken. The darkness and his bad leg made each step precarious, but he found the posture that hurt the least and settled into a sort of rhythm, limping along the Via Ardeatina toward Rome. At least he hoped he was going toward Rome. God help him if he was turned around. He could barely see out of his right eye, his left eye was swollen shut, and his nose was broken. No loss there. It had never been his best feature. He was missing three fingernails on his right hand, and the smallest finger on his left was broken. At one point he stumbled and fell, only to catch himself on his oddly bent pinkie. The pain had him retching and seeing stars, fighting to remain conscious. He gingerly pushed himself onto his knees so he could moan a prayer to the Madonna, begging her to help him just a little longer. She did, and he kept moving.

  It wasn’t that far to the Church of Santa Cecilia in Trastevere—five miles, maybe? But he was moving so slowly it would take him hours to reach it, and he had no idea what time it was. The darkness was welcome, if only to hide him. He was supposed to be dead, and he would be safer if people continued to believe it. He could only imagine how he looked—hair matted with blood and grime, his cassock filthy with gore and stinking of sweat and death. He’d been wearing it for three days. He looked like a messenger from hell instead of a member of God’s army.

  He knew there was another church along this road—there was a church or five along every road in Rome. He searched his memory for the pastor’s name but couldn’t produce it. There was a monastery nearby too, and a school. He’d placed a few refugees in each. Children. Jews. But the road was quiet. He hadn’t seen a soul since the trucks carrying German soldiers, well-used weapons, and empty cases of cognac had rumbled away, leaving the old quarry and the catacombs behind. There was new death in the catacombs now. Old ghosts would have no more claim to the caves of Ardeatine.

  It took him a painful eternity to reach the church, but he picked up his pace when he saw the fountain. He practically fell into it, face-first, choking when he gasped in pain and inhaled a mouthful of water instead of swallowing it. It was brackish and would probably make him sick, but it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He drank his fill and eased himself up, trying not to cry out as his shredded fingertips grazed the icy surface. He washed as best he could, cleaning the blood and dirt from his hair and his skin. If he didn’t make his destination before sunrise, he wanted to make himself as presentable as possible, and the water revived him.

  He started in fright when a shadow loomed over him, only to realize it was just a man made of stone. A statue. The statue looked down in frozen compassion, hands extended but unable to help him. Angelo didn’t know the name of the saint or the significance of the statue—the name of the church eluded him too—but something about it, the solemnity of expression, the melancholy acceptance in the stance, made him think of Donatello’s sculpture of Saint George and the day Angelo had found his calling.

  He’d been thirteen when Saint George had spoken to him. Not audibly. Angelo wasn’t a fool or a seer. But Saint George had spoken to him, all the same. He’d been on crutches that day, his leg too sore to wear his prosthetic. The school excursion had tired him, and keeping up with the other boys was of little interest to him anyway. Father Sebastiano had brought them to the Palazzo del Bargello, and Angelo hadn’t made it much farther than the entrance when he saw the statue.

  It was recessed and elevated so he couldn’t touch it. But he wanted to. He got as close as he could and stood with his head back, gazing up at the statue as Saint George stared off into an ancient distance with an innocence that belied his armor and a fearlessness that contradicted the concerned slant of his brows. His eyes were wide and clear, his back was straight, and he faced the approaching threat with steadiness, though he barely looked old enough to wield a sword. Angelo could only gape at his face, transfixed. He’d stayed in that same position for a long time, ignoring the famed dome, the frescoes, and the stained glass. The enormity of the museum and all its wonders were reduced to that one sculpture.

  Now, more than a dozen years later, he stood peering up at a statue that wasn’t Donatello’s famed sculpture, yet he beseeched him anyway. “Help me, San Giorgio,” he said aloud, hoping the heavens were listening. “Help me to face what is to come.”

  Angelo turned and staggered away from the fountain, back to the road that was as ancient as Rome itself, feeling the eyes of the unknown sculpture on his weary back. Angelo’s thoughts returned to his champion, to the long-ago afternoon when things had been made so clear, when immortality seemed like a prize and not terrible torture. He hurt too much to be tempted by immortality now. Death sounded so much more inviting.

  That long-ago afternoon, he had eventually been joined in his contemplation of Saint George, but was unaware of it until the man spoke up, telling him the story behind the art.

  “George was a Roman soldier, a captain of sorts. He would not renounce his faith in Christ. He was promised gold and power and riches if he would simply worship the gods of the empire. See, the emperor did not want to kill him. He valued young George very much. But George refused.”

  Angelo had pulled his eyes from Donatello’s sculpture. The man beside him was a priest like Father Sebastiano, older than Angelo’s father, but younger than his grandfather, Santino. The priest’s eyes were bright and his hair neatly groomed. His face w
as kind and curious, but his hands were clasped behind his back, his very posture bearing solemn witness to his self-denial.

  “Did he die?” Angelo had asked.

  “Yes, he did,” the priest answered gravely.

  Angelo had supposed as much, but the truth still wounded him. He had wanted the young hero to be victorious.

  “He died, but he defeated the dragon,” the priest added gently.

  That hadn’t made any sense to Angelo, and he wrinkled his nose in confusion as his eyes returned to the sculpture and the huge shield in George’s hand. He thought this was a true story, and there was no such thing as a dragon.

  “The dragon?” he asked. “He fought a dragon?”

  “Evil. Temptation. Fear. The dragon is a symbol of the battle he must have waged within himself to stay true to his God.”

  Angelo nodded, understanding perfectly. They fell into silence once more, staring at the sculpture of the soldier brought to life by a master’s hand.

  “What’s your name, young man?” the priest had asked him.

  “Angelo,” he answered. “Angelo Bianco.”

  “Angelo, Saint George lived more than fifteen hundred years ago. Yet we are still talking about him. I think that makes him immortal . . . don’t you?”

  The thought had moved Angelo to tears that he tried to blink away. “Yes, Father,” he whispered. “I do.”

  “He risked everything, and he is now immortal.”

  He risked everything, and he is now immortal.

  Angelo groaned, the memory making his stomach twist. Oh, the irony. Oh, the incredible, terrible irony. He too had risked everything, and he may have lost the only thing he would trade his immortality for.

  As dawn started to creep into the eastern sky, pale light falling over spires and campaniles onto the Eternal City, Angelo finally reached the gates of Santa Cecilia. The bells of Lauds began to ring, as if to welcome him back, but Angelo could only cling to the iron spires and pray that, by some miracle, Eva waited for him inside.

  Mother Francesca discovered him a few minutes later, sitting with his back against the gate as if he’d been propped there by Satan’s henchmen. She must have thought he was dead, because she cried out in horror, crossing herself as she ran for assistance. Angelo was too tired to reassure her.

  He watched through swollen lids as Mario Sonnino appeared above him, checking his pulse and crying out instructions to several others to carry him inside.

  “It’s not safe.” Angelo struggled to speak. Mario was not safe outside the gate. Mario was not safe inside the gate.

  “Someone could see you,” Angelo tried to warn him, but the words were sloppy on his lips.

  “Take him up the stairs to Eva’s room!” Mario commanded.

  “Where’s Eva?” Angelo asked, forcing the words out, needing to know.

  No one answered him. They took the stairs quickly, and Angelo cried out as his ribs protested the motion. He was laid carefully on the bed, and Eva’s scent rose up around him.

  “Eva?” he asked again, louder this time. He peered through the eye that wasn’t completely swollen shut, trying to see, but the shapes were blurred and the people were ominously silent.

  “We haven’t seen her for three days, Angelo,” Mario finally answered. “The Germans took her.”

  24 March, 1944

  Via Tasso

  Confession: My name is Batsheva Rosselli, not Eva Bianco, and I am a Jew. Angelo Bianco is not my brother but a priest who wanted only to protect me from the very place I now find myself.

  The first time I met Angelo, he was a child. Like me. A child with eyes that had known too much disappointment for someone so young. He didn’t speak for a long time after he arrived in Italy. He just watched. I thought it was because he was American. I thought it was because he didn’t understand. It makes me laugh a little to think of it now, how I would act things out and speak so loudly, as if there were something wrong with his ears. I would dance around him, playing my violin and singing little songs, just to see if he would smile. When he did, I would hug him and kiss his cheeks. There was nothing wrong with his ears or his comprehension. He understood me perfectly. He was just listening. Observing. Learning.

  Camillo, my very patient father, would tell me to leave him alone, but I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. I realize now how the pattern never changed. I danced around him for years, trying to get his attention, wanting only to see him smile. Wanting only to be near him, wanting only to love him and be loved by him. I was rebelling even then, pushing back against the fear, though I didn’t recognize it. Rebellion was always my biggest ally, though sometimes I hated her. She looked like me and hurt like me, but she wouldn’t let me give up. And when fear took my reasons for fighting, rebellion gave them back.

  My father told me once that we are on earth to learn. God wants us to receive everything that life was meant to teach. Then we take what we’ve learned, and it becomes our offering to God and to mankind. But we have to live in order to learn. And sometimes we have to fight in order to live.

  This is my offering. These are the lessons I learned, the tiny acts of rebellion that kept me alive, and the love that fed my hope, when I had nothing but hope itself.

  Eva Rosselli

  1929

  CHAPTER 1

  FLORENCE

  “Santino has a grandson. Did you know that?” Eva’s father asked.

  “Nonno has a grandson?” Eva asked.

  “Yes, Nonno. Though he isn’t really your nonno. You know that too, don’t you?”

  “He is my nonno, because he loves me so much,” Eva reasoned.

  “Yes, but he isn’t my father, and he wasn’t your mamma’s father. So he isn’t your grandfather,” her father explained patiently.

  “Yes, Babbo. I know,” Eva said crossly, not at all sure why he insisted. “So Fabia isn’t really my grandmother.” It felt like a lie to say such a thing out loud.

  “Yes. Exactly. Santino and Fabia had a son, you see. He left Florence and went to America when he was a young man, because there was more opportunity for him there. He married an American girl, and they had a little boy.”

  “How old is the boy?”

  “Eleven or twelve. He is a couple of years older than you.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “His name is Angelo, like his father, I think. But, please, Batsheva, listen for a moment. Stop interrupting.” Eva’s babbo only used her long name when he was growing impatient, so she listened and held her tongue.

  “Angelo’s mother died,” he said sadly.

  “Is that why Nonna was crying yesterday when she read her telegram?” Eva had already forgotten that she wasn’t supposed to interrupt.

  “Yes. Santino and Fabia want their son to bring the boy to Italy. He has had some medical problems, an issue with his leg, apparently. They want him to live here. With us. At least for a while. Santino’s older brother is a priest, and they think the boy can go to the seminary here in Florence. He is a little old to start, but he was in a Catholic school in America, so he won’t be too far behind. He may even be advanced.” Her father said this as if he were thinking out loud, rather than communicating anything Eva actually needed to hear. “And I will help where I can,” he mused.

  “We will be friends, I think,” Eva said. “Because we have both lost our mothers.”

  “This is true. And he will need a friend, Eva.”

  Eva couldn’t remember her mother. She died of tuberculosis when Eva was little. Eva had a vague memory of her lying very still in bed with her eyes closed. Eva couldn’t have been more than four years old, but she could still remember the height of that bed and the elation of success when she pulled herself up and over the side while clutching her tiny violin. She had wanted to play a song for her.

  She had crawled to her mother’s side and touched her feverish cheek, the high, red color of a consumptive making her look like a rouged doll. Her mother had opened her lids slowly, her eyes glazed and drug
ged, furthering the comparison. It had frightened Eva, the almost lifeless figure with glassy blue eyes staring up at her. Then Eva’s mother had said her daughter’s name, and it crackled and broke between her lips like old paper.

  “Batsheva,” she had whispered, the word followed by a cough that had racked her frame and made her body shake. The way she said the name, the rasping whisper, the way she sighed through the syllables like it was the last word she would ever say, had made Eva hate her name for a very long time. When her father would call her Batsheva after her mother’s death, she would cry and cover her ears.

  That’s when her babbo had started to call her Eva.

  That was all Eva remembered of her mother’s life, of their very short life together, and she had tried to forget it. It wasn’t a memory she cherished. She would much rather hold her mother’s picture, pretending to remember the lovely woman with the soft brown hair and porcelain skin, holding Eva in her lap, sitting next to a much younger Camillo, no gray in his black hair, his face serious beneath smiling brown eyes.

  Eva had tried to remember being the infant in the frame, the tiny girl who sat in her mother’s lap and gazed up intently at the woman who held her. But hard as she tried, she couldn’t remember that woman. Eva didn’t even look like her mother. She just looked like her father, Camillo, with paler skin and rosier lips.

  It was hard to love or miss someone you didn’t even know.

  Eva wondered if Angelo, Santino’s grandson, loved his mother. She hoped he didn’t love her too much. Loving someone and then losing them would be much worse than not having them at all.

  “Why are you so sad?” Eva asked, pulling her knees up under her long nightgown. She’d found Angelo watching the storm in her father’s library, the doors opened to the balcony, the rain falling heavily onto the pink flagstones below. She didn’t think he would answer. He hadn’t answered her yet. He had been living in their villa with his nonno and nonna for three months, and Eva had done everything in her power to make him her friend. She had played the violin for him. She had danced for him. She had splashed in the fountain in her school uniform and gotten scolded just to make him laugh. He did laugh sometimes. And that kept her trying harder. But he’d never talked to her.