From Sand and Ash

by Amy Harmon

  “I miss my mother.”

  Eva’s heart lurched in surprise. He was talking to her. In Italian. Eva knew Angelo understood when he was spoken to, but she had expected him to speak in English, like an American.

  “I don’t remember my mother. She died when I was four,” she said, hoping he would say something else.

  “You don’t remember anything?” he asked.

  “My father has told me some things. My mother was Austrian, not Italian like my babbo. Her name was Adele Adler. Beautiful name, isn’t it? I write it sometimes in my very best penmanship. Her name sounds like an American film star. She even looked like one a little. My father says it was love at first sight.” She was babbling, but Angelo was looking at her with interest, so she didn’t stop.

  “The first time my babbo saw my mamma, he was in Vienna on business, selling his wine bottles. Babbo has a glass company, you know. He sells his bottles to all the wineries. Austria has very good wine. Babbo has let me taste it.” She thought Angelo should know how sophisticated she was.

  “Did she play the violin too?” Angelo asked hesitantly.

  “No. Mamma wasn’t musical. But she wanted me to be a great violinist just like my grandfather Adler. He is very famous. Or so Uncle Felix says.” She shrugged. “Tell me about your mother.”

  He was silent for several seconds, and Eva thought he was going to revert to silence once again.

  “Her hair was dark like yours,” he whispered. He reached out slowly and touched her hair. Eva held her breath as he fingered a long curl and then dropped his hand.

  “What color were her eyes?” she asked gently.

  “Brown . . . like yours too.”

  “Was she beautiful like me?” This was asked without guile, for Eva had always been told how beautiful she was and accepted it with a shrug.

  The boy tipped his head to the side and reflected on this. “I suppose. To me she was. And she was soft.” He said the word in English, and Eva wrinkled her nose at this, not sure she understood. “Soft? Soffice o grassa?”

  “No. Not grassa. Not fat. Everything about her comforted me. She was . . . soft.” The answer was so wise, so specific, so old, that she could only stare.

  “But . . . your nonna is soft too,” she offered eventually, trying to find something, anything, to say.

  “Not in the same way. Nonna fusses. She tries to make me happy. Nonna wants to give me love. But it isn’t the same. Mamma was love. And she didn’t even have to try. She just . . . was.”

  They sat watching the rain then, and Eva thought about mothers and lovely, soft things and the lonely way the rain made her feel, even though she wasn’t alone.

  “Do you want to be my brother, Angelo? I don’t have a brother. I would like one very much,” she said, her gaze tracing his profile.

  “I have a sister,” Angelo whispered, not answering her, not looking away from the rain. “She is still in America. She was born . . . and my mamma died. And now she is in America, and I am here.”

  “Your father is there with her, though.”

  He shook his head sadly. “He gave her to my aunt. She is my mamma’s sister. She wanted a baby.”

  “She didn’t want you?” Eva asked, confused. Angelo shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

  “What is her name . . . your baby sister?” Eva pressed.

  “Papà named her Anna after Mamma.”

  “You will see her again.”

  Angelo turned his face toward her, and his eyes were more gray than blue in the shadow of the small lamp on Camillo’s desk.

  “I don’t think I will. Papà said Italy is my home now. I don’t want Italy to be my home, Eva. I want my family.” His voice broke, and he looked down at his hands like he was ashamed at his weakness. It was the first time he had said her name, and Eva reached for his hand.

  “I will be your family, Angelo. I will be a good sister. I promise. You can even call me Anna when we are alone if you want to.”

  Angelo swallowed, his throat working, and his hand tightened around hers.

  “I don’t want to call you Anna,” he said with a sob in his throat. He looked at Eva again, blinking away tears. “I don’t want to call you Anna, but I will be your brother.”

  “You can be a Rosselli if you want to. Babbo wouldn’t mind.”

  “I will be Angelo Rosselli Bianco.” He smiled at that and swiped at his nose.

  “And I will be Batsheva Rosselli Bianco.”

  “Batsheva?” It was Angelo’s turn to furrow his brow.

  “Yes. It’s my name. But everyone just calls me Eva. It’s a Hebrew name,” she said proudly.

  “Hebrew?”

  “Yes. We are ebrei.”

  “Ebrei?”

  “We are Jews.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly.” She shrugged. “I don’t go to religious lessons at school. And I’m not Catholic. Most of my friends don’t know our prayers, and they don’t go to temple. Except my cousins Levi and Claudia. They are Jewish too.”

  “You aren’t Catholic?” Angelo asked, shocked.

  “No.”

  “Do you believe in Jesus?”

  “What do you mean, believe in him?”

  “That he is God?”

  Eva wrinkled her forehead. “No. I don’t think so. Jesus is not what we call him.”

  “You don’t go to Mass?”

  “No. We go to temple. But not very often,” she admitted. “My babbo says you don’t have to go to a synagogue to talk to God.”

  “I went to a Catholic school and Mass every Sunday. Mamma and I always went to Mass.” Angelo hadn’t lost the shocked expression on his face. “I don’t know if I can be your brother, Eva.”

  “Why?” she squeaked, perplexed.

  “Because we aren’t the same religion.”

  “Jews and Catholics can’t be brothers and sisters?”

  Angelo was quiet, contemplative. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally.

  “I think they can,” she said firmly. “Babbo and Uncle Augusto are brothers, and they don’t agree on very much.”

  “Well, then. We will agree on everything else,” Angelo said gravely. “To make up for it.”

  Eva nodded, just as solemnly. “Everything else.”

  “Why are you always arguing with me?” Angelo sighed, throwing his hands in the air.

  “I’m not always arguing with you!” Eva argued.

  Angelo just rolled his eyes and tried to shake his persistent shadow. She followed him everywhere, and he usually didn’t mind, but he’d spent the morning teaching her to play baseball—nobody in Italy played baseball—and now his leg was bothering him. He wanted Eva to go away so he could attend to it.

  “So, what exactly is wrong with your leg?” Eva asked, noticing his discomfort. She’d already taught Angelo the basics of soccer, and though Angelo couldn’t run very well, he could protect and defend. He was a superb goalie. Still, as much time as they’d spent playing together, he hadn’t ever talked about his leg, and she’d been surprisingly patient, waiting for him to reveal the secret. She was tired of waiting.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it . . . exactly. It just isn’t all there.”

  Eva sucked in her breath in horror. A missing leg was so much worse than she had imagined.

  “Can I see?” she begged.

  “Why?” Angelo shifted uncomfortably.

  “Because I’ve never seen a missing leg.”

  “Well, that’s the problem. You can’t see what isn’t there.”

  Eva sighed in exasperation. “I want to see the part that is there.”

  “I would have to take off my trousers,” he challenged, trying to shock her.

  “So?” she said saucily, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t care about your smelly underwear.”

  When he raised his eyebrows in surprise, she pressed sweetly, “Please, Angelo? No one shows me anything interesting. Everyone treats me like a baby.”

&nbs
p; Everyone did treat Eva like a tiny princess. She was doted on, and Angelo had noticed that she didn’t especially enjoy it.

  “All right. But you have to show me something too.”

  “Like what?” She lowered her brows doubtfully. “My legs are just normal. My whole body is normal. What do you want me to show you?”

  Angelo seemed to ponder that for a moment. Eva was sure he was going to ask to see her girl parts. Nonno would paddle them, and Nonna would cross herself and get out her black beads and start praying if they were caught, but Eva was curious too and wouldn’t mind having her questions about boy parts answered.

  “I want you to show me that book you write in. And I want you to read it to me,” Angelo said.

  Eva was surprised, but it was probably safer than show-and-tell, and she only had to think about it for five seconds.

  “All right.” Her hand shot out to take his in a brisk handshake. From Angelo’s glower, she knew he was worried about the deal he’d made. Her willingness to shake probably had him thinking he was getting the raw end of it. He probably thought she wrote about him. She did. But she didn’t care if he knew about it.

  Still, he shook her hand and began to pull up his right pant leg. All the other Florentine boys wore short pants almost year-round, but not Angelo. Angelo looked like a little man in his trousers and ugly black boots.

  “I thought you had to take off your trousers!” Eva huffed, not liking that she’d already been lied to.

  “I just wanted to see what you’d say. You aren’t a lady, that’s for sure.”

  “I am too! I’m just not a silly lady who makes a fuss about a boy’s baggy underwear.”

  He stretched his leg out, the adjustable steel columns strapped to his knee and upper leg on one end and attached to a black boot on the other.

  Eva touched the adjustable braces with an outstretched hand, fascinated.

  “It helps me walk. My papà made it for me.” His face changed at the mention of his father, the way it always did. Angelo’s father was a blacksmith, and he had promised to train Angelo to make things out of metal too. Angelo didn’t need two legs to build things with his hands. But that had been before his mother died. His father was in America, Angelo was in Italy, and nobody would be teaching Angelo to work metal.

  “Can you take it off?” Eva really wanted to see him in all his legless glory. Angelo unbuckled the straps and moaned a little, as if it were a relief to loosen them.

  He pulled the prosthetic free, and Eva stared down at the leg that ended just below his knee, her eyes wide, her lips parted in a soundless O.

  Angelo looked embarrassed and maybe a little ashamed, as if he’d done something wrong. She reached out and took his hand immediately.

  “Does it hurt?” The leather looked soft, and he wore a thick sock to protect his skin from the weight and pull of the contraption. But it wasn’t like pulling on a boot, and the oddly shaped lump just below his knee was red and chafed.

  “Wearing the metal leg is a little uncomfortable. But I like being able to walk. I used a crutch for a long time. The brace is adjustable, and it will grow with me, at least for a few years. I can still use the crutch when my leg gets tired.”

  “How did you lose your leg?”

  “I never really had it.”

  “You were born without it?”

  “My mother said the doctor thinks the cord in her stomach was wrapped around it early on and it wasn’t getting any blood. It didn’t grow right and parts of my leg died. They removed the dead parts after I was born.” He shrugged. “Mamma said it wasn’t a big deal if I didn’t allow it to be.”

  “Some of it grew right.” Eva’s eyes were on the muscles of his bared thigh, and Angelo blushed and immediately began reattaching his metal leg so he could push his trousers back down. His embarrassment made Eva blush too. She just wanted him to know his leg looked fine to her.

  “I do exercises every day. I jump and lunge and squat so that my legs are strong. The doctors told me that the stronger I am, the more I can do. I am very strong,” he added shyly, his eyes darting to Eva’s face before he looked down again. She was impressed, and she smiled, nodding.

  Eva suddenly stood up and left the room. Angelo watched her go, probably wondering if she was done with him, but she was back before he was finished buckling the final strap. She held a book in her hands, and she sat down close to him on his bed. He scooted over immediately, almost falling onto the floor. She wondered if she made him feel shaky inside. She felt like that around him sometimes. But she kind of enjoyed the sensation. He glanced at Eva, and she recognized the look. Babbo looked at her like that when she did something he didn’t understand.

  “Don’t you want to see my book?” she asked.

  “I want you to show me,” he insisted, not taking it.

  “Okay. Well, this is my book of confessions.” She opened the soft leather cover and turned through the pages, not letting him get a very good look at any of them.

  “You have very nice penmanship, but I don’t read Italian very well. Speaking it is one thing, but I’ve only ever read in English.”

  Eva nodded, glad that he couldn’t easily read her thoughts or her words.

  “I thought it was your diary.” He sounded disappointed. “Who are you confessing to?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s definitely my diary. But I confess things. Very private things.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, letting him know that he was hearing very privileged information indeed. Mostly, she just wrote about her day, but she had to make it sound good.

  “Read one to me,” Angelo insisted.

  “I thought you were shy,” she said drily. “You aren’t. You are quite bossy, actually. I’m glad.”

  Angelo tapped the book, drawing Eva’s attention from him to the pages.

  “All right. I will read you the confession I wrote about you when you first arrived in Italy.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes. You will like it, I think.”

  “I am so glad Angelo is here. I’m tired of being with adults all the time. Babbo says I am smarter and more mature than children my age because I’ve grown up surrounded by old people. That’s good, I suppose. But I’m tired of old people. I want to play hide-and-seek and tag. I want to have someone to tell my secrets to. I want to slide down the bannister, jump on my bed, and climb out my bedroom window and sit on the roof with a friend, and not just the ones in my imagination.

  Angelo is only eleven, two years older than I am, and I’m already as tall as he is. He’s kind of small. Nonna says that is normal. Girls mature more quickly. She says he will catch up. But he is very handsome, and he has very beautiful eyes. They are far too beautiful for a boy, though. Of course, that is not his fault. His hair is curly like a girl’s as well. He’ll have to keep it short and never wear a dress. Otherwise he will be prettier than I, and I don’t think I like that idea.”

  Angelo scowled at Eva, and she snickered at his displeasure.

  “You are very handsome, you know,” she teased. “Even if your nose is too big for your face.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry that I will be prettier than you,” he huffed. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” When he realized what he’d said, his face flushed all over again.

  “I didn’t like that one,” he said quickly. “Read me another.”

  And so she did. She read him confession after confession, and he listened as patiently as a priest.

  1938

  17 November, 1938

  Confession: Sometimes I’m afraid to sleep.

  I dreamed my old dream last night, the dream I’ve been having since I was nine years old, the one I don’t understand but that seems to understand me. As always, it is dark in the dream, but the darkness is crowded. I can’t see anything but the flash of moonlight through the small window high up on the wall and the slats that ring the darkness on all sides. I am moving, and I am scared.

  I know I must reach the window, a
nd suddenly my fingers are clutching at the ledge beneath the small opening, and the toes of my shoes are shoved into the slats that I’ve used as a ladder to reach it.

  “If you jump they will punish us.” Hands grab at my clothes, and I shake them off, kicking desperately.

  “They will kill us!” a woman wails below me.

  “You must think of the rest of us!”

  “You will die if you jump,” someone else hisses, and the consensus grows around me. But I can’t listen.

  My head fits through the opening, and the air against my face is like water. Like life. A waterfall of cold hope. I open my mouth and gulp it in, unable to quench the thirst clawing at my throat, yet I’m fortified by it anyway.

  I force my shoulders through the window, clinging to everything and nothing, wiggling to free myself, and I’m suddenly hanging, headfirst, over a world that is racing and clattering, yet I can still hear my heart pounding in my chest.

  Then I’m falling.

  Eva Rosselli

  CHAPTER 2

  ITALY

  Her father woke her, saying her name and shaking her fiercely, rescuing her from her dream.

  “Eva! Eva!” He was afraid. She could hear it. And his fear made her afraid too. She opened her heavy lids and looked at him, and his face melted into relief.

  “Eva! You scared me!” His voice broke, and he gathered her up, her tangled covers between them, his arms circling her back. His neck smelled like sandalwood and tobacco, and the comfort she drew from the scent made her limp and drowsy.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, not sure exactly why she needed to be sorry. She’d been asleep. That was all.

  “No, mia cara. I should have known. When you were small you would sleep so deeply, Fabia would lay her head against your chest to make sure you were breathing. I suppose I forgot.”

  After a few moments, he let her go, and she slumped back against her pillows.