by Amy Harmon
“I wonder how the violin would sound in here,” Eva mused, her eyes on the light that poured through the oculus at the top of the dome overhead.
“Wonderful. This space, with you on the violin. Paradise,” Angelo said, wishing he could hear it. The strain he’d felt between them all day had dissipated at the chapel doors, and they sat in companionable silence.
“The plan of Brunelleschi’s chapel is the circle and the square—a rectangular base with a conical central dome. Every space is divided geometrically. The dimensions are mathematical, every proportion is perfect. Everything is in harmony; nothing is superfluous. The white plaster of the walls, the gray stone pilasters, even the glazed terra-cotta circular paintings, are mellow, serene, and balanced,” he explained in hushed tones.
“I can feel that,” Eva said, nodding. “I like it here.” She paused and then added with incredulity, “I’ve lived my whole life in this city. How have I not been inside this chapel before?”
“You were born in Florence. You take it for granted. But I was born in New Jersey. It is not exactly known for its art. Even as a boy, and a pretty sad, homesick boy at that, I recognized that this city was special. If you look down on Florence from the hills surrounding her, you see the domes, the bell towers, the medieval castle ramparts, and it’s almost as if no time has passed at all—like the Renaissance is still in full swing. There’s a sense of timelessness, of being transported back five hundred years when chapels like this were being built.”
“You’ve climbed the hills? I haven’t even climbed any hills,” Eva teased.
“You doubt me?” Angelo smiled and tapped his prosthetic leg with his cane.
“No.” She smiled too. “I think you were born with half a leg so the rest of us could keep up.”
“Ah, Eva. Spoken like a true sister.”
“I’m not your sister, Angelo,” she said softly, and he didn’t argue. Funny how they both employed or rejected the familial relationship when it suited their own purposes. But he needed to confess something, and he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Eva?”
“Yes?” There was fear in her voice.
“Do you remember a year ago, in the Jewish cemetery, when you told me that Camillo worried that I had been pushed into the seminary, coerced a little?”
Eva nodded.
“I didn’t want to admit it then. I was afraid if I admitted it, you wouldn’t let it go. But your father was right.”
Eva’s eyebrows shot up at the admission, but he continued lightly, determined to get it all out.
“Before he left me here, my father told me what was expected of me. He told me my uncle had made inquiries and recommendations, and that I would be entering the seminary. He reassured me I would be cared for and taught. He told me that because of my leg, physical work, the kind he did, wouldn’t be an option for me, and the church was the best place for me. ‘It will be hard for you to provide for a family, Angelo. Your duty is to be able to provide for yourself and not be a burden to others,’” Angelo quoted softly.
“He said that?” Eva’s cheeks pinked, and her hands clenched in outrage.
“He did,” he said, nodding. “Forgive him, Eva. I have.”
“You could have been anything you wanted to be, Angelo. You still can.”
“Ah, there she is again. The girl who thinks I can walk on water.”
“I’m Jewish, Angelo. I don’t think anyone can walk on water.”
He shook his head at her irreverent humor and smiled in spite of himself.
“When I’m here, I feel like I can simply immerse myself in space. All my life I have been physically imbalanced because of my leg, but in here, everything makes sense. Everything is simple. My mind and body are in harmony. There is balance.”
“But you can’t live here,” she said. Angelo thought her intention was probably to tease, but her voice sounded plaintive.
“No. I can’t. But I can do my best to carry that peace inside of me, that sense of purpose. I didn’t want to be a priest in the beginning, Eva. But I have come to believe it is what God wants for me. I started to believe it the day I saw Saint George. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I have to defeat my own dragons. We all do. This is the way I will defeat mine.”
Eva’s face was pale, and Angelo could see her pulse hammering at her throat. His own pulse pounded in his head, and he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine under the shirt he wore beneath his seminarian’s robes.
“The art I’ve shown you today is old, ancient. But the art centers on one thing. It is the story of Christianity. And that gospel is a living, breathing thing, still inspiring and moving men and women today. It is the thing that separates us from chaos, from selfishness, from being lost. It is the breather of hope and the light in the dark. It has always been enough for me, more than enough. I fell in love with the Catholic Church through the art, then I was asked to give my life to her. It was easy for me, don’t you see? When you love someone that completely, you will do anything for them. I feel that way about the church and about God.” He hesitated briefly and then, with a deep breath, said, “And I feel that way about you.”
Eva’s eyes snapped to Angelo’s, and he saw a flash of joy in their deep brown depths before it flickered out with the realization that there was more. He wasn’t finished.
“I would do anything for you, Eva. Anything.” He thought of what Camillo had said about not only blessing lives, but saving Jewish lives, and it gave him the strength to continue. “But I can’t have you and the church. I need the church, Eva. I need the church, and I believe the church needs me.”
She didn’t respond. Not at all. Not a glance or a sigh. Not a word.
“Eva?” The question was soft. But he knew. He could feel it between them, dark, thick, slippery. Dangerous.
She turned and raised her eyes to his.
His breath caught in his throat as he rose stiffly from the stone bench and stepped away. He had to step away from her.
Dear God. What had he done?
She didn’t just love him. She was in love with him. And he was unable to give himself to her. The truth he’d been skirting rose in his chest like spilled oil—dark, thick, slippery. Dangerous.
He took several steps away, turned, and walked back. She rose to meet him. Her eyes shone and her lips trembled.
Kyrie, eléison. Lord have mercy. Christe, eléison. Christ have mercy.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
“You can,” she whispered back, almost pleading, abandoning all pretense. For a minute he let the possibility pull at him again. Could he? He shut his eyes and tried to imagine walking away from the church. His father’s words echoed in his head. You belong in the church. It is the best place for you. Your job is to not be a burden. He pushed the words away, but Camillo’s voice rose up as well, and the chorus was deafening. You will be in a position to do so much good. Save my family! And finally, Monsignor Luciano’s parting salvo. It is not who you are, Angelo.
“I can’t, Eva,” he said more firmly. “I won’t,” he added, his voice harsh. He would be strong. He would not lose the battle in this moment. Not even for Eva.
“You already have.” Her voice was mild, but the pain was sharp, making her mouth twist wryly. She mocked herself, and the agony in her face echoed in his chest. She was reflected in him, and he in her. It had always been that way. When she was in front of him, she was the only thing he could see. She filled his vision. But his eyes were single to a different glory.
He closed them briefly and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, only steel remained.
“It was wrong, Eva. On so many levels. You know it. I know it. Neither of us can afford to let it happen again. It won’t happen again.” He kept his hands clenched at his sides, holding himself firm.
“I love you, Angelo.” The last truth, and maybe the only truth that really mattered.
“And I love you!” he shot back. The truth was terrifying to him, but n
ot as terrifying as turning from the only course he truly believed in.
“But not enough?”
“More than anyone I’ve ever loved before.”
“But not enough,” she repeated.
“We are only as good as the promises we keep, Eva. And I’ve made a promise. You don’t want a man who can’t keep his promises, do you?”
Their eyes caught and held. And he saw the moment she believed him. He recognized her defeat, saw her acceptance. He saw Eva, the little girl who had always given in to his whims and followed his lead. She knew he wouldn’t yield. Unyielding Angelo, she’d called him. She’d told him once that his virtue was as disheartening as it was admirable. He didn’t feel virtuous at the moment.
She nodded then. An acknowledgment, an acquiescence. A muscle in his jaw jumped and his lips firmed. Without a word he held out his arm. But she wouldn’t take it.
“Please just go, Angelo. Just go,” she whispered.
“I want to walk you home. I need to see that you are safe.”
“I need you to leave me now.” Her voice grew stronger.
“I won’t do that,” he insisted, willing her to yield once more.
“You already have,” she said again. And when her eyes rose to his, the little girl was gone. “Go, Angelo.”
It was his turn to yield.
With a heavy heart, he turned and left the quiet chapel, knowing this time, and forever more, Eva wouldn’t be following.
1940
10 June, 1940
Confession: I still love my country, even after what she has done.
Italy has not been loyal to her Jews, but in my heart, bruised and betrayed as it is, I am still Italian, and my soul quakes at the thought of what is to come for my country, even if she has rejected me.
We are officially at war. Italy invaded France and simultaneously declared war on Great Britain. No more rumors or threats, no more posturing and pounding of chests. Italy is at war, allied with Germany. We are allied with a country led by a man who hates Jews.
I wonder how many men, how many Jews, will have to die for Hitler to declare himself the winner. Germany already invaded Denmark and Norway, rolling over them without mercy. Belgium surrendered in only eighteen days. Next is France. When England falls there will be no one left to stop them.
America wants no part in the war. I want no part in it either. Jews are not allowed to fight anyway. Non-Italian Jews resent us for it. Impromptu work orders are popping up all over the city, run by the Fascist police. Jewish men and boys, and sometimes women too, can be randomly pulled from their homes or off the street to shovel gravel or dig ditches or move bricks from one place to another. It is our patriotic duty, the Fascists say. They say it is the least we can do, as if we made the laws that banned us from military service. Better banned than forced to fight with Hitler, I suppose. But it feels wrong to sit by while others fight, even if they die for terrible things.
Angelo has banned me too. Banned me and abandoned me. Just like Italy. Last November he was ordained to the priesthood, and I haven’t seen him since.
Eva Rosselli
CHAPTER 6
SHIVAH
Two days after Italy entered the war, Camillo interrupted Eva and Felix in the music room, and the desperate look in her father’s eyes had Eva’s palms sweating and her heart racing.
“There are immigration officials here, Felix,” Camillo said grimly. “Police. Carabinieri.”
Felix froze, his bow in midair, his violin positioned for the swelling high point that would never come. Resignation shrouded Felix’s features, and his hands fell to his sides even as his shoulders slumped. He set his violin carefully on the settee and placed the bow beside it.
They all descended the stairs slowly, as if pulling against an invisible band that sought to draw them back to the security of the music room, to the safety of Paganini and Bach, to the comforting routine of long notes and scales.
Three Italian policemen stood in the entry. Fabia had ushered them in and offered them refreshment. She never could get used to the fact that she wasn’t supposed to open the door like hired help. She was no longer a domestic. She was the lady of the house, but no one could convince her of that. In her mind, nothing had changed. Camillo’s maneuverings were just that, maneuverings. It was his home, and she was his housekeeper. Beloved. But still the housekeeper.
“Felix Adler?” one policeman asked briskly.
“Yes. I am Felix Adler,” Uncle Felix replied wearily. He looked almost relieved, as if he had been anticipating the visit and was grateful not to wait any longer.
“We have an order for your arrest.”
“I see.” Felix nodded slowly and clasped his hands behind his back, strangely docile. He was neither the fiery maestro nor the melancholy philosopher anymore.
“But he is an Italian citizen!” Camillo was not resigned. He looked stricken, as if he had somehow failed again. Otto and now Felix.
“He is a foreign Jew. His citizenship was revoked with the 1938 laws.” The policeman showed Camillo his orders. It had all kinds of official-looking stamps on it. Italians loved their stamps.
“But he received an exemption,” Camillo insisted.
“It has been revoked as well.” The officer folded the paper and tucked it beneath his arm.
Camillo reared back in shock, and angry color bloomed high on his cheeks. “When? Why?”
The policemen ignored Camillo and addressed Felix once more. “You will come with us, please.”
“Where will you take him?” Camillo said, his voice shaking with outrage.
“He will be detained for a time. Eventually, he will be sent to Ferramonti, or maybe Campagna in Salerno. Somewhere in the south.”
“But he will stay in Italy?” Camillo asked helplessly. He looked at his brother-in-law, but Felix didn’t comment. Felix’s quiet acceptance was almost as unsettling as the arrest order.
“Most likely. Don’t worry. We are not like the Nazis. He will not be mistreated. We are at war, and this is for the security of Italy. That is all. It is simply internment. Nothing to be afraid of,” the Italian officer reassured them. He’d noticed Eva and had puffed out his chest and smiled at her as if she would possibly welcome the attention at such a time.
“May I pack a small bag?” Felix asked politely. Eva could only stare at her uncle’s blank face as he waited for an answer.
“Yes. But quickly. There is not room or time to gather all your belongings. Your basic needs will be provided for.”
Felix nodded agreeably and walked from the room. The officer trailed him, as if those being arrested had been known to make a run for it, but he stayed at the top of the staircase, dividing his attention between Eva and Felix’s room. Felix had left his door ajar and they could hear him moving about, opening and closing drawers, letting everyone know he was doing as he was told.
When the gunshot came it was oddly muffled, yet it reverberated through the house like a slammed door. For several stunned seconds, no one moved. The officer at the top of the stairs was the first to react, walking briskly to the room where his detainee had disappeared.
They all stood, frozen, eyes lifted to the balcony overlooking the parlor, waiting for an explanation. Then they heard a shout and a string of Italian curses mixed with pleas to the Madonna.
Camillo began to run, taking the stairs two at a time, a sight Eva had never seen before. Camillo Rosselli didn’t run. His response had Eva racing up the circular steps behind him, but before she could enter Uncle Felix’s room, her father turned and, with shaking hands, bade her to remain outside.
“Wait, Eva!” he commanded. “Let me go first.”
The carabiniere was suddenly back, his face pale, his upper lip shining with perspiration. He shut Felix’s bedroom door behind him, as if the matter were closed.
“He is dead,” he said. “He has shot himself in the head.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but his throat worked like he was trying not to be sick. He shoved his
black cap back on his head, avoiding Eva’s gaze for the first time since he’d arrived at the villa. She immediately shoved past him and reached for the door, bursting through into the masculine space that smelled like shoe polish, coffee, and the soap Felix used when he shaved. But there was another smell. Blood. It smelled like blood and an acrid scent Eva would later come to recognize as gunpowder.
“Eva!” Her father grabbed at her arm and pulled her back. But not before she saw the crimson pool that crawled like a living thing beneath the closet door and across the terrazzo floor.
Felix Adler had stepped into his closet, closed the door, and calmly killed himself.
As far as families were concerned, they definitely weren’t typical—Angelo was sure most Jewish families didn’t include a Catholic priest and his Catholic grandparents, but they were the only family Felix Adler had. Felix didn’t have any parents left—he only had Santino and Fabia. He had no siblings, just Camillo, a brother-in-law. He wasn’t married and he didn’t have children, though he’d treated Eva and Angelo as though they were his own. Thus, Camillo, Eva, Santino, Fabia, and Angelo gathered at the synagogue before the service, the five of them charged with the duty of avelim, official mourners.
Angelo had come from his little parish as soon as he received word, and Eva had fallen into his arms, the strain between them temporarily forgotten for a more immediate concern. They’d had no contact since his ordination. No letters, no telegrams, no friendly visits. It had been seven months since he’d received his Holy Orders, seven months since he’d been home.
Now they stood side by side, Eva’s arm wrapped around his as Rabbi Cassuto offered what little explanation he could for something inexplicable. Eva herself had had little to say. She had not been far from Angelo’s side since the moment he’d arrived, and though she’d clung to him, letting him know she needed him, she’d been silent—she even wept quietly—as if Felix had taken sound with him. The maestro was gone, and the music was too.
