by Amy Harmon
Camillo wanted her to play at the service, but she just shook her head, and he’d seemed to understand. He found another student of Felix’s to play something by Mendelssohn, something Felix would have appreciated, and the matter was dropped.
Before the service began, they ripped Felix’s shirt, a ritual called keriah, or tearing, symbolizing their separation and the loss in the fabric of their family. He had been torn from them, and as each of them rent a piece of the garment, they recited the passage from the Book of Job. God has given, God has taken away, blessed be the name of God. They would wear the strip of cloth attached to their clothing and would keep it there for the seven days of shivah.
God had not taken Felix away. Felix had chosen to go. And though suicide was treated as seriously in Judaism as it was in Catholicism, there was no judgment, and Rabbi Cassuto was the first to add, “Baruch atah Adonai, Dayan Ha-Emet”—Blessed are you, Adonai, truthful judge. Felix was a casualty of war, Rabbi Cassuto said, and that was the end of it.
Angelo had conducted his first funeral a month before. A beloved mother and wife in his impoverished parish who’d died unexpectedly. He’d been terrified of failing the family in their time of need but found that as long as he kept his focus on the deceased and on her loved ones, and stopped worrying about himself, he was fine. He’d conducted the funeral service in Latin and Rabbi Cassuto spoke in Hebrew—Eva had to translate what she knew—but the sentiments were mostly the same. We are made in his image, and to him we return.
After the service, they’d joined the long procession to the grave site, stopping seven times as if to show the difficulty of the task, the pain of the ordeal. And when Felix’s casket was eventually lowered into the ground, they shoveled dirt over his final resting place, committing him back to the earth. It was beautiful and painful. Just like life. Just like coming home. Just like seeing Eva again.
They went back to the villa and spent the rest of the day welcoming a steady stream of friends and neighbors, until eventually, just like the other rituals of the day, that too had come to an end. Now he sat next to Eva on a stool so low that his prosthetic stuck out in front of him, his eyes on the candle that had been lit the moment they returned and had been burning ever since.
“What does shivah mean?” he asked, wanting to pull her from the solitude of her silence. She was so withdrawn he was worried about her.
“It means ‘seven,’” she answered immediately.
“Ah, I see. We stopped seven times today. And you will sit shivah for a week. Seven days.” Strange. It had been seven months since he’d been home.
“Yes.”
“Why is seven significant?”
“It’s from Job. When he lost everything, his friends sat with him for seven days and seven nights, grieving with him and for him.”
They fell into silence once more, and Angelo was at a loss, sick at heart, helpless to the point of tears, frustrated that he couldn’t hold her and make her laugh, that things between them couldn’t be easy and comfortable, the way they once were. He fisted his hands in his hair and found himself confessing.
“I can’t stay, Eva. I would like to. But I have responsibilities that can’t wait.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Thank you for coming.”
“I would take it away from you if I could. I would take it with me. I would take your pain and bear it for you.” He would happily endure her sorrow if it meant she wouldn’t have to.
“I know,” she said again, as if she truly believed him. “I know you would. But sadly, that is not how pain works, is it? We can cause pain, but we can so seldom cure it.”
“Talk to me. Maybe that will ease it. Tell me what all of this means.” He swept his hand around the room, including the candle and the covered mirrors, the low stools and the meal of condolence that the family had eaten. It had been a strange mix of eggs and bread and lentils—not the kind of comfort food he would have chosen. “Tell me about the candle,” he suggested, giving her a starting point.
“A member of the family lights the candle immediately upon entering the home. It’s called the shivah candle, and it burns for the entire seven days.”
Angelo nodded, encouraging her.
“The candle reminds us of the soul of the one who has gone, and also of God’s light. After all, he created our souls with his light. It’s from a psalm, I think.”
“The light of God is the soul of man,” Angelo quoted.
“Yes.” Eva nodded. “That’s the one.” She stopped talking, a contemplative expression on her face, and Angelo pressed her, not wanting her to slip away again.
“And these stools?”
Eva looked startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there for a moment. “Oh. Well, we are closer to the ground. Closer to the loved one who is now in the ground.”
Symbolism. He was a Catholic priest. If he understood anything, he understood symbolism.
“And the mirrors?” he prodded. The mirrors were all shrouded in dark cloth.
“Grieving is not a time to worry about appearances. There should be no judgment in grief. People should be allowed to grieve in any way they need. It is a kindness to the mourners. Shivah is about those left behind.”
He reached over and took her hand in his, needing to give comfort, and they sat, staring at the flickering candle, holding hands across the space between their odd little stools.
“I sat shivah after you were ordained,” Eva blurted out suddenly. “I didn’t realize that was what I was doing. But for a week I didn’t leave the house. I couldn’t. I covered the mirror in my room so I wouldn’t have to look at myself. And I slept on the floor. You left me behind, and I was grieving.” She laughed hollowly and let go of his hand. Angelo didn’t know what to say, but somehow she’d given him some of her pain to bear, because all at once his heart was heavy with shared sorrow.
She had come to his ordination. She, Camillo, Felix, Santino, and Fabia. His family. He had wondered often about her impressions of that day. What had she thought as he lay, prostrate on the floor, his arms folded beneath him, his forehead pressed to the ground, his eyes closed, letting the litany of the saints roll over him, through him?
Kyrie, eléison. Lord have mercy. Christe, eléison. Christ have mercy.
O God, make me worthy. Make me better. Help me to be a valiant servant. Help me to be more than I am, he had silently prayed, wanting only to be better, to be worthy.
Donatello’s Saint George had risen in his mind and moisture had fallen from his eyes. “Help me slay my dragons,” he had whispered. “Help me resist the serpent. Help me resist. Help me. Help me.”
“O God the Father of Heaven, have mercy upon us. O God the Son, Redeemer of the World, have mercy upon us. O God the Holy Ghost, have mercy upon us,” the voices around him had intoned.
His hands were anointed and bound, consecrating them, sanctifying them, that whatsoever they blessed would in turn be blessed by God. The bishop had placed his hands upon his head, asking him if he could swear obedience. He had said yes. Yes to obedience. The bishop asked him if he could give his life to God and forsake personal wealth. He had said yes. Yes to poverty. And finally, he had said yes to celibacy. Forsaking the pleasure of the flesh for the joys of the kingdom of God. He had said yes. He had promised his life and his heart and his loyalty.
Yet still, he had wondered. He had wondered if, as Eva watched, she felt the same stirrings that moved him whenever the Eucharist was raised and voices were lifted in worship. He wondered if she saw the beauty and understood. He had wanted so badly for her to understand. And he desperately needed to stop caring.
She leaned toward him suddenly, and Angelo thought for a moment that she was reaching for his hand once more. Instead, she tugged on a loose thread hanging from the sleeve of his cassock and tore it free. She held the little string between her fingers, smoothing it over and over.
When he left for Rome the next morning, the string from his cassock was tied around the piece of fabric fr
om Felix’s shirt and pinned to her blouse.
In August, two months after Felix’s death, Eva’s father took her to the beach—a day trip, he called it. That’s all they were allowed anymore. Day trips. They couldn’t stay at the resorts or rent a cottage. So they took the train from Florence to Viareggio, walked the ten minutes from the train station, and kicked off their shoes and walked in the sand, pretending it was all the vacation they really needed.
Camillo’s ankles were skinny knobs sticking out below his rolled slacks. He took off his hat and let the breeze sift through his salt-and-pepper hair as the sun glinted off his spectacles. Eva shouldered their lunch and tucked her shoes inside the hamper so she wouldn’t have to carry them. The beach was crowded, a forest of umbrellas and laughing children, and Eva longed for the beaches of Maremma with stretches so isolated you could walk and never see another soul.
Eventually, they found a place to sit and spread their lunch on a blanket, watching everything and nothing, trying to enjoy the change of scenery, if only for each other. The wind kicked up once, spraying them with sand and surf, and their lunch became decidedly crunchier.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Camillo said vaguely, his eyes on his feet.
“What’s funny, Babbo?”
“There is sand in my sandwich and sand between my toes.” He shook one foot and then the other, as if verifying that there was, indeed, sand between his toes.
“That isn’t terribly funny,” Eva teased.
“It is irritating me. Sand everywhere, in my food, in my clothes, rubbing against soft skin, every crack and crevice. I don’t think I like eating on the beach. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to avoid it.” His voice was thoughtful, like he was puzzling something out, solving a riddle. Eva just waited, accustomed to her father’s roundabout way of expressing himself.
“But sand is my business. Sand, soda ash, and lime. Without sand, there wouldn’t be glass. My father named the company Ostrica—oyster—because the oyster takes the sand and makes it into something beautiful. Like we do. We take the sand and make it into glass.”
“I didn’t know that! Grandfather Rosselli was a romantic.”
“We want to make the mundane beautiful. Isn’t that right?” he asked. Eva remembered the conversation she’d had with Angelo in the cemetery, when she’d explained what a mitzvah was.
“Everything is a mitzvah to you,” she said softly, and wrapped her arm through Camillo’s, her eyes on the horizon, her thoughts on Angelo and oysters. No matter how hard she tried, everything reminded her of Angelo.
“Not so. I am just an oyster, hiding in my shell, turning sand into glass.” His voice was so melancholy, the ache beneath it so audible, that she pulled her eyes and thoughts back to his face.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m really no different from so many others, I suppose. I have been hoping it would all right itself.”
“What?”
“The world, Eva. The terrible state of the world. I thought I could just juggle, strategize, bend myself and my circumstances around the laws. And I have. I’ve managed to keep the business afloat, keep our home, provide for you and Santino and Fabia. But the world isn’t going to right itself; Italy isn’t going to right herself. Not without help. I can’t continue hoping and doing nothing. I can’t continue hiding in my shell and making glass. I have to do more. We all have to do more. Or we will all die.”
“Babbo?” She heard the alarm in her voice, and her father turned to her with sorrow-filled eyes.
“I have to go get your grandfather, Eva. I owe it to Felix.”
“In Austria? But . . . isn’t he in a . . . camp?”
“The Germans can’t possibly want one old man. He won’t be a good worker. I will buy his way out. Trade something of value. It is what I’m good at. I’m a natural-born salesman. You know that. I will get him and I will bring him here with us. Then Angelo will help us hide him until the war is over.”
“How will you get him out?”
“Eva, Ostrica provides bottles to many wineries in Austria. I have been to Austria dozens of times, and I have every reason in the world to travel there for business. I am an Italian citizen, and my documents clearly show that. No one will question me. I have identity papers for Otto claiming that he is also an Italian citizen.”
“How did you get false papers?” she cried.
“I have a very good printer at Ostrica. You remember Aldo Finzi? He makes labels for bottles—beautiful labels—and we have been making passes, Eva. We are making false papers for refugees. It is some of the best work Aldo has ever done. I didn’t want to tell you. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
“Oh, Babbo,” she moaned. “If you get caught with Grandfather, they might arrest you both. They could take the factory if they discover you are forging documents there.”
“I do not own the factory,” Camillo said lightly. “How can they take it away?”
“Does Signore Sotelo know?” Gino Sotelo was her father’s best friend and non-Jewish business partner.
“Yes. Gino knows. And if something happens to me, I hope he will let Aldo continue his work. It is work that will save lives.”
Her stomach rolled and her heart plummeted. She was worried about her father’s life most of all, and what he was planning to do would put it in terrible danger. Eva didn’t really believe her grandfather was still alive in Austria. He’d been arrested, taken away, and Uncle Felix had lost hope. Then they’d lost Felix too. But they’d lost him incrementally, inch by inch, indignity by indignity, until there was nothing left when he finally pulled the trigger.
“Don’t worry, Eva. I will be fine, and I will bring Otto back. I can’t leave him there. He cannot save himself. No Austrians are being allowed to leave anymore, especially Austrian Jews.”
“You can’t go! Please don’t go.”
“I have everything in order. I won’t draw attention. I will be courteous and quiet, just like I always am. Invisible. And everything will go smoothly, you’ll see.”
“If something happens to you I will have no one left. No one,” Eva cried, abandoning her courage for honesty. She couldn’t let him go.
“I will be fine. But no matter what happens to me, you will always have Angelo. He promised me. You will always have Angelo.” Her father’s voice was fierce, as if he could make it so by sheer will.
“Oh, Babbo, you don’t understand! I will never have Angelo.” She looked out at the horizon, squinting into the sun, letting her eyes burn as she cried. “I don’t have Angelo, I don’t have Uncle Felix, and soon I won’t have you.”
1943
16 September, 1943
Confession: I never feel safe.
Just last Wednesday, people were dancing in the streets saying the war is over for Italy. Italy surrendered to America and an armistice had been granted. Everyone said the Americans would be arriving soon and our soldiers would be coming home. Some even said the Racial Laws would be revoked. But on Saturday, the Germans moved in and occupied Florence. They have taken control of everything north of Naples. The celebration is over but the war is definitely not. The sides have just changed.
We’ve had no word from Babbo. I try not to think about him at all because it hurts too much. Maybe I’m weak, but I’ve heard rumors about the labor camps. Some say they are death camps, and I’m afraid I’ll never see Babbo again. So I put him out of my head completely and I put one foot in front of the other. Forgive me, Babbo.
Angelo is here. He’s back. He says everything is going to get worse, not better. He thinks I need to go back with him to Rome. I don’t know why he thinks Rome will be safer for me. The Americans bombed Rome in July, and so far, no bombs have fallen in Florence. But he says he can hide me. He’s been helping Jewish refugees since the war began. Santino and Fabia will be alone, but Angelo says I only endanger them. Santino and Fabia are afraid for me, and they begged me to go. They think Angelo can keep me safe. They don’t know that Angelo
makes me feel things that aren’t safe. He makes me reckless and angry. He makes me sad. And I know he doesn’t feel safe with me.
Eva Rosselli
CHAPTER 7
THE VILLA
Angelo had made the trip from Rome to Florence twelve times in the last eighteen months, and none of the visits were of a personal nature. He had a reason to visit his hometown, knew the city and its residents well, particularly those within church circles, and he spoke English, enough French to get by, passable German, and of course, flawless Italian. He was young and handsome, drawing some attention wherever he went, but his black priest’s robes, stiff white Roman collar, and his missing limb gave him an alibi that many Italian men did not enjoy.
There were Jews hiding across Italy, but there were twice as many soldiers running for cover, trying to avoid being shot on sight or rounded up and sent to Germany to labor in work camps. Italy’s surrender to the Americans on September 8 had put her citizens and her soldiers in an impossible situation. They were now Germany’s enemies instead of her allies, and the Germans considered the soldiers, when they found them, prisoners of war. More than one young priest had been hassled by the Gestapo, and a few had found themselves in jail until someone could come and vouch for them. Angelo didn’t have that trouble. He was exactly who he said he was, which made his movements a great deal easier.
That morning he had escorted a group of foreign refugees from Rome just as he’d been instructed. He’d separated the eight refugees on the train so that if one was caught the others might still have a chance. He’d told them all to pretend to sleep so when they were asked for their documents they could sleepily hand them over without speaking and giving themselves away.
The trip took six hours, but the refugees had played their parts. It had all gone as smoothly as he had hoped. He’d escorted them from the Stazione di Santa Maria Novella and from there to the nearby basilica with the same name. At the basilica they were met by another priest who would take them on to Genoa. From Genoa, someone else would take them on, hopefully, to safety.
