by Amy Harmon
Eva laughed, not offended in the slightest.
Camillo narrowed his eyes at his daughter, and she grabbed his face and kissed his cheeks.
“Don’t worry, Babbo. Angelo is my brother. Now may we please go to the beach?”
The memory made Angelo smile. Eva had been devious and oh-so-convincing. Camillo had sighed and off they had gone. But they weren’t left alone again, even once, for the rest of the summer. And there was no more kissing. It was as if a decision had been made. The response of their elders had made the pathway clear: if they wanted to remain in each other’s lives, kissing was not an option.
They had never talked about it. Never admitted to each other that it was a beautiful first, a precious memory. But for years afterward they couldn’t mention oysters without grinning at each other, and when they did, Eva would get a look in her eyes. She got a look in her eyes, and Angelo got a pain in his chest.
He rubbed his hand over his heart, absentmindedly easing the old ache. His hand found his cross and he traced it, closing his eyes and trying to say his midday prayers, but the sway of the train and the shape of the girl beside him made his mind flit away, back to white beaches and forbidden kisses.
CHAPTER 9
THE CHURCH OF SANTA CECILIA
A gong sounded and a whistle blew, and Angelo awoke with a start. They were in Rome. He’d fallen asleep after all. Eva had too, and her head was tucked against his shoulder, as if she’d tried to prop it up against her seat, only to lose the battle to gravity. A surge of tenderness for her had him closing his eyes and asking for strength for the umpteenth time since he’d first seen her yesterday.
She stirred against his shoulder and pulled away with a jerk. He finished his prayer and stretched his arms, giving her time to compose herself. He straightened his collar and ran his hands over his closely cropped curls—as long as he kept them short, the waves conformed to the shape of his head, keeping the curl relatively tame—before placing his wide-brimmed black hat on his head.
“We’re here,” he said gently, finally turning toward her.
She nodded, a quick dip of her head, as she re-pinned her little white hat. She slicked a fresh coat of red across her lips and snapped her handbag closed, tucking it back down inside her small valise.
They stood and made their way off the train, the exhaust and bedlam of the station invigorating, even if the September day was still too warm.
“I have a place for you to stay. It’s not far from where I live,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he wove in and out of the crowd, using his cane to clear a path.
“I’m going to stay with my uncle. I sent a telegram. They’re expecting me,” she called out behind him.
He stopped abruptly, and Eva cursed under her breath as she collided with his rigid back. He resumed walking almost immediately, but when they reached the street and set down their luggage, waiting for a bus that could take them across town, he murmured his displeasure into her ear.
“They live in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood.”
Eva raised one delicate eyebrow and pursed her lips, waiting for him to continue.
“Living with a Jewish family is the most foolish thing you can do. You might as well wear a star on your chest.”
“Are you saying they’re in danger?” she murmured, keeping her voice as low as his.
“Yes! Eva, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” He shook his head, incredulous. “Staying with your uncle will completely undermine the whole reason I wanted you to come to Rome, a place where you aren’t known, a place where your name, your address, and your religion isn’t on some Fascist list, easily accessed by the SS. A place where no one can point you out.”
“I want to see them, Angelo. I haven’t seen them in two years.”
The bus pulled up and Angelo moved toward it, still lugging her suitcase and his much smaller bag.
“This is our bus,” he said, though she had no idea what that meant or where it went.
They boarded, sliding into a seat near the front, stowing their bags on a rack above their heads. When the bus lurched and groaned and eventually resumed its route, Eva tried to find out.
“Where do you live?”
“I’m not far from your uncle. I live on the west side of the Tiber near the Basilica di Santa Maria.”
Eva had no idea where that was. His landmarks were meaningless to her.
“Do you live with other priests?”
“I live in an apartment with Monsignor Luciano and his older sister, a lovely old woman who spends her days making lace when she’s not playing housekeeper. She likes to pretend I’m her son. She takes very good care of both of us.”
“I thought you lived in a . . . a rectory. Isn’t that what a priest’s home is called?”
“I used to. After I was ordained, I served in a village just south of Rome for about six months before I was assigned as a curate at the Church of the Sacred Heart east of Trastevere, not far from the Colosseum.”
“A curate?”
“An assistant to the parish priest. I served there for two years. In that time, I got to know the area very well.”
“And now?”
“Now my duties have changed.”
“You don’t conduct Mass every day?” She had always imagined him feeding wafers to open-mouthed parishioners and giving long sermons. She realized suddenly how little she really knew about Angelo’s daily life.
“I attend Mass every day. Several times if my duties allow it. But no. I am an assistant to Monsignor Luciano, who is a senior official with the Roman Curia.”
“What is the Roman Curia?’
“It is the administrative arm of the Catholic Church.”
“You work in an office?” She was stunned.
“Yes. I do. When I’m not running all over the city, I work in an office in the Vatican. It is a busy time for my department. It will only get busier.”
“What is your department?”
“Migrant assistance.”
She stared at him, bemused. “There is such a department?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. The official description is to promote pastoral assistance to migrants, nomads, tourists, and travelers. The congregation is overseen by a cardinal. Monsignor Luciano serves Cardinal Dubois. I assist Monsignor Luciano. My job is to attend the monsignor in whatever duties he assigns, but I rarely sit at a desk and type, if that’s what you’re thinking. There are lay secretaries and assistants to do that. I tend to be the physical liaison, and I mostly do legwork.”
“How interesting. The one-legged priest doing legwork.”
“Yes. Ironic.” He smirked, and his blue eyes glinted. She didn’t smile even though she wanted to. It was too easy to fall back into their old ways, poking at each other and teasing one another. It wouldn’t be good for her. It would make her miss him too much when she returned to Florence. She resolved to guard herself against him even as he spoke again, the humor absent from his voice.
“I want you to stay at the Santa Cecilia. It’s a cloistered convent, but there are rooms available for boarders along the entrance block. It’s in Trastevere, and you won’t be too far from your family.” He sounded as if he were giving an order, dictating what she would do, and she opened her mouth to refuse.
“Please, Eva,” he implored so softly that she could almost pretend it didn’t happen.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she murmured, hating herself for her vulnerability.
“Better alone than arrested,” he said, but his eyes were compassionate.
“I’m not sure that’s true, Angelo,” she answered. “I’m not sure of that at all.”
“Eva.” He sighed. “You don’t mean that.”
“How do you know, Angelo?” she asked sharply. “How can you possibly claim to know how I feel?”
He shot her a look that said he knew exactly how she felt, and she turned away with a shake of her head, dismissing him. He knew nothing.
“I t
old my family I was coming,” she reiterated. “They are expecting me. I’m sure they would like to see you too.” Angelo started to shake his head, anger tightening his mouth and causing the groove between his eyes to deepen into a canyon.
“I will see them, we will have dinner with them, and then you can lock me in the convent if you must,” she added before he could resume his campaign. Angelo exhaled with relief, and the rest of the ride was spent in stony contemplation.
They had to change buses and catch another before taking a streetcar that let them off two blocks from 325 Viale Domina. It was two in the afternoon, and they’d been traveling since six o’clock that morning. Angelo looked remarkably un-wilted, his black cassock and wide-brimmed hat traveling much better than Eva’s slim red skirt and white blouse. She felt filthy and wrinkled, and she removed her hat so she could smooth her hair as they waited for someone to answer the door. The building was neat and clean, the corridors wide and airy, but the residence was a decided step down from Uncle Augusto’s Florence home, which was now being rented to non-Jews for a ridiculously small amount of money. The door opened an inch, and a brown eye appeared in the gap.
“Eva! Angelo!” The door was flung open, and Eva’s cousin Claudia, decidedly less plump than she’d once been—war rations were only good for one thing—pulled Eva into the small parlor, reaching out a hand for Angelo as well. Eva took quick note of the polished floors, the pictures on the walls, and the pieces of furniture from their home in Florence. The homey atmosphere and the effort to make the apartment comfortable eased the knot in Eva’s stomach. She had worried about her uncle and aunt, about her cousins and their life in Rome. From the looks of it, all was well.
“We’ve been waiting to eat. Levi got fruit. He’s a black-market guru, you know. He manages to get things no one else can.” She prattled easily as she led them into a sitting area teeming with people.
“Eva, you remember Giulia, don’t you? Mamma’s sister?” Giulia Sonnino was much younger than her older sister, barely thirty years old if that, and Claudia and Eva had always looked up to her, more like a sophisticated older cousin than an aunt. Giulia was still lovely, but she was hugely pregnant, and she smiled wearily at Eva and Angelo and tried to stand to greet them. Her husband, Mario, pressed her right back down into the sofa and stood in her stead.
Mario Sonnino was a physician, a tall, slender man with kind eyes—a Jewish trait, according to her father. “We Jews have kind eyes and quick minds,” he would say. Eva didn’t know if it was true. Camillo had claimed so many things as Jewish traits, but Mario reminded Eva a little of her babbo, so maybe he was right.
Eva had attended Mario and Giulia’s wedding when she was twelve or thirteen, and she and Claudia had thought Mario very good looking. Plus, he played the violin, which made him a kindred spirit from the start. He wasn’t especially handsome—Eva could see that now—but he wore his goodness all over his face, and he was clearly devoted to his wife. Eva smiled at him warmly and shook hands with the little girl who hung on to his leg and dimpled winsomely when she was introduced.
“This is Emilia,” Mario said. “And the boy who is determined to beat Levi at chess is our oldest, Lorenzo.” Lorenzo, a little boy of about eight or nine and missing his two front teeth, heard his name and grinned, lifting his head from the chessboard in front of him. Levi stood from the game and approached Eva and Angelo in three long strides, swooping Eva up in a huge hug that had her laughing and little Emilia squealing and begging for a turn.
“Me, me! Swing me, Cousin Levi!”
“Yes! Swing Emilia!” Eva laughed as he set her down. Levi shook hands with Angelo, then Aunt Bianca started ushering them to the dinner table where the simple meal was quickly consumed. The conversation volleyed from one topic to the next, the time apart requiring a great deal of catch-up. When Angelo stepped in to field some questions, Eva turned to Giulia to inquire about her pregnancy.
“When is the baby due?”
“We have a month,” Giulia sighed, as if a month was an eternity. “I’m very ready now, though our circumstances aren’t the best.”
“Do you live here in the building?”
“No. We are in the old ghetto,” she answered quietly. “Mario’s a doctor, but he lost his practice. We had a home in Perugia . . .” Her voice faded off and Eva didn’t pursue the subject.
“Will you be staying here with Augusto and Bianca?” Giulia asked politely, shifting the focus to Eva.
“I’m not sure,” Eva hedged, not wanting to start a possibly uncomfortable conversation. Of course, her answer didn’t go unchallenged.
“What do you mean?” Claudia chirped up from across the table. “Of course you are. You will stay in my room.”
“I’ve made arrangements for Eva,” Angelo interjected, and Claudia immediately frowned.
“But . . . why?”
“Eva will stay here,” Uncle Augusto said, as if his was the final word on the subject.
“It’s not safe,” Angelo said quietly. “It’s not safe for any of you, honestly. You need to change apartments, Augusto. Or leave Rome.”
“But Rome is the safest place for Jews! The Germans have been on their best behavior. We’ll be fine here. Your Pope is our best defense. The Germans don’t want an international public relations problem with the Vatican. One in three Germans is Catholic. Did you know that, Angelo? That’s why I brought my family here. ”
“The Pope is in an impossible position. He holds no power over Hitler. He couldn’t save the Jews in Germany; he couldn’t save the Jews in Poland. He couldn’t save the Jews in Austria. He won’t be able to save the Jews in Rome.”
The table went silent and Eva winced. Angelo put down his fork and stared at Augusto soberly.
“If you won’t hide, that is your choice. But Eva won’t be staying here.” He lowered his voice, as if the walls had ears. “At the very least, let me get you false documents that you can use if the Germans do come knocking.”
“Like the documents Camillo used? Documents like that?” Augusto retorted, pushing his chair back from the table in disgust. He didn’t rise, but he leveled a finger at Angelo.
“My brother pretended to be someone he was not. They caught him. And now my brother is gone.”
A week after Camillo Rosselli went to Austria to find Otto Adler, the Italian police had shown up at the Ostrica Glass Factory in Florence, asking questions. The Gestapo had contacted them. Camillo had been recognized in Vienna by someone who knew he was Jewish and knew he was not the person he was claiming to be. He was claiming to be Gino Sotelo, his non-Jewish partner at the glass factory. Camillo would have been far better off with his own papers—an Italian Jew was safer than a man with false papers.
Gino Sotelo had pled ignorance and innocence, and they’d believed him, only because Camillo Rosselli had claimed he’d stolen the pass, unbeknownst to his old partner. It was a lie—Gino had known everything—but it saved Gino from charges, and it saved Camillo from having to tell authorities it was a fake pass, protecting the forging operation that was ongoing at Ostrica.
It didn’t save Gino from having to tell Eva that her father had been arrested. He had arrived at the villa, his hat in his hands, his face gray, and told Eva that her father was not going to be coming home any time soon. The only information police could give Gino Sotelo was that Camillo Rosselli had been sent, along with other Jewish detainees, to a labor camp called Auschwitz.
“Three years.” Augusto held up three fingers, underlining his words. “And we’ve had no word. I won’t do it. I won’t do anything to endanger my family. No fake papers.” He slapped the dinner table, and little Emilia stuck out her lip at the sound, as if she’d been slapped too.
“That’s your choice,” Angelo repeated. “But Eva isn’t staying here.”
Eva bit back her irritation. She didn’t like being discussed as if she weren’t there to speak for herself. But she remained silent. Uncle Augusto had always been too quick to choose optimism. O
ptimism could get you killed.
They remained an hour longer, but the days were growing shorter and a new curfew had been announced with the arrival of the Germans. Mario Sonnino followed Angelo and Eva to the door and walked with them to the street, chatting amiably, but when they moved to leave he touched Angelo’s arm, halting him.
“I want documents,” he whispered. “For my family. As soon as the baby is born we are leaving Rome. Can you help me?”
Eva and Angelo both nodded, and Eva gripped his hand. “It may take a few weeks. And if Angelo can’t help you, I will.”
Angelo shot Eva a cautionary glare, but he didn’t argue with her. Not there.
Mario nodded gratefully. “Thank you. Thank you both.” He scribbled his number and his address on a scrap of paper and handed it to Angelo.
“Eva?” Mario stopped her as she turned away.
“Yes?”
“Don’t come back here,” he murmured. “The padre is right.”
The distance to the Church of Santa Cecilia was relatively short, and within fifteen minutes, Angelo was leading Eva toward a stately, gated edifice tucked at the far end of a cobbled piazza. There were hundreds of churches in Rome, big and small, ornate and old, famous and obscure, but the arched entrance of the Santa Cecilia was quietly welcoming as Angelo led Eva beyond the tall gate into a courtyard lined with roses and benches.
A rectangular pool with a large vase at the center encouraged quiet conversation and meditation, though the space was completely empty. Rows of windows overlooked the courtyard on each side, several stories that made up the convent on one side and an ancient bathhouse on the other. Angelo said the church was named for Cecilia, a noblewoman who was locked in her bathhouse for three days—a murder attempt—only to come out unscathed and singing. The bathhouse had been turned into a chapel, and Cecilia had since become a patron saint of music. Eva tried to imagine what a bathhouse chapel looked like, and determined that she would sneak inside at some point if the nuns refused to show her.
