by Amy Harmon
Invisibility is our best weapon, Batsheva!
Invisibility may have worked for Camillo Rosselli, a thin, slightly stooped man of indeterminate years. But it didn’t work especially well for a beautiful woman. Eva had learned that long ago. Her best weapon was to make others stare. Stare, and assume she had every right to be exactly where she was. She sat down next to the man, her back stiff, her violin case in her lap. She perched with her nose in the air, reminding herself that he was the interloper, an unwelcome visitor to her country. He could move if she made him uncomfortable.
He looked up in surprise—she felt him jerk—and she turned her head and eyed him in haughty rebellion before looking away. He continued to stare, his gaze heavy on her face.
“Can you play?” he asked in German. Eva pretended not to understand. He sighed. He leaned over and tapped the violin case.
“Can you play?” he said again. He mimed the action, and Eva noticed how tired he looked, how dark the hollows were beneath his eyes.
She nodded once. A sharp inclination of her chin, and looked away again.
“Play,” he said simply, tapping at her case insistently.
She shook her head. No. She would not play for him. He fell back dejectedly, and she thought that would be the end of it.
“My father could play. He loved music. Beethoven and Mozart. Bach . . . he loved Bach.” He was speaking so softly Eva could have shut him out. But his voice broke on the last word, and his sorrow was palpable. Eva almost felt sorry for him.
“Play,” he demanded again, his voice rising. He leaned toward her aggressively and jerked the case from her hands. Eva instantly stood and stepped back. It was not her prized Stradivarius, but she wasn’t foolish enough to grab it back, even if it had been.
He set her case on the ground and opened it. He pulled the violin and bow free and stood, shoving them at her. She bobbled and almost dropped them, but he didn’t care.
“Play!” he yelled, his pale face suddenly ruddy with anger. A child started to cry, and Eva realized they were drawing attention. But no one stepped forward. No one intervened. Invisibility was the word of the day. She was too shocked to respond, and stood staring at him, her bow extended like a sword.
“Are you an idiot? Play!” he roared. Then he drew his pistol from the holster at his side and pointed it at her face.
With a quick tightening of her bow and a hasty tuning of the strings, she lifted the violin to her shoulder, and turning her face from the unwavering pistol, notched it beneath her jaw.
His father loved Bach. That is what he had said. Without looking at the German officer, Eva began to play “Ave Maria,” the version by Bach and Gounod, the one that had made her weep for her own mother and vow to master the violin if only to feel closer to her, to understand her.
From the corner of her eye she saw the gun lower slightly, but only a bit, and Eva squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on keeping the tone clear, the tremolo controlled, and the shaking in her legs, where it wouldn’t affect her performance. She had shunned invisibility. Look where that had gotten her. Now her only weapon was to play, and play well.
The first sustained note was shy, hesitant. But Eva bore down, gripping the instrument fiercely, her chin pressed against the faded varnish like she was embracing a lover. The melody shimmered and strengthened, and before long she was coaxing a soaring aria from the singing strings that not even a trained soprano could match. Still, Eva heard it all as though she listened through a waterfall, her heart drowning out the sweet, silvery slides and the quivering crescendos, and she wondered in the part of her brain that knew only thought—the part that watched as if from a safe distance—if this would be her final performance. She wondered if it was worthy of her uncle’s sacrifice, her uncle’s time, of all the hours she had spent practicing, hearing Babbo grumbling and Angelo begging for more.
Then it was over. Complete. Eva lowered her bow from the strings and raised her eyes to her oppressor. He had dropped the gun to his side and his face was streaked with tears. He carefully re-holstered his pistol and turned away. He hesitated, his back to her, and Eva wondered if she would be asked for an encore. Her chest burned and she realized she needed to breathe. Without turning around he said softly but distinctly, “Vergib mir.” Forgive me.
He walked several steps, his spine stiff, his arms clasped behind his back. Then he resumed walking with a brisk determination, like he knew exactly where he was going. The streetcar was coming, the screech of the wheels on the track music to Eva’s ears. The German officer headed toward it, as if he thought he could brandish his gun and make it stop, the way he’d pointed his gun and made her play. As it neared, he quickened his step, and with a composure that struck Eva as instantly familiar and terrifyingly predictable, he threw himself in front of the streetcar. The sound was hell unleashed, a shrieking, tearing, grinding groan, and the car bucked on the track, attempting to swallow the man whole and spewing him out again.
People were screaming and pointing, and within seconds—minutes?—a siren blared, then another, a cacophony of banshees in the bright-blue day.
Eva walked on wooden legs to the case that lay thrown open on the ground. She carefully placed her violin inside, closed it, and sat heavily on the bench. She resumed waiting for a streetcar that was already there, a streetcar that wouldn’t be taking her anywhere. Her hands shook and her stomach revolted, and every horrified breath felt like fire in her throat. Yet still she sat, composed, her terror held inside the bony cage that sheltered her war-torn heart and her shrapnel-riddled lungs.
Then there were Germans with whistles and clubs, pushing onlookers into a cluster, yelling in a language no one seemed to understand. But Eva understood.
“Someone pushed him!” an officer shouted. “Who pushed him?”
The terrified crowd looked around, as if to find the culprit, and one woman pointed toward Eva, as if to say, “Her!”
“She was with him,” the woman said in Italian. “That woman with the violin. She was with him.”
Several of the officers and a handful of horrified onlookers followed the woman’s pointing finger to the bench where Eva sat. The Germans may not have understood what the woman said, but they understood her gesture.
Eva rose from the bench, shaking her head.
“Nein,” she said. “No! He was not pushed. He walked right in front of the streetcar. I watched him.” Her voice rang out in German, and two of the officers broke away and came toward her.
“What is your name?” one barked, his hand on his gun.
“Eva,” she answered numbly. She couldn’t remember her last name for a moment. Then she remembered she wasn’t supposed to say it and was grateful for the shock that had stalled her tongue.
“Documents?” He waited with an outstretched hand.
She fumbled in her pocketbook and rushed to set her fake pass in his hand. He looked at it for several seconds and handed it back.
“You will come with me.”
“Wh-what? Why?” She realized she asked in Italian and repeated the question in German.
“Ten civilians for every German. That is the Führer’s rule. You saw what happened. Who should we take instead?”
“But he killed himself,” Eva shot back.
“So you say. Come with me.”
“He walked in front of the streetcar!” Eva cried out, this time in Italian, her eyes on the onlookers, knowing someone had to have witnessed the suicide. The people stood huddled, frozen, eyes wide, mouths closed, and no one said a word.
“No one was even close to him!” Eva pressed. “He just stepped in front of it. Someone had to have seen the same thing I did!”
Then one woman nodded. Then another took courage, and before long, several people were agreeing, adding their voices to Eva’s claims. The German officer either didn’t understand or he didn’t care to, but he took Eva’s arm and marched her toward a jeep parked haphazardly in the middle of the street. He snapped at two of the officers
and shouted orders at several more, and Eva was shoved into the back of the army vehicle and taken away. Whisked off the street, easy as you please, and there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it.
The German police had converted a row of buildings on Via Tasso into their headquarters. It was an odd choice, just a modest thoroughfare of apartments and schools that was bracketed on one end by a crumbling arch and the Sanctuary of the Scala on the other. Red banners with large swastikas hung down the front of the largest structure, looking official and garish against the dull yellow exterior.
Inside, it was a construction zone guarded by soldiers with machine guns. The Germans had been in Rome for less than six weeks, and by the looks of it, they were anticipating a long occupation. Walls had been torn down and reconfigured, offices sectioned off, and a long row of dark cells, rooms without toilets or beds, stretched down one corridor, and many of the cells were filled. Eva was deposited in a room that looked more like a closet and locked in. It was so dark it took her eyes several minutes to adjust. She could hear an occasional cry or barked command, and she put her hands over her ears to block it all out. Then she focused on what she would say if given the opportunity. Her mind kept tripping back to the melancholy German in his last moments.
She had hated him on sight. She’d hated him even more when he’d held his gun to her head. But then she’d seen his tears and felt his despair. She didn’t hate him now. She couldn’t. She understood him too well.
“Forgive me,” he’d said.
She did forgive him. Wholeheartedly. And she forgave her uncle Felix as well. For three long years she’d pushed all thoughts of him away. But there, in the dark, she could feel him with her.
They left her in the closet-like room for hours. Eva had no way of tracking the time, but she desperately needed to go to the bathroom, and her throat was so dry it was sharp when she tried to swallow.
When a soldier finally arrived and ushered her out, she was given a drink and allowed to use the bathroom—another dark closet with a bucket on the bare cement, overflowing with waste—before being led up a flight of stairs into an office that made the lower floors look like a different planet.
A uniformed German of medium height and compact build waited for her inside a large office beside a large mahogany desk, as if sitting were beneath him. His uniform was crisp, his manner brisk. His pale eyes were sharp, and his tone was sharper.
“I am Captain von Essen. What is your name, Fräulein?”
“Eva Bianco.” She’d been rehearsing her lines for hours.
“Why are you in Rome, Miss Bianco?”
“My brother is a priest at the Vatican. I came here to be closer to him and to find a job.”
“What is your brother’s name?”
“Angelo Bianco. He works for the Roman Curia.”
“No job in Naples?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You speak German very well. But you sound Austrian.”
She nodded.
“Surely, you didn’t learn to speak German so well in school.”
“I learned in school, but I had a music teacher who was Austrian.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of music?”
“He taught me to play the violin. I spent a great deal of time with him.”
“And where is your teacher now?”
“He is dead.” She thought he would ask for details, and he seemed to consider doing so, but changed tacks.
“A German soldier is dead too. He was a very dedicated officer. I am having trouble believing he would just walk in front of a streetcar.”
“But he did,” Eva said quietly. Firmly. He met her gaze and then lowered himself into his chair and steepled his fingers in contemplation.
“You did not push him?”
“No!”
“And you didn’t see anyone else push him.”
“No. No one pushed him. He seemed very . . . upset.”
“And how would you know this?”
“He held his gun to my head and demanded I play my violin for him,” Eva said simply.
Captain von Essen raised his furry blond eyebrows and leaned forward.
“And did you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Show me.” He pointed toward the door. Her violin case had been set against the wall, just to the left of the entrance. It had been taken from her, along with her documents, when she’d arrived. She wondered why he was asking her questions he obviously already knew the answers to.
She stood and retrieved the case, willing strength to her limbs. For the second time in one day, Eva was being ordered to perform, wound up tight like a jack-in-the-box and told to play for her release.
“Do you know any Wagner?” the German asked curiously.
Eva stiffened, hearing Felix’s voice in her head. No Wagner. He doesn’t care much for Jews. So I don’t care much for his compositions.
“Not well enough to play.”
“Hmm. What a shame. But there are so many wonderful German composers. Mozart, Chopin . . .”
“Mozart is Austrian. Chopin too,” Eva corrected him. She knew she sounded belligerent and was pleased at her tone. She wasn’t sure at what point she’d stopped being terrified. Maybe sitting in the dark with thoughts about suicide had tipped the balance.
“But Austria no longer exists. You must know. Austria and Germany are one in the same,” he reasoned.
Eva just nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Play Chopin,” he demanded.
Eva lifted the violin obediently. Shutting the captain out, she found the thread of music in her memory, the variation she’d played for Uncle Felix. Chopin mixed with Rosselli, sprinkled with Adler, and doused with anger.
“Genug,” the captain said briskly. That’s enough. The music didn’t seem to impress him. Eva stopped immediately.
“Others have verified your claim. It appears you have done nothing wrong. You are free to go.” He stood once more, as if it had all been a formality to begin with, as if the hours she’d spent locked in a four-by-eight room were just an oversight. She stared at him stupidly, wondering if he was toying with her.
“Can you type?” he asked abruptly.
Eva stared at him blankly, trying to switch from Chopin, to freedom, to this new line of questioning.
“Yes.” Her answer sounded more like a question, lifted on the end, confused.
“I need a secretary who speaks German.”
Eva could only sit in frozen horror.
“You want me to work here?”
“Yes. Here. We will compensate you well. You will run errands. You will file. You will type. You will get coffee. Nothing too difficult. No one will hold a gun to your head and demand for you to play your violin.” He didn’t smile, though Eva was sure he was attempting to be humorous. “You said you needed a job,” he prodded.
“Yes. Yes, I do.” Her mind reeled with the horror and the possibilities.
“Then it is settled. Six days a week. You will have Sundays off. Be here Monday morning at eight. You will leave at five. Your brother—the priest—is here. He’s been waiting for you. You must tell him you were treated fairly.” It was not a suggestion.
Eva could only stare in amazement once more. Angelo was there?
“It is after curfew. We will have a car take you both home. You will report back on Monday.” He waited for her to stow her violin and then handed her her fake identity card. It had held up twice now. She would have to tell Aldo.
He had a soldier escort her to the reception area where two Germans with submachine guns were parked on both sides of the entrance and two more behind a large desk. Angelo sat on a metal chair with his head bowed. His hat had been removed and he held a cross in his hands. When she approached the bottom of the staircase, he raised his head halfheartedly, like he’d been lifting his head all day to disappointment.
He shot to his feet, his eyes on he
r face, scouring her expression for duress. She tried to smile to put him at ease, but the twist of her lips felt strange, and the effort made her feel like weeping, so she gritted her teeth and let the soldier lead the way.
“There is a car out front,” the young German said to Angelo. “You will both be taken home. Please follow me.” He strode briskly for the door, expecting them to do as he said. Angelo took Eva’s arm, clutching her so tightly she would have bruises. She welcomed his grip, though the irony that she would leave German headquarters bruised only by Angelo was not lost on her.
Their armed escort held open the door of a shiny Volkswagen for them, waiting as they slid into the backseat. He leaned down, his gray turtle-shell helmet pointing toward them.
“Address?”
Angelo answered for both of them, supplying the address that Eva assumed was the apartment he shared with Monsignor Luciano and his sister. The German snapped his heels together and shut the door firmly. He relayed the directions to the driver, and seconds later the car pulled away from the curb.
The streets were quiet, Romans hiding obediently in their homes waiting for sunrise when they could start the process all over again. She and Angelo didn’t converse. The German at the wheel shot them a curious look in the rearview mirror, his eyes lingering on Eva and then flitting to Angelo before looking away. Angelo had released her arm when she’d climbed into the vehicle, and he didn’t take it up again.
“There was a woman hung from a streetlight today. A partisan,” the driver said conversationally, in German. Neither Angelo nor Eva responded. “She asked for last rites. Were you aware, Father?” he pressed.
Angelo nodded once, but his hands balled into fists.
“When you said your sister had been brought in, Father, there was talk going around that the partisan was your sister. We don’t have many women at headquarters. Not yet. Fortunately, I was wrong.” He commenced whistling like it was truly a happy occurrence.
