From Sand and Ash

by Amy Harmon

  It was something Eva had noticed early on in many of the Catholic clergy, this embrace that was never consummated. It left her feeling bereft. Maybe Jews were more demonstrative, more physically affectionate. Or maybe that was just Camillo, just her family. Her father had kissed her cheeks whenever he greeted her, as if he didn’t see her every single day. Every single day until, one day, he was gone. Until he’d boarded the train, waving reassuringly, and he’d never come back.

  Deep down, in that part of her soul where Eva kept painful truths tucked away, like grains of sand that chafed and bothered, she knew Camillo wasn’t coming home. And she prayed every day that he wasn’t suffering. That was another grain of sand, rubbing her raw when she allowed herself to think about him at all. If he were gone, she would learn to endure. She had learned to endure. But if he were suffering, that she couldn’t abide. Her loved ones were her Achilles’ heel. She supposed it was good that she had so few loved ones left. If she was going to be a spy, it made her less vulnerable.

  In mid-December, charged with the task of emptying garbage cans and finding a crate of office supplies that had been delivered but that no one could account for, Eva stumbled across an out-of-the-way janitorial closet that wasn’t being used for cleaning supplies or paper, envelopes, or typewriter ribbon.

  It wasn’t even locked.

  Shoved in the corner, behind a small row of empty shelves, was a barrel overflowing with gold. Gold that had once belonged to Rome’s Jewish population, still in the very same container it had been collected in. Eva touched it in horrified disbelief, running her hands over it, sifting through the bracelets and the pins and ropes and chains. There were gold teeth and rare coins and wedding bands. She picked up a dainty ring and realized it was Giulia’s. Giulia had given her ring to keep Rome’s Jews from being slaughtered. But they’d been taken anyway, some of them reduced to ash, and Giulia’s ring sat in a closet at Via Tasso collecting dust—ignored, forgotten, and completely insignificant to the men who had extorted it.

  Suddenly, Eva was crying, the tears sliding down her cheeks and falling into the barrel filled with the only remains of so many who were taken. It had all been a charade—a tactic—and the sheer, malevolent gall of the shakedown was almost more than she could bear. They hadn’t even needed the gold. They hadn’t even sent it back to Germany. It was inconsequential, as inconsequential as the Jews themselves.

  Filled with fury, Eva shoved Giulia’s ring on her finger, determined to return it. Then she stuck her hands deep into the barrel, and sifted the pieces through her fingers, looking for something, anything, that might have belonged to her family. Augusto had given a gold watch chain, several tie pins, and a gold ring. Bianca had given much more than that. She opened her hands and looked at the treasure, her angry tears making it all run together in a shiny tangle, one piece indistinguishable from the next.

  She released the treasure and stepped back, sickened by the sight but unsure of what to do. It might take all day to find Bianca’s jewelry, and Bianca was gone. But the gold didn’t belong here. It didn’t belong to the Germans. Without a plan or a purpose, other than to balance the scales of justice, to take back what was stolen, Eva started filling the pockets in her slim skirt.

  Two handfuls in she realized that wouldn’t work. She emptied her pockets and took the little garbage can she’d intended to empty and dumped out its contents. Then she put four handfuls of gold in the bottom and covered it back up with the trash. She paused over a thin, gold-plated nail file and impulsively slid it into her shoe, where it rested between her foot and the left side. It was a pathetic weapon against the danger all around her, but she felt better immediately. She wiped her eyes, straightened her blouse, and smoothed her hair. Then she opened the door and flipped off the light, and with her back straight and her head high, she walked up the stairs and back toward the offices on the third floor, swinging the can from one hand, easy as you please.

  The money her father had set aside to aid the refugees was gone, used up by the unending, overwhelming need of so many. It had been gone for a while, and the money in an account in the United States was difficult for Angelo to access. She would return to the closet every time Angelo and Monsignor O’Flaherty needed money for their refugees. The gold would go a long way. Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah.

  15 December, 1943

  Confession: I am an unrepentant thief.

  I found gold at the Via Tasso, gold that had been extorted from Rome’s Jews, and I took some of it. I put it in my hat and pinned my hat to my head to hide it on the bus ride home. It worked quite well, though a chain was tangled in my hair when I removed my hat. When I showed it to Angelo, he didn’t cry the way I did when I found it. He yelled instead. He yelled at me and told me I was the most foolish woman he’d ever met. When I yelled back and told him I would be taking more, and I would keep taking it because it didn’t belong to the German thieves, he cursed, kicked the wall as hard as he could with his prosthetic leg, then hugged me so tightly I could hardly breathe. I could feel his heart pounding against my cheek, and though I don’t want him to be afraid for me, I can’t find it in myself to regret taking the gold. I will take more, and more, and more. I will take every last piece. They won’t miss it, they stole it, and we need it. They’ve forgotten it’s even there.

  Giulia wept when I returned her wedding band. When I told her and Mario where I’d found the gold, they were as sickened and angry as me. But they didn’t yell at me for taking it. Instead, they started devising ways to get the entire barrel out of German Headquarters. Mario insisted it could be traded on the black market for everything from milk to shoes and safe passage to Switzerland, and he pressed Angelo to take the gold and use it. Angelo has so many to look after, so many people to be afraid for, but I think the main reason he took it was so I wouldn’t try to barter with it myself.

  Mario must have sensed his hesitation, because he told him that that much gold could save hundreds of lives. Angelo nodded and agreed but said he was more worried about my life and the danger I put myself in by taking it.

  I reminded him that I am not the priority. He didn’t argue, but I could see his response all over his face when he looked at me. I am his priority. I’m not sure when it happened, but I am his priority.

  The gold file I took from the barrel and slid in the side of my shoe is still there. It isn’t much of a weapon, though it is quite sharp. Still, it reminds me of what has been done to us, and it gives me courage.

  Eva Rosselli

  CHAPTER 15

  CHRISTMAS

  The day before Christmas Eve, first thing in the morning, Angelo cornered Monsignor O’Flaherty in his office and bade him to follow him to the loading dock at the rear of the Vatican where the kitchen and the service entrances were located.

  “I have a surprise for you, Monsignor. An answer to our prayers.”

  “Which prayer, Angelo? I’ve put up quite a few different ones as of late.”

  “Food, clothing, supplies. Presents.”

  “Presents?”

  “Didn’t you say some of our smallest pilgrims are in need of Christmas cheer?”

  “What magic have you done, Angelo?” O’Flaherty’s eyes lightened with hope.

  “I haven’t done anything, really. One of my refugees found a pot of gold,” Angelo said with a bad Irish brogue.

  “Whatever do you mean?” O’Flaherty gasped.

  “You’ve met Eva. She is the one who works at Gestapo Headquarters.”

  “Ah, yes. Eva.” O’Flaherty narrowed his gaze on Angelo’s face. “Monsignor Luciano has mentioned her as well.”

  Angelo didn’t want to know what Monsignor Luciano had said.

  “She found the gold that Kappler demanded from the Jews. The fifty kilograms. It was in a storage closet at Via Tasso, pushed back in the corner like no one knew what to do with it.”

  The monsignor crossed himself and released his breath. “Dear Lord. What a travesty.”

  “She found
a ring that belonged to her aunt’s sister. A woman we’re hiding. She took some of the gold. Handfuls of it. And the next day she went back for seconds.”

  The monsignor looked at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. Angelo wondered if he had looked the same when Eva had told him what she’d done. She was too fearless for her own good.

  “Well, it certainly doesn’t belong to the Germans,” O’Flaherty said, shaking his head like he still couldn’t believe it.

  “No. It doesn’t. But she didn’t take it for herself. She gave it to me, and I used it to buy all of this.” He lifted the flaps of the truck and O’Flaherty whistled, low and slow, when he saw the interior, filled to overflowing with food and toys and miscellaneous supplies.

  “It’s Christmas, Monsignor. We have presents to deliver.”

  The monsignor began to laugh and spin, and before Angelo knew it, he was being pulled into an Irish jig.

  “Father, I can’t dance!” he yelped, trying not to fall flat on his backside.

  “Sure ya can!” The monsignor laughed, but he released Angelo to finish the steps alone, laughing and kicking up his heels.

  “Eva wrapped all of them and labeled them so we can gift them appropriately. The Jews celebrate Hanukkah, not Christmas, but she says it doesn’t matter. She says we can all celebrate Christ this year, as it is his church protecting her people.”

  “I like this girl.” O’Flaherty laughed, and he danced a few more steps.

  Angelo liked her too, but he didn’t offer commentary.

  “Well. I guess we should be about the Lord’s business, then.” Monsignor O’Flaherty clapped him on the back. “Let’s go!”

  They set out across the city, delivering goods and blessings to the children hidden in monasteries and convents where there was never enough to eat, a great deal of need, and very little cheer. It was a bit of a risk for O’Flaherty to leave the Vatican at all, but one he frequently took, and as members of the Curia, it was not suspicious whatsoever for the monsignor and Angelo to be together delivering Christmas cheer to convents and monasteries throughout the city.

  “Your Eva. Tell me about her,” the monsignor insisted from the passenger seat. Angelo was driving and enjoying himself thoroughly. He didn’t get the opportunity very often, and he never let his prosthetic stop him.

  He looked over at the monsignor, wondering at his use of the word your, but he didn’t protest or disagree.

  “Growing up, we were as close as two people can be,” he said. “My grandparents worked for her father, in his home. I came to Italy when I was eleven, and I lived with her family when I wasn’t at the seminary. I love her more than my own life.” It was the truth without all the complicated subtexts and side stories.

  “Yet you became a priest,” O’Flaherty said thoughtfully.

  “Yes.”

  Monsignor O’Flaherty looked out the window and said nothing for a while, as if his thoughts were tangled up in Angelo’s twisted choices.

  “She is a beautiful girl,” he said quietly.

  “Yes.” Angelo braced himself.

  “I hear she plays the violin.”

  “She does. She’s been classically trained. She’s very accomplished.”

  “I wonder if she can play any Celtic music,” O’Flaherty mused, and Angelo relaxed. “I miss it.”

  “She can play almost anything by ear. I will ask her if she can oblige you.”

  “She doesn’t work on Christmas, does she?”

  “No.”

  “Then she should come with us tomorrow. We won’t be able to make all our deliveries in one day. We will go to the schools on Christmas Day. She should see the fruits of her labor.”

  “The fruits of her thievery,” Angelo said with a small grin.

  “That too!”

  Eva borrowed a wimple and a veil for the deliveries. If they were stopped, which they probably would be, considering the checkpoints all over the city, she would need to look as if she belonged in a Vatican delivery vehicle with two Catholic priests, and it would mean fewer questions and explanations at the seminaries and schools as well.

  They introduced her to the monks and the nuns as Sister Eva, and left it at that. Monsignor O’Flaherty had a personality that outshone everyone in the room, and Eva and Angelo hung back and let him hug and laugh and generally draw the attention to himself. But Eva was lovely and oddly alluring with her covered hair and veiled figure, and she was impossible to ignore completely.

  The final stop was the Seminario di San Vittorio, where the oldest boys stared with wistful smiles and the little boys surrounded her with wide eyes and careful hands, touching her borrowed robes like she was the Virgin herself, come to visit on Christmas Day.

  They were all receiving haircuts, lined up in a long row. The older ones were being taught to shave, and Eva had the grand idea of soaping up the dirty little faces of the youngest boys and giving them “shaves” as well, making them sit very still, scraping off the suds with the dull edge of a butter knife, and patting their small faces dry with a clean towel. She got smiles and clean, shiny cheeks in the process, and she kissed each one and gave him a piece of hard candy when she finished.

  After Mass, they roasted the chestnuts the monks had been hoarding for months in an attempt to provide a Christmas treat. The smell was deep and rich, but the flavor was even better. The chestnuts were continually moistened with a brush as they cooked, then piled into a basket and tossed into the air repeatedly until the burned outer shell flaked off and revealed the white delicacy beneath. Eva proclaimed it the best thing she had ever eaten, and Angelo had to agree. As privileged as Eva’s upbringing had been—and by association, his own upbringing—there were some things that privilege could not buy. The scent of chestnuts roasted on a fire, the sound of childish voices laughing, and the sense of oneness and purpose shared among the impoverished group gave the evening a burnished glow that Angelo knew he would never forget. A child of maybe three or four, a little boy so small Angelo was afraid to hold him too tightly, found his way to Angelo’s lap, his newly shorn curls resting against Angelo’s chest. His parents had been killed in the San Lorenzo air raid in July. The seminaries and schools run by monks and nuns were becoming orphanages for the lost and hiding.

  Eva had brought her violin and played “Adeste Fidelis” and “Tu scendi dalle stelle” at every stop, and she did so again before they left the humble school, making the monsignor weep, the monks bow their heads in worship, and the children sing softly. Even the Jewish children sang, feeling a oneness with the holy child born to poverty. For a few hours they had been released from fear and deprivation, caught up in the festivity and the spirit of the occasion.

  “You come down from the stars

  Oh, King of Heavens,

  And you come in a cave

  In the cold, in the frost,

  And you come in a cave

  In the cold, in the frost.

  Oh, my divine baby

  I see you trembling here,

  Oh, blessed God

  Ah, how much it costs you,

  Your loving me.

  Ah, how much it costs you,

  Your loving me.”

  “How do you know those songs?” the monsignor asked Eva once they were headed back to the Vatican, bouncing down unpaved roads, huddled together in the cab of the delivery truck. He hummed a couple bars and was immediately wiping his eyes once again with the memory of the sweet Christmas melodies. “You are Jewish.”

  “But I am also Italian,” Eva answered easily. “You aren’t Italian if you don’t know ‘Tu scendi dalle stelle.’”

  “Ah, forgive me my Irish blunder,” he said in English with a purposeful brogue. “Sing it for me, then, lassie.”

  She sang softly, in a voice as clear and lovely as her violin. She knew every verse, but it was one line that made Angelo’s throat close and his eyes smart. Ah, how much it costs you, your loving me. Ah, how much it costs you, your loving me.

  Angelo could only c
ling to the wheel, his eyes on the road and his heart on fire, looking out into the starry darkness and feeling the monsignor’s gaze on his face.

  January of 1944 was as gray and wet as December of 1943 had been. Like everyone else in the occupied city, the convents and the clergy listened on pilfered radios as the Americans seemed to make one misstep after another as they climbed Italy’s boot toward Rome. The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth signaled the nightly reports of the Allied movements from the BBC, and it rarely brought good news. The Germans celebrated and dug in their heels, claiming success at every turn.

  But there were small victories. Monsignor O’Flaherty had the inspired idea to let the Jewish population gather for worship services in the excavated church that sat beneath the existing Basilica di San Clemente al Laterano. The basilica was not far from the Colosseum and was under Irish diplomatic protection, providing a measure of safety for the refugees to assemble. The basilica had three tiers, the lowest tier a first-century home that had later grown into the fourth-century church above it, built to provide persecuted Christians with a place to worship. The significance of that history was not lost on the Jews and those who sheltered them. It was dank and the walls continually wept with moisture and echoed with the sound of rushing water from the subterranean river that ran beneath the church, but there was peace and a sense of sanctuary within the space.

  Despite the danger, Eva and the Sonnino family, along with other members of their underground community, would meet for worship when circumstances allowed. They assembled on the right-hand aisle of the ancient basilica under a faded fresco of Tobias, an Old Testament figure with whom they could identify, clinging to each other and the very traditions that had exiled them and at the same time made them one.