by Amy Harmon
Eva would sit with Giulia and little Emilia, Lorenzo would sit with his father and the men, and they would sing the songs and recite the prayers of those who had come before, doing the best to keep the roots alive, to remember what it meant to be ebrei—the beauty, the symbolism, the sense of community and family.
Emilia’s sweet voice would rise above the rest, childish and clear, and in that sound was the future and the past. Eva would hold the little girl’s hand, singing with her, and as she sang she thought of her father and Felix, of her mother and her grandparents. She thought of freedom and sunshine, of love and hope, and she longed for the days of sand and sea, when Babbo had made glass and life had been simple.
Sand and ash. The ingredients of glass. Such beauty created from nothing. It had been something Babbo had marveled about and something she’d never understood. From sand and ash, rebirth. From sand and ash, new life. With every song and with every prayer, with every small rebellion, Eva felt reborn, renewed, and she vowed to press on. She vowed to push back, to make glass from the ashes, and that courage was a victory in itself.
Eva kept pilfering gold from Via Tasso, and Angelo—priest turned smuggler—managed to convert it into sustenance. But the biggest triumph by far, achieved through a strange series of events and the curiosity of Greta von Essen, was the new printing press for Aldo Finzi to continue his work.
Greta von Essen, Captain von Essen’s very bored and very lovely wife, had taken a liking to Eva, probably because Eva, with her German language skills, was one of the few people she could talk to. Greta was a striking woman in her late thirties with no children to occupy her time, so she filled her days with hobbies and housekeeping. She also regularly wheedled Eva away from Via Tasso for lunch and shared intimate details of her life with “Wilhelm” that Eva would really rather not hear.
She broke down and cried in her wine at lunch one day, telling Eva she was a disappointment to her husband and a failure to the Reich. “It is our duty to have children for the fatherland. And I can’t seem to have any. Wilhelm is embarrassed of me. He is certain my infertility is the reason he hasn’t risen more quickly up the ranks.”
Eva patted her hand and made soothing clucking noises, but she was more than happy to oblige Greta when she suggested they finish their lunch and take a detour past a new row of shops, shifting her attention and the topic of conversation from Wilhelm and infertility. They found themselves in a fashionable district a few streets over, lined with dress shops, haberdasheries, perfumeries, and a small but distinguished bookstore with ornate gold lettering in the windows. There was a padlock on the door and a stack of newspapers piled in front of the door.
Greta, an avid collector of everything old or valuable, peeked brazenly through the windows, trying to see what remained inside. It was obvious that none of the inventory had been removed, yet the shop was not open for business.
“What does that say?” Greta asked, pointing at the words on the window.
“Libri nuovi e rari—New and rare books,” Eva translated quietly. It said, “Luzzatto e Luzzatto” in bigger letters just above it. Eva felt the same old nausea rise in her throat. She was certain the Luzzattos were never coming back. Luzzatto was a Jewish-Italian name, and the bookstore had probably been sitting empty since the October roundup. The Germans had put the padlock on the door as if they now owned the place, but Greta was certain she could coax a key and a chance to explore out of her husband.
“There might be books worth thousands of dollars on those shelves. You know how Hitler loves his art and his precious things. Think of what I might find! Wilhelm could present the Führer with a one-of-a-kind gift!”
Eva would rather rot than watch Greta find a stolen treasure for Captain Wilhelm von Essen to present to the Führer, but she held her tongue, and her self-control was rewarded.
Three days later, Eva accompanied Greta and a German soldier—who seemed relieved to be out of Via Tasso for a while—back to the bookstore. Mrs. von Essen was decked out in a fur coat and a flirty little netted hat shading her big blue eyes, but when they walked inside the dusty establishment, she shed both and dug into her treasure hunt with a gusto that had Eva eager to stay out of her way. The German soldier must have had a similar response. He stepped out on the sidewalk and pulled a lighter from his pocket, more interested in a cigarette break than rows of old books.
She was browsing the titles when she discovered a little door tucked behind a tall row of the dustiest shelves. The door led down a flight of stairs that resembled the excavated sacristy at the Santa Cecilia, but she descended them carefully and found her own treasure at the bottom. Luzzatto hadn’t just been a bookseller. He’d been a publisher, and there, in a basement that looked more like a grotto, was a printing press with all the bells and whistles, cranks and trays, to make Aldo Finzi a very happy and productive man.
Best of all, there was a separate entrance leading up to the alley behind the shop and a set of keys hanging from a nail by the door. She tested the keys on the outside entrance, verifying they worked. Then she silently thanked Signore Luzzatto and dropped the keys into the pocket of her coat before climbing the old stairs and locking the little door securely behind her. They were back in business.
CHAPTER 16
FEBRUARY
“Aldo has another batch of documents ready to go,” Angelo said. “After you finish work today, he will meet you at the trattoria near the streetcar stop. Order a pastry. He will stand behind you in line. Drop your pocketbook, and he will hand it to you with the pouch of documents. Take your pastry. Leave. Don’t talk to him; don’t interact with him at all. He is a stranger.”
Eva nodded. Angelo hated giving her assignments like this, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the bookstore was closer to her than it was to him.
“Trattoria, drop my pocketbook. Leave. I can do that,” she assured him.
“Don’t go to Santa Cecilia. Meet me at the Sacred Heart. If you’re there first, light a candle and pray.”
“It is Shabbat.”
“Yes. I know,” he said with a small smile. “I will try to be there before dark so you can get home. Otherwise, plan on staying there for the night.”
“Why don’t you want me to go to Santa Cecilia?”
“The Sacred Heart is closer to Via Tasso for you and easier for me to access.”
“And if for some reason I am followed or caught, I won’t be endangering anyone else,” Eva added.
That too. But Angelo refused to consider the possibility that she would be followed or caught. She must have seen the concern in his face, because she immediately changed the subject, and they parted minutes later, Eva heading across town to Via Tasso, Angelo heading the opposite direction to Vatican City.
Eva was running late. Von Essen had brought her a report to type at four thirty, telling her it was of “the utmost importance” and asking her to leave it on his desk when she was finished. He continually forgot that he had told her she could leave at four thirty. He was on his way out, taking some new arrivals on some sort of patrol. He enjoyed patrols. It was something she’d noticed before. His SS uniform was crisp, his weapon at the ready, his boots gleaming like a mirror. They wouldn’t stay that way for long. It had been raining all day, making the dreary afternoon seem never-ending, making the hour seem later than it actually was.
She left the headquarters on Via Tasso at five thirty, a half hour later than the prearranged meeting time. She pulled a scarf over her hair to protect it from the rain and ran, hoping it would only appear she was trying to catch a bus or streetcar, rushing to the trattoria, praying Aldo had waited. She slowed to a walk and stood in line for her pastry as instructed, but Aldo didn’t fall in behind her. She bought a sweet roll and stood under the dripping striped canopy, eyes scanning, nibbling at the cinnamon-and-sugar-encrusted luxury that should have been savored. She was too uptight to savor it and ended up eating the whole thing without even tasting it. It was six o’clock—curfew—and she needed to
get off the street.
And then she saw him, walking briskly toward her, a folded newspaper clutched in his hands. She dusted the sugar from her hands and threw her napkin away, trying to appear casual. She stuffed her icy fingers in her coat pockets and started moving down Via Regala, away from the trattoria and toward Aldo, when a whistle blew and a shout rang out behind her. It was just barely curfew and she didn’t think the shout was directed at her, so she kept walking, not even turning her head. But Aldo’s eyes jerked toward the source of the ruckus, and she saw him shove the newspaper inside his coat. The document pouch must be inside.
“Keep walking!” he hissed, not glancing at her as he passed. A whistle rang out again. Eva kept walking, just as instructed.
“Buonasera, comandante,” she heard Aldo say, his voice cheerful and slow and far too loud. He sounded drunk. “Care for a drink? I’m buying!”
He would be fine. Aldo would be fine. He was an older man with good papers, papers he’d painstakingly created himself. He would be fine. The commander said something in German and Aldo laughed uproariously. She recognized the voice. It wasn’t a commander. It was Captain von Essen.
Alarm clanged in her skull, and she did as she was told. Her coat was dark and so was the scarf over her hair. She wouldn’t be distinguishable from the back. She kept walking. Her heels clicked against the cobblestones, and she kept her pace steady, her eyes forward. She was at least thirty feet away. Forty feet away. Fifty.
Walk, walk, walk, walk, she commanded, the rhythm of the words and the tapping of her heels urging her to move faster, faster, faster. As she neared the corner she turned, ducking behind a gnarled olive tree and darting a glance back at Aldo, unable to slip away without first knowing how he fared.
Time doesn’t stop or give warning. It simply ticks along, marking time, ignoring humanity. Von Essen stood behind Aldo. He had placed the muzzle of his gun at the base of Aldo’s neck, almost like he was using the weapon to lift the collar of his raincoat.
Then he pulled the trigger.
Aldo Finzi crumpled to the ground like his legs had suddenly ceased to function. There was no protest—not from Aldo, not from the handful of uniformed men who now surrounded him. Not from Eva. No screams, no exclamations. Just the sound of a weapon being discharged.
And time kept its schedule without a thought for the man whose time had just run out. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Right. On. Time.
Von Essen put his gun back in the holster and pulled a silver cigarette case from a breast pocket. The click of the case counted off another second. The crisp strike of a match, another. A flame swelled and retreated, almost like it took a single breath and exhaled, and the captain lit his cigarette and snuffed it out. He dropped the match on the inert form at his feet and a thin wisp of smoke rose up from the dead man, as if his spirit rose and dissipated in the soggy dusk.
Eva stood, staring, as cold and as silent as time itself. She was the only other person out. Nothing cleared the area as effectively as a German patrol.
“Er war ein Jude,” von Essen said simply, his voice carrying down the street. He didn’t even try to moderate his volume. Why would he? Aldo was only a Jew. He’d only killed a Jew.
“How do you know?” One of his companions prodded Aldo with the toe of his boot, as if asking him to verify the captain’s claim.
“I told him to drop his pants,” von Essen said simply.
The soldier used his foot to turn Aldo to his back.
“Can’t hide the circumcised dick.” Laughter. Ha ha ha. Tick tick tock.
“Leave him for now. It is good for the Italians to see what happens when you don’t heed the law. They were warned. All Jews were to report months ago. He didn’t. Now he’s dead.”
They continued back the way they came, unconcerned, their footfalls fading with their voices.
Eva waited until she couldn’t hear them any longer. She was still rooted to the spot where she’d turned for one last look. She walked toward Aldo on legs that shook and wobbled like she was as drunk as Aldo had pretended to be. Forty feet, thirty feet, twenty, then ten. It was almost full dark, and though the rain had stopped, the air was still thick with moisture that threatened to fall. The wet streets shone blackly like Aldo’s blood. But she wouldn’t look at the blood.
Eva kept her eyes on Aldo’s face. His eyes were closed, mercifully so, and his glasses were slightly askew, making him look like a child who had fallen asleep reading. She crouched beside him and felt for the newspaper he’d shoved inside his coat. There. It was fat with documents. And it was still warm.
“Oh, God. Oh, dear God,” she moaned, feeling the bile rise. She wouldn’t think about it. She wouldn’t. Gritting her teeth, she dropped the pouch down the front of her dress, ignoring the sticky heat against her skin. The tight belt at her waist kept it from falling through to her feet. Then, purely by feel, she pulled the flaps of Aldo’s coat together, wanting to hide his nakedness, wanting to preserve his dignity in death. She straightened his glasses and rose, pulling her coat over the telltale bulge of the pouch. Then she made herself move, one step in front of the other, the cadence of her feet joining the metronome of time marching on and on and on, without relief.
Angelo was waiting. Pacing down the long aisle between the pews, his hands clasped, his head bent. She’d taken too long, and she realized he must have spent the last hours worrying that something had happened to her.
Something had happened to her.
He must have sensed her approach, and his head shot up, his face softening with relief when he saw her standing at the back of the church.
“I’m back, Angelo,” she said woodenly. “I have the . . . provisions.” That was the word they always used to refer to everything and anything. One never knew who was hiding, listening, watching. Provisions were vague. Documents were not.
She turned and made her way to the little door that led to the basement of the church. She needed to get rid of Aldo’s blood. Moments later, she heard Angelo descending the stairs. The pattern of his steps—thud, tap, thud, tap, thud, tap—unmistakable. Her mind drifted back to the retreating footsteps of Aldo’s killer, and she began to shake. She couldn’t unbutton her coat. Her fingers didn’t obey her orders.
“Eva! What happened? What took you so long?” He was growing alarmed. She could hear it in his voice.
He reached out to her, but Eva sidestepped him, unable to meet his gaze. Concentrating, she managed to shove the top button through its hole and then the next. When she reached the fifth button, she reached down the neckline of her dress and pulled the pouch free, tossing it at Angelo. He caught it easily and set it atop the small chest of drawers, his eyes trained on her face. He didn’t even look at it. Eva wondered if there was now blood on his hands.
Her brassiere was stuck to her chest and she was panting, pulling in just enough air to keep her standing, but not enough to feel the nausea that threatened to rise every time she breathed too deeply.
“I had to walk.” Her answer was so delayed it sounded stilted.
“All the way?”
“Yes. All the way.”
“But the curfew! Eva, you could have been arrested.”
“I had to walk. I have blood on my hands, on my clothes. I didn’t dare take a streetcar.”
“Blood? Are you hurt? Eva, dammit! Look at me.”
He grabbed at her hands, and turned them over. Eva’s eyes followed his, unable to avoid it any longer. The blood was minimal, surprisingly. She’d kept her hands in her pockets as she’d walked. There would be bloodstains in her pockets. She pulled her hands from Angelo’s, and shrugged her coat from her shoulders.
“Madre di Dio!” Angelo cried. The blood on her yellow dress was not minimal. It had soaked through the thin cotton between her breasts, narrowing like a funnel as it reached her belt.
Angelo grabbed her again, this time more insistently, loosening the belt and tugging at her collar. He ripped the fabric and buttons flew as he tried to get to the source
of the blood.
She didn’t even try to stop him.
The bra beneath looked worse, and Angelo yanked on the clasp and tossed it aside as his hands ran over her skin, across her chest and stomach, his fingers searching for a wound, his face as white as the panties she now stood in, her dress pooling around her feet, her hands covering her breasts.
“It’s not mine.”
His eyes rose from her skin to her face and his hands stilled.
“It’s not my blood. It’s Aldo’s. He’s dead.”
“Oh, no,” he groaned. “No.”
“Yes. He is,” Eva insisted brokenly.
“Tell me everything,” Angelo commanded, leading her to the sink.
As she talked, tripping over the terrible words, he washed her quickly, his hands deferential, his movements sure, cleaning the blood from her skin.
“I left him lying in the street,” Eva whimpered, the horror starting to break through the shock.
“No. You didn’t. They did. They left him lying in the street.”
“I tried not to look at the blood. He was drenched from the neck down. The bullet must have come out the other side.” She started to retch and shake and abandoned the sink to run to the toilet.
Angelo held her hair and stood silently beside her until she’d emptied herself out. Then he wrapped her in a blanket and led her to the small bed. Somewhere in a very distant part of Eva’s female brain, she registered that Angelo was seeing her without her clothes, that he’d removed her clothes and washed her, and she mourned for yet another first that had been ruined by war. Or made possible by war. He brought her water and demanded that she drink, and Eva obeyed gratefully, wincing as the cold liquid hit her empty belly.
