by Amy Harmon
“Breathe deeply. You have to breathe, Eva.”
“Von Essen didn’t even ask for his papers. He didn’t even ask! He wanted to humiliate him. And then he killed him.” Her teeth chattered as she spoke, and she realized how cold she was. She shivered desperately and the blanket fell back down, baring her shoulders and breasts and an expanse of skin that was covered in gooseflesh.
Angelo pulled the blanket up again and forced her to lie down. He pulled another blanket over her and tucked it around her firmly before he lay down beside her and pulled her against him, holding her tightly until her shivering subsided and her teeth stopped clacking together. All the while he talked and encouraged her to talk, as if he knew she needed to get it all out, every last detail.
“It’s not uncommon. It happens all the time. The Jewish men are even more vulnerable than the women in that regard. Their very flesh gives them away.”
“So Aldo died to deliver documents that are of no use, documents that couldn’t even save him?” Eva’s voice rose in disbelief, slightly hysterical once again.
“Shh. Shh, Eva,” Angelo soothed, smoothing her hair. “Aldo’s documents have saved many people. You have saved many people, Eva. You realize that, don’t you?”
Eva just shook her head, not ready for accolades just yet. She had walked away and Aldo had saved her, not the other way around.
“It was random. Just . . . random. I was almost to him, maybe ten feet away, when the voice called out behind me. Aldo told me to keep walking, and I did. I walked on, and Aldo walked to his death.”
Angelo was silent then, and she could feel his horror—it echoed her own—but his hand was heavy and comforting, a continual caress, as he smoothed her hair over and over again. They stayed that way for a long time, Eva cocooned in threadbare blankets and Angelo’s embrace. She started feeling sleepy, the return of warmth and the loss of adrenaline leaving her loose and drained. But she didn’t want to sleep. She was afraid if she slept Angelo would leave, and she would dream about terrible things and have to endure them alone.
The thought made her heart kick up and her breath shorten all over again.
“Eva?” Angelo’s voice lifted in concern, feeling the return of her tension.
She rolled into him, pressing her lips against his neck, just above the white collar that gleamed like a halo in the darkness. He didn’t react at first, as if she’d taken him by surprise. She opened her lips and tasted the scratchy skin of his throat, and felt him swallow back a curse or a groan. She couldn’t be sure.
She lifted her face and found the edge of his jaw, pressing insistent kisses along the squared-off plane, hungry for his mouth and for the mind-numbing pleasure she knew would follow. She needed him to kiss her and make her forget everything but him for just a little while. She found his lips, and he responded instantly, feverishly, only to tear himself away a second later.
“Eva. No,” he said softly and sat up, releasing her. She tried to follow him, but she was pinned by the blankets he’d wrapped her in, and she squirmed desperately, suddenly frantic to be free of them. She was panting, panicking, suffocating. She bucked, releasing her arms and loosening the blankets around her body. She pushed them down around her waist, then kicked her legs free so that she was stretched out, uncovered and uncowering.
She lay winded and relieved, her eyes on the low stone ceiling, the cold air welcome on her skin. Then she looked down at herself, staring at her body through new eyes, seeing herself as Angelo would see her. Above the plain white panties, her stomach was flat . . . too flat, the deprivations of war taking the softly rounded curve from her belly and her hips, making her more girlish than womanly. But the shadows were alluring, forgiving even, and her breasts were still full and high, the tips a dusky red against her pale skin.
Eva looked from her body to Angelo’s face. He was staring down at her unclothed form, his eyes desperate, his jaw clenched, as if fighting against the very demons that had swarmed the dark street and taken Aldo’s life. Then he lifted his gaze, and his eyes locked on hers. The raw devotion in his face sent a surge of something hot and powerful slicing through her chest. She had been powerless for so long.
She reached for Angelo’s hand and pulled it to her mouth, kissing his palm before dragging his fingers over her lips, her chin, down the length of her neck, and across her chest. She thought she heard him say her name, but there was a roaring in her ears, and she didn’t respond. She couldn’t. She pressed his hand against her left breast, the base of his palm resting against her thundering heart, his fingers brushing sensitive flesh. She shuddered and closed her eyes. It felt so safe and warm. So heavy and delicious. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t curve his hand against her or make the caress his own.
She didn’t care.
She was filled with reckless desire, and she slid his flattened palm sideways to include her other breast, the peaks pebbling in response. His hand trembled against her skin, and her belly vibrated like a violin string as the bow was slowly pulled across it. Her body hummed with a building crescendo, and Eva dragged Angelo’s hand down over her ribs, across her abdomen, past the hollow between her hip bones. Then she pushed his palm lower, gasping at the contact.
She could feel her pulse there—an aching, insistent thrumming—as if her heart had followed Angelo’s hand. Maybe it was her brush with death, watching a life end so violently right before her eyes. Maybe it was just the incessant threat that lurked at the edge of every single moment. But her body burned with desperate life, with frantic need, and the simple weight of Angelo’s hand pressed at her center was enough to have her clinging to his wrist, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as her body tightened and then teetered, tumbling over and over, quaking and pulsing against his warm palm.
And still Angelo was silent and unmoving, an unwilling participant, and as Eva’s head cleared and her body cooled, she became instantly hyperaware, her sense and inhibitions returning with her release.
Bliss became intense mortification.
She let go of Angelo’s wrist at once and curled away from him, his fingers trailing heavily across her hip as she rolled and withdrew. She pressed her hand to her mouth to muffle the sobs, but now she cried from shame, humiliated by what she’d done, by what he’d seen, by what she’d made him do. And still her body sang softly, betraying her.
She felt him shift and her blankets were drawn up loosely around her shoulders, covering her nakedness and her shame. His hand rose to her face, and he wiped her tears away, brushing them back into her hair.
“Don’t cry, Eva. Please don’t cry,” he whispered. “I understand.”
She only cried harder, not able to believe him.
Then he was holding her again, turning her so her face was pressed into his neck, her arms folded between them. His breathing was harsh, and his entire body was rigid, like he wanted to bolt.
“I’m sorry, Angelo,” she moaned softly.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
He pressed his lips to her temple and continued to smooth her hair, reassuring her, shushing her like her father used to.
“Shh, Eva. Shh. I understand.”
But her tears continued to fall.
Eva drifted off that way, her face in the crook of his neck, his hand in her hair, tears on her cheeks. When Angelo was certain she was deeply sleeping, he moved away from her, his body aching with need and denial. His left arm was numb and his back stiff from holding such an unyielding position. He hadn’t wanted her to feel what she did to him. He didn’t want her to know that his will was crumbling.
He said he understood, and he did. She’d been desperate for the affirmation that only the most intense experiences—sex, danger, pain—can provide. He’d heard enough confessions of battle-weary soldiers who had succumbed to self-pleasure or sex or worse in the oddest of circumstances. It was a very natural reaction. He understood. But it had required every ounce of his faith and his self-control not to partake or participate, not t
o take advantage of her vulnerable moment. But he hadn’t stopped her or averted his eyes, and just like King David watching Bathsheba bathe, he suspected that it would cost him.
But first, it had cost her. She had apologized, and he had wanted to thank her. The thought shamed him, but it was the truth. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—and he’d been captured by a sense of surreal wonder, until he’d seen her despair, her embarrassment, and then he’d wanted to cry too.
He’d failed her over and over, and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to heal her or hold her or save her. He didn’t know how to be what she needed. All he knew was that he loved her desperately.
Desperately.
He wearily climbed the stairs and slipped into the silent church. Lighting a candle, he dropped his tired face into hands that smelled like Eva’s hair and groaned out his fears and his failings, asking God not to withdraw because of his weakness, and thanking Aldo Finzi, wherever his spirit had flown, for saving Eva’s life at the expense of his own.
8 March, 1944
Confession: I like Greta von Essen.
I can’t help but like her. She is kind, and she is sad—a very sympathetic combination. We are all products of the places we are raised, the people who love us or have power over us, and the things we hear, over and over again, as we grow.
Our beliefs don’t have to be based on personal experience, but when they are, they can rarely be altered. Greta has been told over and over that she is a beautiful disaster who has failed at the only thing she was created for. Her experiences have not disproved that.
Greta is shallow, but I have a feeling it is only because depth would drown her. So she floats on the surface and does her best to smile vapidly at her life and the man she is tied to. I have let her mother me, not because I want a new mother, but because she needs a child, and if I’m being honest, she provides me a small measure of safety, a buffer against the captain.
I like Greta von Essen, but I hate her husband. When I close my eyes I see his face, calm and cold, the way it looked before he pulled the trigger and killed Aldo.
Eva Rosselli
CHAPTER 17
MARCH
Lieutenant Colonel Kappler sent for Captain von Essen first thing Friday morning, and the angry shouting that reverberated through the surrounding offices was the talk of the staff at Gestapo Headquarters by lunchtime. Eva rarely saw the lieutenant colonel, and she was happy to keep it that way, but Captain von Essen worshipped him and did everything in his power to please him. Apparently, Himmler himself was in Rome bearing word of the Führer’s disappointment with Kappler’s inability to rein in the Italian resistance in and outside of Rome, as well as to uncover and smash the underground that provided safe haven for soldiers, partisans, and Jews.
Kappler and von Essen had been drawing up plans all week that included maps and consults with a thin, patrician Italian man with a German name, a man named Peter Koch who had established his own militarized band of Italian Fascists. The maps made Eva nervous, and the Fascist leader made her skin crawl. Thankfully, there was no sign of Koch that morning, but when Captain von Essen returned to his own office an hour later, his face was flushed and his eyes were bright, as if the confrontation with the Gestapo chief had brought on a raging fever.
“Follow me,” he commanded as he passed Eva’s desk. She grabbed her dictation notebook and a pencil and trotted after him, hoping whatever had possessed him wasn’t contagious. He didn’t wait to tell her what was on his mind.
“Herr Himmler is in town, and the lieutenant colonel wants to impress him. There will be a dinner tomorrow evening with the most important people in Italy. Rich men, beautiful women, wine, the finest food, the best entertainment.”
Apparently, the responsibility for the gala had been delegated to the captain. If the captain was a smart man, he would call his wife.
“What is the nicest hotel in Rome?” he asked Eva.
“The Villa Medici, Captain. It overlooks the Spanish Steps, and it’s reasonably close to the Trevi Fountain and all the finest shopping. It’s a beautiful hotel.”
It was the first thing that came to Eva’s mind. She’d overheard two women talking about the hotel, newly restored and renovated with an acclaimed chef, on the streetcar that morning. She parroted what she’d heard, hoping the women knew what they were talking about.
The captain was on his phone immediately, demanding to be put through to the Villa Medici. Eva made a hasty retreat but could hear him snapping out orders and demands.
“Fräulein Bianco!” he called, causing her to jump from her desk and quickly return to his office. “Where can I find entertainment at this short notice? The hotel has a small dinner band, but I need something more. Something special.”
Eva was at a loss. She didn’t think the captain would be interested in Catholic children’s choirs or chanting monks, which were about the only thing she had access to at the moment.
“You.” He stood from his chair abruptly and rounded his desk, pointing at her accusingly. “You!” he repeated, practically shouting.
“What?”
“Himmler loves classical music. You are a violinist. A very good violinist, if I recall. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart. You will play. A beautiful Italian woman playing the violin. Perfect.” He slapped his gloves against his desk victoriously and reached for his phone once more, as if it were decided.
Eva could only stutter and stare.
“But I would have to practice! I haven’t performed in ages. And I have absolutely nothing appropriate to wear to such an affair,” she protested.
“I’ve heard you play. You will be wonderful. You have until eight o’clock tomorrow evening to practice. And Greta will help you with a dress. I will send for her immediately.” He waved his hand toward the door, signaling that he was done with her.
“I can’t do it! Please, Captain.”
“You will do it. I’m leaving you no choice in the matter. Must I hold a gun to your head and demand that you play?” He raised his blond eyebrows and cocked his head, waiting for a response.
Eva stared at him in horror. Did he think this was funny?
“I have all the confidence in the world that you will be able to pull this off, lovely Eva,” he said softly. “I know you will not let me down. Now be a very good girl and leave my office.”
Greta was ecstatic, rushing Eva from one shop to the next, insisting on dressing her from top to bottom—lacy lingerie and silky hose that were as rare as a cup of espresso made with real coffee beans instead of the chicory most Italians were drinking.
She had the dressmaker squeeze Eva into a red dress so low and tight that Eva broke out in nervous hives and refused to come out of the dressing room.
“Something elegant that I can actually play in, Greta, please! I don’t think you are understanding the gravity of the situation. I can’t breathe. If I can’t breathe, I can’t think, and if I can’t think, I can’t play. If I don’t play, your husband and I will face the firing squad.”
Greta tittered as if such a thing were preposterous, but she found a sleeveless, glimmering black sheath with a low, square neck that skimmed Eva’s body without being tight.
“We will paint your nails, and you will wear red on your lips. Wear your hair down. We want to play up your Italian beauty.”
No, Greta, Eva thought. Drawing attention to herself was the most dangerous thing she could do.
As if she could hear Eva’s thoughts, Greta added slyly, “When Herr Himmler sees you, he will want to make you his mistress.” Greta laughed again, but there was a concerned crease between her brows, as if it had just occurred to her that Eva worked for her husband. Eva’s stomach knotted all over again.
“Are you trying to terrify me, Greta?” Eva asked softly. “I cannot think of anything worse than catching Herr Himmler’s eye.”
“He is a very powerful man.” Greta shrugged, her eyes a guil
eless blue.
“I have no desire to be with a powerful man.”
“What kind of man do you want?” Greta asked, removing the pins from Eva’s hair so she could see the effect. She ran her fingers through the curls and pulled all the hair to one side, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“A good man. A kind man. A man who loves me.” Angelo’s face rose up in her mind, but she pushed his image away. She had humiliated herself in front of him, and every time she thought about him, her temperature rose, her skin flushed, and her body felt like a wanton stranger’s. They hadn’t talked about what had occurred between them after Aldo’s death. She couldn’t, Angelo wouldn’t, so they’d simply gone on, pretending it hadn’t happened.
“You are in love with someone!” Greta interrupted her reverie. She was staring at Eva with wide eyes. “I can see it in your face. You are all pink and rosy! Tell me.”
“What? No. I’m not,” Eva stammered.
“Yes. You are. There is someone. I’m going to be relentless until I find out who he is.”
“He is just a boy from home. It is nothing. I don’t want to talk about him,” Eva said.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Greta wheedled.
“Greta! Please. I don’t want to talk about him.” She didn’t want to talk about him. It was enough that she thought about him constantly, about the hopelessness of loving a man who would not yield, the hopelessness of a life spent hiding and pretending. When the war ended and she went home to Florence, what then? The thought of returning to the time when she’d spent years on end without seeing him was worse than her fear of death. It was worse than Via Tasso. Worse than the convent with the quiet walls and the quieter nuns. It was unimaginable.
Greta pouted, an adorable, practiced expression that Eva was sure she used on her husband. “But what else is there? Love is the only excitement we women have.”
“Maybe when the war is over I will think about love. Right now, I’m too afraid to think of anything else. I just want to survive tomorrow night.” Eva changed the subject.
