From Sand and Ash

by Amy Harmon

  “There are worse things than being afraid,” Greta said gravely, her sudden sadness catching Eva off guard.

  “What?” Eva asked softly.

  “Being resigned is far worse. Being afraid lets you know you still want to live.”

  “Then I must want to live very badly,” Eva whispered. “Because I am very afraid.”

  Greta squeezed her arm, their eyes meeting in the mirror. They were a striking contrast—Greta blond and statuesque, Eva dark and slim beside her.

  “I envy you,” Greta said wistfully. “You have your whole life before you.”

  “But none of us knows how long that life will be. My life could end tomorrow.”

  “All the more reason to wear beautiful clothes and play beautiful music.” Greta winked, shaking off the seriousness that had them both frowning. “Now you must be sure and invite your brother. He will be so proud of his little sister. Plus, it will be wise to let others see you have a protector.”

  The certainty that the night would end in disaster had Eva rushing home after Greta’s shopping spree and practicing her violin deep into the night, apologizing to the other refugees, who endured hour after hour of frenzied music. When it grew late, she banished herself to the church to allow the convent to rest, and continued playing and praying, plotting her performance as if her life depended on it, for, deep down, she believed it did.

  The dress was simple, but the black silk gleamed and fell around her slim form, giving her an understated elegance. Her hair was carefully curled and deeply parted, tucked behind her ear on one side where a dangling diamond played hide-and-seek every time she turned her head. Her lips were red and her dark eyes softly lined. She was pale, but her skin was pearly and it looked dramatic against the ebony dress.

  She stood on a small stage, all alone in the very center, and she raised the roof and the hair on his neck, piece after glorious piece. The audience clapped and there was no conversation, even hushed and polite, when she played.

  She’d been waiting in front of his building that morning, her eyes tired and her nerves raw, and when she’d told him about the gala and he’d seen her fear, he had swallowed his own and bit back his insistence that she go into hiding. It had been a constant refrain in his head. Hide her. Hide her. Hide her. She’d refused every time. Insisting now would be no different, so he would be strong for her instead.

  “Why are you afraid, Eva? You have been doing this all your life. You are a magnificent violinist. You have played for thousands. Surely, you can play for a mere handful.”

  She had dropped her face into her hands, and he had shoved his fists into the pockets of his cassock to hide his tremors. She was afraid because she would be a Jewish girl in a room full of German police, the same reason he wanted to whisk her away and lock her in the cloister.

  “I don’t want to share this with them,” she had whispered. “My talent is mine. My skill is mine. Mine and Felix’s. And I don’t want to entertain them. I don’t want to give them pleasure or enjoyment. I want to spit in their soup. I want to break dishes and poison their wine. I do not want to play for them.”

  He had laughed so he wouldn’t weep. “You will play. And you will be magnificent. You will be the victor, knowing that you are Eva Rosselli, and they are applauding for a Jew.”

  Her mouth had trembled, then the trembling became a broad smile. She had curtsied deeply, right there on the street, and when she stood, she had smirked at him. “I think you have a little devil in you, my white angel. I must be rubbing off on you.”

  She was definitely rubbing off on him. Rubbing him raw and wearing him thin. In the last hour he had aged ten years. He stood at the back of the room, unable to dine while she played, even though his stomach growled at the scents in the room. He’d politely refused the place that had been set for him and kept his cross in his hand and his eyes glued to her face. He was terrified for her and proud of her all at once. He wanted to swoop her up and carry her to safety, and at the same time he wanted the world to listen to her play. He wanted to witness her triumph over the people who would, at the very least, turn their backs to her plight, and at the worst, kill her if they knew who she was. Still, she played, exultant and brilliant, powerful in her vulnerability, a conquering army of one. And the audience had no idea they were bested.

  When she finally lowered her instrument and bowed, signaling the end of her performance, she tucked her violin and her bow against her side, and her eyes found his. He could see her terror even as she smiled graciously and inclined her head, acknowledging her audience. Her posture regal, she glided from the small dais, pausing as Captain von Essen stepped forward to assist her down the few steps. He escorted her to the side and seemed to be congratulating her effusively. He should congratulate her. Eva had made him look very good. He murmured something in her ear, his mouth hovering too close, and Angelo saw her stiffen even as she shook her head—smiling but refusing him. He leaned into her once more, obviously insisting on something, and he placed an envelope in her hand.

  Angelo felt rage shoot through his belly and his temperature climb beneath his stiff collar. He held himself back, knowing his part, knowing the genteel subservience people expected from him. But he exhaled in relief as Captain von Essen stepped back and Eva moved away from him. She walked toward the exit, nodding and smiling as she made her way through the glittering people and the tables laden with rich foods and the best Italian wine in a city of starving people. She kept walking as she neared him, and he followed her out of the large dining hall to the cloakroom where she’d stored her violin case.

  “What did he say?” Angelo asked, his voice pitched just above a whisper. Eva checked behind every coat, behind every wrap, and every corner before she answered him.

  “Greta is insisting that I take a room here at the hotel. The arrangements have already been made. Captain von Essen says I have earned it.” She showed him the key and the envelope filled with banknotes.

  The rage in his stomach turned into an inferno.

  “Does he think he will join you there?”

  Eva’s eyes shot to his face, and she shook her head instantly. “No. I really don’t think that’s what he’s implying. Greta is here with him, Angelo. You saw her. I am well aware of what he is capable of, but he has never been inappropriate with me.”

  “You can’t stay here, Eva. I don’t trust him.”

  “I don’t either. But I don’t think his intentions are lecherous. I’m worried about something else.”

  Angelo raised his eyebrows in question.

  “I think they are going to raid Santa Cecilia tonight. He knows I board there. He doesn’t want me there when it goes down.”

  “How do you know this?” he asked, the ramifications sending his thoughts in a million different directions.

  “He said something in the office today, something about the evening’s activities. He was on the phone with Lieutenant Colonel Kappler. I thought he was talking about this.” She tossed her hand in the direction of the ballroom and swept a hand down her dress. “But there was another man, by the last name of Koch, who came to the office three times last week. He is some kind of squadristi leader.”

  When Angelo heard the name he swore and crossed himself simultaneously, and then crossed himself again to cancel out his dual reaction. He wondered some days if he was cut out to be a priest. He had a foul mouth. He blamed it on the American in him.

  “Koch is a notorious Jew hunter,” he said. “He’s been on Monsignor O’Flaherty’s tail the last few months. Lieutenant Colonel Kappler too. But why Santa Cecilia?”

  “I don’t think it’s just Santa Cecilia. I think it may be every church, convent, and monastery in Trastevere.”

  “And what makes you think tonight?”

  “Captain von Essen told me I should stay here at the hotel to avoid ‘trouble.’ I asked him if he could just provide me with a car. But he said Trastevere wouldn’t be safe tonight.”

  “We have to get word to the sister
s,” Angelo said. The Villa Medici was a good distance from Trastevere and even farther from the Vatican.

  “There are telephones in every suite. I heard the women talking in the powder room. They were all highly impressed. I’m sure they are all looking forward to eavesdropping on each other’s conversations.” She held out the key, enthusiastically. He took it, his unease growing as he stared down at it.

  “We’ll ask for another room. We’ll switch,” he said abruptly. “Come with me.”

  They approached the registration desk, but Eva held back when Angelo put a warning hand on her arm.

  “Let me,” he whispered. “Stand here and look frightened.”

  “That won’t be hard to do,” she murmured. Angelo understood completely. His own heart was pounding heavily beneath his cassock. But he smiled easily and nodded at the man behind the glossy mahogany registration desk, who took his hand and kissed it, as if he wasn’t sure if Angelo were someone important or not.

  “Signore, I need your help,” Angelo said, sotto voce. “My sister is staying here at the hotel. She is a renowned violinist and she played for the dignitaries who are in attendance at the gala this evening. She is very beautiful, you understand.” He paused so the concierge could verify this truth for himself.

  The little man with the slick black hair and the neat little mustache peered around Angelo’s shoulder and eyed Eva. His eyes widened slightly. “Yes. Yes. I see,” he said awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure whether to agree that she was beautiful or refrain from commenting on a priest’s sister.

  “She is receiving some unwanted attention from one of the guests. No one especially important. But I would like her to be moved, if possible. Unfortunately, he saw her coming out of her room, and my sister is now a little frightened.”

  “Oh, yes, Padre. Of course. I understand.” The concierge took the key from Angelo’s hand and consulted his ledger.

  “Will you be staying with your sister?” he asked judiciously. Angelo tried not to react or to think about what those words could entail.

  “For a while. I would like to make sure she is all right.”

  “Yes, Padre.” The man bobbed and whisked out two keys with a tidy little nod. Then he crossed himself as if it had been a while since his last confession. Angelo didn’t know whether to smile or sigh. He had a tendency to make people chatty or nervous. It didn’t hurt that this man was nervous. He’d been easy to persuade.

  “Do we need to move the lady’s things to her new room?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary. She was so upset she was ready to leave the hotel altogether. I put her things in the cloakroom while she played. It will be easy enough to retrieve them.”

  “Very good, Signore. I mean, Padre. Very good.” The man bobbed his head and crossed himself again.

  The suite was lavish and large behind double doors with a small foyer that opened up into an elegant sitting room and well-appointed bathroom beyond that. The sitting room was built around the large windows that overlooked the Spanish Steps. But Angelo didn’t waste time staring out at the backdrop.

  There were ten monasteries, convents, and churches sheltering Jews in Trastevere, with more Jews sprinkled among another twenty families in the area. If the whole west side was to be raided, the whole west side would need to be warned. He was put through to the Vatican and reached an assistant of Monsignor O’Flaherty. Angelo asked that he be told that O’Malley had called with news of the Midnight Mass being conducted that evening in Trastevere. Midnight Mass was code for a night raid.

  There was a one-word warning that he had put in place with a few trusted runners who had access to telephones, people who could get a warning to a nearby convent, monastery, or religious institution sheltering refugees. Most convents and monasteries were not equipped with phones—few places were—and getting someone to answer, hear the warning, understand what it meant, and then pass it on would be almost miraculous. Angelo began the laborious task of waiting to be put through, via operator, over party lines that were far from private, sharing a message anyone could listen in on. But eventually, one by one, he was able to convey the warning to every runner except for the one for Santa Cecilia. He would have to warn them in person.

  “You can’t go. What if there is a raid and you are there and Captain von Essen sees you?”

  “I have to go,” he said simply. “I have to. Stay here. I promise I will come back for you.”

  She nodded, just once, her face tight and her eyes huge and frightened in her beautiful face. He could see from her expression that she thought it was too dangerous, that to her it felt like her father heading to Austria all over again, destined for disaster. But she didn’t try to stop him, and he was struck by her courage. She rose and followed him to the door, a slim silhouette in a long black dress, a candle in the darkness.

  “I was so proud of you tonight. Felix would have been proud too. You are a remarkable woman, Eva Bianco. A remarkable woman,” he said sincerely.

  She looked as if she were holding back tears, and he turned away before he weakened and took her in his arms, pulling the door shut behind him instead. He was halfway down the stairs before he realized he had called her Eva Bianco—not Rosselli—like it was her actual name. Like she was truly his.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE CRYPT

  Angelo was only a block from the Villa Medici, moving as quickly as his leg and cane would allow, when a long black car slid up alongside him and the window was lowered, revealing the top portion of Captain von Essen’s face. He was alone in the backseat.

  “I’m sure you are aware it is after curfew, and even a man in your position can get in some trouble, Father Bianco,” he said silkily.

  “I have a permit, and I don’t live far. A priest’s work is never done.” Angelo smiled and sighed, but his heart was pounding. The captain had murdered Aldo Finzi, and there was something very off about him. Maybe it was his tidy ways and his soft-spoken delivery that didn’t quite mask his glee at being a proud, card-carrying member of the Reich. He was the kind that inflicted torture while mournfully telling his victims it was all their fault.

  “I will give you a ride, Father. Climb in.”

  Angelo did not want a ride. He hesitated, unsure of how to refuse.

  “I insist,” the captain said quietly. “You must let me do this as a courtesy to your sister, at the very least. You were there tonight to support her, I’m sure. Now you find yourself in a predicament, walking home after curfew.”

  Angelo walked around the car, but the driver was quick to hop out and open the door. The courtesy made him breathe a little easier.

  “I thought I saw your wife with you this evening, Captain,” Angelo mentioned as the door was closed behind him. She was not with him anymore, and Angelo’s anxiety rose once more.

  “Yes. She was. She had some friends she wanted to visit with. I had business to attend to. A military man’s work is never done either, I fear. We have that in common.”

  “I’m sure that is true,” Angelo said politely, folding his hands in his lap.

  “Eva was wonderful tonight,” the captain murmured. “Magical. It was such a treat to hear her play. Herr Himmler was most impressed. Lieutenant Colonel Kappler as well.”

  “Yes. She was wonderful.” Angelo wouldn’t let himself think of Himmler or Kappler or the attention they had given Eva. If he dwelled on it, he would do something dangerous, something stupid, and he couldn’t afford to do either.

  “You two are close, yes? She told me she came to Rome to be near you. I was always close with my older sister. She was like a second mother to me. Of course, that’s not how it is with you and Eva, is it? You are the father.” He laughed at his play on words.

  Angelo bristled but shook his head and shrugged easily. “No, it is not like that. We are only two years apart.”

  “It is a good thing you are a priest. Otherwise, people might get the wrong idea,” the captain said softly. He was quiet then, staring out the window, and Ang
elo watched as the driver missed one turn and then another. He didn’t know where they were going, but they weren’t taking him home. The car rolled up in front of the Church of Santa Cecilia, treating the big piazza like a parking lot. The captain reached for the door. Angelo’s stomach sank.

  “I have some business here. Maybe you can help me with it, Father. You speak German so well, and my Italian is limited. I may need a translator.” A truck pulled up behind the Mercedes, and a handful of SS men jumped out, rifles in hand.

  “What are you doing?” Angelo gasped, climbing out of the car and rushing to get in front of the men with guns. He stretched out his hands, slowing them, bidding them to stop, praying that the people inside would have time to hide or prepare.

  “It is a raid, Father,” von Essen said simply. “The Catholic Church is disdainful of our laws. We have reason to believe there are Jews being hidden all over Rome in convents just like this one.”

  “There is no one here! I know this convent. I know the sisters here.”

  “But, of course you do. Your own sister rents a room here. But you understand, we must check for ourselves.”

  “No! I do not understand. Places of worship are sanctuaries. There is a cloister inside these walls. No one violates the cloister. Not a priest, or a German, or a Jew!”

  “The Catholic Church—the Pope himself—cannot control a single SS officer. You do realize that, don’t you, Father?” The captain smiled at Angelo, but his eyes were cold and flat. He inclined his head to his men, and they immediately ran to the gate and started striking it with their rifle butts, the insistent clanging filling the cold air with dissonance and distress. Through the bars Angelo could see into the serene courtyard, the glass-like surface of the pool around the large urn reflecting moonlight and dark sky. It was late enough that the occupants could be in bed. Angelo prayed they weren’t. Sleepy and disoriented would not work in their favor.