He’d broken them willingly. Intentionally. Angelo had taken a vow of obedience, and he’d been anything but obedient. He’d taken a vow of celibacy, and he’d made love to Eva. The only vow he’d kept was that of poverty. But maybe he’d broken that one too. He’d been greedy for time with Eva. Greedy for her touch, her kisses, her love. She’d offered them time and time again, and he’d resisted her, rejected her. Refused her. Until the day he hadn’t, and he’d taken her love and her kisses and her touch, and she’d made him a wealthy man, rich in love and promise and possibility. And he’d only wanted more. More. More.
That was what haunted him. He could have had a lifetime with her, and he’d squandered it. He didn’t feel remorse that he’d broken his vows. He was remorseful that he hadn’t broken them sooner. He should never have made them in the first place. When he told the monsignors how he felt, Monsignor O’Flaherty quietly listened, but Monsignor Luciano grew angry.
“You have broken your vows, but you have been ordained. Sin can be forgiven. You don’t just stop being a priest because you sin. You have been ordained—indelibly changed—and you can’t be unordained. You know this. You are God’s. You don’t belong to yourself anymore, Angelo. You don’t belong to Eva! You are God’s,” Monsignor Luciano repeated emphatically, thumping his chest as if God himself resided beneath the cloth of his robes.
“I am Eva’s,” Angelo said quietly. “In my heart, I am Eva’s.”
“But she is gone!” Monsignor Luciano shouted.
“She is not gone. She is still here!” Angelo cried, and it was his turn to thump his chest. “She is still here inside me, and I am still hers. I will always be hers.”
“Does loving Eva mean you can’t love God?” Monsignor Luciano said after a long silence. His anger was gone, his voice subdued, his face haggard. But Angelo was committed to answering honestly, even if it hurt his old mentor.
“No. But I would ask you the same thing. Can I only serve him if I’m a priest? If I’m Catholic? I don’t believe that anymore, Monsignor. I’ve seen too much. I want to do the right things for the right reasons. Not because someone will judge or someone else will wonder. Not because of tradition or pressure. Not because I’m afraid or embarrassed to do anything else. And not because it’s what people expect. I want to do his will. But that is what I struggle with most, knowing what his will really is. Not his will according to the Catholic Church, but his will.”
“We need you, Angelo. Rome needs you. The refugees need you. This church . . . needs you,” Monsignor O’Flaherty said.
Angelo could only shake his head. “I have put Eva last for too long. She needs me. She needs me to love her enough not to give up on her.”
“Tell me this. Is it that you don’t want to be a priest, or is it that you want Eva more?” Monsignor O’Flaherty asked.
“I want Eva more,” Angelo said honestly.
“And if Eva . . . doesn’t survive. What then?” Monsignor Luciano asked.
“I can’t think that way, Monsignor. I won’t.”
“I’m not asking you to give up. I’m asking you to continue on in your duties. You are a priest. That has not changed. And if Eva survives, if she returns to you, then we can talk about leaving the clerical life, about laicization,” Monsignor Luciano coaxed.
“I’m not going to wait for her to come back. I’m going to find her,” Angelo said.
“You can’t simply shrug off your ordination, Angelo. You know this. It is permanent,” Monsignor Luciano declared with finality.
Angelo ran shaking hands through his hair, despair and fatigue bowing his back and fraying his nerves.
“Then I am absolved?” he asked wearily.
“You are not repentant,” Monsignor Luciano barked.
Angelo searched his heart. Was he repentant? No. He wasn’t. “I seek your forgiveness—both of you—for disappointing you, for not being who you want me to be. But I am not sorry for the way I feel or for my actions.”
“Then you are not absolved,” Monsignor Luciano shot back.
“You are not absolved,” Monsignor O’Flaherty concurred softly. “But you can continue with your duties. I forgive you. Wholeheartedly. And I can attest that if you ask, God will forgive you as well. He understands, Angelo. You know that he does. You feel it. He is giving you his peace.”
Monsignor O’Flaherty’s loving forgiveness, spoken in the soft burr of his Irish accent, had Angelo fighting back tears of exhausted surrender. His anger and rebellion left him suddenly, and he fought to remain upright. He was so tired. So incredibly tired.
“We have a room prepared for you. It isn’t much. But you need to rest. Tomorrow will come soon enough. We need supplies. Without Eva’s gold, we are low on resources.” O’Flaherty sighed.
Angelo reached for his makeshift knapsack and opened it, upending it on the thick rug, revealing what was inside. It was full of gold—chains, bracelets, trinkets, tiepins, and rings.
“The Saturday Eva played at the gala, she took her empty violin case to work, and she filled it to the brim with gold. When she went home to dress for the event, she emptied her case and gave the gold to Mother Francesca. She was worried something would happen that night, and she wouldn’t be able to take any more. She was right. Something did happen.”
“She was recognized.” It wasn’t a question. O’Flaherty had heard this part of the story through his own channels.
“Yes. The wife of Rome’s chief of police told Greta von Essen that Eva was an accomplished violinist from Florence. A Jew. The captain’s wife then told her husband. She could have stayed quiet. She was Eva’s friend, and she betrayed her.”
“Yes. She did. But maybe she will be able to redeem herself. She is a Catholic. Quite devout, unlike her husband. She goes to Mass at a church on Via Rasella. She was there when the bomb set by the partisans killed the German police.” Monsignor O’Flaherty stopped and rubbed at his jaw, thinking. “Father Bartolo is her pastor. He told me she’s been there every day for the last two weeks. Maybe she can help you with the answers you need.”
Eva stared at the road sign in horrified silence until Pierre spoke up, falsely cheerful.
“It could be worse. I actually know where we are. Bastogne is directly west of Frankfurt,” Pierre offered. “Almost a straight path that way.” He pointed at the road that intersected the highway they stood beside. There wasn’t a soul in sight, which was both encouraging and frightening. The sky was lightening with the coming dawn, and they had nowhere to hide and no place to go, with only the clothes on their backs and the slim gold file Eva had tucked back in her shoe.
“How far?” Eva was trying to remember her geography and failing miserably. She was comforted that Pierre seemed to know his.
“Not far at all . . . by train. Papà used to go to Frankfurt on business all the time. Germans make the best toys. He would always bring me something back.”
“How far, Pierre?” He was clearly stalling.
“About two hundred and fifty kilometers,” Pierre said quietly.
Two hundred and fifty kilometers. More than one hundred and fifty miles across German occupied territory.
“And how far is Switzerland? Do you know that?”
He shook his head. “No. Not exactly. But it’s just as far, if not farther.”
Eva sank down beside the road and laid her head on her knees. Pierre sat down beside her, and neither could find the energy for further conversation. They watched in silent despondence as the sun rose in the east, breaking out in hopeful radiance above the tree line.
“Angelo,” Eva whispered, watching the spread of light that defied her heavy heart. The beauty made her long for him. “What should I do? What would you do?”
“Who are you talking to?” Pierre asked softly. She’d spoken in Italian, a language he didn’t speak.
“The sky, I guess. That is where all my loved ones are.”
He nodded as if he understood.
“What is your name?” he asked suddenly
.
Eva laughed, just a brief huff of incredulity. The poor boy didn’t even know her name. She was a complete stranger. And she was all he had.
“Eva Rosselli.” She stuck out her hand and he clasped it in his, shaking it firmly. His fingers were as cold as hers.
“Pierre LaMont.” He added his surname to the name she already knew.
“Pierre LaMont. That’s not a very Jewish name.”
“No. My father wasn’t Jewish. Just my mother. But they took my father anyway.”
I see you trembling there. How much it cost you, loving me. How much it cost you, loving me.
“They took my father too,” Eva said, ignoring the haunting lyric that played in her head. Love often had a terrible cost.
“Was he the one you were talking to?” Pierre didn’t seem to find it strange that she was conversing with the sky.
“No. I was talking to Angelo.”
“Who is Angelo?”
“Angelo is . . . was the man I wanted to marry. I loved . . . love him very much.”
“And what did Angelo say?” Pierre asked seriously, as if a response were entirely plausible. It made a lump rise in her throat and tears brim in her eyes.
“He didn’t answer,” she said, her voice choked.
“What do you think he would say, if he could?”
“He would tell me to pray. If Angelo were here, he would pray,” she supplied immediately.
“We can do that. And then what?”
“If Angelo were here . . .” Eva thought for a moment, and then the answer came as clearly as if a voice spoke directly in her ear. “If Angelo were here, he would tell me to find a church.”
Pierre rose to his feet and held out his hand. She let him pull her up, and she brushed at her backside, as if the little bit of dirt and debris she’d gathered sitting at the side of the road could make her filthy skirt look any worse. Pierre walked ahead to the crossroads and turned west.
“Eva, look!” Pierre stopped walking and pointed. “There. Can you see it?”
She hurried to his side and gazed in amazement. He was pointing at a thin white steeple rising above a small cluster of picturesque houses in the distance.
“Merci, Angelo,” Pierre said simply.
“Merci, Angelo,” Eva whispered. “Now let us find a priest just like you.”
She was a pretty woman, tall and voluptuous, easily as tall as her husband. But for all her Amazonian beauty, Greta von Essen was as timid and as frightened as a mouse. Angelo had watched her walk into the church, genuflect before the cross, and light a candle. He’d watched her briefly pray and then walk to the confessional, where she’d stayed for several minutes before walking out again and heading for the large doors at the back of the church. That is where he cut her off, standing directly in her path. He wasn’t wearing his cassock—he wore his work clothes and an old cap—and she glanced at him nervously.
She looked away, but her eyes returned almost immediately. She tipped her head to the side, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips, as if she couldn’t place him. He saw the moment she realized who he was.
She turned and started walking swiftly in the other direction, toward an exit just left of the apse. Angelo felt a flash of fury and, without thinking, he was pursuing her, almost running, loping awkwardly to overtake her.
“Stop!” he ordered as she picked up speed. “I only want to talk to you. You owe me that much.”
She stopped abruptly, as if following orders was second nature. She turned slowly and eyed him with trepidation.
“My husband said you were dead.” Her voice was accusing, as if the fact that he wasn’t was somehow dishonest on his part.
“I should be. Did he tell you how I supposedly died?”
She shook her head no.
“He wouldn’t. It wouldn’t make you love or admire him, I promise you that. Did he tell you what happened to Eva?”
She nodded sharply and looked down at the pocketbook in her hands. She was shaking.
“Tell me.” He lowered his voice and strove to use a lighter tone.
“She was deported.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t care enough to ask?” His voice was gentle, but she still flinched.
“She lied to me!”
“How? How did she lie?”
“She didn’t tell me she was Jewish.”
“That’s because you couldn’t handle the truth. Clearly. Look what happened to Eva . . . to me, when you found out.”
“She told me you were her brother.” Another accusation that had nothing to do with Greta, but one she had undoubtedly used to rationalize what she’d done.
“I’m not her brother.”
“So she told two lies.”
“Your husband is a murdering bastard, and you are worried about lies told to preserve life?” He fought to keep his voice level.
“Are you even a priest?” she asked, her voice dripping with scorn.
“Yes.”
“Not a very good one,” she retorted fiercely.
“No. Not a very good one, though I’ve always done the best I could,” he said honestly, and realized suddenly that it was true. He’d always done his best with the strength and resources he had.
“My husband said you were in love with Eva.” Again, derision, as if his love were incredibly distasteful.
“I am in love with her. I have always loved her. And I’m going to find her.” He held her gaze, unwavering, unapologetic.
“I knew there was someone. You are the boy from home. The one she wouldn’t talk about.”
He nodded once, and she deflated before his eyes. When she looked at him again there was no more defensiveness, no more contempt. There was only remorse.
“I didn’t want to tell Wilhelm. I cared about Eva. But I knew if he discovered it some other way, if he found out I knew, he would hurt me. Frau Caruso knew, and it was only a matter of time before she talked to others. The secret was just too good. Too rich.”
“I need to find out where Eva was taken. Can you find out?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, shaking her head. She seemed to fall back to helplessness when she was scared, and he guessed Greta von Essen was scared most of the time.
“Find out where she was taken, and we will do our best to get you out of Rome if you need help doing so. You need to go home, Signora.”
This brought her head up. “Why? Aren’t the Germans winning? The Americans have been defeated at Anzio Beach . . . haven’t they?”
Angelo shook his head. He knew it was only a matter of time. God would not be quiet forever. “They’ve been stalled. But America has the firepower, the manpower, and most important, they have the right on their side. The kind of evil I have seen has to be stopped. This war isn’t about two equal but opposing forces who disagree. This war is about right and wrong, good and evil. And evil must be stopped. It will be stopped. And people like you will be caught in the cross fire when that happens.”
“If I find out where she was sent, how will I get word to you?” she said quietly, not even arguing about good and evil, right and wrong. She had to know on some level. She had to.
“Tell Father Bartolo. He will tell me.”
10 May, 1944
Confession: I don’t know what to do.
Eva’s been sent to Bergen-Belsen. I felt immediate relief that it wasn’t Auschwitz, and then I realized I didn’t even know where Bergen-Belsen was. Greta von Essen came through with the information. Father Bartolo said she was sure, that she’d seen the transport records. I don’t know how she accomplished that, but I couldn’t ask. A few days ago, Greta von Essen left Rome in the company of a group of nuns returning to Germany from an Easter pilgrimage to the Vatican. Monsignor O’Flaherty arranged it.
Northern Germany. Bergen-Belsen. I have a destination. But it might as well be the moon.
The German police in Rome are growing more vicious and desperate as the da
ys go by. A surprise raid on a monastery in the San Lorenzo district of Rome has resulted in the arrest and seizure of three monks and a dozen foreign Jews. One boy tried to escape and was gunned down in front of his parents, who at that point threw themselves on his inert form and were shot as well. The monks were imprisoned, along with the rest of the captured refugees.
We were tipped off by a local Fascist official that a raid would be carried out at an abandoned villa south of Rome where fifty Jewish orphans had been hidden and watched over by an order of Capuchin monks. We beat the raid by an hour, scattering the children among village homes until the Germans left. When they did, we returned the children to the villa and to the care of the monks. We are all praying the Germans don’t go back.
It is a game of cat and mouse, priest and prey, and it’s a wonder more aren’t breaking under the stress. But we have a purpose and none of us thinks beyond the moment, beyond the day. We scramble and pray and sleep when we can.
Temperatures are warming and people in the southernmost parts of the city, near the catacombs and the caves of Ardeatine, are starting to complain about a smell. The dead are making themselves known. The anger and fear in the city, the desperation of the occupying forces, and the ticktock of the end seem to permeate the air with the same stench of death. None of us will be able to hold on much longer. But for Eva’s sake I will. And wherever she is, she just has to hold on too.
Angelo Bianco
CHAPTER 24
THE AMERICANS
When members of America’s 5th Army finally captured Rome on June 4, 1944, there was very little fanfare. The Germans simply left. The long red banners and the Nazi flags were removed from the headquarters on Via Tasso. The homes they’d requisitioned were vacated. The political prisoners were abandoned. They simply retreated. Some said it was the Pope’s influence, some said it was a strategic regrouping. A few said it was respect for Rome’s considerable historic and artistic significance, but whatever the reason, when the time came, they left.
Then the people waited with breaths held, ears peeled. The American planes had dropped leaflets the day before, urging civilians to stay indoors, to stay out of the way in case the conflict grew heated. But there was no fighting. No bombing. Just the quiet fall of leaflets and the dawn of a clear June morning.