When the first American trucks and tanks rolled into town, people didn’t stay inside. They danced in the streets. It was a strange sight, really. Italians, who had allied themselves with a ruthless dictator and fought and died beside Germany’s sons, were welcoming the Americans into their capital city. When German tanks and troops had descended on Rome a mere nine months before, people had died trying to keep them out. It said a great deal about the feelings of the Italian people, about their resentment for being drafted into a war very few of them wanted, made to fight and die for preposterous goals and ridiculous men.
Angelo could only watch with bittersweet relief as the parade of military vehicles clattered along cobblestone roads and people wept with jubilation. Mario and his little family, the nuns of Santa Cecilia, and even Monsignor Luciano and his sister stood and greeted the American troops, who were smiling and waving like movie stars, as they rolled into the city. For Rome, the war was over. For the clergy, for the resistance, and for the Jews in hiding, this day was a staggering victory. They had survived.
Most of them.
But some had not. Some still would not. The war was not over for those who’d been taken. It was not over for Eva and for the numberless Jews still imprisoned in camps in the north and in the east. It was not over for the Allied soldiers who would fight on, pushing the Germans into further retreat.
Two days later, on June 6, Angelo and a small group of priests at the Vatican gathered around a radio as the BBC declared that “D-Day had come.”
“Early this morning, the Allies began the assault on the northwestern face of Hitler’s European Fortress,” the announcer reported. “Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied Naval Forces, supported by strong air forces, began landing Allied armies on the northern coast of France.”
Throughout the following days, countries aligned against Hitler waited with nervous hearts and shaking hands, listening for updates and reports. The Germans only suffered a thousand casualties that first day. The Allies suffered ten times that, but by June 12, all five of the beachheads of Normandy were linked and in Allied control, giving them the foothold they needed to run Germany out of France.
From Normandy, Paris was a straight shot east, and when Paris was liberated in late August, Angelo implemented the only plan he’d been able to devise. A soldier with the 5th Army, a major who’d spent the last year in Italy, had given him some advice.
“The 5th is being split up. Some of us are being sent into France. The war in Italy is going nowhere, Father. We’ve been here for too damn long, fighting our way up one hill only to face another right behind it. We’ve taken Rome, but if things continue as they have for the last nine months, it’s going to continue to be a slog, and we sure as hell won’t be getting out of Italy until Germany surrenders, or we do. It’s a battle of inches here. If you want to get to this girl, your best bet is to get into France and follow the Americans into Germany from that direction.”
Angelo told Monsignor O’Flaherty his decision and was given his blessing, along with a reminder that he was “still a priest.” He had not been laicized. He would not be given permission to marry. That kind of permission had to come from the Pope himself, and it was never granted. If he wanted to marry Eva, he would have to do so outside of the Catholic Church. But Monsignor O’Flaherty embraced him anyway and told him that when he found Eva, he should bring her back to Rome so he could see her again.
The American army had moved into the Hassler Hotel—known by locals as the Villa Medici—making the newly renovated site their headquarters for the duration of their stay. Angelo found himself there, dressed in his cassock, his cane tucked out of sight, waiting to speak with the commander of the 5th Army who had taken the city two months before. He had taken the major’s advice. He was there to enlist in whatever capacity they needed him. His only goal was to get to Germany.
The hotel was filled with memories of Eva, even though, in its current state, it looked nothing like it had the night Eva played her violin for a room full of the enemy. He could see her so clearly, resplendent in her black gown, her slim neck bowed over her instrument, a sparkle at her ears and a gleam in her eyes as she looked at him. He’d held one of those earrings in the palm of his hand that night as he’d contemplated the future, leaning over the sink in her hotel room, warm from the bath and cold from the evening’s events. His nerves had been shot from the raid, his emotions running high. He had felt the shift, the realignment of his priorities, and as he held the earring in his hand, Eva sleeping in the next room, he had been heartsick with love and soul weary with waiting.
“Father? What can I do for you?” A trim man in a neat uniform with slicked-back hair and a cigarette clenched in his teeth waved him forward from his office door. His “office” was the large coatroom where Eva had told Angelo about the suspected raid. Angelo stood and followed the commander inside, trying not to reveal his limp and probably making it more noticeable for his efforts. He decided to get right to the point, and after sitting down across from the commander, jumped right in.
“I’ve come to see if it would be possible to be of service to your men.”
“We have chaplains, Father, but we could always use a few more. Is that what you mean?”
“I’ve lived in Italy since I was eleven years old, but I’m an American. I speak fluent German and Italian and passable French. I could be an interpreter as well as a chaplain.”
“Why? The army doesn’t pay well. And you don’t have to do this.”
“I do have to do this. Plus, the priesthood doesn’t pay well either. That isn’t why most of us do what we do, is it, Commander?”
“You got that right, Padre. But what are your reasons?”
“A Jewish girl, a girl who is very important to me, was deported and sent to a concentration camp in northern Germany almost five months ago. I intend to find her. I was told the best way to do that would be to follow the American army into Germany. I will serve in any capacity you wish, just as long as you’ll send me where I have the best chance of getting to Germany the quickest.”
“You’ll have to stay for the duration. Even if you, by some miracle, find this girl. You’ll have to see it through to the end. You won’t be able to quit.”
“I understand. My only goal is to find her and get her to safety. I will fulfill my commitments.”
“Father O’Flaherty said you were determined.”
Angelo started at the mention of the monsignor.
“He sent me a message, said you’d be coming to see me. He managed to hide several of our downed pilots from the Germans. We owe him. He told me I could repay him by helping you.”
Angelo could only nod, humbled by the gesture. Leave it to O’Flaherty to do whatever he could.
“What’s with the leg? You limp.”
“It’s a childhood ailment. I can outwalk everyone I know. I always carry my own weight, Commander. You won’t need to worry about me.”
The commander laughed and sat forward in his chair. “I believe you, Father. Sounds to me like you have a guardian angel on your shoulder. Monsignor O’Flaherty told me about the massacre at Ardeatine. That won’t go unpunished. I promise you that.”
“Many good men were murdered that day,” Angelo said softly.
“Many good men have been lost in this damn war. It’s what keeps me going. I’ll do my best to help you find that girl. But I’m warning you, it’s going to be a long, hard road yet. The Germans aren’t done fighting. And as long as they’re still kicking, we have to fight too.”
“I don’t know what else to do. I can’t simply take a train into Germany and demand her release. But I can’t sit here either. I have to go. The only thing keeping me standing is the belief that she is there. And if I can just get to her in time . . . if she can hold on until I get to her, then that’s what I’m going to do.”
The commander took a deep drag off his cigarette and released the smoke slowly as he eyed Angelo. Then he nodded, as if he’d made up his
mind and was at ease with his decision. “We have an army transport leaving for France in three days. You’ll be on it. We’ll find enough work to keep you busy, and you’ll probably wish you’d never signed on. The 20th Armored Division just arrived in the south of France. They’ll be working their way up quickly to the border between France and Germany. That’s the best I can do for you, Father. Godspeed.”
“I’m coming with you,” Mario said firmly.
“Mario, no. No, you aren’t.” Angelo had walked down the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica to see Mario waiting just beyond the gates, an army duffel bag on his back and determination in his eyes.
“I’m a doctor. They will take me. I don’t speak very good English, but you do. You’re an American, after all. Together, we can do this. I’m a doctor; you’re a medic. A spiritual medic. God’s medic.” He smiled and shrugged.
“Ah, yes. I’m saving souls right and left,” Angelo said with a self-deprecating smile. His duties the last few months had been of the temporal nature. Food, shelter, safety. He hadn’t performed any of the more sacred rites because he felt unworthy to do so, committed as he was to leaving the priesthood behind if he found Eva.
“I’m coming with you,” Mario repeated.
“Mario, you have a wife and three children who have been through hell. You are finally free to resume your lives. They need you. You have to think of them.”
“Giulia agrees with me. She and the children will stay at the convent, and I will send them my stipend every month. They are safe, and Giulia has help. I’m not a soldier. I won’t be fighting. I will be saving lives and getting paid to do it. And if that fails, I’ll join the Red Cross. I have spent the war hiding while my people are being slaughtered. This is my way of making a difference, of fighting back. I don’t have a job—”
“You could find one! If something happened to you, Mario, I would never forgive myself. The world can’t afford to lose any more Jewish men. The world can’t afford to lose a man like you, period. Don’t make me carry that weight,” Angelo interrupted.
“If I don’t come with you, I won’t ever forgive myself. Eva Rosselli sat with her back to my door, her legs braced against the wall, while the Gestapo shot through it. She single-handedly saved my entire family. And she has been taken. Signora Donati, my neighbor, faced down men with machine guns to inform them that my apartment was empty, that no one lived there anymore. She was taken too. I’ve watched you put yourself at risk over and over. I’ve watched you scramble and maneuver and work to keep hundreds of Jews safe. You were beaten and sent to die, and you could have talked. You could have exposed us. But you didn’t.
“I have been forced to let all of you sacrifice for me and my family. I had to. But not anymore. It’s my turn. I intend to be there when those camps are liberated. It’s my turn to save lives. I’m coming with you, Angelo. And you can’t stop me.”
13 December, 1944
Confession: I couldn’t part with Eva’s violin.
I have walked through France with a violin case on my back. Everyone asks me to play, and when I tell them I can’t, they look at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. I left everything else, including the three remaining journals, with the nuns at Santa Cecilia. But I couldn’t leave her violin. Eva will want to play it again when I find her.
The soldiers think I’m a strange one. My clerical collar is confusing enough. I wear it with a standard-issue uniform instead of a cassock. All the chaplains dress like soldiers, for the most part. I think Mario told a few of them my story in an effort to quiet speculation, because now they all seem to know that the violin I can’t play belongs to the girl I’m looking for. But Mario doesn’t speak very good English, so who knows what rumors he may have started.
Still, the teasing has lessened considerably and everyone now calls me Father Angelo. A few of the guys call me Angel Baby, but nicknames are pretty standard around here and seem to communicate a certain amount of affection. In some ways, it’s like being in the seminary again—only with guns, less food, and frozen blisters. On the bright side, having only one leg means only one case of trench foot.
There is a hymn that talks about rescuing “a soul so rebellious and proud as mine.” It’s a Protestant hymn my mother sang a long time ago. I heard a soldier singing it last night in the non-denominational church service I organized for the division. I don’t mean to be sacrilegious, but I am convinced my rebellious soul is the only thing keeping me from defeat, and I don’t want to be rescued from it.
It’s been almost four months since I left Rome. Close to nine months since I saw Eva last. Now, without explanation, instead of continuing north into Germany, we are being sent east to Luxembourg, and it’s all I can do not to abandon my unit and set off on my own. I can only pray Eva’s soul is as rebellious as mine.
Angelo Bianco
CHAPTER 25
BELGIUM
The cold was relentless, and the cotton candy comparison made by a soldier was apt, but if the fog was like being immersed in white spun sugar, the cold was like living in a vat of ice cream with none of the sweetness and none of the pleasure. Rumors of the coldest winter on record were being bandied about, and Angelo was convinced it must be true. He may have been born in New Jersey, but he was acclimated to Florence and Rome, and though both were cold in winter, neither were the Ardennes. He’d never been so cold or miserable in his whole life. He did his best not to think of Eva in a camp in Northern Germany or the temperatures and conditions she would be enduring. The thought made him grit his teeth and avoid a word of complaint. He was making deals with God right and left. Keep Eva alive. Keep her safe, and he would suffer whatever he had to suffer in exchange.
But God didn’t work that way. He didn’t deal and he didn’t yell. He didn’t always make himself known. In fact, he rarely did. Angelo had had to faithfully look to find evidence of his existence. God was still quiet. Impossibly quiet. Just like the snow and the fog and the skies. He’d been quiet as Angelo had wandered, following the 20th Armored Division up through France, to the outskirts of Metz, where France, Luxembourg, and Germany came together, hoping against hope that they would continue up into Germany, forcing a cessation to war and a chance to make his way to the camp where Eva was held. But though Metz had been a victory for the Allies, it had not been enough to punch through and deliver a deathblow to the Reich. He and Mario had waited, Mario needing to go home, Angelo needing to press forward. And God had been endlessly quiet.
The Ardennes Forest was quiet too. Eerily so. It was known as the Ghost Front for the cold white mist that clung to the ground and for the silence that hadn’t been penetrated by war. The troops had been talking about going home. The Ardennes front was the place divisions were sent when they’d taken too many casualties or they needed to rest up. It was eighty-five miles of forest, and the Americans were taken completely by surprise.
Just before dawn, on December 16, all that changed, as the sky was illuminated with floodlights and the silence was decimated by an artillery barrage. Behind it, a massive force of German troops poured across the eighty-five-mile front into Belgium under the cover of fog and foul weather.
Angelo’s detachment had passed through Luxembourg, believing they were to be quartered there. But instead of stopping, like they’d initially thought, they’d been sent on to a town called Noville, in Belgium, with no idea of what their orders truly were. Angelo had discovered that that was army life for the men in uniform—the chaplains, the medics, and the soldiers. Someone pointed, and you marched. Maybe it was better that way, not knowing what you were in for, not knowing what was around the bend. Maybe sometimes it was better when God was quiet.
In Noville, the company they were assigned to had been told to keep the German 2nd Panzer Division from progressing. Nobody knew they were outmanned ten to one and way outgunned. Maybe that was better too, fighting without knowing the odds. Every man who could fire a gun, did, and the town was caught in a small-arms fight that lasted until the Tiger
tanks were breathing down their necks, and everyone was told to retreat to Bastogne, three miles down the road.
“Bastogne is where everything intersects, boys,” their commander told them. “It’s the hub of a wheel, seven main roads converge there, and the Germans know they’ve got to have it if they want to control the area and keep pushing on into Antwerp, the biggest supply base for the Allied troops on the Western Front.”
It wasn’t an easy three-mile march. Instead, they’d been pinned down in ditches, taking fire from behind and stemming blood on injured soldiers with bullets whizzing over their heads, until the 101st Airborne had arrived, parachuting in to save them all at the last minute, helping the team stumble into Bastogne, only to fight again.
“It’s gonna be bloody,” their commander said. “We can’t get any air support with the weather. It’s gonna be man to man. Or Tiger tank to pop gun. Son of a bitch! It’s like fighting in a freezer.”
“We just gotta slow ’em down. Just make life hell for them until the weather clears and our boys in the sky can blow ’em away,” the commander from the 101st had encouraged, and everyone had nodded and hunkered down.
Thankfully, the people of Bastogne had run from the town as word of the approaching Panzer Divisions started to spread through the countryside. They abandoned their sleepy village, pushing hastily packed carts loaded with all they could gather, most likely wondering who would be in charge when they returned. Some of the residents had already rehung their Nazi flags above their doors, just to hedge their bets. The evacuation made it easier to establish an aid station of sorts, and the unit assembled a makeshift hospital in the basement of a three-story building on the Rue Neufchâteau. A store sat on the main level with living quarters above, which the medics commandeered, while their frazzled unit billeted in an apartment house a few buildings down and across the street.