by Amy Harmon
“I was dreaming,” she said.
“Good dreams?”
“No.” It hadn’t been a good dream. “The same old dream. The one I’ve told you about before.”
“Ahh. Did you jump this time?”
“Yes. I suppose I did. But not with my legs. With my whole body. I fell. Through the window. I let myself fall. Then I woke up.”
“In dreams, we always wake up when we’re falling. We always wake up before we land,” her father soothed.
“That’s good. Because landing will be very painful. Landing might kill me,” she whispered.
“Then why are you jumping . . . in the dream? Why do you always want to jump?” her father asked.
“Because if I don’t, I will die for sure.” It was the truth. And in the dream she knew it. Jump or die.
Her father patted her cheek like she was eight instead of eighteen, almost nineteen, and she grabbed his hand and kissed his palm. He closed his hand over the kiss, the way he used to do when she was little.
He was almost to the door when she asked him, “Did I scream? Did I scream and wake you?”
“You screamed, but you didn’t wake me. I was already awake.” It was three in the morning, and she noticed suddenly how old her father looked. It scared her, worse even than the dream.
“Are you okay, Babbo?” she asked fearfully.
“Sono felice se tu sei felice.” I’m happy if you’re happy. It was what he always said.
“I’m happy.” She smiled at him affectionately.
“Then all is well in my world.” Again, what he always said. He switched off her lamp, and her room was bathed in darkness. But he hovered at the door.
“I love you, Eva.” His voice sounded strange, like he was crying, but she could no longer see his face.
“I love you too, Babbo.”
Eva’s father, Camillo Rosselli, knew what was coming. He thought he had sheltered his daughter from it, or maybe she was just Italian enough, young enough, naïve enough, that she completely missed the gathering storm and thought only of dancing in the rain. Most of her friends had no idea she was Jewish. Eva didn’t remember she was Jewish most of the time. She had no sense of being different. She’d noticed the cartoons mocking the Jews, the occasional derogatory sign, and the articles in Santino’s papers. Those things always infuriated her father. But it just seemed like politics to Eva, and politics in Italy was for the politicians, not the people—the people mostly shrugged and went about their lives.
Sure, she’d heard Camillo arguing with his brother, Augusto. But they argued constantly. They had argued at least once a week for Eva’s entire life.
“Jews are the pure blood of Italy. The synagogue preceded the church,” Augusto would say.
“This is true,” Camillo would answer heatedly and pour more wine.
“We lost friends and family in the Great War. All in the defense of our country, Camillo. Surely that counts for something.”
Camillo would nod and sip, sip and nod.
“I trust the Fascists more than the Communists,” Augusto would add.
“I see no reason to trust either,” Camillo would retort.
And that is where Augusto and Camillo would not see eye to eye, and they would spend the evening smoking, sipping, and arguing about Il Duce and the Blackshirts versus the Bolsheviks.
“No freedom-loving Jew can support an ideology that uses force and intimidation to gain followers.” Camillo would point a long finger at his younger brother.
“But, Camillo, at least they don’t seek to take our religion from us. The Fascists are as disdainful of Catholic conservatism as we are. It’s about nationalism. Revolution, even.”
“Revolution rarely helps the Jew.” Augusto would groan loudly and throw up his hands in disgust. “When was the last time you went to temple, eh, Camillo? You are more Italian than you are Jewish. Does Eva even know our prayers? Did you even realize today is Shabbat?”
Camillo would shift guiltily in his seat, but his answer was always the same. “I know it is Shabbat, and of course Eva knows the prayers! I am a Jew. I will always be a Jew. Eva is a Jew. She will always be a Jew. Not because we go to the synagogue. Not because we observe holidays. It is our heritage. It is who we are, who we will always be.”
Lately, they had talked more and more about the growing anti-Semitism in the reports on the radio and in the newspapers. Camillo’s brother-in-law, Felix Adler, with his clipped German-Austrian accent, so different from the rising and falling, rolling Italian the rest of the family spoke, had even threatened to leave Italy when the Manifesto della Razza had been published in the newspapers last July, causing an uproar that ruined August. The family had vacationed on Maremma, just like they did every year, escaping the heat of the city for the seashore. But the Manifesto of Race had come along with them and occupied their thoughts and hijacked their happiness.
“Mussolini is building a case against us. He is saying we Jews haven’t served our country well. It is our fault that wages are low and taxes are high. It is our fault that housing is limited, food is scarce, and schools are crowded. It is because of the Jews that there are no jobs and crime rates are soaring, you know,” Camillo had said, shaking his head in disgust.
Augusto would scoff. He was always more optimistic than his older brother. “The only newspapers that are printing things like that are those trying to get government money. They spew the nonsense and cozy up to the Fascist powers that be. Nobody believes it. Italians know better.”
“But Italians are allowing it. It is being tolerated. Whether our friends like it or not, it is being tolerated. We Jews are tolerating it! We are not so long out of the ghetto that we have grown a sense of righteous indignation. We hope that the worst won’t happen, all the while expecting that it will, so when it does, we aren’t surprised. You know, Augusto, someone leaned some old rusted gates against the wall across from the café on Via San Giana where I drink my coffee every morning. There was a sign on them. It said, ‘Put the Jews Back in the Ghetto.’ It’s been there for over a week. No one has taken it down. I didn’t take it down,” he had added in a shamed murmur.
“The king will put a stop to it. Mark my words,” Augusto pushed back.
“King Emmanuel will do what Mussolini tells him to do,” Camillo had predicted with finality.
Eva had heard it all, but they were all old men to Eva. Camillo, Augusto, Mussolini, and the king. Old men who talked too much. And she was a young woman who was not inclined to listen.
On September 5, 1938, a week after returning from the seashore, a new law, authored by the Fascists and signed by the king, declared that Jews could no longer send their children to public or private Italian schools or be employed in any capacity in any Italian school from kindergarten to university. It was the first of many laws to come.
Eva had finished secondary school the spring before, and instead of applying to university, she decided to explore her options. Camillo had warned her not to wait to apply, but she had dragged her feet. She just wanted to play music for a while. She was a member of the Orchestra della Toscana and had been for two years, and she was the youngest violinist ever to win first chair. Plus, she had three boyfriends who kept her very busy—a Jewish boy who played the cello, a Catholic boy who played hard to get, and a Firenze policeman who looked handsome in his uniform and loved to dance. She was juggling them all with no plans to stop any time soon. She was young, beautiful, and life was good. So she didn’t apply. And suddenly that door was closed to her.
The morning after the bad dream, Eva awoke to a different sort of nightmare. When she walked into the kitchen looking for breakfast, Santino was sitting in his regular spot at the scarred table where Fabia served his coffee—she said the dining room was for Camillo and Eva—and he was reading from La Stampa, a national newspaper he read every week from cover to cover. Three other papers were stacked beneath it, and every so often he ran his hand down his face, from eyebrows to chin, saying “mio Dio�
� like he couldn’t believe what he was reading. Fabia was crying.
“What’s wrong, Nonna?” Eva asked, going to her side immediately. Her thoughts rushed to Angelo, the way they always did, worried that something had happened to him.
“There are new laws, Eva,” Santino said grimly. He tapped the page of newsprint he was holding. “More laws. Against the ebrei. The Jews.”
“Where will we go?” Fabia asked Eva. “We don’t want to leave you.”
Eva could only shake her head in confusion. She took the paper from Santino, knowing he had a spare, and began to read.
Fabia was crying because it had suddenly become illegal for non-Jews to work in Jewish homes. She and Santino were Catholic. According to La Stampa, the new Racial Laws prohibited Jews from owning homes, property, or businesses above a certain value. Jewish-owned businesses couldn’t employ more than one hundred people, and they had to be managed by non-Jews. Camillo’s glass factory, Ostrica, had more than five hundred workers. His father had started the company, and Camillo had gotten a chemical engineering degree so he could be the best glassmaker possible, and he had made it hugely profitable. But none of that mattered now.
Not only could Jewish teachers not teach at the schools and universities, but no textbooks written by Jewish authors were allowed in Italian schools. Jews and non-Jews were no longer permitted to marry. Jews could not be legal guardians of non-Jews.
Camillo’s father, Alberto Rosselli, had been born in the ghetto. It had only been sixty-eight years since the Jews in Italy had been freed and given the full rights of Italian citizens. And those rights had been taken away again. Now Jews couldn’t hold political office. They couldn’t serve in the military. Foreign Jews weren’t allowed in Italy at all, which meant Felix Adler, Camillo’s brother-in-law, had four months to leave, and going back to Austria was no longer an option.
Eva read the list over and over, examining the language, the details. Then she read it again, not able to fully comprehend what was happening, what had already happened.
Uncle Augusto, Aunt Bianca, Claudia, and Levi came over, and the family all talked in varying tones of incredulity, until they lapsed into nervous silence as the day wore on. Augusto could only scratch his head. “Why does this keep happening? Why the Jews? It is always the Jews!”
Camillo told Santino and Fabia that there were ways around the laws, and he would think of something. He told everyone not to worry, but for the first time in Eva’s life, she didn’t believe him.
By late afternoon, Eva couldn’t stand the black mood in the villa and grabbed her hat and her pocketbook and walked to the seminary. It had been three years since she’d visited Angelo there.
In the beginning, Fabia and Eva would visit Angelo at the seminary almost every day. It made the transition easier for him, and they would walk to the trattoria and have a gelato or play a game of checkers in the piazza in his hour of free time. Padre Sebastiano, the director of the seminary, was indulgent with Angelo, giving him certain allowances due to his circumstances and regular donations from Camillo. Fabia would crochet, Angelo and Eva would talk and laugh, and Angelo would be fortified until they came again.
Slowly but surely, Angelo shed his little-boy-lost persona and became a true Italian seminarian, blending in with all the other boys who attended school with the goal of becoming Catholic priests. But when he turned fifteen, Angelo told Eva to stop waiting outside for him. He said it was frowned upon and the other boys teased him. Eva had laughed and said, “But we are family!”
He had looked at her then, his mouth pursed like he wanted to say something. He had waited until Fabia’s attention was elsewhere.
“What, Angelo?” Eva huffed, her hands on her hips.
“You and I are not related, Eva.”
“But we are family, Angelo!” She was hurt by his rejection, but he was unyielding, the way only Angelo could be.
“You are too beautiful, and I am too attached to you. And you are not my sister or my cousin or anything close,” he repeated firmly, almost as if the truth of it made him sad. “The other boys think you are beautiful too. And they like to say things about you. And me. So I need you to stop coming here.”
Things had changed between them after that. Eva stopped waiting outside the gate for him, and even though the seminary was only five blocks away from the villa they both called home, she only saw him on school holidays or on the weekends when he missed his grandparents. They still talked and laughed when they were together, and she still played the violin for him, but things had definitely changed.
She needed him now, though. She needed to talk to him, to tell him her world was falling apart. Their world. For their worlds were intertwined by their families, whether Angelo wanted to claim her or not.
She walked down the street, finding herself looking at the familiar buildings and people of her neighborhood through new eyes. No one acted any differently. No one stared at her or pointed a finger at her, yelling, “Ebreia! Jew!”
Donna Mirabelli was walking toward her on the street, and when she reached Eva, she smiled warmly, greeting her the way she always did. The shops were open; the earth had not opened up and swallowed Italy whole. The laws were silly, Eva told herself. Nothing would change.
This time, Eva didn’t wait at the gates for Angelo to appear. She walked across the piazza; past the fountain where John the Baptist stood in the center, his arms outstretched and surrounded by doves; and let herself in through the entrance with the neat little placard announcing to visitors that they had arrived at the Seminario di San Giovanni Battista. John the Baptist was the patron saint of Florence, and everything was named San Giovanni something or other. The door opened into a small foyer where a tired-looking priest with thinning hair was typing away at a little desk. A few students traversed the wide staircase beyond him. They stopped in their tracks when they saw her. Apparently, female visitors were unusual. The typing ceased and the priest looked up at Eva expectantly, removing his glasses.
“I need to see Angelo Bianco. Please. It is a family matter.”
“Wait here, Signorina,” he said politely, setting his spectacles down and smoothing his cassock as he stood. He walked swiftly to the double doors to his left, and Eva wondered if there was another set of stairs or if Angelo was just beyond the doors.
When Angelo appeared, his forehead creased with concern, his blue eyes wide, his hands outstretched toward her—he already had priestly mannerisms—Eva did her best to smile and put him at ease, though she wanted to throw herself at him. His hair was parted neatly and slicked down, tamed but not smooth. It rippled like the surface of the sea on a breezy night, dark and glossy. She fought the urge to run her fingers through it, freeing the curls. She gripped his hands instead and found herself fighting off tears.
“Can you walk with me?” she asked in a rush.
“Eva? What is it? Tell me what’s wrong. What’s happened?”
“Everyone is fine. It’s not anything like that. I . . . just, please, Angelo. I need to speak with you.”
“Give me a moment,” Angelo acquiesced, and turned, walking as swiftly as his limp would allow. “He was back a few minutes later with the wide-brimmed black hat typical of seminarians, and the cane he had stopped resisting.”
“Can you just leave with me?” She felt like she was going to be detained at any moment.
“I am twenty-one years old, Eva. And I am not a prisoner. I’ve told Padre Sebastiano that I am needed at home and will be back in the morning.”
They walked across the piazza and out into the street, but Eva didn’t want to go home. Not yet.
“Can we walk for a bit? I’ve spent all day listening to Fabia’s tears, my father’s strategizing, and Santino’s hammering. Why does he always find something to hammer when he’s upset? Uncle Felix has been playing the violin all day—terrible, terrible songs—and when he’s not, he’s pacing.”
“The laws.” Angelo didn’t ask. He already knew.
“Yes.
The laws. I can’t go to school now, Angelo. Did you know that? I should have enrolled last summer, like my father told me to do. They are letting Jews already enrolled in the universities continue with their studies. But I wasn’t enrolled. Now I can’t. No new Jewish entrants allowed.”
“Madonna,” Angelo breathed, the word sounding like a curse instead of a plea. They walked in silence, both of them lost in helpless fury.
“What will you do instead of school?” he asked finally.
“I wanted to teach music. But there will be many Jewish teachers looking for work now that they can’t teach at the regular schools.”
“You could teach private lessons.”
“Only to Jewish students.”
“Well . . . that’s something, isn’t it?” He tried to smile encouragingly. Eva frowned back at him.
“Maybe I will marry a nice Jewish boy and have fat Jewish babies and live in the ghetto! And maybe we will be run out of our country like the Schreibers were run out of Germany, like my Grandfather Adler is being run out of Austria, like Uncle Felix is being run out of Italy.”
“What are you talking about? Who are the Schreibers?” Angelo tipped his head in question.
“The Schreibers! Remember? The German Jews who came to stay with us?” Eva couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. When Adolf Hitler became chancellor of Germany in 1933, things started to go very badly for Germany’s Jews. Laws had been passed, just like the laws being passed in Italy.
Eva stopped walking, her stomach churning. They had thought it couldn’t happen in Italy. But they were just like the Schreibers. They were just like all the refugees that Camillo had opened his home to. For two years, they had had people in the guesthouse. Different families. All Jews. All Germans. And none of them stayed long. The Rosselli villa was a place to regroup before permanent plans could be made. All the refugees were quiet, and they kept to their rooms.
The Schreibers had a daughter who was Eva’s age and one a little older—Elsa and Gitte. Eva thought they could all be friends—she spoke German—but the German girls never came out of the guesthouse. Eva complained in the beginning that they might as well not have guests at all. To her, having guests meant entertainment. Fun. Camillo explained that the refugees were tired and afraid, and none of this was fun for them.