From Sand and Ash

by Amy Harmon

  Fabia was in the kitchen breading and frying sardines. Santino was fashioning some kind of hat decoration from the porcupine quills Angelo had found, and the rest of the family was gathered on the veranda, sipping lemonade laced with something stronger, enjoying the slightly cooler temperatures, courtesy of the previous night’s storm.

  They all greeted Eva warmly with no mention of her late morning or her absence at dinner the night before. Angelo wasn’t on the veranda. She breathed a little easier as she wiggled beneath her father’s arm on the porch swing, leaning against him and closing her eyes so she could avoid seeing Angelo if he eventually joined them. But it wasn’t Angelo who made his way up the walk in late afternoon.

  It was not uncommon for the manager and his wife—an older couple who had always been unfailingly polite and welcoming—to stop in every now and then and check on their guests. They managed the whole row of beach houses for one of Italy’s wealthiest families, though Eva could never remember which one. The couple was greeted warmly all around by the group gathered on the veranda. But the warm reception changed almost immediately into something cold and damp.

  The elderly man and his wife stood side by side in front of Camillo, as if they needed moral support to do the immoral deed.

  “I’m sorry, Signore,” the old man said. “I know you have come here for many years. And we don’t mind. We are happy to have you join us. But people are complaining. They recognize you from past years, and they know you are Jews. The new laws . . . you understand.”

  Camillo stared at the couple for a moment, disbelieving. Eva straightened, pulling away from him as he rose, clearly needing to face this unexpected assault on his feet.

  “We will refund your money, of course,” the woman added hastily. She extended an envelope to Camillo. He took it, opened it slowly, and looked at the lire inside. Eva could see his humiliation, and her own face grew hot with outrage. She reached out and took her father’s hand. He stiffened briefly, then squeezed her fingers.

  “I see,” Camillo said slowly, calmly. “When exactly would you like us to go?”

  “As soon as possible. You understand. We don’t want to lose more business or get in trouble with the carabinieri.” The man shrugged like it couldn’t be helped. “Eh, what else can we do?”

  “We will leave in the morning, then,” Camillo said stiffly.

  The old woman looked at her husband and her husband looked back at Camillo. “It would be better if you left tonight, Signore.”

  The silence on the veranda felt like standing in front of a blazing furnace.

  “It is a full day’s trip back to Florence, and we have people in our party who are getting on in years,” Camillo said softly but firmly. “We were just about to sit down to a late lunch and we will need to gather our things. We will leave in the morning.”

  The woman reached out and yanked the envelope from his hands.

  “Then we will need this to cover our losses,” she snapped. “And don’t blame us if the carabinieri show up and throw you out. They won’t be as nice as we have been.”

  The old man looked at his wife, his face reflecting the shock that Eva felt. The woman had grown hostile with very little provocation.

  “I’m sure tomorrow will be fine,” the old man said, backing off the veranda, his hat in his hands. “Come now, Guida,” he commanded his wife. His wife turned away, but she didn’t return the envelope.

  When Angelo finally showed up and heard the news from his sobbing grandmother, he left the house again, slamming the front door with wall-trembling force. He’d stormed off to the manager’s cottage only to come back a half hour later looking shaken and sick. No one asked him how the conversation had gone.

  He was as silent as the rest of them as they dined on Fabia’s fried sardines, green salad, and tomatoes. From the frozen expressions and weary eyes all around the table, one would think the crucifixion was at hand and not simply the last supper. Eva didn’t think anyone would appreciate her attempt at levity, and kept her Catholic wordplay to herself.

  They packed their things in an embarrassed stupor and retired early, none of them wanting to talk about the aborted holiday. The next morning, they left the house as clean and tidy as they’d found it, and climbed into the hired cars that would take them and their luggage to the train station in Grosseto.

  Eva didn’t want to look back, but as they pulled away, she found herself turning in her seat to see the house disappear around the bend. They wouldn’t be coming back to Maremma Beach. There would be no more white-sand vacations and fresh fish from the market in Grosseto. There would be no more stolen kisses. Of that she was almost as certain. Those things were only memories now, and the memories had been tainted.

  15 August, 1939

  Confession: I am afraid of rejection.

  A rejected infant will often die, even if its basic needs are met. A rejected child will spend his whole life trying to please everyone else, and never please himself. A rejected woman will often cheat, just to feel desirable. A rejected man will rarely try again, no matter how lonely he is. A rejected people will convince themselves they deserve it, if only to make sense of a senseless world.

  I’m convinced there is nothing worse for the human heart than rejection, but over the past year, I have grown accustomed to it. I expect it. Accept it. Roll with it, instead of against it. I hate this about myself, and sometimes I wonder where the old Eva has gone, the girl who had fire, the girl who secretly believed she could do anything, be anything, and love anyone. Then I remember. She was rejected.

  Eva Rosselli

  CHAPTER 5

  ROME

  Angelo wasn’t expected back at the seminary for three more days, and he used the first two to visit with Monsignor Luciano in Rome. He confessed his feelings for Eva, told him of the intimacy they’d shared, and he asked him for counsel and absolution. The monsignor gave both, but he didn’t hide his dismay very well.

  “There is no future in this, my son.”

  Angelo thought about Eva, her bright smile and laughing eyes, the way her mouth had felt beneath his. She loved him. He loved her. Surely, there was a future in that. But Monsignor Luciano continued, as if he heard the doubt in Angelo’s silence.

  “Even if you didn’t become a priest . . . she is a Jew, Angelo.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “You can’t marry a Jew.”

  “Because of the laws?”

  “Yes. But that isn’t what I’m referring to. You are Catholic. You can’t marry her because she isn’t a believer.”

  “She believes in God.” Angelo felt the sting of affront, a desire to defend, even as he recognized what his mentor was saying to him.

  “Which God?” Monsignor Luciano pressed. “Certainly not Jesus.”

  “Do you really think God is a God of conditions, Monsignor?” Angelo found himself arguing. “Maybe the only condition is love. Love for him, for each other. She doesn’t reject Jesus. She just doesn’t know him,” Angelo tried to explain.

  “And are you confident that you could help her come to know him?” Monsignor Luciano probed.

  Angelo thought about that for a moment before coming to a conclusion. “I don’t know, Father. But even if she accepted Jesus as her savior, I don’t think she would be baptized.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she is . . . Jewish.” Angelo threw up his hands, frustrated by his inability to find a better explanation. “It is her heritage. It is her history. It is more than religion. It is who she is. Who her father is. Who her ancestors were.”

  “But it is not who you are,” Monsignor Luciano said quietly, folding his hands and looking at Angelo.

  Angelo reared back, almost as if he’d been slapped. He turned away from the monsignor, not wanting him to see the reaction his words caused.

  It was not who he was.

  That was the crux of the matter. He was not Jewish. He’d been raised and loved by Jewish people, but he was not one of them. The hurt and r
ejection he had felt when his mother died and his father left him in Italy reared its scaly head and burned him all over again.

  The church is the best place for you, Angelo. You won’t be a burden. His father’s final words to his son. He was older and wiser now, and he could rationalize his father’s decision and his grandparents’ desires for him, but the feelings, the insecurity, had never gone away.

  “You know what is best, Angelo. You know what is right. Now you must go forward and not look back,” the monsignor said, and Angelo could only nod. The church was the best place for him. Deep down, he believed it. Angelo didn’t belong with Eva. It was not who he was.

  Angelo spent his final day of vacation back in Florence with Eva, trying to find a way to tell her nothing had changed and nothing could change. He took her to all his favorite places, trying to share his feelings, to explain what drove him. Instead, he ended up sounding like a tour guide in a city she already knew and loved.

  She was quiet, and he could feel her depression. The art and the architecture didn’t feed her spirit the way it fed his. He tried harder, pointing out a fresco there, a statue here, telling her what he loved and what he appreciated, so she could appreciate it too, and little by little her face relaxed and her smile came back as the art came to life.

  The only thing he wanted to show her inside the Palazzo del Bargello, amid the sprawling expanse of some of the world’s greatest art, was Donatello’s statue of young Saint George, shield in hand, eyes facing a threat no one else could see.

  “Padre Sebastiano brought a group of us here about two years after I came to Italy. This one statue changed everything for me. I couldn’t look at anything else. The rest of the group moved on, but I couldn’t move. Another priest saw me staring at the statue, and he told me the story of San Giorgio and the dragon.”

  He relayed the tale that had moved him, altered his thinking, and redirected his life. As he talked, Eva’s eyes were fixed on the sculpture, like she could almost imagine how he had looked, standing there all those years ago, a boy who wanted to be a saint.

  “He risked everything,” Angelo said as he finished the story, “and even though he died for his beliefs, he lives on because of them too.”

  He met Eva’s gaze then, and her eyes were sad. Maybe she saw the truth, and it hurt her.

  “After that, Don Luciano, the priest I met that day, kept tabs on me and even sent a letter to the seminary, asking for periodic updates on my schooling and progress. Don Luciano is now in Rome. He’s a monsignor. I’m hoping I will be able to learn alongside him at some point.” It was his fondest wish.

  In the Piazza del Duomo, they stood in front of the bronze baptistery doors, and he pointed out the life of Christ, so painstakingly illustrated, engraving after engraving, panel after panel.

  “The first time I saw these I could only stare. It was like being in love, when your eyes can’t look away without instantly wanting to go back,” he breathed, his voice an awed whisper, but Eva just nodded, her eyes on his face instead of the baptistery doors.

  Angelo turned away from the baptistery. “Now to Santa Croce.”

  “Santa Croce too?” Eva asked, groaning as if she were five. She was teasing, but beneath her banter was a growing despondence. The more they saw, the wider the gulf between them grew. They walked the short distance, a few city blocks, between the Duomo and the basilica, their conversation mild in the August heat. The forecast had threatened rain, but the sky was cloudless, the breeze nonexistent.

  “Have you been inside?” he asked as they began to cross the Franciscan basilica’s lengthy piazza.

  “Yes. On school outings, and once with Uncle Felix. He made me play my violin outside, remember? I drew a crowd. He was quite pleased with me that day.”

  “I do remember! You told me all about it. You were quite pleased with yourself too, if I remember right.” Eva always came alive in front of a crowd, and when she’d told Angelo about the numbers she’d drawn, he had wished more than anything he could have heard her play.

  “Playing for an audience is a million times better than playing alone,” she said, confirming his thoughts.

  “Well, I love Santa Croce. It’s charming, less intimidating.” Angelo winked at Eva and she just shook her head and sighed.

  He studied the towering white edifice ahead of them, the arched doorways, the intricate carvings, the height crowned with several crosses and a blue six-sided star that made him think of the ugly yellow stars some of Camillo’s refugees had worn on their clothing. The reminder depressed him. Thank God Italy had not resorted to pinning labels on her Jews.

  “Less intimidating?” Eva countered doubtfully. She rubbed her head, and he could have sworn he heard her whimper. He was invigorated by the art, but Eva seemed overwhelmed by it all. Or maybe it was him. Maybe he depressed her.

  “Catholicism is so . . . ornate,” she said, trying to take it all in.

  “That is one of the things I love about it. It’s complicated and beautiful and there’s nothing easy about it. Everything is symbolic, ritualistic. Like a beautiful woman, it makes you work.”

  Eva harrumphed. “What do you know about beautiful women?”

  “I grew up with one. I think I know plenty.”

  “Ha!” she laughed. He was trying to be sweet, though he was also being truthful. “I’m not complicated, Angelo.”

  “You are to me.” He eyed her briefly, then looked away.

  “No. You make me that way. You are far more complicated than I’ll ever be. I’m not sure what drives you. I have never been able to understand your passion for . . .”

  “God?” He finished her sentence.

  “No. I don’t think your passion is for God, exactly. I think your passion is for ascension.”

  Angelo could only stare at her in stupefaction.

  “Ascension?” he asked, incredulous.

  “You aren’t hungry for power. You aren’t hungry for riches. You aren’t hungry for women or fun or music . . . or pleasure.”

  “Am I really so bland?” He laughed at himself, and Eva laughed too, but she pressed her point.

  “You are hungry for purpose, for meaning, for . . . martyrdom . . . or maybe just sainthood.”

  “I think you just described the ambitions of every good priest,” he said, strangely relieved.

  “Yes. I did, didn’t I?” Eva looked a little stunned.

  “Why are the synagogues so plain, do you think? Is it because Judaism is much more . . . bare? Simplistic?” It was Angelo’s turn to search for the right word.

  Eva thought for a moment. “They aren’t all plain. But unlike Catholicism—a religion that has had unfettered centuries to decorate”—she shot him a wry look—“you only need the Torah and ten Jewish males to have a synagogue. The rest can be cobbled together. My father says it’s because Jews, as a people, have had little chance to settle. We are always on the move. The exodus never ends. We have been unable to make roots. So our roots are in our traditions, our families. Our children.”

  Angelo could see Eva suddenly struggling with her emotions, and he reached for her hand. Her tears made him want to tear at his clothes and pull at his hair. He hated to see her pain. He hated the terrible injustice of it all, and he could only watch helplessly as she fought for her composure.

  “It’s happening again, Angelo. All over again. The exodus.”

  He could only nod. Agreeing. But then she looked up at him, and her eyes were fierce, glittering with anger and unshed tears.

  “Our rituals are all about our children. So different from Catholicism where they take a man and ask him to make vows that deprive him of his roots, of children, of family. There will be no descendants of Angelo Bianco. Your tree ends with you.”

  Angelo shook his head, but he didn’t bother to defend the church or himself. Eva was angry, and she had a right to be. The anger and the hurt and the longing for things to be different, both in the world and with them, was like a tangled ball of string, interwoven
and indistinguishable. He understood that. And in a way, he felt it too. Angelo didn’t think Eva blamed him for the way things were. But she did blame him for the way things could never be.

  “I didn’t come here to see Santa Croce. It is wonderful, but some other time. Come on.” Angelo released Eva’s hand and gripped her elbow, tugging her toward the picturesque cloisters to the right of the massive church.

  They worked their way around until they stood at the columned entrance of the renowned Pazzi Chapel.

  “Filippo Brunelleschi’s Pazzi Chapel, famed for its Renaissance architecture,” Eva parroted. She was Florentine, after all, and Camillo Rosselli was her father, a man who valued learning above all else. But Angelo was pretty sure she’d never seen beyond the exterior.

  “Very good. Now come inside and sit with me,” he demanded.

  She followed obediently, stepping into the quiet chapel. She was clearly expecting more extravagance, more opulence. Instead, Angelo watched as her face softened and her chest rose and fell, deeply at first, as if she couldn’t find her breath. Then her hand rose to her chest and she left it resting there, as if her heart had attempted to break out and fly up into the soaring, simplistic beauty of the domed interior.

  “You like it,” he said, more than a little pleased. He led her to the stone bench that lined the walls beneath the long windows and the arched pilasters that made up the rectangular perimeter of the room. Angelo sat down with a sigh, stretching his legs out before him, his hand rubbing absently at his knee. There was always a little pain when he wore the prosthetic, like a shoe that rubs in all the wrong places. He didn’t mind the pain for the most part. It reminded him of his weaknesses and made him thankful for his strengths.

  “This is where the monks of Santa Croce would have sat, once upon a time. This was a meeting room, a chapter house,” he softly explained to Eva. They were alone in the chapel, but the space demanded reverence.