“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.”