“You knew what, Babbo?” Angelo said, slipping and calling him by Eva’s pet name.
“I knew you wouldn’t pretend with me,” he said. “You love Eva. And she loves you. You are a priest and she is a Jew.”
“And you are a poet,” Angelo said mildly, though his heart was galloping.
Camillo laughed softly. “That I am. A great poet and philosopher. That is why I smoke this pipe. It gives me the look I desire.”
“I am not a priest yet,” Angelo murmured. It was a silly thing to say. He had spent nine years in the seminary. Nine years. And now, he was in the final months of his training. His ordination had been scheduled.
“That’s like a man who is betrothed saying he is not yet married.”
It was exactly like that, and Angelo had no response. He was too honest and too shell-shocked by the whole evening to play games. Camillo was right. He couldn’t pretend. And reality was starting to penetrate the fog he’d been in.
Angelo wasn’t a stupid man. He wasn’t blind. He wasn’t deaf. He wasn’t dumb. But he’d been a fool. He’d thought he could love Eva and not be in love with her. He’d thought he could be close to her and not be too close. He’d thought he could have Eva and have God too.
And he couldn’t.
He was not the exception. He was the rule. He was not Saint George, slaying dragons for his God. He was simply Angelo Bianco, being slain by the wiliest serpent of all—Satan, flaming red, with seven heads and ten horns—which John spoke of in his Book of Revelation.
“I still want to be a priest, Camillo,” he whispered, and his chest ached at the admission, as if he were betraying Eva. He was betraying Eva. Just like he’d betrayed the church and betrayed himself. The last few hours had been the sweetest of his life, but they had not been his finest.
“I know,” Camillo said. “I know you do. That is why you are sitting out here alone instead of somewhere with Eva. That is why you’ve spent all these years treating her like a sister and letting me treat you like a son.”
“You are my family,” Angelo said, emotion rising in his chest.
“Yes. But you can still save her.” Camillo met his gaze with a frank expectation that confused Angelo all the more.
“But . . . I thought you meant . . .”
“Marriage? No. It’s illegal, first of all. Catholics can’t marry Jews, even though we’ve been marrying each other for decades in Italy. Even though Santino’s Catholic uncle married my Jewish aunt thirty years ago,” he scoffed, disgusted. But he waved his hand in the air, dismissing his derision as well as the mention of the convoluted family connection that had brought Santino and Camillo together in the first place. He continued. “And second, you’re right. Eva wouldn’t leave. It is a distinctly Jewish trait. We would rather die together than be separated from our loved ones.” He puffed his pipe, letting the silence cleanse his mental palate. “Ah, who knows? Maybe that isn’t a Jewish trait. Maybe that is a human trait.” He waved his hand again. “Regardless, I know she will not leave me to save herself.”
“I don’t understand, Camillo. What do you want me to do?” Angelo hoped Camillo could tell him exactly, give him instructions, make the path ahead straight and narrow.
“You are our only hope because you will be in a position to help many people, Angelo. The church is already helping refugees. Did you know that?”
Angelo shook his head. The question was, how did Camillo know?
“I have been looking for ways to help my father-in-law. I have been working with DELASEM—”
“What?” Angelo had no idea what DELASEM was.
“The Delegation for the Assistance of Jewish Emigrants,” Camillo supplied. “There are growing networks, Angelo. And the Catholic Church is quietly assisting where they can. The Catholics may save our souls after all,” Camillo said, smiling around his pipe. “Or maybe just our lives. But I will settle for that much.”
“What can I do?” The instructions seemed very vague.
“With the threats of war, Ostrica’s contracts have gone up tenfold. The government is our largest contractor. They don’t pay well, but they buy huge volume. We are just happy they haven’t taken the company in the name of the greater good. We specialize in fine handmade glass, but we invested in the machinery to do heavier, industrial-grade glass when Mussolini started posturing and war looked like it was going to become inevitable. We are richer than we’ve ever been, and a large percentage is going to DELASEM. I have even donated a large portion to the church with the caveat that you are the trustee of the account and have a right to dictate where, within the organization of the church, that money goes. I would ask that you make sure that it goes to feed and hide refugees and those who are sheltering them. Can you do that? Will you do that for me?”
“How?” Angelo asked again.
“Become a priest. Just like you’ve always planned. And if worse comes to worst, use your connections to hide us. I need you to save our family, Angelo.”
Eva lay awake all night, gloriously giddy, caught in the haze of remembered kisses, only to fall into a fierce depression when she contemplated the future. The last year had convinced her there were no happy endings, only happy interludes, and somehow the interludes made the endings even worse.
She ended up falling asleep near dawn and slept until noon. She took a leisurely bath, dried and curled her hair, painted her toenails red, and finally slunk down the stairs at about three o’clock, certain that everyone would take one look at her and see her feelings stamped all over her face. She was terrified of that first glance with Angelo, because then she would know if he felt the same. Maybe she just wouldn’t look at him at all.
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?”