“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.