The carabiniere was suddenly back, his face pale, his upper lip shining with perspiration. He shut Felix’s bedroom door behind him, as if the matter were closed.
“He is dead,” he said. “He has shot himself in the head.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but his throat worked like he was trying not to be sick. He shoved his black cap back on his head, avoiding Eva’s gaze for the first time since he’d arrived at the villa. She immediately shoved past him and reached for the door, bursting through into the masculine space that smelled like shoe polish, coffee, and the soap Felix used when he shaved. But there was another smell. Blood. It smelled like blood and an acrid scent Eva would later come to recognize as gunpowder.
“Eva!” Her father grabbed at her arm and pulled her back. But not before she saw the crimson pool that crawled like a living thing beneath the closet door and across the terrazzo floor.
Felix Adler had stepped into his closet, closed the door, and calmly killed himself.
As far as families were concerned, they definitely weren’t typical—Angelo was sure most Jewish families didn’t include a Catholic priest and his Catholic grandparents, but they were the only family Felix Adler had. Felix didn’t have any parents left—he only had Santino and Fabia. He had no siblings, just Camillo, a brother-in-law. He wasn’t married and he didn’t have children, though he’d treated Eva and Angelo as though they were his own. Thus, Camillo, Eva, Santino, Fabia, and Angelo gathered at the synagogue before the service, the five of them charged with the duty of avelim, official mourners.
Angelo had come from his little parish as soon as he received word, and Eva had fallen into his arms, the strain between them temporarily forgotten for a more immediate concern. They’d had no contact since his ordination. No letters, no telegrams, no friendly visits. It had been seven months since he’d received his Holy Orders, seven months since he’d been home.
Now they stood side by side, Eva’s arm wrapped around his as Rabbi Cassuto offered what little explanation he could for something inexplicable. Eva herself had had little to say. She had not been far from Angelo’s side since the moment he’d arrived, and though she’d clung to him, letting him know she needed him, she’d been silent—she even wept quietly—as if Felix had taken sound with him. The maestro was gone, and the music was too.
Camillo wanted her to play at the service, but she just shook her head, and he’d seemed to understand. He found another student of Felix’s to play something by Mendelssohn, something Felix would have appreciated, and the matter was dropped.
Before the service began, they ripped Felix’s shirt, a ritual called keriah, or tearing, symbolizing their separation and the loss in the fabric of their family. He had been torn from them, and as each of them rent a piece of the garment, they recited the passage from the Book of Job. God has given, God has taken away, blessed be the name of God. They would wear the strip of cloth attached to their clothing and would keep it there for the seven days of shivah.
God had not taken Felix away. Felix had chosen to go. And though suicide was treated as seriously in Judaism as it was in Catholicism, there was no judgment, and Rabbi Cassuto was the first to add, “Baruch atah Adonai, Dayan Ha-Emet”—Blessed are you, Adonai, truthful judge. Felix was a casualty of war, Rabbi Cassuto said, and that was the end of it.
Angelo had conducted his first funeral a month before. A beloved mother and wife in his impoverished parish who’d died unexpectedly. He’d been terrified of failing the family in their time of need but found that as long as he kept his focus on the deceased and on her loved ones, and stopped worrying about himself, he was fine. He’d conducted the funeral service in Latin and Rabbi Cassuto spoke in Hebrew—Eva had to translate what she knew—but the sentiments were mostly the same. We are made in his image, and to him we return.
After the service, they’d joined the long procession to the grave site, stopping seven times as if to show the difficulty of the task, the pain of the ordeal. And when Felix’s casket was eventually lowered into the ground, they shoveled dirt over his final resting place, committing him back to the earth. It was beautiful and painful. Just like life. Just like coming home. Just like seeing Eva again.
They went back to the villa and spent the rest of the day welcoming a steady stream of friends and neighbors, until eventually, just like the other rituals of the day, that too had come to an end. Now he sat next to Eva on a stool so low that his prosthetic stuck out in front of him, his eyes on the candle that had been lit the moment they returned and had been burning ever since.
“What does shivah mean?” he asked, wanting to pull her from the solitude of her silence. She was so withdrawn he was worried about her.
“It means ‘seven,’” she answered immediately.
“Ah, I see. We stopped seven times today. And you will sit shivah for a week. Seven days.” Strange. It had been seven months since he’d been home.
“Yes.”
“Why is seven significant?”
“It’s from Job. When he lost everything, his friends sat with him for seven days and seven nights, grieving with him and for him.”
They fell into silence once more, and Angelo was at a loss, sick at heart, helpless to the point of tears, frustrated that he couldn’t hold her and make her laugh, that things between them couldn’t be easy and comfortable, the way they once were. He fisted his hands in his hair and found himself confessing.
“I can’t stay, Eva. I would like to. But I have responsibilities that can’t wait.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Thank you for coming.”
“I would take it away from you if I could. I would take it with me. I would take your pain and bear it for you.” He would happily endure her sorrow if it meant she wouldn’t have to.
“I know,” she said again, as if she truly believed him. “I know you would. But sadly, that is not how pain works, is it? We can cause pain, but we can so seldom cure it.”
“Talk to me. Maybe that will ease it. Tell me what all of this means.” He swept his hand around the room, including the candle and the covered mirrors, the low stools and the meal of condolence that the family had eaten. It had been a strange mix of eggs and bread and lentils—not the kind of comfort food he would have chosen. “Tell me about the candle,” he suggested, giving her a starting point.
“A member of the family lights the candle immediately upon entering the home. It’s called the shivah candle, and it burns for the entire seven days.”
Angelo nodded, encouraging her.
“The candle reminds us of the soul of the one who has gone, and also of God’s light. After all, he created our souls with his light. It’s from a psalm, I think.”
“The light of God is the soul of man,” Angelo quoted.
“Yes.” Eva nodded. “That’s the one.” She stopped talking, a contemplative expression on her face, and Angelo pressed her, not wanting her to slip away again.
“And these stools?”
Eva looked startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there for a moment. “Oh. Well, we are closer to the ground. Closer to the loved one who is now in the ground.”
Symbolism. He was a Catholic priest. If he understood anything, he understood symbolism.
“And the mirrors?” he prodded. The mirrors were all shrouded in dark cloth.
“Grieving is not a time to worry about appearances. There should be no judgment in grief. People should be allowed to grieve in any way they need. It is a kindness to the mourners. Shivah is about those left behind.”