He sat on the long bench, slumped, his cap in his hands, a German officer alone, and people scurried past him. He seemed unaware of the discomfort he was causing, the fear and derision in the looks tossed his way.
Eva had spent the morning in long ration lines, the one thing Angelo would allow her to do, and she had very little to show for it. She had brought Mario’s violin with her that morning, instructed to barter with it if there was anything worth bartering for. There had been nothing. Now, several hours later, she was waiting for a streetcar to take her back across town.
She still had fifteen minutes to wait. At least. And she was tired, her feet hurt, and watching the big German occupy the whole bench suddenly filled her with a rage and an insolence her father would have trembled to see. She could almost hear his voice in her head.
Invisibility is our best weapon, Batsheva!
Invisibility may have worked for Camillo Rosselli, a thin, slightly stooped man of indeterminate years. But it didn’t work especially well for a beautiful woman. Eva had learned that long ago. Her best weapon was to make others stare. Stare, and assume she had every right to be exactly where she was. She sat down next to the man, her back stiff, her violin case in her lap. She perched with her nose in the air, reminding herself that he was the interloper, an unwelcome visitor to her country. He could move if she made him uncomfortable.
He looked up in surprise—she felt him jerk—and she turned her head and eyed him in haughty rebellion before looking away. He continued to stare, his gaze heavy on her face.
“Can you play?” he asked in German. Eva pretended not to understand. He sighed. He leaned over and tapped the violin case.
“Can you play?” he said again. He mimed the action, and Eva noticed how tired he looked, how dark the hollows were beneath his eyes.
She nodded once. A sharp inclination of her chin, and looked away again.
“Play,” he said simply, tapping at her case insistently.
She shook her head. No. She would not play for him. He fell back dejectedly, and she thought that would be the end of it.
“My father could play. He loved music. Beethoven and Mozart. Bach . . . he loved Bach.” He was speaking so softly Eva could have shut him out. But his voice broke on the last word, and his sorrow was palpable. Eva almost felt sorry for him.
“Play,” he demanded again, his voice rising. He leaned toward her aggressively and jerked the case from her hands. Eva instantly stood and stepped back. It was not her prized Stradivarius, but she wasn’t foolish enough to grab it back, even if it had been.
He set her case on the ground and opened it. He pulled the violin and bow free and stood, shoving them at her. She bobbled and almost dropped them, but he didn’t care.
“Play!” he yelled, his pale face suddenly ruddy with anger. A child started to cry, and Eva realized they were drawing attention. But no one stepped forward. No one intervened. Invisibility was the word of the day. She was too shocked to respond, and stood staring at him, her bow extended like a sword.
“Are you an idiot? Play!” he roared. Then he drew his pistol from the holster at his side and pointed it at her face.
With a quick tightening of her bow and a hasty tuning of the strings, she lifted the violin to her shoulder, and turning her face from the unwavering pistol, notched it beneath her jaw.
His father loved Bach. That is what he had said. Without looking at the German officer, Eva began to play “Ave Maria,” the version by Bach and Gounod, the one that had made her weep for her own mother and vow to master the violin if only to feel closer to her, to understand her.
From the corner of her eye she saw the gun lower slightly, but only a bit, and Eva squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on keeping the tone clear, the tremolo controlled, and the shaking in her legs, where it wouldn’t affect her performance. She had shunned invisibility. Look where that had gotten her. Now her only weapon was to play, and play well.
The first sustained note was shy, hesitant. But Eva bore down, gripping the instrument fiercely, her chin pressed against the faded varnish like she was embracing a lover. The melody shimmered and strengthened, and before long she was coaxing a soaring aria from the singing strings that not even a trained soprano could match. Still, Eva heard it all as though she listened through a waterfall, her heart drowning out the sweet, silvery slides and the quivering crescendos, and she wondered in the part of her brain that knew only thought—the part that watched as if from a safe distance—if this would be her final performance. She wondered if it was worthy of her uncle’s sacrifice, her uncle’s time, of all the hours she had spent practicing, hearing Babbo grumbling and Angelo begging for more.
Then it was over. Complete. Eva lowered her bow from the strings and raised her eyes to her oppressor. He had dropped the gun to his side and his face was streaked with tears. He carefully re-holstered his pistol and turned away. He hesitated, his back to her, and Eva wondered if she would be asked for an encore. Her chest burned and she realized she needed to breathe. Without turning around he said softly but distinctly, “Vergib mir.” Forgive me.
He walked several steps, his spine stiff, his arms clasped behind his back. Then he resumed walking with a brisk determination, like he knew exactly where he was going. The streetcar was coming, the screech of the wheels on the track music to Eva’s ears. The German officer headed toward it, as if he thought he could brandish his gun and make it stop, the way he’d pointed his gun and made her play. As it neared, he quickened his step, and with a composure that struck Eva as instantly familiar and terrifyingly predictable, he threw himself in front of the streetcar. The sound was hell unleashed, a shrieking, tearing, grinding groan, and the car bucked on the track, attempting to swallow the man whole and spewing him out again.
People were screaming and pointing, and within seconds—minutes?—a siren blared, then another, a cacophony of banshees in the bright-blue day.
Eva walked on wooden legs to the case that lay thrown open on the ground. She carefully placed her violin inside, closed it, and sat heavily on the bench. She resumed waiting for a streetcar that was already there, a streetcar that wouldn’t be taking her anywhere. Her hands shook and her stomach revolted, and every horrified breath felt like fire in her throat. Yet still she sat, composed, her terror held inside the bony cage that sheltered her war-torn heart and her shrapnel-riddled lungs.
Then there were Germans with whistles and clubs, pushing onlookers into a cluster, yelling in a language no one seemed to understand. But Eva understood.
“Someone pushed him!” an officer shouted. “Who pushed him?”
The terrified crowd looked around, as if to find the culprit, and one woman pointed toward Eva, as if to say, “Her!”
“She was with him,” the woman said in Italian. “That woman with the violin. She was with him.”
Several of the officers and a handful of horrified onlookers followed the woman’s pointing finger to the bench where Eva sat. The Germans may not have understood what the woman said, but they understood her gesture.
Eva rose from the bench, shaking her head.
“Nein,” she said. “No! He was not pushed. He walked right in front of the streetcar. I watched him.” Her voice rang out in German, and two of the officers broke away and came toward her.
“What is your name?” one barked, his hand on his gun.
“Eva,” she answered numbly. She couldn’t remember her last name for a moment. Then she remembered she wasn’t supposed to say it and was grateful for the shock that had stalled her tongue.
“Documents?” He waited with an outstretched hand.
She fumbled in her pocketbook and rushed to set her fake pass in his hand. He looked at it for several seconds and handed it back.
“You will come with me.”
“Wh-what? Why?” She realized she asked in Italian and repeated the question in German.
“Ten civilians for every German. That is the Führer’s rule. You saw what happened. Who should we take instead?”