Confession: Kissing Angelo is a mitzvah.
My Jewish grandmother would roll in her grave if I said it out loud. Uncle Augusto would accuse me of sacrilege. But it’s true. In him I have found a slice of the divine, a morsel of peace, and when his lips are on mine, his hands on my skin, there is reason to believe that life is more than pain, more than fear, more than sorrow. I am hopeful for the first time in years. And strangely enough, I find myself convinced that God loves his children—all his children—that he loves me, and that he provides moments of light and transcendence amid the constant trial.
Angelo closed the book and wept.
CHAPTER 22
NOWHERE
When they were loaded aboard the train again, a week after arriving at Borgo San Dalmazzo, the numbers had grown to include men, women, and children from other places, who had all been brought to the transit camp. There were twenty cars, with about one hundred Jews loaded aboard each car. Many of the people were there with members of their families, and they clamored to stay together. Eva was alone, so she just let herself be pushed and pinched, as people far more desperate than she clung to each other and fought for better positions. She found a corner and slid down against the wall like she’d done on the first leg of the trip, letting herself drift up and away to numb blindness. It was too dark to try and see anyway.
She curled into herself, fighting to stay asleep, to stay oblivious, and she caught a whiff of tobacco, a wisp of smoke, and she raised her head, wanting to breathe it in.
He was there next to her, looking exactly as he had the last time she saw him. His pipe glowed in the darkness, and his long legs were stretched out in front of him, like he had all the room in the world. In his hand he had a glass of wine. The wine was dark and it glimmered like an enormous gemstone cradled in the palm of his hand. She was so thirsty.
“Babbo?” Eva asked, her voice high and childlike in her head.
“Batsheva,” her father said, smiling and swirling his wine. But the smile faded quickly. “Eva, why are you sleeping?” he chided.
“What else can I do?”
“You can fight. You can live.”
“I don’t want to fight, Babbo. I want to be with you. I want to be with you and Uncle Felix and Uncle Augusto. I want to be with Claudia and Levi.”
“You want to be with Angelo,” he finished gently. “Most of all, you want to be with Angelo.”
“Yes, I do. Is he there? With you?” She would give anything to see him.
“No.” Babbo shook his head. “He is not with me. He is there, with you.”
“Where? I am on a train! I am being taken away.”
Her father touched her face. She could feel his hand, long-fingered and light against her cheek. “Angelo is inside you. His flesh is now your flesh, his branch is your branch.”
“No, they killed him. They have killed everyone. And they will kill me too.”
“Eva, listen to me. All your life you have had a dream. A dream of this moment. You know that, don’t you? You recognize the dream.”
Eva nodded, and the fear returned like a deluge, flooding her veins and turning her fingers to ice.
“You have to jump, Eva.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. What do you have to do first?”
“I have to climb to the window.” She didn’t think she could fit through that opening. And there were bars, dividing it. She couldn’t remove the bars.
“You climb up to the window. And then what? In the dream, what did you do next?”
“I breathed in the cold air.”
“Yes. You breathe and gather courage. And then what?”
She shook her head stubbornly, resisting. She remembered that wicked relief. That sweet poison of letting go, of giving up. It had released her, temporarily, and she wasn’t ready to care again. “I don’t think I can do it. I don’t want to. I’m so tired, and I’m so alone.”
“But you must do it. You are the last Rosselli. You must jump, Batsheva. Because if you don’t, you will surely die, and Angelo will die too.”
“Angelo is already dead.”
“You must jump, Eva. You must jump. And you must live,” he whispered, his breath a kiss on her wet cheek. He was so real. Just like the dream that was no longer a dream.
When Eva woke, her father was gone, and her brief respite from trying was over.
In the morning, sore, but able to get around, Angelo packed the books in the small valise Eva had brought with her to Rome. He folded her clothes and put them in the bigger suitcase, clearing out the room because he couldn’t stand for anyone else to touch her things. He made her bed, folding the covers neatly, even though he knew one of the sisters would strip them off when he left and wash them. He wanted to take the case that covered the pillow and ended up folding it and tucking it inside the valise, unable to part with the physical reminder of her scent merged with his. He couldn’t manage to summon any guilt for taking something that wasn’t his. He’d already taken something that wasn’t his, and she’d instantly been taken away from him.
He started to shake, the grief and disbelief making him wonder how he was ever going to go on. Movement hurt, thought hurt, breathing hurt. And none of it was because of his battered body. He welcomed that pain, because it distracted him. He made himself walk down the stairs, juggling Eva’s things.
Mother Francesca saw him and rushed to his side, scolding him fiercely and trying to remove the cases from his arms.
“What do you think you are doing? You have to rest. At least for a few more days!” she clucked.
“I’ve been in bed for three days. That’s enough rest,” he answered softly. “I will take these things home.”
“You can’t go home! Monsignor Luciano came here. He delivered some of your things. You’re to stay hidden until the Americans arrive. If everyone thinks you’re dead, they won’t be looking for you. You’ll be safe as long as you stay here and stay out of sight. He said Monsignor O’Flaherty has been conducting all of his meetings on the steps of St. Peter’s to avoid arrest. When he leaves the Vatican he has to wear a disguise! There have been attempts to grab him right off the street. Someone even tried to pull him across the white line the Germans drew on the ground. If they pull him across, he is no longer under Vatican protection and can be arrested. Someone got wind of the plan and turned the tables. The man hired to kidnap the monsignor got a good pounding!”
Mother Francesca’s eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed, and Angelo found himself smiling slightly at her obvious excitement over the “pounding.” She’d had more excitement in the last few months than she’d probably ever had in her whole life and would ever have again.
But the news put a wrench in his plans. He couldn’t sit in Eva’s room and wait for the war to be over. If he didn’t keep working, keep moving, he wouldn’t survive. He would be the next casualty of war’s hopelessness. He would be the one walking in front of the streetcar, or throwing himself from a bridge, or inciting a German to shoot him. He felt it in the black despair that coiled in his stomach, threatening to strike, to sink its venomous teeth into his chest and stop his heart.