Home > From Sand and Ash(16)

From Sand and Ash(16)
Author: Amy Harmon

“But sand is my business. Sand, soda ash, and lime. Without sand, there wouldn’t be glass. My father named the company Ostrica—oyster—because the oyster takes the sand and makes it into something beautiful. Like we do. We take the sand and make it into glass.”

“I didn’t know that! Grandfather Rosselli was a romantic.”

“We want to make the mundane beautiful. Isn’t that right?” he asked. Eva remembered the conversation she’d had with Angelo in the cemetery, when she’d explained what a mitzvah was.

“Everything is a mitzvah to you,” she said softly, and wrapped her arm through Camillo’s, her eyes on the horizon, her thoughts on Angelo and oysters. No matter how hard she tried, everything reminded her of Angelo.

“Not so. I am just an oyster, hiding in my shell, turning sand into glass.” His voice was so melancholy, the ache beneath it so audible, that she pulled her eyes and thoughts back to his face.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m really no different from so many others, I suppose. I have been hoping it would all right itself.”

“What?”

“The world, Eva. The terrible state of the world. I thought I could just juggle, strategize, bend myself and my circumstances around the laws. And I have. I’ve managed to keep the business afloat, keep our home, provide for you and Santino and Fabia. But the world isn’t going to right itself; Italy isn’t going to right herself. Not without help. I can’t continue hoping and doing nothing. I can’t continue hiding in my shell and making glass. I have to do more. We all have to do more. Or we will all die.”

“Babbo?” She heard the alarm in her voice, and her father turned to her with sorrow-filled eyes.

“I have to go get your grandfather, Eva. I owe it to Felix.”

“In Austria? But . . . isn’t he in a . . . camp?”

“The Germans can’t possibly want one old man. He won’t be a good worker. I will buy his way out. Trade something of value. It is what I’m good at. I’m a natural-born salesman. You know that. I will get him and I will bring him here with us. Then Angelo will help us hide him until the war is over.”

“How will you get him out?”

“Eva, Ostrica provides bottles to many wineries in Austria. I have been to Austria dozens of times, and I have every reason in the world to travel there for business. I am an Italian citizen, and my documents clearly show that. No one will question me. I have identity papers for Otto claiming that he is also an Italian citizen.”

“How did you get false papers?” she cried.

“I have a very good printer at Ostrica. You remember Aldo Finzi? He makes labels for bottles—beautiful labels—and we have been making passes, Eva. We are making false papers for refugees. It is some of the best work Aldo has ever done. I didn’t want to tell you. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“Oh, Babbo,” she moaned. “If you get caught with Grandfather, they might arrest you both. They could take the factory if they discover you are forging documents there.”

“I do not own the factory,” Camillo said lightly. “How can they take it away?”

“Does Signore Sotelo know?” Gino Sotelo was her father’s best friend and non-Jewish business partner.

“Yes. Gino knows. And if something happens to me, I hope he will let Aldo continue his work. It is work that will save lives.”

Her stomach rolled and her heart plummeted. She was worried about her father’s life most of all, and what he was planning to do would put it in terrible danger. Eva didn’t really believe her grandfather was still alive in Austria. He’d been arrested, taken away, and Uncle Felix had lost hope. Then they’d lost Felix too. But they’d lost him incrementally, inch by inch, indignity by indignity, until there was nothing left when he finally pulled the trigger.

“Don’t worry, Eva. I will be fine, and I will bring Otto back. I can’t leave him there. He cannot save himself. No Austrians are being allowed to leave anymore, especially Austrian Jews.”

“You can’t go! Please don’t go.”

“I have everything in order. I won’t draw attention. I will be courteous and quiet, just like I always am. Invisible. And everything will go smoothly, you’ll see.”

“If something happens to you I will have no one left. No one,” Eva cried, abandoning her courage for honesty. She couldn’t let him go.

“I will be fine. But no matter what happens to me, you will always have Angelo. He promised me. You will always have Angelo.” Her father’s voice was fierce, as if he could make it so by sheer will.

“Oh, Babbo, you don’t understand! I will never have Angelo.” She looked out at the horizon, squinting into the sun, letting her eyes burn as she cried. “I don’t have Angelo, I don’t have Uncle Felix, and soon I won’t have you.”

1943

16 September, 1943

Confession: I never feel safe.

Just last Wednesday, people were dancing in the streets saying the war is over for Italy. Italy surrendered to America and an armistice had been granted. Everyone said the Americans would be arriving soon and our soldiers would be coming home. Some even said the Racial Laws would be revoked. But on Saturday, the Germans moved in and occupied Florence. They have taken control of everything north of Naples. The celebration is over but the war is definitely not. The sides have just changed.

We’ve had no word from Babbo. I try not to think about him at all because it hurts too much. Maybe I’m weak, but I’ve heard rumors about the labor camps. Some say they are death camps, and I’m afraid I’ll never see Babbo again. So I put him out of my head completely and I put one foot in front of the other. Forgive me, Babbo.

Angelo is here. He’s back. He says everything is going to get worse, not better. He thinks I need to go back with him to Rome. I don’t know why he thinks Rome will be safer for me. The Americans bombed Rome in July, and so far, no bombs have fallen in Florence. But he says he can hide me. He’s been helping Jewish refugees since the war began. Santino and Fabia will be alone, but Angelo says I only endanger them. Santino and Fabia are afraid for me, and they begged me to go. They think Angelo can keep me safe. They don’t know that Angelo makes me feel things that aren’t safe. He makes me reckless and angry. He makes me sad. And I know he doesn’t feel safe with me.

Eva Rosselli

CHAPTER 7

THE VILLA

Angelo had made the trip from Rome to Florence twelve times in the last eighteen months, and none of the visits were of a personal nature. He had a reason to visit his hometown, knew the city and its residents well, particularly those within church circles, and he spoke English, enough French to get by, passable German, and of course, flawless Italian. He was young and handsome, drawing some attention wherever he went, but his black priest’s robes, stiff white Roman collar, and his missing limb gave him an alibi that many Italian men did not enjoy.

There were Jews hiding across Italy, but there were twice as many soldiers running for cover, trying to avoid being shot on sight or rounded up and sent to Germany to labor in work camps. Italy’s surrender to the Americans on September 8 had put her citizens and her soldiers in an impossible situation. They were now Germany’s enemies instead of her allies, and the Germans considered the soldiers, when they found them, prisoners of war. More than one young priest had been hassled by the Gestapo, and a few had found themselves in jail until someone could come and vouch for them. Angelo didn’t have that trouble. He was exactly who he said he was, which made his movements a great deal easier.

That morning he had escorted a group of foreign refugees from Rome just as he’d been instructed. He’d separated the eight refugees on the train so that if one was caught the others might still have a chance. He’d told them all to pretend to sleep so when they were asked for their documents they could sleepily hand them over without speaking and giving themselves away.

The trip took six hours, but the refugees had played their parts. It had all gone as smoothly as he had hoped. He’d escorted them from the Stazione di Santa Maria Novella and from there to the nearby basilica with the same name. At the basilica they were met by another priest who would take them on to Genoa. From Genoa, someone else would take them on, hopefully, to safety.

There were other refugees who were escorted into the Abruzzi, where smugglers and a local priest would bring them into Allied territory. Angelo didn’t know who. None of them knew who was involved beyond their initial contact. It was safer that way. If one person was caught they couldn’t betray what they didn’t know. It was a network of volunteers who were blind to all but their part. No real mastermind, no official organization. Just desperate measures by willing people. And it worked only through the grace of God and the goodness and courage of each individual.

But Angelo hadn’t come to Florence just for the foreign refugees. Not this time. This time, Angelo was going home, and the visit was very personal. He’d known the trip was inevitable, that the day would come. He’d been watching and waiting. When Benito Mussolini was overthrown in July and General Badoglio took his place, Angelo had waited, holding his breath. Many thought the old laws would be repealed and all would be made right. That hadn’t happened. When the Americans started dropping bombs on Rome and the San Lorenzo district was destroyed, he reconsidered, wondering if Florence wasn’t the safer place to be. But when the armistice was announced, and the German tanks rolled in and occupied Rome, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer.

The war had hurt Florence—aged the ageless city—and her head was bowed with long-suffering, like a widowed bride. Like in Rome, there were Germans everywhere, long lines for rations, and the people didn’t amble. They darted to and fro, as if rushing made them harder to hit. Harder to see. Harder to oppress. As a people, Italians were exuberant and effusive, and they didn’t hurry. Italians meandered.

Not anymore. Now they scurried.

   
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