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?”
“But he killed himself,” Eva shot back.
“So you say. Come with me.”
“He walked in front of the streetcar!” Eva cried out, this time in Italian, her eyes on the onlookers, knowing someone had to have witnessed the suicide. The people stood huddled, frozen, eyes wide, mouths closed, and no one said a word.
“No one was even close to him!” Eva pressed. “He just stepped in front of it. Someone had to have seen the same thing I did!”
Then one woman nodded. Then another took courage, and before long, several people were agreeing, adding their voices to Eva’s claims. The German officer either didn’t understand or he didn’t care to, but he took Eva’s arm and marched her toward a jeep parked haphazardly in the middle of the street. He snapped at two of the officers and shouted orders at several more, and Eva was shoved into the back of the army vehicle and taken away. Whisked off the street, easy as you please, and there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it.
The German police had converted a row of buildings on Via Tasso into their headquarters. It was an odd choice, just a modest thoroughfare of apartments and schools that was bracketed on one end by a crumbling arch and the Sanctuary of the Scala on the other. Red banners with large swastikas hung down the front of the largest structure, looking official and garish against the dull yellow exterior.
Inside, it was a construction zone guarded by soldiers with machine guns. The Germans had been in Rome for less than six weeks, and by the looks of it, they were anticipating a long occupation. Walls had been torn down and reconfigured, offices sectioned off, and a long row of dark cells, rooms without toilets or beds, stretched down one corridor, and many of the cells were filled. Eva was deposited in a room that looked more like a closet and locked in. It was so dark it took her eyes several minutes to adjust. She could hear an occasional cry or barked command, and she put her hands over her ears to block it all out. Then she focused on what she would say if given the opportunity. Her mind kept tripping back to the melancholy German in his last moments.
She had hated him on sight. She’d hated him even more when he’d held his gun to her head. But then she’d seen his tears and felt his despair. She didn’t hate him now. She couldn’t. She understood him too well.
“Forgive me,” he’d said.
She did forgive him. Wholeheartedly. And she forgave her uncle Felix as well. For three long years she’d pushed all thoughts of him away. But there, in the dark, she could feel him with her.
They left her in the closet-like room for hours. Eva had no way of tracking the time, but she desperately needed to go to the bathroom, and her throat was so dry it was sharp when she tried to swallow.
When a soldier finally arrived and ushered her out, she was given a drink and allowed to use the bathroom—another dark closet with a bucket on the bare cement, overflowing with waste—before being led up a flight of stairs into an office that made the lower floors look like a different planet.
A uniformed German of medium height and compact build waited for her inside a large office beside a large mahogany desk, as if sitting were beneath him. His uniform was crisp, his manner brisk. His pale eyes were sharp, and his tone was sharper.
“I am Captain von Essen. What is your name, Fräulein?”
“Eva Bianco.” She’d been rehearsing her lines for hours.
“Why are you in Rome, Miss Bianco?”
“My brother is a priest at the Vatican. I came here to be closer to him and to find a job.”
“What is your brother’s name?”
“Angelo Bianco. He works for the Roman Curia.”
“No job in Naples?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You speak German very well. But you sound Austrian.”
She nodded.
“Surely, you didn’t learn to speak German so well in school.”
“I learned in school, but I had a music teacher who was Austrian.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of music?”
“He taught me to play the violin. I spent a great deal of time with him.”
“And where is your teacher now?”
“He is dead.” She thought he would ask for details, and he seemed to consider doing so, but changed tacks.
“A German soldier is dead too. He was a very dedicated officer. I am having trouble believing he would just walk in front of a streetcar.”
“But he did,” Eva said quietly. Firmly. He met her gaze and then lowered himself into his chair and steepled his fingers in contemplation.
“You did not push him?”
“No!”
“And you didn’t see anyone else push him.”
“No. No one pushed him. He seemed very . . . upset.”
“And how would you know this?”
“He held his gun to my head and demanded I play my violin for him,” Eva said simply.
Captain von Essen raised his furry blond eyebrows and leaned forward.
“And did you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Show me.” He pointed toward the door. Her violin case had been set against the wall, just to the left of the entrance. It had been taken from her, along with her documents, when she’d arrived. She wondered why he was asking her questions he obviously already knew the answers to.
She stood and retrieved the case, willing strength to her limbs. For the second time in one day, Eva was being ordered to perform, wound up tight like a jack-in-the-box and told to play for her release.
“Do you know any Wagner?” the German asked curiously.
Eva stiffened, hearing Felix’s voice in her head. No Wagner. He doesn’t care much for Jews. So I don’t care much for his compositions.
“Not well enough to play.”
“Hmm. What a shame. But there are so many wonderful German composers. Mozart, Chopin . . .”
“Mozart is Austrian. Chopin too,” Eva corrected him. She knew she sounded belligerent and was pleased at her tone. She wasn’t sure at what point she’d stopped being terrified. Maybe sitting in the dark with thoughts about suicide had tipped the balance.
“But Austria no longer exists. You must know. Austria and Germany are one in the same,” he reasoned.
Eva just nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Play Chopin,” he demanded.
Eva lifted the violin obediently. Shutting the captain out, she found the thread of music in her memory, the variation she’d played for Uncle Felix. Chopin mixed with Rosselli, sprinkled with Adler, and doused with anger.
“Genug,” the captain said briskly. That’s enough. The music didn’t seem to impress him. Eva stopped immediately.
“Others have verified your claim. It appears you have done nothing wrong. You are free to go.” He stood once more, as if it had all been a formality to begin with, as if the hours she’d spent locked in a four-by-eight room were just an oversight. She stared at him stupidly, wondering if he was toying with her.
“Can you type?” he asked abruptly.
Eva stared at him blankly, trying to switch from Chopin, to freedom, to this new line of questioning.
“Yes.” Her answer sounded more like a question, lifted on the end, confused.
“I need a secretary who speaks German.”
Eva could only sit in frozen horror.
“You want me to work here?”
“Yes. Here. We will compensate you well. You will run errands. You will file. You will type. You will get coffee. Nothing too difficult. No one will hold a gun to your head and demand for you to play your violin.” He didn’t smile, though Eva was sure he was attempting to be humorous. “You said you needed a job,” he prodded.
“Yes. Yes, I do.” Her mind reeled with the horror and the possibilities.
“Then it is settled. Six days a week. You will have Sundays off. Be here Monday morning at eight. You will leave at five. Your brother—the priest—is here. He’s been waiting for you. You must tell him you were treated fairly.” It was not a suggestion.
Eva could only stare in amazement once more. Angelo was there?
“It is after curfew. We will have a car take you both home. You will report back on Monday.” He waited for her to stow her violin and then handed her her fake identity card. It had held up twice now. She would have to tell Aldo.
He had a soldier escort her to the reception area where two Germans with submachine guns were parked on both sides of the entrance and two more behind a large desk. Angelo sat on a metal chair with his head bowed. His hat had been removed and he held a cross in his hands. When she approached the bottom of the staircase, he raised his head halfheartedly, like he’d been lifting his head all day to disappointment.
He shot to his feet, his eyes on her face, scouring her expression for duress. She tried to smile to put him at ease, but the twist of her lips felt strange, and the effort made her feel like weeping, so she gritted her teeth and let the soldier lead the way.
“There is a car out front,” the young German said to Angelo. “You will both be taken home. Please follow me.” He strode briskly for the door, expecting them to do as he said. Angelo took Eva’s arm, clutching her so tightly she would have bruises. She welcomed his grip, though the irony that she would leave German headquarters bruised only by Angelo was not lost on her.
Their armed escort held open the door of a shiny Volkswagen for them, waiting as they slid into the backseat. He leaned down, his gray turtle-shell helmet pointing toward them.
“Address?”
Angelo answered for both of them, supplying the address that Eva assumed was the apartment he shared with Monsignor Luciano and his sister. The German snapped his heels together and shut the door firmly. He relayed the directions to the driver, and seconds later the car pulled away from the curb.