But first, it had cost her. She had apologized, and he had wanted to thank her. The thought shamed him, but it was the truth. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—and he’d been captured by a sense of surreal wonder, until he’d seen her despair, her embarrassment, and then he’d wanted to cry too.
He’d failed her over and over, and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to heal her or hold her or save her. He didn’t know how to be what she needed. All he knew was that he loved her desperately.
Desperately.
He wearily climbed the stairs and slipped into the silent church. Lighting a candle, he dropped his tired face into hands that smelled like Eva’s hair and groaned out his fears and his failings, asking God not to withdraw because of his weakness, and thanking Aldo Finzi, wherever his spirit had flown, for saving Eva’s life at the expense of his own.
8 March, 1944
Confession: I like Greta von Essen.
I can’t help but like her. She is kind, and she is sad—a very sympathetic combination. We are all products of the places we are raised, the people who love us or have power over us, and the things we hear, over and over again, as we grow.
Our beliefs don’t have to be based on personal experience, but when they are, they can rarely be altered. Greta has been told over and over that she is a beautiful disaster who has failed at the only thing she was created for. Her experiences have not disproved that.
Greta is shallow, but I have a feeling it is only because depth would drown her. So she floats on the surface and does her best to smile vapidly at her life and the man she is tied to. I have let her mother me, not because I want a new mother, but because she needs a child, and if I’m being honest, she provides me a small measure of safety, a buffer against the captain.
I like Greta von Essen, but I hate her husband. When I close my eyes I see his face, calm and cold, the way it looked before he pulled the trigger and killed Aldo.
Eva Rosselli
CHAPTER 17
MARCH
Lieutenant Colonel Kappler sent for Captain von Essen first thing Friday morning, and the angry shouting that reverberated through the surrounding offices was the talk of the staff at Gestapo Headquarters by lunchtime. Eva rarely saw the lieutenant colonel, and she was happy to keep it that way, but Captain von Essen worshipped him and did everything in his power to please him. Apparently, Himmler himself was in Rome bearing word of the Führer’s disappointment with Kappler’s inability to rein in the Italian resistance in and outside of Rome, as well as to uncover and smash the underground that provided safe haven for soldiers, partisans, and Jews.
Kappler and von Essen had been drawing up plans all week that included maps and consults with a thin, patrician Italian man with a German name, a man named Peter Koch who had established his own militarized band of Italian Fascists. The maps made Eva nervous, and the Fascist leader made her skin crawl. Thankfully, there was no sign of Koch that morning, but when Captain von Essen returned to his own office an hour later, his face was flushed and his eyes were bright, as if the confrontation with the Gestapo chief had brought on a raging fever.
“Follow me,” he commanded as he passed Eva’s desk. She grabbed her dictation notebook and a pencil and trotted after him, hoping whatever had possessed him wasn’t contagious. He didn’t wait to tell her what was on his mind.
“Herr Himmler is in town, and the lieutenant colonel wants to impress him. There will be a dinner tomorrow evening with the most important people in Italy. Rich men, beautiful women, wine, the finest food, the best entertainment.”
Apparently, the responsibility for the gala had been delegated to the captain. If the captain was a smart man, he would call his wife.
“What is the nicest hotel in Rome?” he asked Eva.
“The Villa Medici, Captain. It overlooks the Spanish Steps, and it’s reasonably close to the Trevi Fountain and all the finest shopping. It’s a beautiful hotel.”
It was the first thing that came to Eva’s mind. She’d overheard two women talking about the hotel, newly restored and renovated with an acclaimed chef, on the streetcar that morning. She parroted what she’d heard, hoping the women knew what they were talking about.
The captain was on his phone immediately, demanding to be put through to the Villa Medici. Eva made a hasty retreat but could hear him snapping out orders and demands.
“Fräulein Bianco!” he called, causing her to jump from her desk and quickly return to his office. “Where can I find entertainment at this short notice? The hotel has a small dinner band, but I need something more. Something special.”
Eva was at a loss. She didn’t think the captain would be interested in Catholic children’s choirs or chanting monks, which were about the only thing she had access to at the moment.
“You.” He stood from his chair abruptly and rounded his desk, pointing at her accusingly. “You!” he repeated, practically shouting.
“What?”
“Himmler loves classical music. You are a violinist. A very good violinist, if I recall. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart. You will play. A beautiful Italian woman playing the violin. Perfect.” He slapped his gloves against his desk victoriously and reached for his phone once more, as if it were decided.
Eva could only stutter and stare.
“But I would have to practice! I haven’t performed in ages. And I have absolutely nothing appropriate to wear to such an affair,” she protested.
“I’ve heard you play. You will be wonderful. You have until eight o’clock tomorrow evening to practice. And Greta will help you with a dress. I will send for her immediately.” He waved his hand toward the door, signaling that he was done with her.
“I can’t do it! Please, Captain.”
“You will do it. I’m leaving you no choice in the matter. Must I hold a gun to your head and demand that you play?” He raised his blond eyebrows and cocked his head, waiting for a response.
Eva stared at him in horror. Did he think this was funny?
“I have all the confidence in the world that you will be able to pull this off, lovely Eva,” he said softly. “I know you will not let me down. Now be a very good girl and leave my office.”
Greta was ecstatic, rushing Eva from one shop to the next, insisting on dressing her from top to bottom—lacy lingerie and silky hose that were as rare as a cup of espresso made with real coffee beans instead of the chicory most Italians were drinking.
She had the dressmaker squeeze Eva into a red dress so low and tight that Eva broke out in nervous hives and refused to come out of the dressing room.
“Something elegant that I can actually play in, Greta, please! I don’t think you are understanding the gravity of the situation. I can’t breathe. If I can’t breathe, I can’t think, and if I can’t think, I can’t play. If I don’t play, your husband and I will face the firing squad.”
Greta tittered as if such a thing were preposterous, but she found a sleeveless, glimmering black sheath with a low, square neck that skimmed Eva’s body without being tight.
“We will paint your nails, and you will wear red on your lips. Wear your hair down. We want to play up your Italian beauty.”
No, Greta, Eva thought. Drawing attention to herself was the most dangerous thing she could do.
As if she could hear Eva’s thoughts, Greta added slyly, “When Herr Himmler sees you, he will want to make you his mistress.” Greta laughed again, but there was a concerned crease between her brows, as if it had just occurred to her that Eva worked for her husband. Eva’s stomach knotted all over again.
“Are you trying to terrify me, Greta?” Eva asked softly. “I cannot think of anything worse than catching Herr Himmler’s eye.”
“He is a very powerful man.” Greta shrugged, her eyes a guileless blue.
“I have no desire to be with a powerful man.”
“What kind of man do you want?” Greta asked, removing the pins from Eva’s hair so she could see the effect. She ran her fingers through the curls and pulled all the hair to one side, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“A good man. A kind man. A man who loves me.” Angelo’s face rose up in her mind, but she pushed his image away. She had humiliated herself in front of him, and every time she thought about him, her temperature rose, her skin flushed, and her body felt like a wanton stranger’s. They hadn’t talked about what had occurred between them after Aldo’s death. She couldn’t, Angelo wouldn’t, so they’d simply gone on, pretending it hadn’t happened.
“You are in love with someone!” Greta interrupted her reverie. She was staring at Eva with wide eyes. “I can see it in your face. You are all pink and rosy! Tell me.”
“What? No. I’m not,” Eva stammered.
“Yes. You are. There is someone. I’m going to be relentless until I find out who he is.”
“He is just a boy from home. It is nothing. I don’t want to talk about him,” Eva said.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Greta wheedled.
“Greta! Please. I don’t want to talk about him.” She didn’t want to talk about him. It was enough that she thought about him constantly, about the hopelessness of loving a man who would not yield, the hopelessness of a life spent hiding and pretending. When the war ended and she went home to Florence, what then? The thought of returning to the time when she’d spent years on end without seeing him was worse than her fear of death. It was worse than Via Tasso. Worse than the convent with the quiet walls and the quieter nuns. It was unimaginable.
Greta pouted, an adorable, practiced expression that Eva was sure she used on her husband. “But what else is there? Love is the only excitement we women have.”
“Maybe when the war is over I will think about love. Right now, I’m too afraid to think of anything else. I just want to survive tomorrow night.” Eva changed the subject.
“There are worse things than being afraid,” Greta said gravely, her sudden sadness catching Eva off guard.