“What?” Eva asked softly.
“Being resigned is far worse. Being afraid lets you know you still want to live.”
“Then I must want to live very badly,” Eva whispered. “Because I am very afraid.”
Greta squeezed her arm, their eyes meeting in the mirror. They were a striking contrast—Greta blond and statuesque, Eva dark and slim beside her.
“I envy you,” Greta said wistfully. “You have your whole life before you.”
“But none of us knows how long that life will be. My life could end tomorrow.”
“All the more reason to wear beautiful clothes and play beautiful music.” Greta winked, shaking off the seriousness that had them both frowning. “Now you must be sure and invite your brother. He will be so proud of his little sister. Plus, it will be wise to let others see you have a protector.”
The certainty that the night would end in disaster had Eva rushing home after Greta’s shopping spree and practicing her violin deep into the night, apologizing to the other refugees, who endured hour after hour of frenzied music. When it grew late, she banished herself to the church to allow the convent to rest, and continued playing and praying, plotting her performance as if her life depended on it, for, deep down, she believed it did.
The dress was simple, but the black silk gleamed and fell around her slim form, giving her an understated elegance. Her hair was carefully curled and deeply parted, tucked behind her ear on one side where a dangling diamond played hide-and-seek every time she turned her head. Her lips were red and her dark eyes softly lined. She was pale, but her skin was pearly and it looked dramatic against the ebony dress.
She stood on a small stage, all alone in the very center, and she raised the roof and the hair on his neck, piece after glorious piece. The audience clapped and there was no conversation, even hushed and polite, when she played.
She’d been waiting in front of his building that morning, her eyes tired and her nerves raw, and when she’d told him about the gala and he’d seen her fear, he had swallowed his own and bit back his insistence that she go into hiding. It had been a constant refrain in his head. Hide her. Hide her. Hide her. She’d refused every time. Insisting now would be no different, so he would be strong for her instead.
“Why are you afraid, Eva? You have been doing this all your life. You are a magnificent violinist. You have played for thousands. Surely, you can play for a mere handful.”
She had dropped her face into her hands, and he had shoved his fists into the pockets of his cassock to hide his tremors. She was afraid because she would be a Jewish girl in a room full of German police, the same reason he wanted to whisk her away and lock her in the cloister.
“I don’t want to share this with them,” she had whispered. “My talent is mine. My skill is mine. Mine and Felix’s. And I don’t want to entertain them. I don’t want to give them pleasure or enjoyment. I want to spit in their soup. I want to break dishes and poison their wine. I do not want to play for them.”
He had laughed so he wouldn’t weep. “You will play. And you will be magnificent. You will be the victor, knowing that you are Eva Rosselli, and they are applauding for a Jew.”
Her mouth had trembled, then the trembling became a broad smile. She had curtsied deeply, right there on the street, and when she stood, she had smirked at him. “I think you have a little devil in you, my white angel. I must be rubbing off on you.”
She was definitely rubbing off on him. Rubbing him raw and wearing him thin. In the last hour he had aged ten years. He stood at the back of the room, unable to dine while she played, even though his stomach growled at the scents in the room. He’d politely refused the place that had been set for him and kept his cross in his hand and his eyes glued to her face. He was terrified for her and proud of her all at once. He wanted to swoop her up and carry her to safety, and at the same time he wanted the world to listen to her play. He wanted to witness her triumph over the people who would, at the very least, turn their backs to her plight, and at the worst, kill her if they knew who she was. Still, she played, exultant and brilliant, powerful in her vulnerability, a conquering army of one. And the audience had no idea they were bested.
When she finally lowered her instrument and bowed, signaling the end of her performance, she tucked her violin and her bow against her side, and her eyes found his. He could see her terror even as she smiled graciously and inclined her head, acknowledging her audience. Her posture regal, she glided from the small dais, pausing as Captain von Essen stepped forward to assist her down the few steps. He escorted her to the side and seemed to be congratulating her effusively. He should congratulate her. Eva had made him look very good. He murmured something in her ear, his mouth hovering too close, and Angelo saw her stiffen even as she shook her head—smiling but refusing him. He leaned into her once more, obviously insisting on something, and he placed an envelope in her hand.
Angelo felt rage shoot through his belly and his temperature climb beneath his stiff collar. He held himself back, knowing his part, knowing the genteel subservience people expected from him. But he exhaled in relief as Captain von Essen stepped back and Eva moved away from him. She walked toward the exit, nodding and smiling as she made her way through the glittering people and the tables laden with rich foods and the best Italian wine in a city of starving people. She kept walking as she neared him, and he followed her out of the large dining hall to the cloakroom where she’d stored her violin case.
“What did he say?” Angelo asked, his voice pitched just above a whisper. Eva checked behind every coat, behind every wrap, and every corner before she answered him.
“Greta is insisting that I take a room here at the hotel. The arrangements have already been made. Captain von Essen says I have earned it.” She showed him the key and the envelope filled with banknotes.
The rage in his stomach turned into an inferno.
“Does he think he will join you there?”
Eva’s eyes shot to his face, and she shook her head instantly. “No. I really don’t think that’s what he’s implying. Greta is here with him, Angelo. You saw her. I am well aware of what he is capable of, but he has never been inappropriate with me.”
“You can’t stay here, Eva. I don’t trust him.”
“I don’t either. But I don’t think his intentions are lecherous. I’m worried about something else.”
Angelo raised his eyebrows in question.
“I think they are going to raid Santa Cecilia tonight. He knows I board there. He doesn’t want me there when it goes down.”
“How do you know this?” he asked, the ramifications sending his thoughts in a million different directions.
“He said something in the office today, something about the evening’s activities. He was on the phone with Lieutenant Colonel Kappler. I thought he was talking about this.” She tossed her hand in the direction of the ballroom and swept a hand down her dress. “But there was another man, by the last name of Koch, who came to the office three times last week. He is some kind of squadristi leader.”
When Angelo heard the name he swore and crossed himself simultaneously, and then crossed himself again to cancel out his dual reaction. He wondered some days if he was cut out to be a priest. He had a foul mouth. He blamed it on the American in him.
“Koch is a notorious Jew hunter,” he said. “He’s been on Monsignor O’Flaherty’s tail the last few months. Lieutenant Colonel Kappler too. But why Santa Cecilia?”
“I don’t think it’s just Santa Cecilia. I think it may be every church, convent, and monastery in Trastevere.”
“And what makes you think tonight?”
“Captain von Essen told me I should stay here at the hotel to avoid ‘trouble.’ I asked him if he could just provide me with a car. But he said Trastevere wouldn’t be safe tonight.”
“We have to get word to the sisters,” Angelo said. The Villa Medici was a good distance from Trastevere and even farther from the Vatican.
“There are telephones in every suite. I heard the women talking in the powder room. They were all highly impressed. I’m sure they are all looking forward to eavesdropping on each other’s conversations.” She held out the key, enthusiastically. He took it, his unease growing as he stared down at it.
“We’ll ask for another room. We’ll switch,” he said abruptly. “Come with me.”
They approached the registration desk, but Eva held back when Angelo put a warning hand on her arm.
“Let me,” he whispered. “Stand here and look frightened.”
“That won’t be hard to do,” she murmured. Angelo understood completely. His own heart was pounding heavily beneath his cassock. But he smiled easily and nodded at the man behind the glossy mahogany registration desk, who took his hand and kissed it, as if he wasn’t sure if Angelo were someone important or not.
“Signore, I need your help,” Angelo said, sotto voce. “My sister is staying here at the hotel. She is a renowned violinist and she played for the dignitaries who are in attendance at the gala this evening. She is very beautiful, you understand.” He paused so the concierge could verify this truth for himself.
The little man with the slick black hair and the neat little mustache peered around Angelo’s shoulder and eyed Eva. His eyes widened slightly. “Yes. Yes. I see,” he said awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure whether to agree that she was beautiful or refrain from commenting on a priest’s sister.
“She is receiving some unwanted attention from one of the guests. No one especially important. But I would like her to be moved, if possible. Unfortunately, he saw her coming out of her room, and my sister is now a little frightened.”
“Oh, yes, Padre. Of course. I understand.” The concierge took the key from Angelo’s hand and consulted his ledger.
“Will you be staying with your sister?” he asked judiciously. Angelo tried not to react or to think about what those words could entail.