“Where did you get your pass? It is very authentic.” Captain von Essen changed his line of questioning.
Eva answered immediately, clearly relieved she could answer without endangering anyone. “A man named Aldo Finzi. He worked for my father’s company at one time, as a printer.”
“A Jew?”
“Yes.”
“And where can I find Mr. Finzi?”
“He is dead.” Angelo cut into the conversation, pulling the captain’s attention from Eva. The captain raised his brows disdainfully.
“How convenient,” von Essen said drily.
“I’m sure Aldo Finzi would disagree,” Angelo shot back.
“And how did he die?”
“You shot him in the street a month ago near the rail station. Don’t you remember?” Angelo challenged.
He’d caught the captain by surprise, and von Essen tipped his head as if searching his memory.
“You shot him in the back of the head after you told him to drop his pants.”
Captain von Essen looked stunned that Angelo knew the details. Had he felt so powerful, so invincible, that he hadn’t really thought anyone might have seen?
“You killed a man in cold blood,” Angelo said quietly. “But I won’t name you if you let Eva go.” He willed Eva to stay silent. Captain von Essen did not need to know it was she who had seen him murder Aldo.
“You think anyone cares about the death of one Jew?” Captain von Essen said, incredulous. “This is what you bargain with?”
“The war will end. Germany will lose. And you will answer for your sins,” Angelo said, spitting the words through bloody lips. “Let Eva go. I will testify on your behalf. The testimony of a priest will mean something. I will say you were a merciful man. You will be able to go back to Germany with your wife, unlike the others who will be punished for their war crimes.”
Von Essen laughed. “I don’t know how you know about the Jew in the street. But clearly you were there, which makes me even more certain that Eva is not the only Jew you have assisted.”
He leaned out the door once more, and two SS men entered the room seconds later.
“Take her back to her cell,” von Essen told the soldier behind Eva. To the two new arrivals he directed, “And take the father away too. Keep working him over until he talks. Make sure the girl can hear his pain.”
It had been thirty-six hours since they’d been separated. Thirty-six hours of Angelo being questioned and tortured. Thirty-six hours of hell.
Eva had heard him ask for a drink. He’d been given nothing. Instead, he’d been doused in ice water and deprived of sleep. She’d heard him cry out in pain, though she knew he tried not to, for her sake. They’d hurt him. They’d beat him. They’d threatened him with descriptions of what they’d do to her. But he never talked, beyond prayers and the quiet insistence that he had no information.
On Friday, the guards started pulling men from their cells, clearing them out, Jew and non-Jew alike, leaving only Eva and two other Jewish women—sisters—who had been detained and were awaiting deportation on the next train. Eva heard the guards open Angelo’s cell and tell him to get up. She rushed to her door and pressed her face to the glass, aching for a better look as they dragged Angelo past. His swollen and bruised face was hardly recognizable, but they hadn’t taken his cassock, and his formerly white collar was splattered in blood. He turned for one last look, struggling to stay on his feet.
“Angelo!” she screamed. “Angelo!”
The two remaining guards elbowed each other and walked over to her cell. She moved away from the glass as they unlocked the door, but as soon as it was opened, she fought to see beyond them, desperate to know where Angelo was being taken.
She was immediately pushed back, shoved hard enough to make her fall back against the adjacent wall.
“Come now, Fräulein. You mustn’t carry on this way. What will your Jewish friends think?”
“Yes! They might think there is something going on between you and the priest.” One of them mimed prayer while pumping his hips lewdly.
“Go to hell,” Eva spit out in German, her tears bottled up behind her shocked eyes, her head pounding with denial. Angelo hadn’t just been dragged away. Surely, she would see him again.
“Ahh! The little Fräulein speaks German!” The officer sounded surprised.
“You speak German,” the other said flatly. “Are you a German Jew?”
“Go to hell,” she repeated.
He brought his face an inch from hers, his eyes cold and icy. Blue. The same color as Angelo’s. But Angelo’s eyes were like the sky. Warm. Clear. Endless. Beloved.
“I’m already there, madam. But unfortunately for you, this hell isn’t quite as bad as where you will be going. And you will be going there soon.”
“Good news, though,” the other guard said with false levity. “Your priest won’t have to live without you. You know where they’re taking him, don’t you?”
She waited, knowing that they were going to enjoy telling her.
“He will be executed with all the others. Thirty-three German police died yesterday from a bomb set by partisans on Via Rasella. Ten Italians will die for every policeman who was killed. Via Tasso isn’t the only prison we emptied out. The prison at Regina Coeli was emptied too. Every Jew, every partisan, every antifascist we could find. Now we’re pulling civilians off the streets. Three hundred and thirty men. Next time, maybe the partisans will think twice about setting bombs.”
“There won’t be a next time for some of them,” the other guard added. “There won’t be a next time for your priest. I hope you gave him something to remember you by.”
Eva covered her head with her arms and sank to the floor, too despondent to listen any longer. She wasn’t even aware when they left.
24 March, 1944
Angelo Bianco, my white angel.
They have taken you
and I am lost.
But we were both here,
once.
Eva Rosselli
CHAPTER 21
ARDEATINE CAVES
They were lined up and counted, their hands linked behind their heads, and then they were loaded into trucks—just like the Jews on the morning of the October roundup—and taken south of the city to an old quarry not far from the storied catacombs that tourists came to see and Romans never thought about. There were no tourists in Rome these days. Just Germans, beleaguered Italians, and the Catholic Church. Just war, hunger, hopelessness, and death.
Angelo’s ribs had been kicked a time too many, and one eye was swollen shut. He hadn’t been able to see where they were taking them, riding in the back of the covered truck, but it hadn’t taken overly long for them to arrive. When all 336 men—six more than was required—were herded from the trucks and lined up once more, he’d recognized his surroundings. His spirits had plummeted. It was the perfect setting for a massacre.
The German guard kept them sufficiently contained with bound hands and intimidated with pointed guns. No one tried to escape. Why was that? Was hope so powerful that it would cause a man to cooperate to the very end? He’d seen it over and over again. So few people actually fought, because fighting seemed so futile. Fighting back meant certain death. So they all cooperated and hoped.
The hope ended when the killing began inside the quarry. At that point weeping and praying also commenced, and Angelo began dispensing comfort the only way he knew how. Amazingly enough, the German soldiers allowed him to administer rites, and they ignored his prayers and his movement up the line to reach those who would enter the caves first. With his hands bound behind his back he couldn’t properly make the sign of the cross, but he moved his right hand in the proper direction and continued on.
He accompanied the second group of men into the quarry, winding through tunnels until they reached a large cave. He kept his mouth moving, administering last rites and hoping God would understand and forgive his own inadequacies and provide for these three hundred thirty-five souls who were looking to him, a fallen man who no longer wanted to be a priest.
Five would kneel. Five executioners would press the noses of their guns to the backs of the prisoners’ necks. Five triggers were pulled. Five men would die. Five more would then kneel behind the pile of the dead only to share their fate. Each time, Angelo expected to be pushed forward and forced to his knees. And each time, he was bypassed and allowed to continue the rites for the men who were dying all around him.
A boy and his father knelt side by side and were murdered side by side, their bodies falling into a sloppy embrace, and Angelo wept as he prayed. But he refused to close his eyes. He needed to see, to bear witness, even in his last moments, to what was occurring. The blood of the innocent demanded it.
It took hours.
When the pile of bodies grew too high, they would create another row until the cave was filled with the dead, and then they would move to another opening. Still Angelo prayed, blessing those waiting to die. When the final man was thrown face-first onto the blood-soaked mountain of death, would there be anyone left to die beside him?
As the Germans neared what had to be the end, there was a brief lull as bodies were moved, and more men were led through the dark passageway. Suddenly, Angelo was being shoved from behind and urged to walk. When he resisted, he was grabbed by his bound arms and yanked forward.
“Come with me, Father,” a voice said, but he wasn’t sure if the voice was in the caves or in his mind. His ears were ringing, the result of hundreds of gunshots, one after another, with nothing to protect his eardrums from the report. He staggered and fell down, his already poor balance compromised by his hearing loss.
Rough hands jerked him to his feet, and he tottered again.
His hands were suddenly cut free from his bindings, and his arms screamed in pain as the blood rushed through his limbs. He was urged forward again, the hand gripping his arm steadying him through a narrow passage that led to a tapered swath of light. The light grew, and the man leading him urged him on until he found himself crawling through a small opening, coming out of the caves about a hundred and fifty feet east of the craggy main entrance where the prisoners had first formed the long line. He stopped and turned around, still not sure what was expected of him. He was on higher ground now and could look down on a semicircle of helmeted, blood-soaked Germans that stood a ways off. Others—those who had guarded the men awaiting execution—leaned against trucks that were now empty, smoking and drinking bottles of cognac. Cognac for courage. More than one officer had grown sick inside the caves, and others had refused to shoot, only to be dragged off or forced to participate by a commanding officer. The assembly of soldiers wasn’t nearly as orderly and contained as it had been at the start, and no one had seen him or his unknown deliverer, who tugged on his arm once more and pointed through the trees.