From Sand and Ash

by Amy Harmon

He too had risked everything, and he may have lost the only thing he would trade his immortality for.

“I have shopped here for years. But I won’t be back unless that sign is taken down,” he said softly. “But you are not a Jew, Signore,” she protested. His black seminarian robes and broad hat made that clear. “No. And I am not a dog. Nor am I a fascist pig.” He’d left the salve on the counter and turned to leave the shop.

“When you play, Eva, I feel hopeful. They can take our homes, our possessions. Our families. Our lives. They can drive us out, like they’ve driven us out before. They can humiliate us and dehumanize us. But they cannot take our thoughts. They cannot take our talents. They cannot take our knowledge, or our memories, or our minds. In music, there is no bondage. Music is a door, and the soul escapes through the melody. Even if it’s only for a few minutes. And everyone who listens is freed. Everyone who listens is elevated.

Angelo. Angelo Bianco. White Angel. She had loved him instantly.

Life is like a long note; it persists without variance, without wavering. There is no cessation in sound or pause in tempo. It continues on, and we must master it or it will master us.

And Eva was his. She had been his from the moment they met.

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.”

He didn’t have to be immortal. He didn’t need to be a hero. He didn’t even want to be a saint. He simply wanted to be a good man worthy of Eva Rosselli. He just wanted Eva. He wanted her kisses and her eyes, her smiles and her laughter. He wanted his children in her womb and his mouth on her breasts. He wanted her legs wrapped around his hips and her arms cradling his head as he made love to her. He wanted her promises, her affection and her trust, her years and her secrets. He wanted her prayers and her pride, her tears and her troubles. He wanted Eva. And that was all.

“I am Eva’s,” Angelo said quietly. “In my heart, I am Eva’s.” “But she is gone!” Monsignor Luciano shouted. “She is not gone. She is still here!” Angelo cried, and it was his turn to thump his chest. “She is still here inside me, and I am still hers. I will always be hers.”