“How could God not accept such a pure soul?” My voice rose above a tense whisper, and for the first time, outrage threaded through my words. I stepped closer to the priest. “You must do this for me.”
“I am sorry, Isabella. I have a church full of the injured and dying.”
“I’ve seen you break rules before, Padre. I know you’ve looked the other way when Resistance fighters hid in the church or Jewish refugees sought sanctuary. You have connections on the black market. How is helping this child so different?”
He leaned against his desk, as if the weight of my request was too much. “The child cannot be welcomed into holy ground. That is not my rule but God’s.”
“Tell me where God is now, Padre. Tell me if he heard the screams of your parishioners when the bombs fell or when the secret police took them to their headquarters on the Via Rattazzi? If you believed so fully in God’s will, why would you bloody your hands removing stones trapping the fallen?”
“God helps those who help themselves.”
“We’ve kept the child’s birth a secret from everyone. No one will know you’ve administered the sacraments but you, me, and God.”
The silence trailing my words grew heavier until finally he nodded slightly. It was as much of an acceptance as I would get. “Wait here,” he said.
When he left the room, I sank into a chair. I tenderly rearranged the blanket swaddled around the motionless child. A ticking clock mingled with the prayers of another priest and children scurrying in the hallways. “He will take care of you, my love.”
When Mia had first told me she was pregnant, I had not been entirely shocked. She was a lovely girl, with blonde hair, fair skin, and pouty lips that men adored. Soon after her arrival in Rome, she and her brother began going out to dinners and cafés, and she often arrived home late and unescorted. Signora Fontana and I argued with the girl, but Mia would smile, produce a handful of flowers or chocolates, and somehow alleviate our concerns.
And then she came to me in June, weeping and confessing her secret as she opened her robe and showed me her rounded belly. I was angry and worried. This was not the time for a baby, and with no father present, the outcome promised to be dire. After the shock eased, we made a plan. She stayed sequestered in her rooms, and I told our employer, Signor Sebastian, that she had traveled to Assisi to visit a distant aunt.
Despite all the reasons to resent the child, I found my excitement for the birth growing. Signora and I sewed outfits and blankets and crocheted hats as I once had for my child. I had believed that Mia’s darkening mood would lift once the infant was born.
“I am sorry,” I whispered. “You deserved better.”
A knock on the door had me rising to face a young altar boy, who could not have been more than ten. His name was Carlo, and he had dark-brown eyes, thick ink-black hair, and a solemn expression common in Rome now. “Come with me,” he said.
I embraced the child and followed him along a corridor that led to a small private cemetery bathed in bright sunshine. The light was an affront to us all. The windless azure sky should have been blocked by dark clouds and rain weeping into water-soaked land. Life should have halted, but the world spun as it always did and in time would grind the pain to dust.
As I crossed the threshold into the courtyard, the warm sun brushed my face but did not penetrate the chill settling in my bones. I was certain I would never feel warmth again as birds tweeted and a soft breeze stirred the tops of olive trees rimming the courtyard. I followed the stone path until I saw Padre Pietro standing in his dust-stained cassock and a bright stole.
I approached him and saw the very small hole scored in the earth. Padre Pietro looked at me. “What is her name?”
“Gina,” I said easily. Mia and I had never discussed names, but it had been my daughter’s name, and it seemed fitting the two angels share it.
“Very well.” He began the service, his deep voice reciting the prayers of the dead. The words floated around me as I silently begged God to accept this child in his loving arms. I would gladly trade my life or fulfill any of