“Nonna taught me. I learned from the best.”
“That, you did.” Sofia’s expression softened. “I miss her, too.”
“We go on for her,” Elisabetta said, patting her back. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Sofia left, and Elisabetta experienced a pang of mourning. She looked around the kitchen, letting her gaze linger on the pantry that had been Nonna’s throne room. She found herself entering the pantry, running her fingertips along the wooden surface of the table, then using her fingernail to clean out the flour wedged into its grain. She felt as if she were touching Nonna herself, and so they remained together, in life and in death.
Elisabetta heard a noise behind her. “Sofia, did you forget something?” she asked, turning around, but it wasn’t Sofia. Standing in the kitchen was a large, dark-haired man. She experienced a tingle of fear, realizing she had forgotten to lock the front door after closing. Crime was rampant in Rome these days, but the man didn’t look malicious. He was as thin as a rolling pin, and his shabby jacket and pants hung on him.
“Sir, please go,” Elisabetta said, just the same.
“Please, if you have any food to spare, I would thank you. My wife was killed when our farm was bombed, and I have nothing. I served in the army until I injured my foot.”
“I’m sorry, but I have nothing to spare and a restaurant to run.”
“I’m not asking for myself, but for my children. Two boys and a girl, my youngest. They won’t eat much, I promise. If you could feed them, just this once, I would never bother you again.” The man gestured to the dining room. “They’re outside, skin and bones. If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.”
“Of course I believe you,” Elisabetta said, giving in. “Please, sir, go sit down. I’ll make you all some pasta.”
She didn’t need to see the children.
She already knew how they would look.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Marco
June 1943
Marco fell into step with his friend Rolf, and they walked along the Tiber on the Lungotevere dei Sangallo. Marco had been working around the clock at Palazzo Venezia, and he needed a break on such a nice day. The sun climbed high in a bright blue sky, and he always felt restored by the river, a natural oasis from noise, traffic, and worry. Tall palm trees lined the stone wall, which was set high above the riverbank. A damp, familiar breeze blew off the water, rustling their fronds.
He breathed in a fresh lungful, and Rolf sipped from his silver flask. The Nazi’s dimpled cheeks had a boyishness that women loved, though his fondness for beer gave him a belly that strained the buttons of his uniform. Otherwise Rolf had an athletic frame, having been a stellar soccer player in his hometown of Osnabrück, in northern Germany.
“You’re quiet, Marco,” Rolf said in German. He looked over, his narrow brown eyes shifting under the black patent bill of his cap. His lips, which were thin, formed a flat line, uncharacteristically so.
“I’m tired,” Marco answered, also in German. Rolf had taught him the language, and he had become fluent. But when he was tired, it felt effortful. “Do you mind if we speak Italian?”
“Not at all,” Rolf answered, switching languages easily. He spoke Italian like a native, thanks to Marco.
“My boss is driving me crazy. I really needed to get out today.”
“Here.” Rolf offered his flask to Marco, who shook his head no.
“My boss would smell it on my breath. He stands so close when he talks, I smell his garlic.”
“Mine would never know.” Rolf capped the flask.
“Germans don’t stand as close as Italians.”
“Genau,” Rolf said, which meant exactly, a word that Germans used as often as Italians used allora. He looked around, with a smile. “This is such a beautiful city.”
“It was better before,” Marco heard himself say, though he hadn’t realized he felt that way.
“How so?”
Marco fell silent, having seen so many changes in Rome since Italy had entered the war. The city functioned and stores remained open, but the lines for food and other necessities were endless, and Romans looked harried, their faces showing the strain. Everyone’s clothes were worn, and the military presence dominated the sidewalks and streets, with uniformed personnel and vehicles everywhere. He missed the carefree, pretty girls, walking this way and that, the lovers kissing at a café, and the noisy schoolchildren with gelato dripping over their fingers. Rome used to have brio, a life and spirit unique to this remarkable city, but it was gone.