Rome was lost.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Elisabetta
September 1943
It was a warm, cloudy morning, and Elisabetta hurried to work. The Germans had invaded and occupied Rome, and last night, drunken Nazis had looted shops and vandalized property, celebrating their triumph. Romans had stayed inside in fear, hiding behind their shutters. German tanks and trucks drove the Lungotevere Sanzio, and random gunfire echoed in the distance.
She hurried past the bakery, where a few women had already begun to form a line. Most stores remained closed today, their windows boarded up to prevent further vandalism. Shattered glass and smashed flowerpots littered the street, and tables in outdoor seating areas had been broken. Her paradise of Trastevere was no longer.
Two Nazis stood at the other end of the street, so Elisabetta turned right to avoid them, taking the long way. They were everywhere, even though Rome had been declared an open city. Nazis were supposed to be confined to the German embassy, the Rome radio station, and the German telephone exchange.
Elisabetta reached Casa Servano and opened the door to find Sofia waiting for her at the bar, wearing her brown dress, but no apron. “Ciao, Sofia.”
Sofia crossed to her, plainly nervous. “I don’t think we should open today. I was terrified coming here.”
“We have to open. We can’t lose another day. Our budget is too close to the bone.”
“But Rinaldo’s not coming in. We can’t get another cook on such short notice.”
“Then I’ll cook. Is Michele coming?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then we’ll bus the tables ourselves. Sofia, you and I can run the place on our own.”
“But it’s not safe. Who do you think will come?”
“Whoever comes, I’ll feed. People expect us to be open. We have a reputation. We lasted this long, when others didn’t. I can’t survive if this place goes out of business, can you?”
“Yes, I have Paolo’s paycheck.”
The answer caught Elisabetta up short. “Then we’re in different positions. I’m opening today.”
“Can’t I talk you out of it?”
“Why would you want to?”
Sofia pursed her lips. “You sound like Nonna, answering a question with a question.”
Elisabetta didn’t reply, disliking Sofia’s occasional sarcasm about Nonna. Secretly she would never forgive Sofia for selling Nonna’s beloved china.
“Ascolta, Elisabetta, I have children. I left them with my neighbor again.” Sofia tucked her purse under her arm. “I don’t want to work anymore. I’m sorry, I quit.”
“For good?” Elisabetta asked, dismayed. “But what about the restaurant? What would Paolo say? It’s his family’s.”
“He’ll understand. If you were a mother, you would understand.”
Elisabetta felt like a mother to Rico and Gnocchi, but nobody thought that was the same thing except her. “Okay, well . . . thanks.”
Sofia frowned, meeting her eye. “Aren’t you sick of begging for olive oil from vendors? Of being cheated by the black market for eggs and flour? Of barely having enough gas for cooking, and counting our matches? No salt for weeks? Tea from blackberry leaves and dried orange peel? Why don’t you just give up?”
“Is that an option?”
* * *
—
Elisabetta worked all morning to make pasta, ravioli only, to be served with fresh pomodoro sauce, and Castelli Romani the only wine. The dinner service was big, and the mood celebratory, as the Nazis were gloating over their victory. Wine enhanced their mood, and they sang song after song. She was in the kitchen when she heard Hitler himself broadcasting on the radio, threatening that Italy would pay dearly for betraying Germany and that Nazi retaliatory measures would be “very hard.”
Elisabetta grabbed a platter of steaming ravioli and hurried out to the dining room. She managed to keep the customers fed, the glasses full, and the tables turned, and after the last customer had left, she locked the door and hustled to the kitchen to clean up. She made quick work of putting away the extra food, careful to save every leftover scrap. As she worked, Sandro was in the back of her mind, and she felt afraid for him. The Nazis were worse than the Fascists, especially when it came to the Jews.
She started to put the bread away, but stopped herself. She grated the bread, collected some tomato pulp, rice, and cheese, then dripped some olive oil in a pan and began frying. In no time, she had made twelve supplì, wrapped them in waxed paper, bagged them, then cleaned up and left. She hurried through Trastevere and over the Tiber, and though it was after curfew, restaurateurs were given an informal pass.