“Hmph!” Chief Rabbi Zolli returned his attention to President Almansi and President Foà. “Nevertheless, would you stand on such a legal technicality against me? I am the leader of my congregation. Lawyerly distinctions should not overrule my opinion.”
“Again, we disagree.” Almansi’s mouth set in a firm line. “In times like these, we need to keep a cool head. We need to communicate confidence and self-assurance. We will survive the occupation as we have always survived, as a community.”
“But—”
“This meeting is over.”
* * *
—
On Saturday morning, Sandro and his father filed into the synagogue amid a throng of male congregants, their heads covered with white capellini, or skullcaps, and their shoulders draped with white tallit, or prayer shawls. The service was about to begin, and his mother and Rosa climbed the steps to the women’s balconies, while Sandro and his father went to their seats on the main floor.
His father greeted his friends, and Sandro looked around the synagogue with new eyes. His gaze took in the white marble columns at the bimah, the gold brocade curtain over the ark that held the sacred Torah scrolls, and the ornate brass chandelier, shedding a gentle light. Above them all was the square dome, with its vault painted a rainbow of gorgeous colors, culminating in a glass window to the sky. The beautiful synagogue embodied the peace that Sandro had newly found in Judaism, like a healing salve.
Before they sat down, his father took Sandro aside. “I have bad news. There’s a substitute rabbi today.”
“Where’s Chief Rabbi Zolli?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Is he sick?”
“No,” his father answered gravely. “He’s gone into hiding.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Marco
September 1943
Marco, come.” Marco’s father motioned to him, entering the bar from the side door. The place had just closed, and his father had been meeting with the partisans.
“What’s going on?” Marco left the counter and followed him into the storeroom, where they shut the door.
“Look.” His father took off his backpack and extracted a cascade of tangled iron, which looked like a bunch of junk. He disentangled a large iron thing from the pile and held it up.
“What’s that?”
“A quattropunto, a four-pointed nail. It’s made of two long iron nails bent in half and soldered together, with a sharpened point on each end.”
“What does it do?”
“It pops tires. If you throw it onto a road, one sharp point will always stick up. It always rests on three other points, like a tripod. It’s primitive, but effective. It was used by the Roman Army. We used it in the Great War, but I had forgotten about it.”
“It’s so simple.” Marco tested the sharpness of the spike with his finger. It pricked him instantly, drawing a bubble of blood.
“After the battle of Porta San Paolo, one of our fighters, Lindoro Boccanera, was hiding in the military museum there. He noticed an exhibition of artifacts from the Great War, including the quattropunto. He proposed we resume its production.”
“Where did you get these?”
“From a farrier in Trastevere. He’s making them for us.”
Trastevere. Marco got distracted, thinking of Elisabetta. He would always associate her with the neighborhood, which he now avoided.
“Next, we strike—” His father fell silent when the door opened, then they both looked over.
His mother stood in the threshold, her hair in mild disarray from cleaning the kitchen. Her mood had steadily improved, though Marco sensed she would never be the same. His father had told him that she had realized they were partisans after Porta San Paolo, but she would turn a blind eye. Marco didn’t think she looked blind right now.
His father said, “Maria, please close the door.”
“Don’t tell me what to do in my own house.” His mother regarded them with a cold stare. “What’s that junk on my floor?”
“Quattropunti.”
“Weapons?”
“Yes.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. “You planning something new?”
“Yes.”
She pursed her lips. “Beppe, if anything happens to Marco, don’t come home.”
“I understand,” his father said matter-of-factly.
“Ever again.”
“I know.”
His mother closed the door without another word.
Marco had to smile. “She doesn’t mean that, does she?”