“No, thank you.” Foà paused. “Instead of gold, could we pay the equivalent amount in lire?”
“No. American dollars or British pounds are fine, but not lire. I can print as much of your money as I want.”
“In the event that we cannot obtain the gold in time, would the two hundred Jews deported include those converted to Catholicism or the offspring of mixed marriages?”
“I don’t make any distinction.” Kappler pursed his lips. “All Jews are Germany’s enemy. I have already carried out several operations of this type, and it has ended well, so far. Only once did it not. That time, a few hundred Jews paid with their lives.”
Foà and Almansi looked stricken, and Massimo struggled to maintain emotional control.
Kappler rose, motioning to the guard. “Gentlemen, this meeting is concluded. I will see you here on Tuesday at noon, with the gold. Until then, goodbye.”
Massimo felt shaken to the core as the guard escorted him, Foà, and Almansi back through the gardens. He held his head high, but his knees had gone wobbly. The three men were led to their sedan, and they drove off. Nobody said a word until Villa Wolkonsky had vanished from the rearview mirror.
Foà, who was driving, spoke first. “How will we come up with that much gold? By Tuesday at noon? It’s not possible!”
Almansi shook his head. “If evil has a face, it is Kappler’s.”
“May I suggest a plan?” Massimo spoke up from the back seat, having gathered his wits. “First, we should work through the night, call our few wealthy members, and establish a donation center on the second floor of the synagogue. Second, we should call a meeting of the board for tomorrow morning. Third, we should make an announcement to the Community tomorrow, so everyone can contribute. We’ll pull out all the stops.”
“I agree,” Almansi said, after a moment. “Good organizational thinking, Massimo.”
“Yes.” Foà glanced at Massimo in the rearview mirror.
Massimo’s mind raced. “We should also call Palazzo Venezia and the Vatican, too. They should be pressed to help.”
“Agree,” Foà and Almansi said, in unison.
Massimo looked out the window. Darkness descended as the car sped toward the Ghetto. The three men fell silent again, each left to his own fears. The task that had befallen them could not be more impossible. They had been charged with protecting innocent men, women, and children. They would try with all of their collective might, will, and heart to succeed.
It was Sunday night.
They had until Tuesday at noon.
The clock was ticking.
PART FIVE
I loved the Italians too much. Now I hate them.
—Field-Marshal Albert Kesselring
Then one of them took my arm and looked at my number and then both laughed still more strongly. Everyone knows that 174000s are the Italian Jews, the well-known Italian Jews who arrived two months ago, all lawyers, all with degrees, who were more than a hundred and are now only forty; the ones who do not know how to work, and let their bread be stolen, and are slapped from the morning to the evening.
—Primo Levi, If This Is a Man （1958）
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Sandro
26 September 1943
Sunday Night
Sandro knew something was wrong when he heard hurried footsteps on the stairs. He looked up from his papers, and Rosa placed a finger between the pages of her book. His mother dried her hands on a dishcloth just as his father burst through the door. His sparse hair was flyaway, and his manner panicky.
“Do we have any gold?” he asked, his eyes round with alarm.
“Gold?” his mother answered, bewildered. “Are you crazy?”
“Think, dear. We must have some. What about your jewelry? Your wedding band?”
“It’s all gone, you know that. I gave my ring for the war in Ethiopia, and we sold the rest of my jewelry.”
“We must have some gold somewhere.” His father rushed to Rosa. “Don’t you have any jewelry left? Something David gave you?”
“No, we sold my wedding band, too. I have nothing of value left. Why?”
“The Community has to come up with fifty kilograms of gold by noon on Tuesday. If we don’t, the Nazis will deport two hundred of us.”
His mother gasped, horrified. “What are you talking about? That can’t be true.”
Rosa stood up slowly. “The Nazis want to make a bargain? Fifty kilograms of gold? For people?”
“Yes, and there’s no time to lose.” His father swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple going up and down his skinny neck like a lift. “We called Angelo the goldsmith. He says fifty kilograms of gold is about twelve thousand rings.”