His mother’s hand flew to her face. “Oh no.”
Rosa’s lips parted in outrage. “This is extortion, plain and simple! How will we ever come up with that much gold?”
Sandro said nothing, trying to keep his wits about him. He knew that the Community couldn’t produce that much gold in such a short time. Nobody had any money, much less gold. Since the Nazi occupation, conditions had gone from bad to worse. Ghetto Jews foraged daily for food, and some were starving. Tuberculosis was rampant in such close quarters, and his mother delivered babies that were stillborn. Everyone prayed for salvation, counting the days until the U.S. reached Rome, fighting northward from Sicily.
“Massimo, why do they want so much gold? Why now?”
“They need money for their war effort. Gemma, we don’t have time to discuss it. We need to look for gold.” His father crossed to the cabinet near the beds, which used to hold the family menorah and antique candlesticks.
“But tell me, how did this come about?” his mother asked, following him.
“Kappler summoned Foà, Almansi, and me to Villa Wolkonsky. He told us the demand.” His father began searching the cabinet, which held his papers and their clothes.
“Massimo, you met Kappler?”
Sandro felt a bolt of fear. Kappler was the notoriously brutal head of the Gestapo, which had its headquarters across town on Via Tasso, where people were beaten, tortured, or worse. Everyone said that the screams could be heard throughout the neighborhood.
Rosa stood motionless, her gaze terrified. “Papa, how will they choose the two hundred? And where will they be deported to?”
“I don’t know more than I told you. Help me look! There might be an earring, a trinket, a charm, however small.” His father rooted through the cabinet, tossing out papers and shirts. Rosa and his mother joined in.
Sandro watched them, knowing the search was futile. He didn’t know what to do. He was supposed to be a genius, but he didn’t have any answers. He didn’t know who among them would be deported. He knew only that Elisabetta would be safe.
“Sandro, help us!” his mother snapped. “Hurry!”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Sandro
27 September 1943
Monday Morning
By the next morning, the news of the Nazi demand for gold had spread, and the Ghetto was gripped by panic. President Foà, President Almansi, and Sandro’s father had called families all night, asking for contributions. They had also solicited Rome’s municipal government, but it had declined. A crowd of families filled the piazza outside the synagogue, waiting for the doors to open and ready to give what little gold they had.
Inside, the synagogue buzzed with activity. Foà and Almansi kept phoning for contributions in their offices, and Sandro and his father set up a collection station in the Sala del Consiglio. They moved the conference table, so the donors would stand on one side, and on the other would be the staff, which included goldsmith Angelo Anticoli and his two assistants, to weigh the gold and verify its quality, and Renzo Levi, a ragioniere, an accountant, to keep track of each donation. Sandro’s job was to double-check the calculations, and he sat at the end of the table. He arranged his sharpened pencils and paper in front of him, as if for the most important test of his lifetime.
“Let’s start the collection,” Sandro’s father said, with an authority that his son had never seen in him.
The synagogue doors were opened downstairs, and men and women came upstairs and began forming a line to make their contributions. They were Ghetto Jews, since they lived the closest. Fear strained their expressions, their clothes were shabby, and they held their meager treasures in clenched hands, purses, or bags. Some lifted Star of David and other necklaces from their necks, and others unfastened small gold earrings. One older man took a bridge of false teeth from his mouth to offer his gold fillings.
Sandro’s heart lifted at each contribution. Everyone around the table watched as each ring, brooch, or necklace was weighed, its quality noted, a receipt written, and the figures double-checked. After a few contributions, someone would ask how much gold had been collected thus far, and Sandro began announcing a running tally.
His father greeted people in the line, and his mother and Rosa arrived to help. Sandro and the others thanked each donor, no matter how small their contribution, and the Community was so close, he knew the families. Ascoli. Sermonetta. Piperno. Piazza. Sonnino. Limentani. Fiorentino. Funaro. Caviglia. Di Tivoli. Del Monte. Sabatello.
Sandro had grown up with them all, and before the Race Laws stripped them of property and livelihood, they had been shopkeepers, tinsmiths, bakers, salesmen, tanners, and peddlers. They had gone to school together, shopped together, and worshipped together. They were his friends and neighbors, and it horrified him to think that two hundred of them might be deported.