Monday Afternoon Marco left the synagogue with his parents, threading through the families filling the piazza, clustering in distraught groups, talking and holding each other. His heart went out to them, and he felt a deep wave of shame for having ever worn a Fascist uniform. He would never forgive himself for the harm and damage he had done.
Suddenly a black limousine pulled up on the piazza, being driven by a chauffeur, an unprecedented sight in the Ghetto. Heads turned as the limousine parked, and Marco and his parents looked over to see none other than Massimo emerging from its back seat, his face a mask of urgency.
Massimo closed the limousine door, hastily greeted a few families, then caught sight of the Terrizzis. He rushed over, throwing open his arms. “Beppe, Maria, Marco! You’re here?”
“Of course.” Marco’s father embraced Massimo. “We came as soon as we heard. We saw Sandro and made a contribution.”
“Thank you, I love you all. Emedio helped us, too. Look what I have.” Massimo put his hand in his pocket and extracted a pile of gold necklaces, which dripped between his fingers. “These are from friends of Monsignor O’Flaherty. One even had her driver take me home.”
“Bravo, Massimo!” his father and mother said, delighted.
Marco eyed the jewelry, fearing that it wouldn’t make much difference toward the colossal amount that the Nazis had demanded.
“I have to go.” Massimo returned the jewelry to his pocket, glancing at his watch.
“Good luck,” Marco said, managing a smile.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
Elisabetta
27 September 1943
Monday Night
Casa Servano had a full house for dinner, and Elisabetta had been busy in the kitchen from the moment she’d gotten in this morning. Her one-pasta menu had become routine, and food shortages had grown worse since the Nazi occupation. Tonight they were serving spaghetti alle vongole, spaghetti with clam sauce, and she had made the pasta, cleaned the clams, and chopped fresh garlic, oregano, and parsley.
The kitchen filled with steam, and Elisabetta wiped her brow, standing behind the dented cauldrons of boiling water, one to cook pasta and the other to steam clams. On a third burner was a heavy saucepan for clam sauce, the heat low enough to warm the olive oil but not high enough to brown the garlic. Timing was everything, and Nonna always said spaghetti alle vongole was a dish that only the best cooks got right.
The new waitress, Antonia, hustled into the kitchen and emptied her tray. She was eighteen years old, with a sweet, wide face, dark eyes, and curly black hair that she wore in a braid. She was new to Rome, a refugee with hands calloused from harvesting wheat.
“Elisabetta, I need two servings.” Antonia crossed to the stove. “I just seated table seven. It’s that fancy German baron. You know, the regular.”
“Baron von Weizs?cker.” Elisabetta tossed two handfuls of pasta into the boiling water, scooped handfuls of clams into the steamer, and cranked up the heat on the olive oil, throwing in fresh garlic.
“Right. He’s here with another Nazi. You’ll never guess what I heard him say.”
“What?” Elisabetta asked idly, stirring the pasta with a wooden spoon. She could tell from the smell of the hot water it had the right amount of salt, not too much.
“The Nazis are blackmailing the Jews. If the Ghetto doesn’t give them fifty kilograms of gold by tomorrow, they’ll deport two hundred of them.”
Elisabetta looked up, horrified. Her first thought was of Sandro. “That can’t be. Are you sure you understood them? How good is your German?”
“I heard about it before, too. I thought it was a rumor.”
Elisabetta hadn’t heard a thing, having been inside all day. “Give me your tray. I’ll serve them myself.”
“Why?”
“We’ll see.” Elisabetta accepted the tray, and when the pasta was ready, took it from the boiling water, strained it, and plated it. She scooped the clams onto the pasta, drizzled hot olive oil with garlic over the servings, then tossed each dish and topped them with fresh parsley. She set the plates on the tray and hustled from the kitchen.
Baron von Weizs?cker sat at a table with a Nazi officer, in uniform. Weizs?cker had on a suit instead of his uniform, as was his habit, though he always wore his Nazi lapel pin.
Elisabetta beelined for his table. “Good evening, Baron von Weizs?cker. How nice to see you. We’re serving one of your favorite dishes tonight.”
“I heard, Elisabetta! The alle vongole.” Weizs?cker smiled, with nice, even teeth. An Italophile, he had the bearing of a cultured aristocrat, with thinning blondish-gray hair, hooded eyes set close together, a patrician nose, and refined lips.