Elisabetta placed his meal in front of him. “Buon appetito, Baron.”
“Grazie. The presentation is wonderful. The parsley looks so fresh.”
“Thank you. I grow our herbs in my garden.”
“Of course you do. Every detail is perfect.” Weizs?cker gestured to his tablemate, a beefy Nazi with a lengthwise scar on his left cheek. “Elisabetta, this is Colonel Kappler.”
“Pleased to meet you, Colonel Kappler.” Elisabetta shuddered inwardly. Kappler was the feared head of the Gestapo, and if he was around, the rumor about the Ghetto could likely be true.
“Nice to meet you.” Colonel Kappler nodded stiffly.
Weizs?cker interjected, “Elisabetta, I’ve been telling Colonel Kappler that Casa Servano serves the finest food in Rome. Nonna made the best pasta I’ve ever tasted, and you’re a very worthy protégée.”
“Thank you. Buon appetito, Colonel Kappler.” Elisabetta reached over the table with the steaming plate, then pretended to trip. The plate flew into the air, flipped over, and landed upside down on Kappler’s lap.
“Och!” Kappler jumped up, grimacing. Hot oil stained his crotch, as if he had urinated on himself, which Elisabetta couldn’t have planned if she tried. He brushed spaghetti from his pants, and clamshells clattered to the floor.
“Oh no!” Weizs?cker recoiled. The other diners craned their necks, and a nervous murmur rippled through the restaurant.
Elisabetta faked a gasp. “Colonel Kappler, I’m so sorry! How clumsy of me!”
“Elisabetta, get a rag!” Weizs?cker snapped.
“Yes, sir!” Elisabetta escaped to the kitchen.
* * *
—
After closing the restaurant, Elisabetta hurried to the Ghetto, where she found the piazza in front of the synagogue packed with distraught families hugging each other and talking in groups. Men hustled to and from the synagogue, which was open. Light streamed through its tall windows of stained glass, glowing orange, yellow, green, and blue against the night sky.
Elisabetta scanned the crowd for Sandro, but didn’t see him. She spotted a young couple in worn brown coats and crossed to them. “Excuse me,” she said. “May I ask, do you know what’s going on? I’ve heard a terrible rumor that the Jews have to raise gold to give to the Nazis.”
“Yes, it’s true,” the wife answered, her forehead knit with fear.
“It’s a nightmare.” The husband shook his head, his mouth downturned in a thick beard. “Every family is contributing, but few have valuables or money anymore.”
“I’d like to help.” Elisabetta took from her purse an envelope containing the earnings of the day. “I don’t have gold, but I have money.”
“How kind of you. You can bring your contribution to the second floor of the synagogue. Ask for a lawyer named Massimo Simone.”
Elisabetta hid her reaction. If Sandro’s father was there, then Sandro would be, too. She would have loved to see him, but she doubted that he wanted to see her. He hadn’t contacted her after she had left him the supplì.
She handed the man her envelope. “Will you take it in for me, instead?”
“If you wish.” The husband accepted the envelope. “What’s your name? I’ll tell them you contributed.”
“No, thank you.” Elisabetta turned away, hurrying from the Ghetto.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
Sandro
28 September 1943
Tuesday Morning
The deadline was only hours away, and Sandro, his family, Presidents Foà and Almansi, Angelo, Anticoli, and his assistants, the accountant Renzo Levi, and the secretary Rosina Sorani were in the Sala di Consiglio, exhausted. They had been collecting gold in dribs and drabs for hours on end. Their hopes had soared and plummeted, but they had made more phone calls, knocked on more doors, and tracked down every member of the Community for contributions. They had even bought fifteen kilograms of gold with cash they had collected.
Now they stood around the table, waiting to see if they had reached their goal. Angelo placed a single earring on the brass scale. The fulcrum squeaked just the slightest. They all held their breath.
Angelo straightened, grinning. “We did it!”
Everyone cheered. Sandro hugged his father. The women burst into tears, clinging together. Almansi and Foà shook hands, beaming with joy. Angelo, his assistants, and Renzo clapped each other on the backs.
Against all odds, they had succeeded, and faster than anyone had expected. The gold filled ten boxes on the table, five kilograms in each. They even had enough money left over to put 2,021,540 lire in the Community’s safe, in the synagogue. Last night, the Vatican had offered to loan them any shortfall, but the Community had hoped to rely only on themselves.