The partisans rained bullets on the convoy. Smoke filled the air. Nazis returned fire but fell under the barrage.
Marco and the partisans kept firing. The Nazis jumped from the trucks only to be cut down. In time, no Nazis were firing back.
“Cease fire!” his father shouted, signaling. Marco and the partisans stopped shooting. One of the partisans had gotten hit in the hand, but they hadn’t lost a single man.
The battle was over. Marco felt adrenaline ebb from his body, leaving him shaking. He eased to the ground and set down his gun. He scanned the carnage. The quattropunti had done their job. The partisans had won.
His father sat down beside him, putting an arm around him. Neither said a word. The partisans ran down to the road, climbing into the covered trucks to see what supplies they held.
Nazis lay dead and dying, their bodies in horrifying positions. Their sightless eyes stared at the sky. Their Wehrmacht uniforms had gone black with blood. Smoke wafted above the carnage, and the odor of cordite overpowered the citrus smell.
Marco couldn’t tear his eyes from the gruesome scene. This battle was different from Porta San Paolo. Here, he was close to the soldiers he had killed. He could see their faces, and they were young men like him. Not long ago, they had been his allies. His friends. Rolf.
Marco felt despair, despite the victory. He had believed in Fascism, and they had believed in Nazism. Yet he was alive, and they were dead. There was no difference between him and them. They were all young men who believed in the wrong thing.
Marco prayed this was the last war, but he knew it wouldn’t be. Men were fallible, and they would always believe in the wrong things. He sensed that he had just learned something that his father had already known, but neither of them spoke.
The sun began to rise, sending golden rays between the cypresses and lemon trees. Father and son turned instinctively to watch the sunrise.
Marco kept his eyes on the sun until they hurt.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
Elisabetta
29 September 1943
Elisabetta hurried to work. She hadn’t slept for worrying about Sandro. The newspapers contained no news of the Nazi demand for gold, nor did the radio offer anything. She had already asked two men on the street if they knew whether the Ghetto had come up with the gold. Neither had any idea what she was talking about.
She spotted a little old man walking, wearing a dark suit and a capellino, a skullcap. She caught up with him, touching his elbow. “Excuse me, sir, may I ask you question?”
“Of course, young lady.”
“Do you know if the Ghetto was able to come up with the gold?”
“Yes,” he answered, a smile creasing his lined face. “We did.”
“Thank God!” Elisabetta threw her arms around him.
He didn’t seem to mind.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
Sandro
29 September 1943
Tonight was the eve of Rosh Hashanah, and Sandro and his father were in the synagogue early in the morning, putting the Sala di Consiglio back in order with the secretary, Rosina. Sandro felt happy and proud that the Ghetto Jews had survived their ordeal. He had never admired his father more, having seen him rise to the challenge.
Suddenly the grinding of heavy engines came from the piazza. Sandro exchanged glances with his father, and Rosina’s eyes flared in alarm. The three of them hurried to the window and looked outside in horror.
Panzer tanks with long tank guns were driving to the very doors of the synagogue. Behind them were Kubelwagens full of Nazis and two large covered trucks.
Rosina emitted a frightened cry.
“Oh no!” Sandro felt a bolt of terror.
“What are they doing?” his father asked, clutching the windowsill.
They watched as Nazis in Wehrmacht uniforms jumped out of the vehicles, unloaded sawhorses from the truck, and cordoned off the piazza. A black sedan with Nazi flags pulled up, and a Gestapo captain emerged from its back seat, with a plainly nervous President Foà. Families in the piazza began to gather behind the cordon.
“Let’s go.” His father led the way, and they hurried downstairs, reached the ground floor, and met Foà and the Gestapo officer as they entered the synagogue.
Foà gestured to the Nazi, tense. “This is Captain Mayer of the SS. Captain Mayer, allow me to introduce—”
“I have no time for chitchat,” Mayer interrupted him, unsmiling. “We need to search the synagogue for radio equipment. We believe that you Jews have been in secret contact with the Badoglio government.”
Foà added, “Captain Mayer’s men searched my house this morning, looking for such evidence. Of course, he found none. I assured him that none of us has any such contacts.”