But this morning, without warning, the Ghetto had awakened to find two massive freight cars parked across from the synagogue on the Lungotevere de’ Cenci, on the tracks of the Circolare Nera trolley line. Armed Nazis guarded another barricade around the freight train and detoured traffic away from the typically bustling boulevard. The insignia on the train was the emblem of the German national railroad, so everyone knew where the train had come from and where it was going. The Nazis had hired Otto & Rosini, an international shipping company, to transport the collection to Germany, and their O&R workmen were inside the synagogue, packing.
Sandro’s father emerged from the synagogue and crossed the piazza. He held his head high as he passed the Nazi soldiers, and if he was afraid, he didn’t let it show. Sandro felt a rush of admiration for him. He had seen his father grow in stature during these dark days, and the Community had come to regard him as a leader.
His father approached the barricade, his expression somber, and the families surged against the cordon, shouting questions at him.
“Massimo, how can they take our libraries? They belong to the Community!” “We paid the gold! How much more can they take from us?” “Were you able to stop this? It’s a crime in broad daylight!”
Sandro’s father motioned for calm. “Friends, I have disappointing news. We could not stop this confiscation, though we tried our very best.” He paused as the families reacted with groans and murmurs, then he resumed. “However, we have warned them that we will take legal action if any of our artifacts are sold off, after they are out of the country. The Germans assure us that they have no intention of doing that. In addition, we have formally requested return of the artifacts after the war—”
The families burst into chatter, interrupting him, when an O&R man in a worksuit emerged from the synagogue carrying a box. He was followed by another O&R man with a box, then another. The workmen walked to the freight train, toting fragile books and centuries-old manuscripts in boxes, as if they were common pots and pans.
Suddenly, a book flew from an open window on the upper floor of the synagogue. The book opened in midair, and its ancient pages flapped like a flightless bird.
Sandro’s father whirled around, crying out, “No, it will break!”
Sandro gasped as his father ran toward the synagogue, raising his arms. Amazingly, his father caught the book on the fly. The families cheered, clapping.
Inexplicably, the Nazis threw another priceless book out of a different window. Sandro’s father turned around, then scrambled to catch that book, too. He did so in the nick of time, right before it hit the cobblestones. Just then, another book flew from yet a different window.
The families’ cheers began to fade, as the Nazis kept throwing priceless books out of the windows, faster and faster. His father ran back and forth in his suit, his tie flying. He tried in vain to catch all of the books, but it was impossible. In no time, it was raining rare books. His father struggled to hold the books he’d already caught, almost tripping.
“Papa, stop!” Sandro looked on, dismayed. The Nazis were playing a humiliating game. The families reacted with angry shouting. The Nazi guards brandished their guns at the families. The situation turned dangerously volatile. He had to do something.
“Sir!” Sandro called to a Nazi. “Let me get my father, will you?”
“Go!” The Nazi scowled, motioning with his long gun.
Sandro ducked under the barricade, hurried to his father, and took some of the books from him. “Papa, stop!”
“These books are hundreds of years old!” his father said, anguished and out of breath, his glasses awry.
“Stop now.” Sandro and his father gave the books to an O&R man who came over with a box. The Nazis kept tossing books out of the windows. Pages came loose, sailed through the air, and fluttered to the ground like trash.
Sandro took his father’s arm, and they hustled back to the barricade. All around them, precious books plummeted to the piazza and broke on the cobblestones, their spines coming unglued. The crowd rushed the barricade, trying to pick up the pages.
The Nazis shouted in German, aiming their guns at the families.
The families quieted in fear, weeping and praying. Sandro hurried his father under the barricade, where his mother and Rosa clucked over him, righting his glasses. His father recovered his composure quickly, and the families surged to him, asking him questions again.
Sandro spotted a young woman at the far side of the crowd, with her head turned away. Her dark curls gleamed in the sunshine, and she had on a pretty blue-checked dress, like Elisabetta used to wear. His heart leapt to his throat, and he found himself threading his way to her.