“Elisabetta?” Sandro said, but when the woman turned to face him, she wasn’t Elisabetta at all.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry . . . I thought you were someone else.” Sandro edged backward into the crowd. He should have known better. He had thrown Elisabetta away, and she probably never thought of him. Her love for him was a thing of the past.
He remembered that night at La Sapienza, how they had kissed under the stars. He found himself wondering if she had ever written the book she had wanted to.
Sandro made his way toward his family, trying to forget her.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
Sandro
15 October 1943
Sandro stood beside Rosa’s bed, worried about his sister. She had been sick for over a week, her stomach hurting. She could barely keep anything down. Her pretty face was drawn and pale, and her eyes had lost their shine.
His mother rested her palm on Rosa’s forehead. “Darling, your fever is too high. I think we need to get you to the hospital while you can still walk.”
“I’ll be fine,” Rosa said weakly.
“No, you need treatment.”
Sandro agreed with his mother. “Mamma, what do you think is the matter?”
“I can’t diagnose her properly without testing. It could be so many things.”
“What should we do? Papa won’t be home until late.” Sandro had left his father at the synagogue, getting things in order after the sacking of the library.
“You and I can take her. I don’t want to wait for Papa. We’ll leave him a note.” His mother straightened, her mouth set with purpose.
Sandro nodded. “Good, let’s go.”
“Mamma, no.” Rosa shook her head. “I don’t need to go, and it’s after curfew. Sandro, tell her no. The curfew—”
“Don’t worry. If they stop us, we’ll explain that it’s a medical emergency.”
“Assuming they care,” his mother muttered.
* * *
—
Sandro sat with his mother in the waiting area, while Rosa was being examined. Dr. Salvatore Cristabello, one of his mother’s former colleagues, had been delighted to see her again, though he had done a discreet double-take at her shabby brown dress and the change in her appearance. Sandro realized that his mother had gone from slender to gaunt, and when he caught sight of his reflection in a glass window, he saw that he had, too.
Dr. Cristabello emerged from the door, professional in his crisp white coat, with sparse gray hair and thick bifocals. He had a warm, friendly face, but his expression looked grave as he walked toward them.
“How is she?” His mother rose to meet him, followed by Sandro.
“She’ll be fine, and her vitals are good, but I’m going to admit her. I believe it’s gastrointestinal, a parasite or the like. We’re seeing a lot of that, considering the contamination of the food supply.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“We’re giving her fluids and testing blood and urine. It will take a while to get the results back. You should go home and get some sleep.”
“I’d like to stay over, if I may.”
“Fine. I think I can sneak you in.”
“Thank you, Salvatore.” His mother turned to Sandro, touching his arm. “Go home, dear. Keep your father company.”
“But I want to stay, too. We left him a note.”
Dr. Cristabello interjected, “Sandro, I can pull a few strings to get her into your sister’s room, but not you, too.”
“Okay,” Sandro agreed, reluctantly.
“Good boy,” his mother said, kissing him on the cheek.
Sandro left the hospital, and the Ponte Cestio was only steps away, leading to Trastevere, and Elisabetta. A powerful wave of emotion swept over him, and he yearned for her. He couldn’t fathom how he had lived this long without her.
Sandro couldn’t deny himself for another minute. His heart led the way, and he turned right over the Ponte Cestio, crossing the bridge and entering a Trastevere he barely recognized. The streets were deserted, and restaurants and shops permanently closed. The windows in the houses were dark, blacked out in case of an air raid. Trash and rubble lay on the streets, and flowerpots lay in shards. Trellises went unplanted, and their broken slats clung to walls. A bower of ivy hung overhead, a sole survivor that needed no care and therefore got none. Like him.
Sandro walked as if in a fever dream, his steps leading him to the woman he loved. He would beg her to take him in and shelter him, and he would hold her close and they would be together finally, the way they were meant to be, the way God intended before man intervened, and Fascists, and Nazis, and hate, and laws, and injustice. He drew closer to her house and kept walking, praying that somehow his dream would come true and he would finally be with her.