“Yes, but we had a deal with Kappler.” His father broke their embrace, agitated. “We held up our end of the bargain.”
“You think they’re taking two hundred of us? Is that what’s happening?”
“It has to be. They’re not honoring the deal. This is bad faith. A material breach, as a matter of law.”
“But what can we do now? We have to go. We can’t make a legal argument.”
“There must be law. There must be honor. We met with Kappler himself.”
“Papa, we have to get ready. We don’t have time for a legal discussion. The law won’t help us now. The Nazis are the law.” Sandro hurried back to his bed.
“We made an oral contract, son.” His father stood still, shaking his head. “We performed our side of the bargain. This is a clear breach.”
“Papa, we need to get dressed.” Sandro put his identity card and clothes in a backpack, and his father went to the cabinet and took out his shirt.
“I assume Almansi and Foà will call Kappler. He’ll have a lot to account for, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t forget your identity card.” Sandro packed drinking glasses and ration cards. “I’ll get the rest.”
“I wonder how Kappler will justify this. It’s simply indefensible.”
“I have the keys.” Sandro took them from the drawer and pocketed them. “We’ll leave the door unlocked for Mamma and Rosa.”
“The Vatican will intervene, of course.” His father put on his shirt, shaking his head. “Justice will prevail, in time. We will be sent home from the labor camps. Colonel Kappler’s word was binding.”
Sandro got his notebook, tore off a blank page, and grabbed a pencil, realizing it would be the second note he had left tonight. He started to write his mother’s and Rosa’s names, then remembered that he had told the Nazis that they were dead. He wrote instead:
Don’t worry about us. We’ll see you when we can. We love you.
Sandro set down the pencil. “Are you ready?”
“Almost.” His father knotted his tie. “Put the note in the can of tea, so your mother finds it. You know how she loves her tea.”
“Good idea,” Sandro said, wondering anew about his father’s state of mind. He doubted his mother would be making tea when she got home and found them gone.
He left the note on the table.
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
Marco
16 October 1943
Marco woke up to find his father bent over his bed, already dressed. For some reason, the light was on in his bedroom. “What, Papa?”
“Get up, we have to go.” His father’s expression was grim. “The Nazis are mobilizing around the Ghetto.”
Marco thought instantly of Sandro. He flung aside the sheet and leapt out of bed. He could hear his mother praying in their bedroom.
“I thought it was too quiet last night.” His father pursed his lips, shaking his head. “I should have known they were up to something.”
“Are the others coming?” Marco crossed to the chair, grabbed his pants, and slid them on.
“In time. We’re closest, so we’re on our own. The Nazis are cordoning off the Ghetto. They’re setting up roadblocks at the synagogue, Via del Portico d’Ottavia, Via di Sant’Angelo in Pescheria, Piazza Costaguti, and Piazza Mattei.”
Fear constricted Marco’s chest. Sandro and his family lived near Piazza Costaguti. He threw on his shirt and buttoned it up.
“A German convoy is heading down the Lungotevere de’ Cenci.” Marco jumped into his shoes.
“How big is the convoy?”
“Thirty trucks with escorts, and more coming.” His father left the bedroom, and Marco bolted after him.
“Oh no. That’s a huge operation.”
“Yes, and the trucks are empty. The Nazis are going to fill them with people.” His father hustled down the stairwell with Marco.
“How can that be? The Ghetto gave them the gold. That was the deal.”
“I think the deal was a ruse to buy time. They never intended to keep it.”
“What, why?”
“It takes time to stage an operation this big. They must have been planning it for a while. It’s why they arrested the carabinieri.” His father reached the bottom of the stairwell and hustled to the stockroom, with Marco at his heels.
“So you think they’re taking two hundred Jews?”
His father opened the storeroom door and turned on the light, without reply.