“Papa? Are they taking the two hundred anyway?”
His father met his eye, wearing an expression that Marco had never seen on his face, a mixture of sorrow, anger, and determination. “Son, I think it’s too many trucks for only two hundred.”
“What do you mean?” Marco asked, his heart pounding. “What are you saying?”
“I think the Nazis are taking all the Jews. I think they’re emptying the entire Ghetto, like they do in Germany. It’s a rastrellamento.”
Marco cursed. “No! That can’t be! Everyone?”
“Everyone.” His father reached behind the cans on the shelves, where they hid their pistols.
Marco felt shocked, struck dumb with horror. But then he experienced a darker emotion. Pure rage.
His father retrieved two guns, pocketed one, and handed Marco the other. “It’s loaded.”
“Let’s go,” Marco said, palming the gun.
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
Marco
16 October 1943
Marco and his father raced up the Ponte Fabricio. Rain fell in sheets, drenching their heads and shoulders. They reached the crest of the bridge and got their first look at the Ghetto. The sight horrified and enraged them.
Hundreds of Nazis swarmed the other side of the river. A barricade cordoned off the Ghetto from the rest of Rome. A long line of covered trucks blocked the Lungotevere de’ Cenci. Kubelwagens were parked everywhere. Nazis guarded a barricade at the foot of the bridge, and a crowd had gathered there.
Marco realized his father had been right. It had to be a rastrellamento, a roundup, of the Ghetto Jews. There were too many Nazis, too many trucks, and too much activity for it to be otherwise. He never would have believed that anyone, even the Nazis, could get away with this in Rome, under the nose of the Vatican.
Marco and his father ran down the bridge, slowing as they approached the back of the crowd, which was distraught. Men and women comforted each other, clinging together, praying, and crying. Marco struggled to maintain control of his emotions. The heavy trucks rumbled in idle, spewing exhaust. He simply could not allow Sandro and his family to be loaded onto them and taken to a labor camp.
Marco whispered to his father, “We have to do something.”
“No. We wait.”
“For what? We just can’t stand here.” Marco’s fingers encircled the handle of the gun in his pocket.
“Don’t. You’ll get everybody killed. Be patient.”
Suddenly a burst of gunfire came from the north side of Ghetto, where Sandro lived.
“No!” Marco cried out, startled.
His father shot him a look. A wave of fear ran through the crowd. Women gasped, men cursed the Nazis. An old man shook his head, tears filling his cloudy eyes. A woman covered her face, sobbing.
“Papa, I have an idea.”
“What?”
“Follow me.”
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
Sandro
16 October 1943
Sandro left the house with his father, holding a small bag of belongings and some bread. Nazis filled Piazza Costaguti, shouting orders, shoving terrified families into lines, and holding barking German shepherds. Shouting and crying echoed from other streets. Earlier there had been gunshots.
Sandro and his father joined the line of families forming diagonally, across the piazza. Nazis held them at gunpoint, their faces shadowed by helmets. The bedraggled families huddled together in the pouring rain, their expressions drawn with fear.
Sandro suppressed dread as his father shivered next to him. He spotted the other tenants from their house in their line. The Pontecorvos with their three boys, Giacomo, Carlo, and Datillo, who kept crying. The Lanzanas with their girls, Amelia and Aida, and the boys, Alvaro and Giuseppe.
Nazis were rousting neighbors from their houses. The DiConsiglio family; Ester with Ada, six years old. Marco, only four. Baby Mirella, not even a year old. The Sabatello family; Giovanni with Graziella, Letizia, Italia, and Franco. Liana, only eight years old.
Sandro saw some of his students, their young faces showing abject terror. Families clung to each other. Husbands comforted wives. Mothers sheltered children from the rain, like hens expanding their wings. Everybody held suitcases and small bags. They were being made to wait while other families were prodded into line at gunpoint.
Sandro realized that the Nazis weren’t counting people. That meant they weren’t taking only two hundred Jews. There were already more than that lined up on Piazza Costaguti.
He scanned the scene and came to a terrifying conclusion. The Nazis must have been taking all of the Ghetto Jews. It was an inconceivable horror, but the evidence was all around him. Men, women, children, without exception. Old and young, able-bodied and infirm, carried in chairs by their family members. He could see the evidence, all around him. It was a rastrellamento, a roundup.