Sandro fought back his fear. He couldn’t succumb now. He had to save his father and himself. He struggled through his panic to figure out a way to escape.
He evaluated the surroundings. Their line faced south, toward Via del Progresso. The Nazis would probably lead them down that street, then to Via del Portico d’Ottavia, the main entrance to the Ghetto. There must be trucks parked on the Lungotevere de’ Cenci, waiting to transport them. That would explain the mechanical thrumming vibrating through the air, even in the rain.
Sandro’s mind raced. There had to be a way out. A group of Nazis guarded a roadblock directly behind them, which cut off Via Arenula, due north. He counted how many. Ten Nazis. Too many to get past.
Ahead lay a smaller, narrow street, Via in Publicolis, that led to Via del Piatto. A lone Nazi stood at the far end of Via in Publicolis, but no blockade had been set up. The Nazis on Piazza Costaguti weren’t looking that way. No one was. All attention was focused on Via del Progresso.
Sandro kept his eye on the Nazi on Via in Publicolis. The line of families shifted forward, but he took his father’s arm and discreetly held him back. They kept their position, letting other families go in front of them.
His father glanced up, questioningly. Rain dotted his spectacles and flattened his sparse hair to his head.
Sandro shook his head slightly, no. He was wondering if he and his father could take down a Nazi. The chance was slim.
But it was, nevertheless, a chance.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
Gemma
16 October 1943
Rain pelted the window of the hospital room, and Gemma awoke in the chair next to Rosa’s bed. She had slept surprisingly well, since the hospital had fed both of them last night, the first good meal they’d had in ages. She felt relieved to see Rosa still sleeping peacefully, her color mildly improved.
Salvatore appeared in the threshold, his expression grave. His white coat was rumpled, as it was the end of his shift. He motioned her into the hallway, and Gemma rose and crossed to him.
“What’s the matter, Salvatore? Did you get test results?”
“No, but I have terrible news.” Salvatore placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “The Nazis are rounding up the Ghetto. They started early this morning.”
“What?” Gemma asked, shocked. Tears sprang to her eyes. She shook her head. “No! A rastrellamento? This can’t be happening, it can’t be. Massimo and Sandro are home. I have to leave.”
“No, Gemma, don’t, you’re safer here. We have a plan in place.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Nazis are on their way here. They’re coming to take the Jewish patients. We’re going to move Rosa, right away.”
“No!” Gemma gasped, stricken.
“We have to act quickly. We’re setting up an isolation ward for the Jewish patients—”
“Why?” Gemma recoiled. “You’ll be doing the Nazis’ work for them.”
“You know us better than that.” Salvatore’s expression softened, his eyes sympathetic. “Giovanni has a plan to save Rosa and everyone else.”
“How? What sort of plan?” Gemma knew he meant Dr. Giovanni Borromeo, the hospital administrator. Giovanni was a brilliant physician and professor of medicine, but she wanted details.
“Allow me to explain.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE
Marco
16 October 1943
Here’s my thinking.” Marco ran with his father, back over the Ponte Fabricio. “The Ghetto is cordoned off at the Lungotevere de’ Cenci. That’s where the trucks are. That’s where the Nazis are bringing everyone. Right?”
“è vero.” His father ran, unbothered by the rain. They reached Tiber Island, ran past Bar GiroSport, and ran over the Ponte Cestio.
“So we should approach from the north end of the Ghetto, at Piazza Costaguti. The opposite end, away from the action. There will be roadblocks there, but they will be more lightly guarded.”
“Understood. The Nazis will be busy at the south side of the Ghetto, not the north.” Marco and his father took a right turn and ran up the Lungotevere degli Anguillara, on the west bank of the Tiber.
“Yes, and the north side is closer to the Simones’ house. If the Nazis are lining them up, that’s where Sandro and his family will be.”
His father looked over, his dark curls dripping. “Let’s pick up the pace.”
Marco accelerated. Lights were going on in the houses along the river. Phones would be ringing. People would be waking up to horrific news.