His heart hammered like a piston. His legs churned. His breath became rhythmic. Raindrops slaked his face, blurring his vision. He shook them off and kept going.
He matched his father, stride for stride.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO
Sandro
16 October 1943
Sandro kept his eye on the lone Nazi guard on Via in Publicolis. The line of families had shifted forward enough. He and his father stood directly across from the entrance to the street.
Sandro shifted his gaze to the Nazis guarding their line. They stood at a distance, near its head. They weren’t looking in his direction.
He checked Via in Publicolis again. The Nazi there had turned away, too. It was time for Sandro to make his move.
He squeezed his father’s arm, signaling him. His father looked up. Sandro shifted his gaze. They took a step toward Via in Publicolis.
Just then, two more Nazis approached the lone Nazi on Via in Publicolis. One lit a cigarette, cupping the flame against the rain.
Sandro’s heart sank. It was too risky now. He quickly nudged his father back in line with the other families.
He wracked his brain for another means of escape. He needed a subterfuge of some kind. Maybe he could tell the Nazis that he had left the gas on. Gas came on for mealtimes, and it was around breakfast time. The Nazis wouldn’t want to start a fire that could rage out of control.
He decided that it wouldn’t work. The Nazis probably wouldn’t let them both go back to the apartment, only Sandro. He didn’t want to leave his father.
Their line grew longer, extending almost all the way across the piazza. His gaze fell on the other families. He knew all of them. The elderly Angelo Fornani with Alberto and little Alberto, six years old. The grandmotherly Teresa Campagnano with Vito and tiny Donato. Augusto Capon, an older gentleman whose daughter had married the Nobel Prize–winning physicist Enrico Fermi.
The Scudi family was prodded into the line, but Matteo Scudi was having a problem controlling his elderly mother, Aurelia, who had become senile and often said inappropriate things. Aurelia began shouting curses at the Nazis, and Matteo tried to silence her, placing his hand over her mouth. Sandro, his father, and the other families turned to watch in alarm.
Nazi guards rushed to Matteo and Aurelia and tore them forcibly apart. Aurelia cursed the Nazis louder. Matteo begged her to stop. Suddenly one of the Nazis struck Aurelia in the head with the butt of his gun. A gruesome fan of blood sprayed from her head. She dropped to the cobblestones, spasmed, then went motionless.
Matteo screamed, and his wife held him, turning him away from the agonizing sight. Aurelia was dead.
Sandro felt tears film his eyes. His father covered his mouth, stunned. The line recoiled, and children cried louder. Rain drenched her body, and her blood spilled in the crevices between the cobblestones with the rainwater. The Nazis stepped over her. They left her lying there, cruelly.
Sandro looked away, shocked and terrified. His thoughts were frantic. He had to think of something. He and his father had to escape.
And it had to be soon.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE
Gemma
16 October 1943
Gemma hurried to push the gurney bearing Rosa down the hospital hallway. The Nazis were on their way. Rosa and the other Jewish patients had been given a sedative to avoid the risk of any emotional outburst, according to Giovanni’s plan. Gemma had to hope it would work. She was betting Rosa’s life on its success.
Gemma tried not to think of what was happening in the Ghetto. She could only pray that Massimo was taking care of Sandro and himself. She couldn’t leave the hospital until Rosa was safe. She felt torn between her two children, both in mortal peril.
She remembered that Sandro had wanted to stay at the hospital, last night. If she had said yes, he would be here, safe. Instead she had barely kissed him goodbye. She tried to remember the last thing she had said to him. She thought it was good boy. She should’ve said I love you. How had she not said I love you?
She took a right turn down another corridor, near her old Obstetrics & Gynecology wing. Her years as a practicing physician came back to her. She knew the freshly painted white walls. The waxed tile floor. The bulletin board with posters for lectures that she was too busy to attend. She’d had such a sense of purpose in those days, but nothing mattered like today.
The entire hospital had swung into action, executing Giovanni’s plan. Nuns and lay nurses were setting up the isolation ward. Jewish patients were being identified and moved there. The staff worked as one, for no one was better in an emergency than physicians and nurses.
She took a left turn and lined up behind other doctors, nuns, lay nurses, and orderlies. She spotted doctors she knew from Endocrinology and Rheumatology, and nuns and lay nurses from Labor & Delivery. They were all moving Jewish patients into the isolation ward. She had never felt more honored to be among them.