Weber nodded, his lips tight. “How does the virus spread?”
“It’s airborne, which is the deadliest means of transmission. We believe it attacks the brain. Early symptoms occur in two or three days. They are headaches of excruciating severity, then paralysis, and death.” Salvatore cleared his throat. “We suspect that Syndrome K traveled here from Africa, via human host. As you know, Italian soldiers fought in North Africa. Libya, El Alamein, Benghazi. We can only imagine the bacteria they returned with, and the Syndrome K strain is foreign to European soil. Its lethality is such that no doctor goes inside that ward. Even the families of these patients aren’t permitted to visit them.”
“How do you treat them?” Weber asked, as the Nazi soldiers standing behind him exchanged nervous glances.
“There is an elderly nun who has volunteered for the task. She enters only in an appropriate mask and gown, but that is insufficient protection. She is already experiencing headaches. Soon she will be a patient herself.”
“You’re quite a coward, Doctor.”
Salvatore didn’t blink. “I must consider the greater good. We can’t afford to lose a physician. We’re understaffed as a result of the war. Frankly, nothing helps these poor souls. They’re dead in two weeks, in agony.”
Weber frowned. “I wish to see for myself.”
Salvatore didn’t move. “I implore you, do not enter the ward. You can look through the glass window.”
Weber peered into the ward through the glass. The Nazi’s cold blue eyes scanned the beds, including Rosa’s. Gemma felt her heart beat harder. Seconds passed like hours.
Weber sniffed. “The patients merely look asleep.”
“I assure you, they are dying. They are heavily sedated on morphine.”
“Are any of them Jewish?”
“I don’t know. We are a Catholic hospital. We treat the sick. We can provide you a list of their names. I believe a secretary is preparing the list as we speak.”
“So I’ve been told, but it’s taking too long. My orders are to arrest the Jewish patients, no matter how sick.” Weber frowned, and the Nazis behind him exchanged nervous glances.
Salvatore folded his arms. “I understand that you have orders. However, I warn you, your men will die as a result of following them. Is it worth killing them for perhaps a single Jew, who will die anyway? Won’t your superiors blame you if they contract Syndrome K? What will happen to you in that event?”
Weber fell silent, in thought.
Gemma held her breath.
The Nazi soldiers shuffled their feet, restless.
Weber nodded. “We’ll take our leave now, Doctor.”
“A prudent choice, Captain.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX
Sandro
16 October 1943
Sandro’s mind raced, but he couldn’t come up with an escape plan. Nazis swarmed everywhere with guns and dogs. There was no realistic way out. They would be shot. More families were forced to the line at gunpoint. No age was too young or too old.
Sandro fought an increasing panic over whether they were truly going to a labor camp. He didn’t see how children or babies could work. Every home was being emptied. He shifted forward as the Spizzichino clan joined the line. Settimia, Adelaide, Allegra, and Alberto, with the children Enrica, Franca, and little Mario, who had just started walking.
Sandro’s gaze landed on his father, who stood beside him, his head tilted down against the rain. His father’s hair dripped in rivulets down his neck, exposing the pinkness of his scalp. His nape had thinned so much that it was hard to see how he held his head up.
Sandro put an arm around his father, and his father looked up through his rain-spotted glasses. “Papa, I love you,” he said simply.
“I love you, too, son.” His father smiled shakily. “They can’t take that from us, can they?”
“No, they cannot,” Sandro answered.
But he thought, Even if they take everything else.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN
Gemma
16 October 1943
Gemma raced to the hospital exit, desperate to get to Massimo and Sandro. Her black robes flew behind her, as she had stayed in the nun’s habit as a disguise. She hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to Rosa, who was still under sedation, but she felt assured that her daughter would be safe, now that the Syndrome K ruse had worked.
Gemma reached the door, flung it open, and launched herself into the downpour. She could hear the thrumming of heavy engines from Trastevere. Bar GiroSport was closed. She ran up the Ponte Fabricio, heading to the Ghetto. No one else was on the upward slope of the bridge. Cold rain drenched her veil and shoulders. Random gunshots echoed from the Ghetto. Her heart pounded with terror.