She ran up the span as fast as she could. Her habit grew heavy as it got wet. Her body had gotten so weak. She reached the crest of the Ponte Fabricio. The sight left her breathless with horror.
Nazis had cordoned off the entire Ghetto. Beyond the barricade, men, women, and children were being lined up at gunpoint, huddling together like gray shadows in the rain. Nazis were herding them all into trucks blocking the length of Lungotevere de’ Cenci.
Gemma realized that Massimo and Sandro could be among them. She was too far away to make out their faces in the downpour.
Tears of sheer fright sprang to her eyes. She felt something mentally snap inside her. She was trained for an emergency, but never one like this. This was the worst thing she could ever imagine. Massimo and Sandro were being taken away? All of the Ghetto Jews? Everyone she knew?
She raced down the slope of the bridge. She reached a crowd of onlookers and shoved her way forward. Men and women moved quickly aside for her, making the Sign of the Cross on their chests.
Gemma kept going, beginning to sob. She felt as if she were losing her mind. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She had to get to Massimo and Sandro.
She reached the barricade, which was guarded by armed Nazis.
“Massimo, Sandro!” Gemma found herself grabbing the sawhorse, and in the next moment, she was trying to yank it down.
The Nazis whirled around to face her.
Raising their guns.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT
Marco
16 October 1943
Marco and his father reached Via del Piatto, a narrow cobblestone street lined with homes on the north side of the Ghetto. They stopped running, panting hard from exertion. There was no roadblock, and only a lone Nazi guarded the path, turned away to face Piazza Costaguti.
Marco felt for the gun in his pocket. He considered picking the Nazi off.
His father stayed his hand, again. “Don’t. We’re too late. Look.”
Marco shifted his gaze. Beyond the guard, a line of families was moving out of the piazza, toward the loading zone at the south side of the Ghetto.
“Change of plans.”
“What?”
“After the Nazis arrested the carabinieri, they held them at the Collegio Militare before they shipped them north. They’ll do the same thing now. They’re creatures of habit. No place other than the Collegio Militare can hold that many securely.”
“Agree.” Marco understood. He had gone to the Collegio Militare many times when he had worked at Palazzo Venezia. The Collegio Militare was used by the Defense Ministry to train officers, and special ceremonies were held in its elegant courtyard. He couldn’t imagine what it looked like full of hundreds of distraught civilians.
“We could be at the Collegio Militare in fifteen minutes, over the Ponte Mazzini. If we left now, we would be in place before the trucks arrived.”
Marco disagreed. “Maybe, but I want to go back to the Ghetto entrance. I want to see the Simones with my own eyes. There’s still a chance they won’t be taken.”
“There’s no chance of that, son.”
“But I know Sandro. He’ll think of a way to get away.”
“Not this time.” His father looked pained. “They’re all being taken.”
“I want to see Sandro.” Marco spoke from the heart. “I need to.”
“Okay. We go back.” His father turned around, and the two of them took off running, back down Via Arenula, over the Ponte Garibaldi, and onto the Lungotevere degli Anguillara. Nazi trucks plowed through Trastevere’s streets, arresting Jews there, too.
Marco and his father ran faster, fueled by desperation. They were superb athletes and endurance cyclists. They had logged kilometer after kilometer on country roads, city roads, and back roads. Never before had they asked so much of their bodies. Never before had so much been required.
They bore down and flew. Their chests heaved with exertion but they ignored it. Their thighs burned but they didn’t feel it. They had wind to carry them. They had energy to burn.
They accelerated into the rain and the storm.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE
Gemma
16 October 1943
The Nazis aimed their weapons at Gemma, as she tried to pull down the roadblock. One Nazi menaced her by raising the butt of his gun. She ducked instinctively, and the crowd reacted with outraged shouts.
“Stop, she’s a nun!” “You can’t shoot her!” “God will punish you, Nazi pig!”
The Nazi swung the butt of his gun at her, but a man in the crowd yanked Gemma backward. The gun butt cleared her head but landed on her forearm.