Gemma cried out in agony. The pain stunned her.
The onlookers reacted with horror, hollering anew at the Nazis. The Nazis menaced the crowd with their weapons.
Men spirited Gemma away from harm, through the crowd. Tears poured from her eyes, and sobs wracked her body. All she could think of was Massimo and Sandro. She struggled to get back to the barricade even as the men brought her to the side of the bridge and eased her down.
“Sister, how is your arm?” they asked her. “Is it broken? Did those bastards break it?”
“Let me go! I want to go back!” Gemma shook her head, sobbing. “Massimo! Sandro!”
“Sister, you can’t. They’ll shoot you. You must stay here.”
Suddenly Gemma saw two figures running over the bridge, their outlines unmistakable. It was Beppe and Marco. They stopped at the sound of her shouting, then turned to her.
“Gemma?” Beppe called to her, uncomprehending.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TEN
Marco
16 October 1943
Marco, his father, and Gemma stood together on the Ponte Fabricio, watching the Nazis do their worst. They marched a line of families toward the trucks, menacing them with guns and barking dogs. Fathers in the line protected children, who wailed in terror. Wives clung to husbands and wept. Grandmothers covered their faces. Invalids and the aged were carried in arms or on wooden chairs.
Nazis loaded families like cattle. Once full, a truck would take off, driving north on the Lungotevere de’ Cenci, heading for the Collegio Militare.
Marco, his father, and Gemma held each other, praying that Massimo and Sandro wouldn’t be among them. They stood in mute fear as family after family was loaded into the trucks, and truck after truck took off, driving north. The line seemed to be diminishing in time, with no sign of Massimo or Sandro.
Marco felt his hopes lift, against all odds. Maybe Massimo and Sandro had escaped, as Gemma and Rosa had, and were hiding somewhere in safety.
But then Massimo and Sandro came into view, walking side by side in the rain. Gemma wailed in anguish, and Marco’s father held her tight.
“Sandro!” Marco yelled. He waved his arms.
Sandro snapped his head around, spotted Marco, and nodded. Next to him, Massimo gave a little wave, a heartbreaking flash of an open palm, then father and son were loaded into the back of the covered truck.
Gemma collapsed, and Marco’s father gathered her up and took her home.
Marco stayed behind, standing as a witness. Sandro and his father were being taken away, and there was nothing he could do to help them. He had never felt so enraged, or so helpless, in his life. Tears welled in his eyes.
The Nazis loaded Sandro’s truck until it was full, then latched its back, and drew down its canvas flap, as if crime could be covered by mere cloth.
Marco watched as the truck bearing Sandro and his father lurched off and disappeared up the Lungotevere de’ Cenci, with the others heading to the Collegio Militare.
Marco’s tears poured down, like the rain.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN
Elisabetta
16 October 1943
Elisabetta slept like a baby, dreaming that she and Sandro were getting married. She saw herself in a beautiful white dress, Sandro in a dark suit, and everyone gathered around them, smiling and happy, even Nonna.
Elisabetta’s parents were there, too, watching and smiling, happy and whole, together as a couple. Her mother looked beautiful, and her father good-looking in his bohemian way, with his beard trimmed and his eyes sparkling with animation, not dulled by drink.
Marco was in the dream, too, darkly handsome in his dark suit, for he was Sandro’s best man, and in a way, he was hers, too. She would always love Marco, and Marco would always love her, and she, Sandro, and Marco would love each other the way they always had, from as long as they had known life.
Gnocchi and Rico were there, too, watching from their own cloud that was nowhere near the edge of any roof, and there were tall tomato plants and peppers and basil and oregano growing all around them, and white roses climbing trellises and pink bougainvillea covering the walls, and purple and white wisteria dripping from a perfumed bower, among cypress trees and tall, curving palms.
In her dream, love was a garden she had grown for Sandro.
* * *
—
Elisabetta woke up alone, in her bed. She realized that Sandro must have carried her down, then left. She felt a pang of regret at not having said goodbye, but a warm rush of love filled her. She could remember the taste of his kiss on her lips and his touch on her body.
Soft gray light filled her bedroom, and she reached over to scratch Gnocchi’s chin. Gnocchi moved her head around, making sure no spot was missed, having observed that humans often became distracted during prolonged stretching sessions.