“Yes, with his father. His mother is at my house.”
“What can we do?” Elisabetta wiped her eyes.
“Let’s go home, we can talk about it.”
“No, I want to give him my note. Will you help me?”
“I can try, but even if I could get the guard to take it, they won’t know which one is him.”
“Yes, they will. He has basil in the buttonhole of his jacket. I put it there, last night.”
Marco’s mouth went dry. He didn’t know when Elisabetta and Sandro had started sleeping together, but even a fool could tell that she was deeply in love. “Let me have the note then.”
“Thank you.” Elisabetta handed him a crumpled piece of paper. “It tells him I love him.”
“I assumed that, cara,” Marco said, masking his pain.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN
Marco
16 October 1943
Marco, his parents, Elisabetta, and Gemma gathered around the Terrizzis’ kitchen table. His mother served rolls with jam, and they were on their second pot of ersatz coffee. He and his father had changed from their wet clothes, and Marco’s mother had lent a dark dress to Elisabetta and a flowered one to Gemma, who slumped at the table, her eyes puffy behind her rimless glasses. Her arm was bruised, and she rested it under an icebag. Bar GiroSport was closed, the only time since Aldo’s funeral.
“Let’s collect our thoughts,” his father said, exhaling heavily.
“Yes.” Marco’s mother put an arm around Gemma’s sloping shoulders. “We have to keep our hopes up. I’ve been praying all morning.”
“Thank you, Maria.” Gemma sniffled, so forlorn in the cheery dress that she looked like a pile of broken flowers. She had told them how the hospital had saved Rosa and the other Jewish patients with the Syndrome K ruse. In any other circumstances, it would have struck them as funny.
His mother added, “I called Emedio and begged him to see what he can do for Massimo and Sandro. He said he will talk to the powers that be.”
Gemma wiped a tear from underneath her glasses. “I can’t bear to think of Massimo and Sandro in a labor camp. I hear horrible stories about the conditions there.”
Marco’s father patted Gemma’s hand. “We can’t let that happen. We have to free them.”
“Are you going to try?” Gemma asked, hopeful. “Really?”
“Of course. We have to think of a way.” His father glanced at Marco. “Right, son?”
“Yes,” Marco answered without hesitation. He felt a stab of anguish when he flashed on Sandro being loaded onto the truck and Massimo’s little wave.
“Here’s the problem.” His father finished his coffee. “The Collegio Militare is too secure, too well protected to break Massimo and Sandro out. It would be disastrous.”
Gemma deflated, her mouth turning down.
“Come Monday morning, they’re on trains to the north.” His father frowned in thought. “However, the trains have to stop once or twice before they leave the country. We could find out where they stop from partisans in the north. We could ambush the trains at one of the stations.”
Marco shook his head. “Papa, that won’t work.”
“I know. Too many innocent lives would be lost, and we wouldn’t know which train car held Massimo and Sandro.”
“It’s too bad they’re not going to a labor camp in Italy, like Fossoli. We’d have a chance there.”
His father blinked, puzzled. “What camp at Fossoli, son?”
“It’s a transit camp, used for temporary detention. The Nazis send POWs there. My boss at Palazzo Venezia was involved in supervising its construction. It was built last year, only six kilometers from the Carpi train station. They were building a new section, the last I heard.”
Gemma rallied. “I know the town of Fossoli. It’s in Carpi, a small town outside Modena. I grew up in Reggio, and my parents ran an acetaia and made balsamico.”
“That’s the place.” Marco nodded.
His father pursed his lips. “It doesn’t matter. They’re not being sent to Fossoli. They’re going out of the country.”
Elisabetta rose abruptly. “I have to go.”
Gemma looked over, puzzled. “Where?”
Maria frowned, worried. “Why?”
Marco stood up. “Elisabetta, you’re not going out there alone. It’s not safe.”
His father stood up, next to him. “Neither of you are going anywhere without me.”