Maria knelt beside him and turned him onto his back. Her tears dropped onto his face.
“I love you, my wife,” Beppe told her, his words drowned in blood.
“Papa!” Marco appeared on his other side, anguished. “No!”
Beppe reached for Marco’s arm. “Take care of your mother.”
Beppe closed his eyes, feeling his soul edge away from them, seeking the hands of God. He took comfort in the faith that he would see Aldo soon, and he and Aldo would both perish on the side of justice.
He let go of his mortal life and all of the years he had spent walking the cobblestones of Rome and the rocky soil of Abruzzo, ending the sum total of the days granted him by God, each one spent in an Italy he had loved and bled for, a country of passion and emotion, as gloriously turbulent as the human heart.
His soul ascended to a higher and better life.
One that never ended.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY
Marco
16 October 1943
Four people lay dead in the Terrizzi kitchen, and the gruesome scene spurred Marco into action, despite his grief. He called Emedio and told him the terrible news, and Emedio came and comforted their mother. Then he called Arnaldo, his father’s old war buddy, who arrived with a car, wrapped the corpses of Carmine and Stefano in blankets, and took them from the apartment, to dump them in the Tiber on the outskirts of the city. It was Marco’s plan, which ironically exploited the lack of carabinieri and the Nazis’ ruthless preoccupation with rounding up the Jews.
After that, Marco called Nino Venuti, a local undertaker who agreed to a false story of his father’s death. The public would be told that Beppe Terrizzi, the former professional cyclist and popular proprietor of Bar GiroSport, had died suddenly of a heart attack, at his home. His wake would be held on Monday, and his body would lie in an open casket, dressed in a suit that would hide his wounds. His funeral Mass and burial would be held the next morning, and nobody would suspect the truth.
Marco would have preferred a Jewish undertaker for Gemma, but the Nazis had taken them all. He had to settle for Nino, who arrived at the house with two assistants, older men like him, balding and dressed in black suits.
“My God.” Nino scanned the kitchen, appalled.
Marco kept his gaze averted, not to succumb to emotion. “What about for Dottoressa Simone? I told you she was Jewish. You said on the phone you would do right by her.”
“We will bury her tomorrow morning, timely under Jewish law. I have a simple pine casket and have arranged for a plot near the Jewish section in Verano. It would be too dangerous to bury her in the Jewish section. I falsified her death certificate. It’s the best we can do, in the circumstances.”
His mother looked up from the table, tearful. “Thank you, Nino. Gemma was a very dear friend of our family.”
“My deepest condolences, Maria.” Nino gestured to Gemma. “Now, if I may, my assistants and I will take Dottoressa Simone first.”
“We have said our final goodbyes to her.” His mother nodded, but she and Elisabetta wept again as Nino and his assistant went to Gemma with a black velvet sack, trimmed with gold braid. They laid it flat on the floor, unzipped it, and carefully placed her body inside. They zipped up the velvet bag, fetched a canvas stretcher, placed Gemma’s body on it, then carried it downstairs.
Marco cleared his throat. “I should say goodbye to Papa now, before they take him.”
His mother looked over, sniffling. “You don’t have to, now. They’ll give us time before the viewing.”
“Right.” Emedio nodded, his arm around her, and Marco realized he hadn’t had a chance to tell them about their plan.
“Mamma, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay for the viewing, and I might not be back for the funeral.”
“What?” his mother asked, shocked. “What do you mean? You have to be there. It’s your father’s funeral.”
“I can’t stay. We think that Elisabetta persuaded Baron von Weizs?cker to send Sandro and Massimo to Fossoli, instead of out of the country. That means I have to be in place before their train arrives. I have to leave today.”
“Oh no.” His mother nodded, crestfallen. Her lower lip trembled, and Emedio hugged her closer. She nodded in resignation. “I suppose your father would understand.”
“Yes, he would. He and I talked about it on the way home, before . . .” Marco couldn’t finish the sentence.
“And Gemma would, too. You honor her memory, trying to help Massimo and Sandro.” His mother frowned, wiping her eyes. “But you aren’t going to Fossoli alone, are you? Can’t Arnaldo go with you?”