Rosa patted her hand. “He was a remarkable man, an oak, and you know my father loved him.”
Maria nodded, managing a smile. “Marco was devastated. It’s hard on him, after Aldo.”
“I’m sure.” Rosa remembered Aldo, with a pang. “I’m grateful to Marco for trying to save Sandro and my father.” She paused, her head fogged with grief. “But who’s helping Marco, if not Beppe?”
“Elisabetta.”
“That’s all?” Rosa couldn’t hide her despair. There had to be a way she could help. She started to rise, but eased back, weak and dizzy. “Maybe I can talk to the doctor—”
“No, you need to get well.” Maria patted her hand. “By the time you’re ready to leave the hospital, Emedio will have false documentation for you, and a place to live in the Vatican.”
“How can I go, with Papa and Sandro in such jeopardy?”
“You must go, for them.” Maria leaned forward, her dark eyes flashing. “Your father and Sandro love you, and it will ease their burden to know that you’re safe.”
“How will they know where I am?”
“Marco will get to them, and he will find a way to tell them. Think of your mother, Rosa. I know, as a mother, that she would want you to live the life that God gave you. Your survival will be her triumph.” Maria tilted her chin up, in teary defiance. “Live in honor of her memory.”
Rosa listened, hushed. She could almost hear her mother saying those same words.
“Rosa, I know we’re not the same religion, but we both believe in a just and loving God. I believe that He brought us all together, so we can be family for each other, now.” Maria looked at her, her love plain in her anguished eyes. “And think of your father, too. I have shared glasses of wine with him, at the bar. What is his toast, most of the time?”
Rosa knew the answer. “L’Chaim.”
Maria nodded. “‘To life.’”
Tears filled Rosa’s eyes. They felt true, and she let them flow.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-TWO
Elisabetta
16 October 1943
Elisabetta stood next to Marco at the train station, waiting for the train to Carpi. She felt agonized by the horrific events of the day, and he had to feel worse. Neither of them spoke, and she had never seen him so somber. He looked around, dry-eyed, but his dark gaze didn’t settle anywhere, as if it couldn’t rest, even for a moment. He usually stood tall, but his broad shoulders sloped as if he had caved in on himself.
Men and women around them on the platform talked, smoked, and read books and newspapers. Elisabetta scanned the headlines, but she saw no reports of the rastrellamento. The Vatican still hadn’t made any statement, and she was beginning to fear that they wouldn’t.
Elisabetta wondered if she and Marco had a realistic chance of saving Sandro and his father. Marco had a plan, but he hadn’t shared it with her yet, and she hadn’t pushed the matter, given his grief. Evidently he had been a partisan, so presumably he had experience with fighting, but she didn’t. Balilla training for boys was shooting long guns, but for girls, it was exercising with hula hoops.
She checked the clock, concerned that the train hadn’t yet boarded. She consulted the train schedule, which was printed in tri-fold and posted in front of them, in a case with a glass front. “Marco, look at this. Shouldn’t the train be leaving already? It’s ten minutes past time. Do you think something’s the matter?”
Marco didn’t even look at the schedule. “I don’t know. Want me to ask someone?”
“No, it’s okay.” Elisabetta noticed he didn’t read the train schedule. She flashed on his poor handwriting, filled with misspellings.
“Here, we’re about to board.” Marco pointed as travelers surged toward the train, and he and Elisabetta joined them. He helped her up the steps, then climbed in behind her. The train car was hot, dirty, and smoky inside. They found two seats and sat down.
The train lurched off, leaving the station, and she looked out the window, which was filthy. The sky darkened as the afternoon wore on, and they wouldn’t arrive in Carpi until nighttime.
Marco shifted in his seat. “You should take a nap. We could be up all night.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Yes, you are.”
“How do you know?”
“I know what you look like when you’re tired. Your eyes narrow. You squint.”
Elisabetta wondered if he was right. She looked over, but Marco was scanning the other passengers, who kept up their chatter, smoking and reading. The train gathered momentum in a noisy clacking rhythm, and they left Rome behind.