“Elisabetta, close your eyes. I’ll wake you when we get there.”
Elisabetta couldn’t sleep, and she knew Marco wouldn’t either. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“Thank you.”
“We can talk about it, if you want to. I know how much you admired him. He was a great man.”
Macro looked down at her. “Your father was great, too. I know that now.”
Elisabetta didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”
“You remember that night, when we were going to dinner? We ran into the ginger-haired man, who yelled at you? Who said your father’s hands were broken by Fascists?”
“Yes.” Elisabetta remembered, intrigued. It was the night she had given Marco his ring back.
“He was telling the truth. My father told me the story.”
“Really?” Elisabetta asked, in disbelief. She shifted up in the seat. “What happened?”
“Your father painted over a Fascist slogan, on a wall in Trastevere. That’s why they broke his hands. My father warned him, and he went out of town, but came back too soon.” Marco lowered his voice. “You know the OVRA officers that killed my father and Gemma? They were the ones who did it.”
“Oh my.” Elisabetta shuddered. “I had no idea. Of any of this.”
“Your father didn’t want you to know. That’s what the man said. He lied to protect you.”
“I never suspected he lied. I believed him.” Elisabetta’s chest wrenched with regret. “I was so wrong.”
“No, you should have believed him. You loved him.”
“But I didn’t appreciate him. I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. I’m proud of him, but I’m finding this out too late.”
“It’s not too late. You can have a feeling of pride in him the rest of your life. It’s good that you found out, even now.”
Elisabetta felt a pang, looking at the countryside whizzing past the window.
Marco cleared his throat, hoarsely. “That’s how I feel about my father. I will always be proud of him.”
Tears came to Elisabetta’s eyes, but she held them back. She felt profoundly sad for her father, for Marco, for his father, and for Gemma. For Sandro and Massimo. For Nonna. For the Ghetto Jews. For Rome.
“And I do have a plan. I’ll give you the details when we get there. You want Sandro, so I’ll get him for you.” Marco kept his eyes front. “You love him, right?”
“Yes.”
“I love him, too. I would have chosen him, too.” Marco paused. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
Elisabetta looked up at him.
Marco managed a shaky smile. “Now go to sleep, cara.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE
Sandro
16 October 1943
Sandro and his father had been in the courtyard all day. The rain had stopped, but the sky stayed cloudy, darkening. The families sat in groups, hungry, thirsty, and frightened. Sandro had been watching them all day, and he had finally thought of a plan. “Papa, stand up.”
“Why?”
“I have an idea.” Sandro extended him a hand and lifted him to his feet.
“What is it?”
“Look, the Nazis are letting anyone go who’s not Jewish.” Sandro pointed to the front of the courtyard, where the Nazi officers had their security desk. Behind them was a short line of Gentiles and Mischlinge, the German term for half-Jewish and half-Gentile, being readied for release.
“We can’t convince them we’re Gentile. I was a board member. My name must be on every record they have.”
“I know, but hear me.” Sandro leaned close to his father. “I’ve been watching all day, seeing our friends and neighbors. I kept noticing the families who are here, but then I realized I was making a mistake. I should have been noticing the families who aren’t here.”
“What do you mean?” His father looked up, intrigued.
“You know who I haven’t seen? Matteo and Giovanni Rotoli. They aren’t here.”
“From across the street?”
“Yes.”
His father shrugged. “They must not have been home when the Nazis came.”
“Exactly.” Sandro felt his heart beat faster. “Matteo and Giovanni aren’t here, so we can assume their identity. Remember, Matteo isn’t Jewish, only his wife, Livia, is. That makes Giovanni, his son, half-Jewish. If the Nazis look up Matteo and Giovanni Rotoli on any list, they will appear as Mischlinge. We can pass as them. We know everything about them.”