“You’re right.” His father smiled, straightening. “We should try.”
“Follow my lead.” Sandro made his way through the crowd, with his father behind him. They reached the front of the courtyard, where a Nazi officer stood at a lectern.
“What do you want?” The Nazi frowned under the bill of his cap.
Sandro willed himself to stay calm. “Sir, I’m Giovanni Rotoli and this is my father, Matteo. I’m Mischlinge and my father is Gentile, a Roman Catholic. We live on Piazza Costaguti and were taken by accident.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“We were in a classroom. Please, we don’t belong here.”
“Show me your identification cards.”
“We had to leave without them, in a hurry.” Sandro held his breath as the Nazi officer began riffling through papers on his lectern. Behind him, other Nazis were lining up the Gentiles for release. The difference between deportation or salvation was centimeters.
“Ah so, Rotoli.” The Nazi pointed at the Rotoli surname on the papers, then glanced up. “Fine. Get in the line, hurry. Go.”
Sandro masked the relief that flooded his heart. He turned to take his father’s arm, and together they walked around another Nazi, guarding the line for release.
“Get in line!” the Nazi guard said, then looked back at Sandro. “Hey you, what’s in your buttonhole?”
Sandro looked down at his jacket. In his buttonhole was the basil from Elisabetta’s garden, drooping now. She had given it to him last night. “Uh, it’s just some basil.”
“Where did you get it?”
“My girlfriend,” Sandro answered, puzzled.
“Ha! She gave me a note for you. You’re Sandro Simone?”
Sandro froze at the sound of his real name. His father looked over in fear.
The Nazi at the lectern whipped his head around. “Simone? You filthy Jew, you said your name was Rotoli!” He yanked Sandro out of line, then cocked his arm to punch him.
Sandro raised his hand to protect himself.
But the first blow was already landing.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR
Marco
16 October 1943
Marco and Elisabetta disembarked at Carpi and found themselves at a small deserted train station that was more like a shed, open on three sides. The only light came from a bare bulb in the ceiling, and the air carried the smell of horse manure and an oddly acidic odor, perhaps from balsamico. He took his flashlight and compass from his backpack.
Elisabetta looked around. “This is really the middle of nowhere.”
“There’s only vineyards, like Gemma said.” Marco felt a pang of grief, but suppressed the emotion. He was on a mission, and Gemma would have wanted him to succeed.
“So, which way do we go?”
“Hold on.” Marco consulted his compass, then started walking. “This way. The transit camp at Fossoli is due northeast, on the other side of Carpi.”
Elisabetta fell into step beside him, and Marco shone the flashlight ahead of them. They walked down a dirt road, and there was nothing on either side, no homes or vineyards. About two kilometers ahead, he could see Carpi, a small cluster of lights and shadowy tile rooftops.
Elisabetta looked over. “So what now?”
“I’d like to get as close to the transit camp as possible, to see how it works and get the lay of the land.”
“How long will it take to get there?”
“Probably an hour, maybe less.”
They walked along, and in time crossed an intersection and a directional sign, with arrows aiming different ways.
“A sign.” Elisabetta pointed.
“I see.”
“It says Fossoli is straight ahead.”
“That’s the way we’re going.” Marco kept walking, breathing in the country air, which reminded him of Abruzzo, where his parents were from. His family had gone there to visit his grandparents from time to time. His father always talked about how he and his mother had fallen in love there and moved to Rome together, as if life were a grand adventure.
“Marco, why didn’t you tell me you can’t read?”
His mouth went dry. His face warmed.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Marco didn’t know what to say. Of course it was something to be ashamed of. He walked straight ahead, so she couldn’t see his expression.
“Marco?”
“I can read.”
“I don’t think you can.” Elisabetta’s tone was sympathetic, not accusatory, which only made him feel worse.